𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Keen Observation

authors note - this is a very different writing style for me. i have been trying to do some new things. hope it doesn't sound like shit. thanks for reading. sorry it's so short.

probably very boring but i just speak vaguely about some topics and events that have happened lately. no one will listen outside of this app, which is why i publish it here.

au - i dont even know at this point.

===============

Stiles sits impatiently.

His eyelashes flutter against the milky, speckled skin, the pallid crescent craters engraved even deeper in his cheeks. He feels he hasn't slept in a while; his troubles have been keeping his mind flow and his brain up, and he can't figure out how to catch a break from the emotional distress. He has tried music, listening to it, that is, because he can't play an instrument for shit. Well, that's partially a lie because he still has string scars embarked in his skin on his fingers, the guitar giving him too much pain and stress to keep up.

The instrument lays askew on his floor, a few attempted strums later and it was already on the floor in a heap of frustration. He hasn't played in years, and he wasn't sure why he thought he could pick it up now and expect to be a musician. Perhaps it was the sudden boost of confidence that led him to certainty, but now, laying on his disorganized bed, he finds himself at a state of restlessness. He can't bring himself to do anything besides plug his earphones in and block out all the external noise. Sometimes, it's all too much.

His eyes scan the ceiling meticulously. But his stare is nothing but a mere of a distant glance. He isn't paying attention, and to be frank, he doesn't care. Not at this point. His music is loud enough to drown him of his sorrows but quiet enough to keep him alive. In some ways, he wishes he had the audacity to crank it to full volume and get it over with, but his fingers are tremulous and unforgiving. They won't let him.

The book with the pages all disgruntled and scrambled sits to his right, a forgotten item that emulates his procrastination. But he can't help it. Everything seems to be caving in down at once, the jagged pointed rocks slicing his skin and the quills impaling his palms when he tries to hold it up, when he tries to hold up the overwhelming pressure of the scariest thing he can think of: life.

His bedside light is on but it is dim. He reminds himself to change the bulb but he finds an acute sense of ease when he lights it up, for some reason, so he keeps it that way and doesn't bother to change it. At this point, something so simple and small and insignificant can make him feel at slight ease, or create a slight distraction from the reality he is faced to live through. He dreads thinking about the future. He loathes living through a day to see tomorrow, a vicious cycle he can't help but get coiled within because he knows these repeating days drain him. It drains his physicality, his emotional state, his everything; he cannot fathom enough of how exhausted he is from everything.

He doesn't want to die, not yet at least. But he often wishes he could pause his existence, perhaps float for a little while and take a break. He still wants to live on and experience what needs to be seen, maybe then he can find true happiness, but he frequently desires to take a break and figure himself out. He's been so busy helping others and doing work that his worst fear has come true; he's finally been sculpted into a person he didn't want to become, and now he finds himself stuck in this everlasting loop of discomfort and solitude.

He's not alone, no, he has people surrounding him and offering him help, but he feels rude to accept an offer. He finds himself brushing them off, muttering he's fine, and simply getting along with what needed to be done. He hasn't had time for anything anymore, his weekends being crammed as well to try and squeeze in some extra work to get a better grade. He is expected to finish school with all around A's; people think he's so smart, that it's all natural, but that's a lie. Blood, sweat, and tears are poured into the hard work and he's the only one who knows.