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❝ why am i so sad that everyone lives this way ? ❞
this glass of memories was getting more bitter, but he thought he knew why he drank it. unemployed and...
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ VANILLA LATTE. ——— chapter one edited. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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eyes glued to his computer, fingers continuously typing on the labeled keys as he tried to get his essay done, shoto sighed. a last minute assignment it seemed, because by now he was pretty sure that he was typing just about any word that came into his mind rapidly. shoto was a good student, but the workload made him hate it with a burning passion. no matter how diligently he worked, it always felt like too much. his fingers were sore from all the typing, and he could feel himself dozing off. the grey and turquoise eyed boy was tired, frustrated, sad and sleep deprived. or atleast, that's what the dual hair coloured boy felt. his essay was pretty good, but he was too tired to see that. shoto's eyes were begging to close, which is when he decided that he needed a break. he desperately needed a break, even though it was due tomorrow.
rubbing his eyes, he held his pale hand up hesitantly in order to call a waiter. as much as he was tired and needed a coffee, he had second thoughts on this. and that second thought was human interaction. now, it was not that shoto was too much socially awkward; it was that he really didn't feel like hearing someone's voice. almost all voices he heard during the day felt like a stone colliding with glass, letting it crumble and shatter to the floor with a shrill sound. right now, it could be the last thing he wanted, other than his classmate bakugo calling him right now. or anyone from his class, really, because except midoriya it would be hard controlling his frustration right now with any of them. soon he realised that thought was irrelevant; shoto's mind was in a whirl.
soon, a waiter came...or should i say, waitress. actually, shoto wasn't sure. dressed exactly in the way cafe waiters were supposed to do (that comforting dark brown paired with a little soft gradient of white which was not an eyesore to look at, unlike than the screen in front of him) a girl approached him, asking the same question which he had heard repeatedly for the last one year but in a variety of voices;
