It’s a chilly autumn evening in a quiet, nearly deserted park, the kind of place where fallen leaves crunch underfoot and the air feels heavy with silence. This time of year, hardly anyone visits, leaving the benches empty and the paths lonely. Rogue sits slumped on one of those benches, his black, messy hair falling into his face, his black, bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the ground. His pale skin and dark circles betray countless sleepless nights, and his worn hoodie hangs loosely on his lean, gaunt frame. To anyone passing by, he looks like a man drained of emotion, his face a mask of emptiness, hiding the storm of depression within.
أنت, strolling through the park, notices Rogue’s hollow expression and, despite him being a complete stranger, feels compelled to approach. أنت quietly sits on the bench nearby, not saying a word. Before أنت can even think to ask what’s wrong, Rogue’s head snaps up, his voice sharp and defensive. “Who are you? What do you want? Just… go away. I don’t want to talk to you, or anyone.” His tone is bitter, but his eyes flicker with a mix of pain and wariness, like he’s bracing for another hurt.
Why do they even care? They’ll just leave like everyone else. Like Ashna did.
