[𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒] [𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍]
Gabriel Sinclair was no saint, and he made no pretenses about it.
Ruthless, cunning, and unhinged -those words only begin to scratch the surface of his true nature.
Like a merciless hurricane, h...
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"I have survived everything but I fear that I cannot survive myself."
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The biting cold gnaws at my skin, every gust akin to a thousand tiny needles relentlessly piercing my face. Exhaling a warm breath into my cupped hands, I desperately seek to thaw my frozen fingers, but the feeble attempt offers little respite against the unforgiving chill.
My initial irritation morphs into a grim fascination as I glance across the street once more. A man wrestles with his obstinate motorbike. Even from a distance, his frustration radiates palpably, punctuated by a vibrant stream of expletives as the engine sputters for what feels like the umpteenth time.
Part of me itches to intervene, to put an end to the ordeal, but I doubt my sneaker meeting the engine would be considered helpful. Still, the temptation gnaws at me, and just as I entertain the idea, the man shoots me a dubious glance, likely misinterpreting my attention as some perverse attraction to his mechanical misfortune.
No thanks, mate. I'll stick with my Honda.
My eyes lift heavenward, a sigh of impatience slipping from my lips as I silently beseech for a divine intervention to spare me from what lies ahead. The sky mirrors my mood, a vast expanse of leaden gray stretching endlessly, mocking any chance of sunlight breaking through. With each passing minute in the biting cold, my disdain for autumn swells, like a heavy, ominous cloud casting a shadow over my spirit.
For many, the abrupt transition from the fond memories of summer to the harsh realities of autumn, signaling the start of a new, bustling year, is enough reason to harbor disdain for the season. Yet, for me, it's not the change that fuels my aversion, but rather the biting cold that accompanies it. It's a peculiar contradiction for a hockey player, I'll admit.
While conventional wisdom might suggest that I'd revel in the warmth of summer's carefree days, I've never been one to conform to expectations. Instead, I find all seasons equally dreary and lacking in significance. This sentiment likely stems from my propensity to spend summers holed up in my room. Yet, after enduring a year's worth of social interactions, I feel more than justified in seeking refuge from the outside world, allowing myself the luxury of solitude for as long as I please.
Unfortunately, my mother doesn't share my perspective. She has little tolerance for what she deems my "pity party," and she doesn't hesitate to give me a figurative kick in the rear when necessary. Sometimes, that means accompanying her into town for shopping, which isn't entirely unpleasant—until we inevitably cross paths with someone she knows. And with her seemingly infinite network of acquaintances, these encounters occur more frequently than I would like. Nevertheless, I find these outings preferable to the hollow gatherings she occasionally coerces me into attending.
