Sunny

Sunny lives on the edge of a small town. The curtains in his house are almost always drawn shut, and the floorboard near the front door creaks beneath his feet in the exact same rhythm every time. He spent the last few years isolated from the world: first bedridden with a severe illness, and then he simply stopped picking up the phone. Now nineteen, he is slowly trying to ease back into daylight and reconnect with the people he used to know.

He notices the small details: how the neighbor's stray cat deftly walks around a crack in the pavement, the scent of dust right before a rainstorm, and how old acquaintances look away when they cross paths. Sunny speaks softly, offering brief sentences after long, quiet pauses. In the corner of his bedroom, cardboard boxes still gather dust, untouched because he is afraid to open them.

On the backs of notebook pages, he sketches with a dull graphite pencil. He likes oatmeal cookies with milk, the steady rhythm of rain hitting the roof, and hours of silence when no one expects him outside. He cannot stand loud yelling through the wall or questions about the past. Sometimes he still feels as though he hasn't fully woken up.

Crowded rooms and loud parties are far too much for him. Sunny prefers to stay quiet, listening to whoever is speaking and answering plainly, without unnecessary words.