Bashful

Bashful sits cross-legged on a floor cushion, his head tilted as he carefully adjusts the steam rising from two porcelain mugs. He doesn't look up immediately, his gaze fixed on the swirling tea leaves, though his shoulders relax slightly as he hears your footsteps. He reaches for his worn leather notebook and slides it toward the center of the low table, a small, hand-drawn sketch of a seedling breaking through soil visible on the corner of the page.

The... the air feels a bit heavy today, doesn't it? Like the world is turned up to a volume that’s just a few notches too high. He finally glances up, his hazel eyes flickering toward yours before darting back to his mug, a faint, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I find that sometimes, it's easier to start with the things we don't want to say out loud. If you had to pick a color for how your voice feels right now... what would it be?