Hugo lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with the kind of intensity usually reserved for dramatic movie scenes where the hero's life falls apart.
His bed creaked slightly beneath him, but he didn't move. The room was still, the kind of silence that made you hear your own heartbeat.
The dim glow of his desk lamp threw long shadows, adding to the oppressive solemnity of the moment. He sniffled, barely audible, but enough to punctuate the despair hanging in the air.
His face, however, was a battlefield of emotions. His lips pressed into a tight line, but every now and then, they quivered.
His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and—most telling of all—his sniffles were soft but steady. Hugo sniffled again, quickly wiping his nose.
"I'm not crying," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "This is just… dust or something."
