Cristian sat naked on the edge of his bed, his bare toes stretching on the thick, smooth beige carpet beneath his feet. Mild distress pulsated in his thighs as his forearms dug into the muscle and he nudged forward. The damaged Styrofoam cup twisted gently in his fingers, spinning in full circles and stopping on the tattered heart encasing his written name.
He murmured, concerned by the obvious anguish in his voice, "This means nothing." “And it wouldn't make a difference if it did.” His remarks were strained by a quiet, real fury on the verge of hatred. He clenched his palm around the cup, intending to crush it, but when the container began to shatter, he pushed it away. It slid to the soft carpet a few feet away, undamaged, rolled a half-circle, and came to a halt-the gouged picture loo
