the boy with the white eyes [muke af]

coq bloqué

coq bloqué

November rolled around two weeks later. The New York air made Michael want to bundle up more and more every day. The usually small apartment feels all too big without Clémence running crayons over the off-white walls.

There are boxes in his closet and under his bed that haven't been cleared out since the two moved into the complex almost four years ago, a lonely Saturday seemed like the perfect day to go through them.

Michael's starting to accept that he's truly alone as he tears the tape off the first box. Dust flies up, causing Michael to let out a cough. He wipes the remains of the dust off his pajama tee-shirt. The last time he changed was Thursday afternoon which made him feel like a lazy college student.

He smiles as he holds a few photos in his hands. The first one was his high school graduation, his mother and father standing next to him blocking the California sun with their hands. His mother looked pleased, like maybe she actually did something right for once. His father looked stern, never the one to show any emotion.

His father's personality bothered Mike growing up. He waited his entire life for his parents to go, "Hey, we're proud of you," but they never did. He doesn't blame them, there's not a lot to be proud of—a boy with no true talents who knocked up his girlfriend their third year into college.

He dug around in the box, looking for anything worth saving. A few records were in their case, scratched beyond repair. A pencil-sharpener shaped like a cat was missing an ear. Many yarn bracelets he made for himself during his teenage years were faded and tangled at the bottom of the pile.

Michael has lived twenty-six years and has nothing to prove of it. He closes the box again and tucked it under the frame of his bed. The white duster hanging underneath his mattress covers the remains. He wasn't ready to go through the past.

His achy feet pushed himself off the hardwood floors. Mike ran a hand through his fading hair, his rushing mind debating how badly he needed to sweep the floors or clean the kitchen or take a shower. The twenty-six-year-old still acts like a child, doing things like seeing how long until someone notices he's worn the same shirt for a week or pretending he doesn't feel the crumbs underneath his feet.

Mike wandered through the narrow hallway, smiling at all of Clémence's drawings of her and Michael. He opened his computer (which was stacked on an infinite amount of bills) and turns on a playlist he named pretend you're cool, pressing the volume up full blast.

Luke was sitting in his fairly clean bedroom, earbuds in his ear as he listened to the most recent lecture for his mathematics course. He licked his dry lips, leaning back in the creaking wooden chair. He knew any minute Calum would come into the room, yelling at him for cock-blocking the previous night.

He focused onto his teachers deep voice, trying to imagine what he looks like. He imagines this professor as a middle aged man, balding brown hair upon his shiny head. He probably has an increasing waist line, his wife nagging him to get outside more, to take their dogs (probably two Golden Retrievers) for a walk. Luke bets this teacher always wears slacks and button downs, regardless of the event or of the season. He imagines him with grey wire-framed glasses that always fall down his nose.

"Lucas," Calum's voice filled his ears as a single earbud was pulled from his ear.

"Please don't kick me out again," he begged, turning to face the direction the voice was coming from. He was looking straight into's Calum's crotch but that was close enough.

"The nice neighbor with pink hair said you could hang out there while Beth comes over," he informed the blonde.

"It's purple," Luke corrected.