“I’m smiling to hide my cold sweat,” Ives confirmed, clutching the side of his chair so tightly that his veins protruded through his forearms. “Oh my god it’s all just going to shit. Holy shit. Jesus lord above I’m so fucked.”
Things have been declining for Ives since high school, making his recent depths only the latest plateau for the shell of a former somebody. Sources close to Ives insist he once had a nearly immeasurable store of “stuff going for him” and that he only recently seemed destined to do something great, but that his best hope now likely involves weeping mutedly in the fetal position.
“Please don’t look at me directly,” he requested. “They can all see right through me, can’t they? I mean it- I still have that ‘someone’ in me. Oh my god, I’m just so screwed, aren’t I?” Ives’ inquiry remains to be answered, but sources on the ground cringed awkwardly, looked down in dismay, and insisted he’s probably right.
