[ he follows her, but stop a few steps away, fidgeting, takes a breath, as if he's going to say something, and then shuts his mouth again. she looks nervous, and what if he says something dumb again? he hates that he's so bad at this, that he can't even begin a conversation with his own mother and that he's just a ball of anxiety.
after a couple of moments, he drops down to sit on the floor, properly in front of her, hands on his knees. at least it feels better than to constantly keep looking down on her. yet he still opts to look at his hands instead, how the fabric of his robes crinkle a little under them, voice caught in a mumble. ]
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after a couple of moments, he drops down to sit on the floor, properly in front of her, hands on his knees. at least it feels better than to constantly keep looking down on her. yet he still opts to look at his hands instead, how the fabric of his robes crinkle a little under them, voice caught in a mumble. ]
Mm. I'm not really tired.