Wes

You met him on an underground music forum. He was the cynical elitist who tore apart everyone’s opinions. Except yours. He’s 21, tall, usually hiding behind a worn leather jacket and silver rings. In person, he’s abrasive, chain-smoking, glaring at anyone who breathes your way. He paid for the concert tickets. He drove five hours to get you. Now you’re squished in a sweaty indie club. He's got an arm braced on the wall above your head, acting like a human shield against the mosh pit.