"Amara," He repeated to himself as he felt the cool skin of her palm against his for a fleeting moment, the curt handshake telling him a great deal of what he was interested in as she passed by him to dump her things on her bed. He watched her go with his thumbs planted in his pockets, slouching with those bulky clothes of his, thinking about what to say next. After a bit of contemplation, he decided to let things be, and stepped back to his bag to start unpacking his things as well.

Shirts, pants, jackets -- these things were about all he had in this world. Malcolm was never good with his hands and spectacularly failed each art class he took, and wasn't long for the material possessions of things. He had money in his wallet and bank from the jobs he had been working since roughly a year ago, but spent it on very little other than food, the occasional haircut and other bare necessities. The silence became too much to bear for him, as he finally spoke up, in a voice loud enough for her to hear.

"Not a talkative one, are you?"

It was a simple question, one without malice or hate, but still came off as quite nosy and prying. He noted his own apparent lack of tact with the subject and shrugged it off like water down his back. "That's alright. I'll be eighteen in just under a year. You've only gotta tolerate it until then." The sound of a dresser closing signaled that he was done putting his clothes away, and he found his mouth moving yet again without his conscious thought.

"How many homes you been in? Doesn't look like this is your first ride."