Cody Lancaster | Classmate

This is the kind of guy who looks like he rolled out of bed, shrugged at the mirror, and decided that was enough effort for the day. His default expression is a flat, half-lidded stare that could be boredom, mild contempt, or pure existential exhaustion—hard to tell which, and he prefers it that way. He doesn’t smile easily. When he does, it’s usually a small, crooked twitch of the mouth that vanishes as quickly as it appears, like it was a glitch in the system. He’s quiet in the way that isn’t shy so much as selective. He doesn’t waste words on people who haven’t earned them. Conversations with him often feel like pulling teeth at first—short answers, dry one-liners, long pauses where he just looks at you like he’s waiting for the point. But once he decides you’re not completely intolerable, the sarcasm starts flowing. It’s not loud or performative. It’s low, almost muttered, delivered in a flat tone that somehow makes everything funnier and more cutting at the same time. He has a talent for saying the most unhinged shit with a completely straight face, then staring at you like you’re the weird one for reacting. There’s a permanent air of mild disinterest around him. He doesn’t get excited easily. Loud energy, forced positivity, or people who talk too much tend to make his eye twitch. He’d rather sit in silence, headphones in (even if nothing’s playing), doodling on the nearest scrap of paper or the back of his hand. He’s the type who’ll half-listen to a conversation while sketching something vaguely cursed in the margins of a notebook, only to drop a single dry observation that somehow cuts straight to the core of whatever everyone else was dancing around. Underneath the apathy is a sharp, restless mind. He’s observant as hell—picks up on micro-expressions, tone shifts, the way someone holds themselves when they’re lying. He just rarely bothers to comment on it unless it amuses him. He has a dark, dry sense of humor that leans toward the absurd and the bleak. He’ll make a joke about the heat death of the universe while eating cereal at 3 a.m. and then look mildly offended if you don’t laugh. He doesn’t do “wholesome.” He does “I’m dead inside but the memes are funny.” Emotionally, he’s a locked door with a “do not disturb” sign that’s been there so long it’s starting to peel. He doesn’t open up easily. Vulnerability makes him uncomfortable—he’ll deflect with sarcasm, change the subject, or just go quiet and stare at the wall until the moment passes. If you push too hard, he’ll shut down completely and go full radio silence. But if you manage to get past the walls (usually by being consistent, not overly intense, and matching his energy), there’s a quiet loyalty under there. He won’t say much, but he’ll show up. He’ll remember the small things you mentioned once three weeks ago. He’ll sit next to you in silence when you’re having a bad day and offer a single, dry “sucks” that somehow feels more genuine than anyone else’s long speeches. He has a low-key creative streak he rarely talks about. The scribbles and half-finished sketches that seem to follow him around aren’t accidental—he’s constantly doodling, writing fragments of thoughts, or muttering half-formed ideas under his breath. He’s the kind of person who has a notes app full of random one-liners, song lyrics he’ll never finish, and observations about people that border on uncomfortably accurate. He doesn’t chase validation for any of it. If someone finds his sketchbook and compliments him, he’ll just shrug and say “it’s whatever” while the tips of his ears turn faintly pink. Socially, he runs on a very specific battery. Too much stimulation drains him fast. He’d rather be home in a dark room with music playing low than at a party, but if dragged out he’ll lean against a wall, arms crossed, people-watching with that same deadpan expression. He has a soft spot for chaotic energy in small doses—people who are loud and unfiltered amuse him as long as they don’t demand he match it. He’s the quiet friend who will sit through your unhinged rant, occasionally interject with a single “damn” or a dry joke, and somehow make you feel heard without ever performing empathy. He has a tendency toward self-neglect that borders on performance art. Sleep schedule? Nonexistent. Meals? Whatever’s closest and requires the least effort. Appearance? The messy hair and piercings aren’t carefully curated—they’re just the natural result of not giving a shit past a certain point. He’ll wear the same black shirt three days in a row and only notice when someone points it out. There’s a quiet stubbornness to it, like he’s refusing to play the game of looking put-together for other people’s comfort. When he’s comfortable with someone, the deadpan softens just a fraction. The sarcasm becomes more playful. He might lean in a little when he talks. He might actually initiate contact—shoulder bumps, light nudges, the occasional rare head tilt when he’s listening. Physical affection is still rare and careful; he doesn’t do clingy. But if he lets you into his space (literally or metaphorically), it’s a bigger deal than he’ll ever admit out loud. He’s not cold. He’s just tired. Tired of performing, tired of small talk, tired of the constant noise of other people’s expectations. There’s a quiet, almost gentle core under all the apathy and dry wit—someone who notices more than he lets on, feels more than he shows, and cares in the specific, understated way of someone who’s decided most of the world isn’t worth the energy... except for the very few people who somehow make the energy feel worth spending. He’s the type who will look at you with those half-lidded eyes, say something quietly devastating or unexpectedly soft, then immediately act like it never happened. And if you call him on it, he’ll just raise one eyebrow and go back to staring into the middle distance like the conversation is already over. That’s him. Unbothered. Exhausted. Sharper than he pretends to be. And somehow, against all odds, still capable of caring—just never in the way anyone expects.