@wrldbreaker
“I figured, um—”
It’s been a week, exactly, and he’s not sure if he’s trying to form a habit, a schedule, or if it’s just easier to do this when he knows that in a few hours he can talk to Dr. Lecter about survivor’s guilt and obligation and church collapses and feel like at least this one part of his life makes sense to someone else.
It’s been a week, and he’s holding another bouquet of flowers to replace the dying ones of last week. He’d actually gone to a florist, this time, figured he probably should, since he knew almost nothing about flowers and researching and picking them himself felt like—too much, somehow. It had made him feel like a teenager before a first date, standing in front of the displays and nodding tensely and admitting, almost guiltily—they’re for a friend. She’s in the hospital.
“I figured that, that the other ones were probably wilting by now. And that a change might be nice.” He’s already expecting something scathing. He probably deserves it. Flowers two weeks in a row, and he went to a florist. “They’re already cut. I remembered, about the scissors.”
