who: @y2poppy
sometimes he feels like a good person, or at least, he tries really hard to be. he carries old ladies groceries and holds the door for people and is always very nice to strangers on the phone and his iron is always too low to donate blood but he tries to and that’s what counts, right? he doesn’t know what other efforts matter, what other things he could do to possibly be better and the things he does think of make him feel selfish. is it bad, so very bad, to not want to give up comfort? to not want to sacrifice the life he’s content living for others? he doesn’t want to sell his couch and donate the funds to charity, he doesn’t want to give away all his organs effective immediately or become a missionary in another country or give up the worldly pleasures that have been gifted to him.
he does, however, want to help his friend.
they stand opposite each other in an apartment colored like a rainbow, glitter stuck to the countertops and floorboards a bit squeaky underfoot, two people stood on either side of a kitchen, perfectly symmetrical. he leans against the cupboard, arms crossed over his chest, eyes studying but not judgmental, trying very hard to be open and caring and not harsh. poppy doesn’t do well with harsh, isn’t a girl with a knack for tough love or particularly serious conversations. next to them are untouched plates, the room filled with something that feels like air before a breaking storm, a swirling heat and discomfort, the oxygen sucked up into a vacuum.
and things had been going so well. he didn’t like this feeling, but it was unavoidable at this point.
“ poppy... “ he hesitates, “ we should talk about it. “
