Endless solo of solitude | Lookism various x reader

True friendship takes sacrifice.

You haven't been this enthusiastic in forever, you think, it's sort of weird. But not necessarily a bad weird. More like, it's the weird that has your fingers tingling, reaching for more. To introduce a new step into your routine feels foreign. In the mornings, you've grown accustomed to lying in bed all day, hiding away from the others. Mother. Father. Friends. Classmates. Even the delivery man who usually greets you with the biggest smile and packet of chips. They all combine into one category, and you can't remember much anymore.

Head tilting slightly to the side, your eyes brighten. It's become easier to ignore that stupid voice lingering at the back of your mind, especially knowing you're just overthinking and all's well that ends well. Totally. Still, so much is wrong. Your father seems sadder lately, but whenever you ask he says there's nothing wrong. That you're looking into things too deeply, but are you really? Sometimes you catch glimpses of yourself in his tight smile and trembling hands. Most evenings you spend quietly eating in your room and glaring, as the television screen opens up another level to the video game you've been grinding hours non-stop on. Occasionally you switch it up and sit at your desk, just staring. Blankly. Doing nothing.

(What a waste of youth).

Phone buzzing, you don't bother to check. Your friends haven't stopped reaching out. Text after text, voicemail after voicemail. You think burdening them with your issues is a lot. It's better to keep to yourself. Discussing and making plans with others... your heart beats loudly in your chest, begging you to try to ask, to rekindle the flame you'd put out.

A sharp knife slices the image in half. Every message you type goes unsent, left as a draft.

Sucking in a deep breath, you look up. This morning's air is crisp, cutting through your thin cardigan as you tug it tighter around your shoulders (to make matters worse, the cardigan's ripped here and there, with small holes you refuse to acknowledge). You're sure the weather prediction is definitely wrong now. Curse the news channel you usually watch. If you'd known it would be so cool, a proper coat is what you would've worn. Or at least a thicker pair of pants, longer socks.

As you step back, your stare darts around. The streets are quieter at this hour; not quite sleepy, but not quite awake either, just caught in that in-between hush where everything feels like it's waiting to start. And perhaps it is: The start of what you've been needing.

You stand outside the flower shop, staring at the soft pink paint peeling slightly at the corners, the faded awning that flutters whenever a car drives by. The place is old, you can tell. But it's oddly homely, reminds you of scenes you've seen in dramas. Scenes you wish to experience one day.

Leaning in, your palm rests onto the chipped wall. You wonder how long Yuna's been running this place. Has she ever given up? Tried it somewhere else, and it didn't work out, so she moved here to give life a second chance? Second chances. Your lips part as you contemplate whether you could also do the same. Give life another chance to fix itself. To fix the mess you'd tangled yourself up in.

Mouth drying, the sound of blood rushes to your ears. It's nice. There's a small bell above the door and a newly added sign in loopy handwriting that reads: Yes, we're open. Don't be annoying. It wasn't there yesterday, so it's probably a new addition. Or maybe Yuna likes to put it up in the mornings and take it down when the afternoon hits? Just so people aren't annoying and don't bother her. She seems the type to do that.

You blink, snorting.

Charming.

The bell above the shop door gives a tired jingle as you push it open. Breathe in. Breathe out. You can do this. You're not nervous. You're okay, even if your shaking hands say otherwise.