he sips on the familiar hot chocolate,
and the hot chocolate is still familiar,
but what minghao doesn't recall is the pang of hurt in his chest,
when he looks up,
and finds the eyes of a boy staring right at him.
what minghao doesn't recall is the cuts on his wrists screaming to be itched,
and the hot chocolate is still familiar,
but the browned and crisped roses that laid in front of the boy with soft blonde hair were not.
a tear slips,
he gulps,
and he cannot fucking breathe.
the boy walks up to minghao,
and gives him the dozen deadroses,
a gentle smile on his face,
and there is something about the whole ordeal that makes minghao sad inside,
the boys gentle smile is painted like its been rehearsed in front of a shattered mirror far too many times,
and the wilted flowers are pathetic and broken like they were purposely plucked to be dead and they were purposely supposed to be given to a sad boy in a sad corner.
and minghao has never felt more dead than he did in that moment.
_
