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"Roman? We had plans like an hour ago? What are you doing?" You ask the tall, darkly ethereal man in front of you. It's as if he's snapped out of a trance, eyebrows raised and lips pursed as he turns to face you. "Oh-oh! Sorry, I was-I actually don't know I was doing, thought I saw something I guess." He scratches the back of his head, long fingers raking through the tousled locks.
You don't mean to get so aggravated and flustered, but he already knew about how your week had been; filled with people ditching you and or deciding they didn't want to spend any time with you and would rather their significant others. Your best friend, though he is usually a self proclaimed asshole to everyone else, understood how you felt and comforted you while making you uncontrollably laugh with silly faces in the process.
"Roman, you always do this! Every time, you're either with some girl who's boobs are pushed up to her neck or you're sulking inside being all pouty, I just-" you turn around to hide the very evident disappointment on your features, your mind screaming at you to not cry over something so stupid and small. Your hands are covering your face before you uncover them as you hear Romans languid footsteps approaching.
"Y/n, hey, look at me. I'm sorry, I really am, and I don't say that often so you know I mean it." His voice is smooth and soft and you can tell from the raising of a few octaves that he's trying to make you laugh. You feel a warm, large hand on your shoulder, coaxing you to turn around and face him.
You stare up at him with eyebrows pressed together, arms crossing over your chest. "Are you? Because I thought you were the only one who wouldn't forget about me and who would actually be there." You know you're being selfish and unreasonable, but you just can't help it. Things have been far too much for you to hold back your emotions.
"Well what do you want me to say? I can't always be at your beck and call whenever your girlfriends won't talk about clothes with you." He snaps back, feeling instant regret in the pit of his stomach as he watches your facial expression change. "Y/n I didn't mean that, listen you can hit me if it makes you feel better or insult me, I deserve it." He says quickly, knowing that what he said was not only completely false, but extremely presumptuous as well.
Your arms fall to your sides, chest heaving up and down as anger and hurt passes your features. "Your neck is too long, you look like a giraffe and- and- your feet are so big they look like hands and it freaks me out because it reminds me of an orangutan and your legs don't end and make you look like a walking praying mantis and- and I don't want to be alone." You struggle to find any insults at all in the beginning, since the man in front of you is practically carved from marble; but the words seem to choke out at the end I don't want to be alone. You almost didn't even realize you've said it until years are streaming down your cheeks and pooling at your chin.
His face drops to an expression of sadness and empathy, emotions he only felt at full force when he met you. "Y/n, you're not alone. Why would you even think that-? Did I make you feel like that?" His mouth is dry and he doesn't know what exactly the emotion he's feeling is. All he knows is that it makes his stomach twist into a knot that won't be untied until he knows you aren't hurting because of him.
