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“Dude, the bag’s split.” He gestures towards the slit in the tiny baggie, caressing it in his palm while he carefully ushers it into my bubble.

Obviously. Does he think I don’t take notice of my own things or something? It’s literally three-quarters empty but thank you, captain obvious.

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I could open up to him slightly, but maybe only a portion of me. He doesn’t have the developmental maturity to comprehend certain parts of me… but it’s fine.

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I’ve never really been good at taking the bad with the good. Usually, it’s just easier to keep moving and not worry. I worry about enough shit already but fuck he’s a solid dude.

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Apparently, Italians have loyalty entrenched in their blood. Also apparently, Northerners are supposed to be stuck up. Sometimes I feel like my ego has been impaled by a street pole, but I never really felt it was that obvious to other people.

This guy, on the other hand, isn’t even Italian but he is a fucking flag pole. If pride is the devil, then I feel like an angel visiting hell. Its rocky caverns must’ve split with the plastic.

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I find myself peering over the ledge. Down below I see Condescension smirking and sneering, and the cheeky grin of Facetiousness tucked under its arm. Nonetheless, I am Sincerity’s puppet; Her strings may only allow me to descend so far…

…but he’s so cute and so fragile. The fumes from the flames make him flap in the whirlwind, and

I genuinely think he would flap forever if I wasn’t there to steady the weather.

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He makes me chuckle. This boy needs me.

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“I mean, I guess we could finish it...”

I look at him with a shrug dipped in mischief; my eyes pierce his with suggestion. I can see the numbers calculating behind his eyes, his eyebrows raised.

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To this day, I could only guess what goes on behind his closed walls. I could try to envision what sort of time he ticks with, or what he uses to fertilise the garden. I know he thrives on exercise, but I highly doubt running laps around a vault will crack its code.

His face looks legitimately bewildered, petrified in awkwardness. I watch his mind grab at words, a phrase, anything. Perhaps my unpredictability lights a flame under his dormant volcano of comfort, bringing his underground to the surface in a flurry of activity. I can handle his storm; he knows this.

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The molten chugs along in stutters, expelling shuffles and twitches. Two beats have passed in all but a second. In my peripheral I see that Sheepish had brought his glass to his lips, Innocence had stood up from the couch, while Determination cast a keen eye on the situation.

I could see that he was eager to respond, however unsure. I could easily have made his decision for him, but fuck that. I hadn’t even really decided for myself.

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Perhaps my body language is speaking the same language as his.

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“Dude, what do you want to do?”

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Wait, is this my choice to make?

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