hi guys! 💗 i don’t think i’ll be posting anymore texts today (i’m sorry i had it in mind but i still have to make my medicine and i don’t trust myself to make good content right now haha) but i just wanted to check up on all of you. i was going through my asks and admin posts and i teared up because i got to my first texts and asks and how quickly my blog moved and how supportive you have all been from the start. it warms my heart to know such amazing people and be part of such a loving and supportive fandom.(truly you guys are so cute nct are sooo lucky to have such amazing fans!!) i feel like i can’t express it enough in words how happy it makes me to have you all and your support. thank you for being by my side even when i disappear for spouts of time. i love you all so much! i miss interacting with all of you as much as i used to, please know my ask box is always open for anything! any advice, concerns, you wanna tell me a story, you just wanna share an opinion, anything! you can always shoot me a message too 💘💘💘 much love!
So Long as You’re Safe, I Don’t Care What Happens to Me
He knows it’s not good, knows that the pain throbbing in his side means nothing good for him, but you’re still at his side, sweat smeared over your forehead and red cheeks, lips parted as you gasp in deep breaths and cough out the dust floating in the air.
He knows he’s probably going to die if he doesn’t stop to rest, but the bullets are still coming, rattling against the oversized safe he’d dragged you behind, and you’re still here, bleeding from three different cuts and begging him to keep moving.
He grabs your hand, blood soaked palm slipping when he yanks you forward.
“Are you hurt?” You question, voice rising in panic, but he just shakes his head, pushing you in front of him, shoving you toward the back door and toward the get away van that should be waiting to pick you up.
“Wait. Wait!” You shout, words high-pitched as you reach for him. A bullet whizzes past you, leaving a crater in the wall behind you and his breath catches in his throat.
“Go, you need to go,” he says, grimacing and reaching for the hole in his side.
You shake your head, eyes wide as you duck behind a desk, pulling him with you. “I’m not leaving you behind.”
He swallows his fear, darting up to peer at the enemy. “You don’t have much time.”
Your fingers scrabble to lift the hem of his plain black tee, soaked, you notice, with blood. Your stomach turns at the sight and he can see it in your eyes, can tell that his instinct was right. He’s going to die.
God help him if he lets you face the same fate.
He shoves your hands away, tugging the hem back down and meeting your panicked gaze.
“We have to get to the medic, he’ll know what to do. He can—he must know—”
He shakes his head, “It’s too late for me. But not you. You can still make it.”
Your mouth opens and closes. “No, no. I’m not leaving you here.”
He fights the urge to roll his eyes at your stupid stubbornness. Something he’d fallen so desperately in love with is nothing more than a terror-inducing flaw right now. “Go. The van should be outside. I’ll hold them here.”
The wood of the desk splinters, slicing his forehead as the fragments fly through the air near you. “I can’t—”
“Go!” He shouts, spinning on his heel, cocking the near-empty pistol in his hand.
You grab his hand, ready to protest.
He turns back to you, heart shattering because he knows this is the end, knows that he will never spend another moment laughing with you, reveling in the feeling of knowing he was the reason you were happy. It kills him as much as he thinks is possible.
But he doesn’t have time to worry about the blood leaking from his side or the future he’s abandoning, not when you still have a chance to escape.
Blood streaks across your cheek as he places a hand on it, pulling your toward him and into a desperate, hot kiss. You can taste the blood leaking from a cut in his lip and the salt from his sweat, but you don’t pull away, your own heart breaking and stomach turning. This isn’t a good-luck kiss or a let’s-hope-we-do-this kiss.
This is a goodbye kiss.
His eyes well with tears as he breaks the kiss off, leaning his forehead against yours, shaky breaths escaping his cracked lips and stinging the cuts in your chin. “I love you, I love you so much.”
Before you can say it back, he’s shoving you away, letting you fall to the cool tile so he can face the enemy, dart out from cover, pistol drawn, tears streaking through the dirt on his face.
He doesn’t see you leave, just hears you scream his name, but you’re too late, he’s there, shooting them down, leaning against the cool metal of the safe, praying you listened, praying you left.
When the enemy finally reaches him, he’s out of bullets and pale, so pale the enemy wonders aloud, asking if he’s a ghost. It’s a joke, one he can muster a smile for.
“You wish,” he mutters, shaking so hard he can hardly control his hand as he reaches inside his pocket.
“I don’t doubt you will be soon,” the enemy says, a sneer on his lips as he reaches forward to poke at his broken nose.
“So will you,” he murmurs, forcing his eyes to focus on the ugly sneer, the ugly expression.
“You think? You don’t think I’ll reach your girl? Don’t worry, you won’t be a lonely ghost for long.”
He spits out blood, letting it trickle down his chin as he musters all of his energy. There proves to be just enough for a quick thrust, a jab to the stomach, but it’s all he needs: he knows where the organs are.
The enemy stumbles back, cursing, mouth gaping, but it doesn’t matter, he’s done it. The enemy will die in a few short minutes, and you’ll be safe. For good.
He slides down the side of the safe, eyes fluttering shut, breaths shortening, pain fading.
He breathes out, head thumping against the safe once. He did it.
He did it.
The world spins, even with his eyes closed, and he wonders vaguely if you made it out, if you can finally leave this life. For a moment, one too short for his liking, he can hear your laugh, pealing like the church bells that woke him every Sunday, and a faint smile crosses his bloodied lips.
He’s saved. You’re here with him, kneeling next to his side, eyes rolling as you berate him for being so reckless.
“I love you,” he murmurs, laughing the slightest at how kind the words are in his mouth.
“And I love you, you idiot,” you mutter back, that wondrous smile that steals his breath away lighting up your face.
“Never leave me,” he says, breathless, “never. Never, I… I love you so much. I love you. I…” The world shuts down on him, fading into a bright, blinding white that envelopes everything but you.
His last breath is spent on you, on your life together, and when he finally gives up, lets himself let go, he doesn’t realize he’s dying utterly alone.
okay, i don’t hate kids. i think they’re sort of funny. i like that you can talk to them like an adult and they’ll make sounds like they understand. i taught one kid “phosphorescence” and he looked at me and said, “they could just call it glowing if it means something that glows.” the kid undid the entire science community in one sentence.
but i hate kids.
or really, i hate how they’ve always been expected from me.
when i was five i was given “babies.” i hated the hardness of dolls, disposed of them for dramatic stories between stuffed animals. i knew how to wrap, feed, and care for a baby before i could spell my last name. when i was nine i was already “watching the kids”. i was only four years older than my cousins were. i wanted to go out and play. instead i was expected to have responsibility. by the time i was thirteen all of my friends had told me about how many children they were going to have in their twenties.
my hips were “child-bearing” hips. my brother was a scientist, or a fireman, or a steamroller. i was going to make a good housewife, or mom, or nanny, or mom, or mom, or mom.
and when my body hurt, i was told it wasn’t really my body, not really, it belonged to my future children. i couldn’t cut or snip or tie anything; i was trapped by the potential energy that hung above me. a boulder, threatening. i couldn’t get tattoos, because what would i tell my children? i couldn’t kiss a girl, because what would i tell the children? i couldn’t be risky or wild or anything but a lady, because what about the children?
and when i said “i don’t want children” - not biologically, at least, not when cancer and depression and a whole other host of terrible things lives inside me - do you know what they said? “it’ll change, wait and see” “it’s not bad” “you’ll get used to it” “when you meet the right man” “you don’t want to be lonely”.
i don’t hate kids. i’m great with them.
but then i’m told again that my life will be forfeit to them - something in me snaps angry. “wait until you have kids” “you should travel before you have children” “you’ll be more happy.”
i hate kids! i’ve snarled. i don’t mean it at all. but god. please, leave me alone. i don’t want to be a biological mom.
it’s like we’re born with a uterus and told “this is your whole life. your singular purpose. your job.”
i want to be my own purpose. not here for the sake of passing genes on.
being physically sick when you have mental illness is so odd because i am positive, always, that people will treat me the same way. i assume i’m not bad, because others have been worse, i tell very few people, i apologize for the inconvenience. i say of diagnosed illnesses: i’m faking it. it’s not bad. i don’t want to be annoying.
and it is strange to me. i get tired quickly because my lungs aren’t working - people go out of their way to help me, let me sit down, tell me not to worry. i get tired because my brain isn’t working - people ask why i’m being difficult, why i can’t just drink a coffee.
i cough and i wheeze and people fawn over me. they offer me cough drops, they pull tissues from sleeves. when i stop eating and showering i’m being selfish, i’m lazy. i apologize for not wanting to go to the party, i’m on antibiotics and can’t drink; i’m told they’ll miss me, i get people staying home with me. i apologize for not wanting to go to the party, i’m spiraling and drinking wouldn’t be good for me; i’m told to relax and stop taking things seriously.
i show up to work wheezing. my lungs sound like a door creaking. i am shooed home, told to take off all the time i need. i never tell my boss i have ocd and am sometimes late for counting. admitting this seems personal, embarrassing. when i am having a bad day, i show up to work and people ask why i’m being so distant. so annoying. they drop their voice when they say depression but bring me green tea to help my breathing.
people ask if i’m feeling better. they fuss over me. they ask if they can bring soup, do anything.
people ignore it. they ask if i’m over it yet. they tell me it’s a phase, it’s passing. they say they were sad once, it’s not serious, and i should stop making everything about me.
i don’t let people take care of me. i don’t know how. i don’t trust them. in my life, when i am bad, they leave. when my body is failing, i assume the same thing.
i’m sorry i’m difficult. i just don’t understand people trying.