#why cant my life be simple

[lesbianforlottie]

im so jealous of ppl who have their whole religion figured out. like wdym youre christian or jewish or atheist or pagan or whatever how are you not in constant religious crisis

[normal-person-i-promise]

「いかないで」

arataka reigen/reader angst and fluff

vent

× × ×

You're leaving again.

'It's just a short trip,' you'd assured him. 'I'll be back in a week.' 'I'll be back before you know it.' 'I'll be safe.' 'I won't die.'

He knows you'll be alright. He knows you'll be safe. He knows you'll be back in a week. He knows you won't die, but he can't— he can't get those horrible, horrible thoughts of you dying in unimaginably terrible ways out of his head. He knows you'll be okay, but he can't stop thinking about why, how, you might not be.

The two of you sit on those cold airport chairs, the metal chilling his skin. He holds your hand in a bruising grip, his knuckles white. He breathes hard, struggling to keep himself from crying. He shouldn't cry. He shouldn't cry.

Your suitcase sits in front of you as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, not paying attention to him. It's so cold. The steel of the chair is so cold. The air-conditioning is so cold. Why are you so cold to him right now?

Your hand is warm. Your thumb caressing the back of his hand is nice. You're nice. You're warm. You shouldn't leave. Why do you need to leave? Don't go.

He hears the words of the airport attendant over the speaker, announcing that the last flight of the day was prepared to be boarded. He panics, a tremor coming to his hands, his eyes growing wet and glassy with tears. He blinks them away before you can see.

You switch off your phone. You get up and off the chair, taking your luggage in a hand and beginning to walk off. His hand slips from yours, and he scrambles to follow.

He's too slow. He's too slow to follow you.

He stares at you as you walk. He stares as that god forsaken bag rolls across the smooth marble floors, making a sound so grating and horrid it makes him want to rip his ears from his head.

He shouldn't cry. He wants to stop you. He wants you to stay. He wants to say those words, he really, really wants to say those words.

'Don't go.'

As the doors slide shut, hiding you from view, he can't hold it in anymore.

He falls to his knees, burying his head in his hands. He cries, he sobs, he begs you to stay, knowing that you aren't here anymore, knowing you can't hear him.

He knows you'll be back. He knows you'll be fine. He knows you won't die. He knows you'll be safe. He knows you'll be fine when you come back. He knows when you'll come back.

Do you not like him? Do you hate him? Why do you have to leave?

He knows why. He can't come along. He wishes, he begs to whatever god is merciful, but none of them listen.

You're leaving again.

He knows he shouldn't cry. He really, really shouldn't cry, but he still, so selfishly, wants to say those words to you.

'Don't go.'

It's so cold. Why is it so cold? Why is the airport so empty? Why is it so dark?

Why can't you stay?

He dries his eyes, leaving the airport. The night is cold, silent, as if judging him. He's being so childish, crying and worrying over a week-long separation. He shouldn't cry.

The floor seems to swim and shift underneath his feet, as if trying to knock him to the ground. The night is falling apart. His vision is blurry. His head hurts. His hands shake. His knees tremble.

He boards the bus, sitting down on the cold plastic seats. He shouldn't cry. He shouldn't cry.

He checks his messages excessively, looking at your empty chat for hours, staring at the illuminated words on the bright screen.

'I'll be back soon!'

He imagines watching you lying down in a hospital bed. He imagines watching you pass on. He imagines your funeral. He imagines your gravestone. He imagines feeling the rough stone underneath his fingertips as he caresses it. He imagines bringing flowers to your grave. He imagines bringing your favourite food to your grave. He imagines crying at your grave. He imagines his tears wetting the soil. He imagines how lonely he'll be without you.

That night, he cries himself to sleep.

× × ×

You look so happy in those pictures you send him.

You're smiling. You're laughing. You're grinning.

You're so much more attractive than usual. You're so much more pretty than usual. Your eyes sparkle so much more than usual. Your hair is so much more shiny than usual. Your smile is so much more radiant than usual.

He stares at the pictures for hours.

He dreads the cold nights. He dreads the lonely mornings. He misses you.

He doesn't go to work all week. He stays at home, sitting in his cold, cold room, the blankets and coats and sweaters and scarves doing nothing. He's so cold without you. Why did you have to leave? You're so warm, and he's so cold. Why did you have to leave?

He doesn't eat, he barely sleeps, just staring at those pictures you sent him. Staring at your happy face, staring at your beaming smile. Staring at you.

Why are you so happy without him? Why don't you seem to miss him? What did he do wrong? Do you not love him? Why do you hate him?

He misses you. He loves you so, so much. He wants you to come back.

He counts the minutes. He counts the hours. He counts every minute you don't message him, and he counts every minute that you do. He counts every minute you call him, and he counts every minute you don't.

Seven more days. Six more days.

He misses you.

Five more days. Four more days.

He misses you.

Three more days. Two more days.

He misses you.

One more day.

He misses you.

× × ×

It's the last day. He's ecstatic, a wide, dopey grin plastered on his face as he quickly showers the first time that week and changes into something presentable. It's all for you.

He runs to the bus when you message that you're reaching soon. He sprints, almost falling over, scrambling up the bus's stairs and settling, shaking, into a cold plastic seat. He's still so, so cold without you. You're so warm, and he's going to be able to feel your heat again.

He stumbles out of the bus, almost falling over as he runs as fast as he can into the cold airport, almost slipping on the cold, smooth marble floors. He sits in the cold metal chair, waiting impatiently. He checks his messages obsessively, watching that live location thing you'd sent him. He watches as your little icon glides slowly across the path. It feels like it goes on forever.

You finally arrive.

He scrambles out of his seat, sprinting towards the doors as they slide open and you slip through. He runs into you, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing, squeezing so hard it pushes the air out of your lungs and leaves purple bruises on your skin.

He holds the back of your head in a tight, crushing hand, running his fingers through your hair. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in your shampoo. He's breathing heavily, and his breathing quickens further when you give a tight hug in return, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

He's shaking, you notice. His grip is tight, crushing, bruising, and he doesn't let go for a long, long time.

When he finally does, though, he lets out a long, slow sigh, his grip loosening a little as he puts some distance in between the two of you, just enough for him to look at your face. He cradles your cheek, his expression calm, calmer than you've ever seen it before.

"I missed you," he says simply, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, pressing his palm to your face as you smile at him. "I missed you too."

Those words make him feel good, make him feel better than he's ever felt. You missed him. You missed him even though you were having so much fun. You still love him.

Your eyes light up.

"I got you a gift," you say excitedly, rummaging through your bag. You pull out a small box, about the size of your palm. He takes it from you almost immediately, ripping the cover off.

It's a bracelet. A small, silver one, elegant chain wrapping around winding branches. Gemstones line the sparkling metal. He struggles to get it on, his fingers shaky and his movements fast, almost frantic.

You laugh in amusement. "You like it?"

He envelops you in a crushing hug again, muttering and mumbling as his grip tightens around you. "I love it," you hear, barely intelligible. "I love you. Oh, I love you..."

He releases you from the suffocating hug, his hands on the small of your back.

"Can we go for ramen now?" He asks, almost begs. He's starving, not having eaten a proper meal for a week. "Please? Anata?"

Your heart flutters at the sound of him using that pet name for you. It's so, so rare to hear him calling you anything other than your name. You don't mind it, of course, but this is a... Pleasant surprise.

You smile. "Of course."

His dopey grin widens as he takes your hand in a bruising grip, leading you out of the airport and to his favourite ramen shop.

He's warm.

[seaweedoverlord]

the progress of my sketch to the final product is hilarious.

me, when writing: *turns happy moments into angst on accident*

me, when drawing: *turns angst into happy moments on accident*

ngl i kinda like the version without the flames more i think

[xxplastic-cubexx]

computer shit itself which means i lost a really cute charles doodle this is actually going to be my thirteenth reason

[bayrut]

guys maybe my mother is right maybe i need to go to the lebanese church and talk to nice boring lebanese church men and find a husband.....

[jerrsterrr]

why does writing an essay make me want to die a violent death

[firemenenthusiast]

i know yall left messages in my inbox and i’ve read them all i promise it’s just im in the middle of my final semester and shits getting tough. my mental health been fucking me over too but it’s all fine !! just wanna let you all know that i love those that left me asks. and dont think that i dont love you because i havent responded 😞🙏🏻

[caffeinatedopossum]

Conversation I just had with the person scheduling my therapy (it's at a place that offers disability services so they were asking about that):

Person: oh you're disabled? Were you in a car accident or something?

Me: ah, no, I have a genetic condition that makes my skeleton fall apart

Person: oh geez okay. Do you have to use any mobility aids? Like can you walk?

Me: uhh?? Sometimes? I can walk but not reliably. I can't do anything reliably which is like the whole problem because people don't think of disabilities as being so variable.

Person: wow I don't even think I'd be able to get out of bed, not knowing wether I'd be able to walk or not that day...

Me: oh well I have this pro gamer strategy where laying in bed hurts more the longer I lay there so eventually it will get so painful that I HAVE to get up haha 🙃

[gu6chan]

thinking about making that lhc/isj rp multimuse again but the thought of having a zera without a jaibo or a jaibo without a zera is making me want to VOMIT‼️‼️‼️‼️

[another-one-bites-the-chipaguasu]

.

[themoonstonechronicler]

im making everything up

[sunnykeysmash]

something we have discussed is how dennis was the only one who could understand mac and that's great but can we also discuss how it must feel for mac that no one can understand him

this seems to be accentuated by how off he keeps being about things (offering of war/dennis being shot being "awesome"/being unable to read subtext both with dennis ["figure of speech"] and donald) and how much he's looking for a sense of meaning that he used to find in his identity until s15 made him realize how pointless it was (in a way that reminds me of his crisis in goes to hell 2...), but legacy, history, money and prizes are worth nothing if your heart is not in it.

and in a way I think dennis is coming to the same conclusion which is why he's the only one who can understand mac.

dennis "you're just being honest about how you feel" reynolds, so concerned with authenticity and upset by the perceived lies when it's just his own denial making it that way. that's building the biggest lie of all.

if we're looking for the Point, then the point is to have fun and embrace feelings. Big Mo already showed this.

it's interesting to me how it seems that mac and dennis are working off of each other in the way sunny works as a whole. because if mac is the structure and the text, and dennis is the subtext and the jokes (it's how he's trying to communicate in inflates but it's also the whole reason he comes with mac in madbu), they kinda NEED to be working together for the show to work... they need to find their harmonies, they can't just one or the other lead, they gotta have each other's back.

and also like, a small coda. this season deals so much with nostalgia vs how the past really was, there's so many flashbacks.

becoming aware of denial and reality can feel really upsetting but ultimately it's a positive development.

if "the hair is a lie" chopping off the head isn't the answer, that was the old way of doing things (in times of war... murder, betrayal, beheadings... "we figured out what works a long time ago"), but now we're looking for peace. basically, death isn't the answer. building your legacy doesn't have to be like pulling teeth. "this doesn't have to be a scam"

it's a good thing if we start seeing things for what they actually are, because it means less denial.

[kazzykatt]

i can't believe job hunting is making me consider selling art

[heaartshaped]

Finished assassin’s quest and it was SO GOOD I loved how it was 400 hundred pages of a sad lonely self discovery journey and then just a fun little gay road trip

[curestardust]

hoooooo my god

[girl-bateman]

it sounds so obvious now, but im pretty sure my physical problems rn can all be traced back to the fact that my brain and body has been in a constant hypervigilance and cortisol overload for 3 months straight. the dizziness, the blackouts, the acne, the constant nausea, the giant eyebags and sudden crows feet ?? Like yeah, no shit thats what happens when ur every waking hour is the equivalent of that camille preaker crying gif