“My dad used to buy my mom flowers whenever she had a hard day. Even if there was already a bouquet in the kitchen, he’d show up with more.” He pauses, the silence thick, then continues. “In the end, her whole hospital room was covered in vases. I think he hoped the flowers would bring him some miracle.” The tattoo on his leg makes so much sense now. It’s not random artwork or a drunken mistake he’ll regret five years down the road. They’re parts of his mom he carries with him, and to know he’s treating me like his dad treated her makes me feel lucky. Like I’m one in seven billion.
Oh im going to Fucking Vomit
