Or Smth Else - Tumblr Posts
NOT stupid problems.
If it bothers you, it's not stupid.
If you feel bad, it's not stupid.
No problems are stupid.
If they're important to you then they aren't stupid.
Somebody's problems may not seem relevant to some people, but they're relevant to that person, therefore they are real problems.
If it's a problem, it's a problem.
It's not stupid.
It's not irrelevant.
It bothers, therefore it's important.
If you need to vent or anything, that's half of why this horrible hellsite (quoting you) exists.
youre not allowed to make me cry its a saterday >:[ /silly
but also, thank you. I really needed that /gen
no DONT APOLOGIZE ITS MUCH BETTER THAN MINE and whoever complains about its longevity better worry about their own tbh
The hero feels dizzy. Unsteady on their feet.
The villain, their best friend, glares at them unmasked.
They know. They know. This is a curse.
"You seem rather surprised."
"You're..." my best friend. My dearest. My love. "Plainer than I thought."
"And not as young, I bet."
"Yeah."
It morphs into silence. The hero's heart beats like a hammer, into their organs, dropping down past their stomach like a weight they're too weak to lift. They feel sick. They haven't eaten. There's bile clawing up their esophagus.
The hero heaves in a breath and turns away.
"I've unmasked several heroes before," says the villain. "And villains alike. There's something dispiriting about seeing their face, isn't there?"
"Yeah." The hero's vision won't focus. Do they know? Do they know now? The hero's fingers curl into fists and they force the nausea down. "I'd rather continue the chase pretending this never happened."
"But it did happen. You'll never let this go, you'll search for me. Won't you?"
Like the searching hadn't been done. Like the hero doesn't know their favourite fruit, how they cut their apples, how they like it when the hero feeds them oranges, damn it. How they can be cruel sometimes and the hero expects it. How they watch them like a hawk when they're holding the kitchen knife, chopping up onions and garlic and chillies like they'll stab them.
Do they know? Did they always know? Were they just waiting for the hero to know, too?
The hero kneels down on wobbly feet. Untie the ropes with cold, numb hands.
The villain stares down at them. Their friend. The sweetest thing they had until a minute ago. The cruelest, most viscous thing they have. Their dearest. Their love.
The next day the hero falls ill, sneezing into tissues. The villain presses the paper against their nose, clogging the airways until the hero has to breathe through their mouth. The chicken soup is just a tad saltier. Their hands are just a smallest bit more rough. Their quips come more easily. They stare longer. The villain never leaves their side for a moment.
This is a curse. This is torture.
The villain wipes away a tear, pretending the hero's eyes are dry because of the cold weather. They pretend their sniffles are from the sickness.
"Hard, isn't it?" they say, tracing lines into the hero's palm. "Being an undergrad. Working so hard knowing damn well this is all fruitless work. The truth is rarely so kind."
"I've known."
"But it punches you in the face and you fall ill."
The hero pretends they're talking about their failed project. They take the villain's hand and squeeze hard. So hard it is past the strength of their civilian identity.
I love you. I love you. Is this what ends us?
It is a kindness that the villain does not acknowledge it.
"Thank you," the hero says, even though what they want to do is sob into their friends chest and feel them card their fingers through their hair. I love you. I love you. Isn't that enough?
The villain takes a tissue and suffocates the hero with it until their mouth opens again. "You're welcome."
All throughout their life, all that they were was just a pair of actors, weren't they?