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[determinedest]

You've reached Frisk. If I'm not answering my phone, please leave a message or find me on the second floor, Room 12.

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Comments

yoU COME INTO MY HOUSE,

[determinedest]

[They've been forcing themselves to be semi-functional, mostly because they've been caught in that point between a slow, inevitable slide back into non-functionality and throwing themselves into a task with renewed fervor to prevent that outcome.

When the texts start to come in, they snatch up their phone and stare, frozen.

It only gets worse the more he talks.

It only gets worse.

"I'm not okay." "I only did it once." "I didn't want anyone to have to deal with me like this."

He's always been something of an enigma, indecipherable thanks to his eternal grin, his joking air, his perpetual ease and laughter. Even when it came down to their little codes - "my okay or your okay" - there was never an outright admission.

Admitting it always hurts more than anything, and you feel like you can't breathe. Like maybe you're drowning. Like that just makes it impossible to climb your way out of the hole you've sunk yourself into, and it has to be your own fault, you are the one who controls whether or not you are like this.

It takes about twenty minutes for Frisk to compose a reply.]