#obsxlotus

18:Favorite beverage?

Coffee, particularly caramel and chocolate lattes. He hates Americano, though.

33: Concept of home and family?

He doesn’t know why he’s here, doesn’t know why he’s standing outside of a floral shop in the afternoon with the sun radiating square off of his sunglasses. Lively citizens flood past him, ignore how he leans, without grace, against a quaint little lamp post that flickers to life as soon as dusk hits. Chaow knows this because he’s seen it sputter on himself, waiting anticlimactically in the exact same spot he is now as the windows in the shop go out and the colors from the petals all take on a similar, grey looking hue, as if the shop blew out a final candle before falling asleep. Then the door opens, a boy slips comfortably past it like clockwork and proceeds to head home, a path in which Chaow silently follows for a short amount of time, riding on the tail of his own curiosity and shamelessness before they inevitably have to part ways. It’s not that he doesn’t recognize that this sort of behavior is reserved for questionable individuals, but that he assures himself that his own intentions are pure so when he finds himself nearing this location out of habit, there’s no guilt harbored, just muscle memory and a misplaced fondness he doesn’t know how to stifle.  They don’t know him, and he doubts that they ever will, but maybe he prefers it this way, veiled in secrecy enough that his gestures of care go detached and easily discarded with no name or face to put to them. This is how he lives day to day, anyway, trying to be as intangible as possible to the rest of society that one person feels almost effortless to convince he’s a stranger even when he’s not. Saying he’s a stranger would imply that both parties were completely unaware of each other hitherto introducing themselves but he thinks he knows this individual, knows him in a way that’s a little embarrassing actually; all of the habits people have when they think no one is watching and how it’s hard not to grow a notable soft spot for them in the process. In this case, it’s one that draws Chaow in just to check up and see how he’s doing in the thick of the day when the headcount of shoppers increases nearly twice in size. His eyes fixate on the unique arrangements that bob and mix into the passing faces as they exit the place, illuminating the crowds with pinks and yellows. Spring is definitely the best time for flowers of all kinds, he muses. The assortment is far more bountiful and there’s something inexplicable in the air around this time of year that makes society just a little more romantic, just a little more vibrant in its own right.  If only he could admire it without the colors bleeding into one another after too many seconds spent staring in one, specific spot, trying to dissect past a window that separates the outside world from a busied worker and himself. He can feel the strain bloom full force behind his eyes, an ache that throbs in time with his heart but with the force of a hammer. He winces, belatedly pinching the bridge of his nose as common reaction, though it does nothing to ease how he feels, only allowing him to subconsciously focus on the pain.  Before he knows it, he’s crumbling, teeth clenched and eyes screwed shut. It’s never been this bad, not to this extent and never in public before. Faintly, he wishes he had it in him to hurry back home but he can only cover his face and hope no one would have a kind enough heart to be concerned and bother him.