Tell me what time it is there & what you’re currently thinking about.

100+ friends starter sentences / (x)

it feels like a mild concussion the moment he lands against gravel, preceding sequence of events a dim blur in his mind. the scenario comes with peculiar familiarity, but it feels off, something outlandish and distasteful, an unaccustomed vantage point to a rundown he’s gone through one too many times; he’s usually the one knocking people down, not feeling like he’d keel over and collapse if he made the effort to get back on his feet after a solid blow to his body. 

every breath feels strangely weighted now, irregular spike in his pulse as his eyes blearily focus in on a minor fissure in the ground. 

he blinks once, slow and measured, before opening his eyes to the same fissure, marred with a deep, dark red this time. 

fuck, is the first habitual word that crosses his mind, furiously swiping a palm across his temple and coming away with a heavy accumulation of blood. it’s also the first word he grunts out when he shifts restlessly against foreign hands on his body. it’s an ingrained, knee-jerk reaction that has him pushing off of cement, elbow blindly thrusting behind him to create space, body alight with sudden, ill-judged rage–

“off - get the fuck off,” his voice is harsh and low, rumbles in his chest in muted warning. sees nothing but hellish red, all-consuming tunnel vision, and harsh, erratic breathing when he whips around, fingers coiling aggressively into the shirt of the first person he sees – all pink hair, tanned skin, and droopy eyes. the boy speaks then, voice muffled by the grating ringing in his ears, and he’s processing his words belatedly. 

the red pales, his fingers unraveling swift, feels the aggravating whiplash in his changing temperament. he rakes in his attire then, regret instantaneously coloring the hardened lines of his face when realization hits him slow; knows this uniform entails he’s a medical student – “shit, my bad,” he pulls back with a jerk, scrambling to his feet despite the nauseating tilt in his atmosphere. 

text messages - acceptingfor @taekef

Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text.

here is where two worlds collide.

there’s life blooming across the stark white walls, lilies and butterflies fluttering awake at the tip of a paintbrush. simple movement dictates a storyline that transforms the drab hospital setting into a mural of echoing laughter and subdued hope. occasionally there is death, contained in the weary eyes of doctors with fragments of another tragedy held quietly in the hollow of their mouths. it’s in the sallow faces of parents spending night and day at a bedside, and in the ruthless ticking of the clock racing towards another moment lost in a void of the unknown. there’s always death, but it’s never palpable enough to calculate.