vexx is bored and probably depressed but that's ok

POV: You're a knight of Favonius who just made the worst decision of your life.

I could disappear tomorrow and most of you wouldn’t even realize I was gone. Not because you hated me. Not because you wanted me gone. Simply because you’ve already grown comfortable with my absence while I’m still standing in the room. I became background noise years ago. The texts got shorter, then stopped. The invitations disappeared. The conversations became obligations instead of excitement. Somewhere along the way I stopped existing as a person and became someone everyone assumed would always be there. You don’t notice something disappearing when you’ve already stopped looking at it.

The funny part is that everyone will swear they cared. They’ll tell stories about how much I meant to them. They’ll say they wish they had reached out more. They’ll shake their heads and wonder how nobody saw the signs. They’ll act like this came out of nowhere. They’ll convince themselves they were victims too. That’s the fucking miracle of guilt. It has an incredible ability to rewrite history into something easier to live with.

You’ll stand there dressed in black pretending grief somehow erases neglect. You’ll hug strangers and tell them how close we were. You’ll repeat memories so polished they barely resemble the truth anymore. Every word will sound rehearsed because, whether you realize it or not, you’ve been practicing those excuses for years. “Life got busy.” “We just drifted apart.” “I thought they were okay.” No. You had time. You found time for everyone and everything else. You just didn’t think I was worth spending any of it on.

And that’s the part you’ll never admit out loud because it makes you look exactly like what you are. It wasn’t ignorance. It wasn’t bad timing. It wasn’t some tragic misunderstanding where everybody barely missed each other. It was convenience. I was convenient. I was the one who answered the phone. The one who drove across town. The one who listened for hours. The one who remembered birthdays. The one who checked in first. The one who forgave the silence every single fucking time because I kept believing there had to be a reason. I kept making excuses for people who never once made an excuse for leaving me standing there by myself.

I spent years defending people who wouldn’t defend me. I’d tell myself they were overwhelmed. They were tired. They were dealing with something. I’d bend over backwards trying to explain away behavior that should have told me everything I needed to know. The truth wasn’t complicated. I just refused to believe it because accepting it meant admitting that people I would’ve bled for wouldn’t even inconvenience themselves enough to ask if I was still breathing. That realization hurts a hell of a lot more than loneliness ever did.

You know what really pisses me off? It isn’t being forgotten. It’s knowing that some of you are going to hear this and immediately start trying to figure out whether I’m talking about you instead of asking yourselves why you feel so fucking nervous. That’s guilt. That’s your own conscience pulling at your sleeve. If your first instinct is to become defensive instead of reflective, maybe that’s because some part of you already knows exactly where you stood while someone else was falling apart.

Don’t give me your speeches. Don’t give me your flowers. Don’t stand there pretending tears can rewrite years. Tears are cheap. Regret is cheap. Anybody can cry after the damage is done because by then there’s nothing left to sacrifice. Real love costs time. It costs effort. It costs uncomfortable conversations. It costs choosing somebody when there’s nothing in it for you. That’s the bill almost nobody wanted to pay while I was still around.

You don’t get to become the hero of my story after refusing to be a supporting character in my life. You don’t get to rewrite the script because the ending makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to tell people how much I mattered when your actions spent years arguing the exact opposite. Every unanswered message. Every canceled plan. Every empty promise. Every “we should get together sometime” that both of us knew was never going to happen. Those were your eulogies long before anyone ever stood over a grave.

And the fucked up part is that you’ll probably believe your own lies. You’ll convince yourselves you did everything you could because that’s easier than admitting you watched somebody slowly disappear in plain sight. You didn’t lose me overnight. You lost me one ignored conversation at a time. One forgotten invitation at a time. One empty promise at a time. Piece by piece until there wasn’t enough left of me to recognize.

height references for the Heart on the Table crew! (double purpose as a family photo!)

Papyrus: 213 cm or 7’ 0”

Frisk: 89 cm or 2’ 11”

Sans: 170 cm or 5’ 7”

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO MY PARTNER @floofanflurr!! I am so honoured to be your partner and to have you as my chosen family <3

What better way than to celebrate the thing that brought us together, and the found family fic of all time, Heart on the Table!

This animatic is just a fun scene I imagine could take place around chapter 4 of HotT.

I started this animatic like....two years ago?...and then never finished it. UNTIL NOW

I cleaned it up, but the outcome is that you can see a bit of my style change in the animatic!

Thinking about it in terms of ellipses, the more dramatic the angle, the more squished the ellipse will be! That goes for both the eyelids and the iris/pupil

  A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear

 A Mother’s Message

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