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M E G A N

I always meant to go visit Carl.

Really—once I was able to find some sort of forgiveness for myself—I always wanted to stop by and make sure that he was okay.

But, I still haven't found it.

As more time passes, I feel that much more awful that I haven't checked in on him. So I just continue to avoid it.

It's even more despicable now that he's long-since been out of his bedrest, and has been actively working with Denise on his physical therapy. An eight-week period being pivotal in the aftermath of the gunshot. The boy bounces around Alexandria almost as if his injury never even happened.

His road to recovery is something that I helped Denise pave and plan out. Although, I'm never around much when the boy comes in for a session, or a change of bandages. And when I am around, boy is it awkward.

Denise tries to act like she doesn't know that something tense is going on between us. And—although she's never directly asked me—I can see that the woman tries desperately to mind her own business.

"Here." Her gentle voice sounds out. She sticks something in my vision, blocking my crossword puzzle.

Even with no patients and no motivation to study, I spend most of my lonesome time in the infirmary. I've been avoiding spending time in my empty house, as—when I'm in there—time seems to slow down.

"Homemade oat cake. Complex carbohydrates, omega-three's." She trails off.

The woman waves the plastic-wrapped food around a bit before I grab it and place it down on the side table next to me. After my short response, I swiftly return back to my crossword, as if she was never in front of me.

I never talk to Denise much. I never talk to anyone much, anymore.

She stays standing in front of me, her body still in my peripheral vision. The woman lingers, seemingly trying to work herself up to say something.

"You don't have to feel bad for me, Denise." I mutter in a monotone voice.

"I don't feel bad." She starts. "You just—remind me of someone."

I pull my eyes away from the page, still keeping a grip on my pencil. "Who?"

"Myself."

Not the most interesting of answers, but Denise is a pretty well-rounded person. So I decide to take it as a compliment, despite whatever deeper meaning she's really implying.

"How?" I return my eyes back to the page, staring at nothing, as I can no longer concentrate.

"I had a brother. He died." She starts. My eyes once again raise to find hers, this time having the same sincerity. "He was brave. Made me feel safe."

"I've never had a brother." I mutter, pulling my eyes away from Denise, once I start to feel something from her words.

"Just because he did bad things, that doesn't mean that you aren't allowed to miss him." She says.

"Ron wasn't brave." I start, roughly placing my pencil down, craning my neck to look up at her. "He was a coward. And on his way out he almost got someone killed. If it wouldn't have been for me—"

"Let me stop you right there." She raises a cautious hand. "You saved Rick, right?"

A few moments pass as nothing comes out from between my parted lips.

"Yeah." I give in, shaking my head as I release the breathy word.

"Then why are you still beating yourself up?"

"You know why." I start. "You know exactly why—better than anyone in this whole place."

"Except for Carl."

"Yeah," I mutter. "I guess—except for him."

"You know he asks about you, right?" She starts. "He wants to know how you are. I just wish you'd give me something to tell him." Her words end with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm fine."

"You know what Megan—you are fine." She starts. "And you know what else? I'm a real doctor—one who doesn't have to make it up as I go along."

A smirk grows on her face, at her own self-deprecating comment. The made-up detail that we both know is completely false—a lie—the same as my own words.

Her contagious grin somewhat lifts my expression, although I'd never think to allow a real smile to showcase itself.

"Just like how I'm also brave." She leans backward a little bit, throwing her exaggerated hands in the air. "Brave enough to tell Tara that I love her."

"Really?"

"No. Not really." Denise starts, matter-of-factly. "She left this morning—for that big, two-week run with Heath. I watched her walk right out of the front gate. And I didn't tell her."

An empathetic look crosses my face, knowing exactly what the woman is going through. My face softens, right before I tighten it up and look back towards my crossword puzzle, picking up the wooden pencil.

"I know the feeling." I mutter.

"You didn't tell someone that you loved them?"

"Not exactly." I start. "Just—I know what it feels like to live inside of one, long, missed opportunity."

"With Carl?"

No.

Okay, maybe.

My words don't come out, because my first instinct is to lie. Instead, I just flick my eyes up toward the woman, allowing her to fill in the blanks. After a subtle look of realization washes over her face, I return my eyes to my crossword.

"It's not too late for you guys, you know?" She recalls, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.

"I got him shot in the face." I start. "It was over between us before it even started."

"You know what, Megan?" Her hand moves from my shoulder, turning into a gently pointed finger. "If you continue to think like that—if you keep hiding from it, it's never going to get better. And if you don't wake up and face your sh—" Something cuts off her words.

I pull my stare from the page, slowly looking up to meet the eyes of a ramped-up Denise. Something tells me that her vague words might also be directed toward herself. She's teaching me the lesson when it's really what she needs to hear.

Her eyes are no longer on me, as they stare directly through the open front door, at Rosita and Spencer. The two have a conversation right on the porch. The woman—without a word—walks through the door. I stand up to follow behind her.

"See you then." Spencer mutters.

"Okay." Rosita says, turning around as he walks away.

When her eyes land on me and Denise, she stares at us as if we're witnesses to something that we aren't supposed to see.

"Uh—" Denise starts. "We didn't hear you guys."

"Good." Rosita says, adjusting her pony tail. "Today's lesson will be in the cul—"

"Actually, can we do something else?" Denise asks. The woman pulls a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. The bright, red ink that marks up the map can be seen from where I'm standing.

Rosita gives her a testing glance, not seeming in the mood to venture from the day's routine.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm facing my shit."

☆

After Denise said some other crap about how she's ready to go beyond the walls, she finally got Rosita and Daryl to take her a few miles away to an apothecary. Her random burst of motivation—if it proves itself profitable—could mean a lot for the progress of our small infirmary.

When the three left, I returned back to the infirmary, where it was far too quiet. I made my way to the bench next to the wooded trail, figuring that if anyone needed to see me while Denise was away, they could easily find me.

My legs lie across the entirety of the seat, not saving room for potential company. Not that I'd have any. For now, it's just me and my unsolved crossword puzzle against the world.

"Hey."

My eyes leaves the page, drifting upward to see Enid standing at the foot of the bench.

She looks a lot different than a few months ago when we'd last spoken. Her hair has grown slightly longer, and she's no longer covered in the same blood and dirt that stained her skin the day that the church tower fell.

"Hey." I mutter.

"Where have you been?" She asks.

"What?"

"I never see you."

It hasn't been on purpose, but—truthfully—I have been avoiding her.

In a way, the girl is a reminder of the grief that I had to face that torturous morning. Every time I think about her, I'm taken right back to the last time I saw her by Ron's grave, then my mind ultimately drifts to the image of Carl's lifeless body in the infirmary.

I stay silent, pulling my guilty eyes back toward my crossword puzzle.

"Everybody's been working for weeks to get this place back together, and you just disappear." She starts. "Do you sit in the infirmary all day?"

"No."

The girl looks around after my short response. She then grabs my feet and moves them off of the bench, my body turning as she does so. I reluctantly sit correctly, allowing her to find a spot next to me.

"Your advice worked." She huffs, her eyebrows slightly raising.

"What advice?" I sigh.

"You remember when you told me that I had to find family in the people around me?" Enid looks at her hands in her lap, a small smile rising on her lips.

"Yeah?"

"Well, it sort of—found me." She starts. "When Glenn brought me back, I started staying with the Rhees." Her bottom lip tucks in a bit as she studies my expression. "I really like them."

"That's great news, Enid." An exhausted smile spreads across my face, hers soon matching.

It's difficult to seem enthused in this situation, because the roles have now reversed. Enid's the one with a perfect family, while I'm struggling to grasp onto a reason to keep going.

"I get it now." She shakes her head slightly, pulling her eyes to look around at the trees for a moment. "You know—not feeling like I have to go outside the walls to belong somewhere. Makes me feel kind of stupid that I ever wanted to leave here in the first place."

"You're not stupid." I shake my head. "You were just scared. We all do stupid things when we're scared."

"I'm not stupid?" She asks. I nod. "Stupid like how you've been avoiding everybody? Even Carl?"

"Yeah, Enid." I sigh. "That kind of stupid."

"He doesn't bite, you know." She teases.

My eyebrows furrow. "Have you talked to him?"

"Yeah." She nonchalantly says.

"How's he been?"

"That's something you're going to have to ask him yourself." She tilts her head at me, raising her eyebrows.

"Why's that?"

"Whatever's going on between you two is a complete waste of time." She starts. "And time is what's most valuable now." She sighs, more words dancing on the tip of her tongue. "I just wish I got to spend more of it with Ron." Her voice becomes shaky, but the strong girl doesn't shed a tear.

"Me too." I start, scooting closer to her. "You really loved him?"

"To be honest, our relationship was more—"

"Yeah," I laugh. "He told me."

"Yeah." She loosely chuckles. "But he was my best friend."

"Mine too."

"Almost all the time that he was alive, I spent it wanting to leave this place. Now it's too late." She huffs, dropping her head low for a moment. "But what's going on with you and Carl—one of you might as well have died."

"What do you mean?"

"Whatever it is—that's keeping you two apart—it isn't worth wasting what time you two have left together. You never know when you won't get another chance." She moves her head lower, getting within the vision of my droopy eyes. "I know a good match when I see one, Megan."

"You think we're a good match?" I huff. "Me and Carl?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We are a good match." I start. "Just like fire and gasoline."

"Bullshit." She laughs.

"Carl and I do not work well together." I state, shaking my head. I brush the topic off as I laugh along with her.

Her laughter slowly dies down, her eye contact becoming serious as she settles back into reality. "Is that true or is that just what you tell yourself so that you don't have to give it a shot?"

"Both."

"Do you want things to work between you two?" She asks.

I shrug, staying silent, after such a loaded question. I've never allowed myself to think about the answer, much. "I don't know."

"Well, let me know when you find out." She gently slaps her hands to her thighs, before standing up. The girl nonchalantly begins to walk away.

"Enid, wait!" I call after her. "Why do you want me to let you know?"

She turns around, gently flipping her long hair over her shoulder. A shy smile plays on her lips as she looks toward the ground.

"A shit-show is still a show."

☆

All day long, people have been telling me about the way I've been living my life in ignorance, as if I don't already know. And they're right about everything that they said.

Completely right.

Denise was right about me constantly hiding from my shit. And Enid was right about this whole thing being a gigantic waste of time.

I don't quite know how to go about addressing how terribly I've been acting lately. After about fifty nervous laps around the perimeter of the walls, I'm still left with no game-plan. I'm still not sure if I even want a game-plan.

The lights click on in the empty infirmary. The familiar place not looking at all how I last left it. It's clear that I've been oblivious to a lot more than just my bad attitude lately.

Medical supplies of all sorts are spread out across the place. Ripped-up pieces of gauze are littered on the floor. And the covers on one of the beds are peeled back, an obvious indent in both the mattress and the pillow.

Evidently, somebody was treated here without my assistance. It's best to hope that it was simply someone helping themselves to treat their own superficial wound.

Allowing the door to close behind me, I fold my unfinished crossword puzzle in half, and place it—along with my pencil—on the first bed. The ripped packaging of the gauze crinkles as I pick up several pieces of it off of the floor.

I toss the paper into the trash before heading over to the unmade bed. My fingers fumble around before I'm able to slide them under the elastic band of the sheets, where I begin to tug them from the corner of the bed.

The front door creaks open, before gently shutting. I don't turn around to see who it is—expecting it to be Denise returning from the run—as I'm nearly breaking a sweat trying to pull back these tight sheets.

"Hi." He says.

Without a second thought, my blood runs cold and I let the stretchy sheets snap back into place. I turn around to face the problem I've been avoiding.

Carl Grimes.

Right in front of the door stands the boy. His wispy, brown hair is slightly longer, nearly covering the thick bandage over his right eye. The boy's pale skin is less sickly-looking than I remember from seeing him last. His neat clothes fitting perfectly, squeezing all of his complex shoulder muscles. A large duffel bag in his hand, the long strap of it hanging from his fingertips.

The first time we've gotten a good look at each other in months leaves the both of us somewhat dumbfounded.

Carl wears an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes—eye wide open at the mere sight of me. His pink lips part, without another word to say.

It's almost looks as if he's shocked to see me standing in front of him. Probably because he'd hoped to swing by to have Denise change his bandage, and figured that I'd be gone already, since I never work this late.

A blank stare between the two of us leaves this to be my perfect chance to say what I have to say. Although I haven't quite prepared it, I'm not sure when I'll be given another opportunity to talk to the boy alone, without having to make a big deal about it.

"Denise isn't back, yet." I mutter, a simple tone about my voice. I turn around, beginning to fumble with the crinkled sheets once again.

Bitch.

I don't expect my words to come out so rude and standoffish. It's like my body shuts down at the sight of the boy who'd become a stranger so quickly. My gut instinct of avoiding my problems decides to kick in when I least want it to. Although I feel immediate guilt, I don't turn back around to face him.

"Uh—" He mutters. "Megan?"

My name rolling off of his tongue instills a gut feeling in my body. I don't have enough time to decide whether or not the feeling is a good or bad one. "Yeah?"

"She didn't make it back." He says, sounding monotone—as if he's in a daze.

I drop the fistful of crumpled sheets, slowly turning around to face him. "What?"

"She died." He states, bringing his parted lips together.

"Do you know what happened?" My eyebrows furrow.

"It was those same guys that gave Daryl trouble a few months ago." He starts. "They tried to take these." Carl drops the duffel bag, several bottles of pills within the bag rattle as he does so.

At least Denise's last day meant something.

"Oh." I mutter, turning around. I stop halfway, before haphazardly looking over my shoulder. "Is that all you came by to tell me?"

A few moments pass while I have my head tilted, waiting for the boy's response. When it never comes, I turn around again, to completely face him.

He stands, still as a board. His eye never leaving me. A perplexed expression across his freckled face.

"I—I need my bandage changed." His soft, monotone voice says.

The hesitance in his voice is on par with the fact that I'm simply the last person Alexandria has, who often deals with such frequent gore. His very last option of a fresh change of bandage, unless he wants to do it himself.

Which he easily could, if he had his own gauze. The same supply Denise told me earlier, that the Grimes household ran out of. She wanted me to remind her to bring some by, when she got back.

"Oh, okay." I start, swallowing a nervous lump in my throat. "Um—have a seat." My hand motions to the bed.

My eyes intently watch Carl's every timid move. The boy slowly walks over to the bed, his fingers gently picking up my folded crossword puzzle.

"Oh, you can just move that." I mutter, a voiceless chuckle coming out with my awkward words.

I don't watch long enough to see what the boy does, out of shame of my embarrassingly shy behavior. I make my way over to the drawer, pulling out a roll of fresh bandages and a packet of gauze.

My feet feel heavy and my nerves worsen as I approach the boy who's now slouched over, sitting on the first bed. I haven't seen Carl this up-close in a very long time. To be fair, I haven't seen Carl at all in a very long time.

Standing in front of the boy, I remain almost eye level with him. A significant height difference would separate us even further if he were the one standing.

I place the fresh dressings on the bed, before reaching my hesitant hands near his head, aiming to remove his bandage.

"I'll get it." He mutters, tucking in his bottom lip.

I suck in a breath, lowering my ready hands back down to my side.

The boy's gentle fingers circle around the edges of the bandage before finding the loose end. He then hesitantly unwraps it from around his head, unwinding it a few times over as he does so, before finally peeling the yellowing, aged bandage off.

His tussled hair covers most of the wound, leaving its scarred, red edges to be all I can see.

A wince covers his face, crinkling at the corners of his pink lips. The same wretched face he'd made when he shot that boy in the woods. One of pure disgust.

He hands me the used bandage. I take it into my palms, putting it to the side. My curious eyes look down at the material in my hands, noticing a circle of old blood on the gauze.

I lift my hand, inching my fingers toward his bangs. The boy subconsciously backs away from my fingertips, just before they can move his hair out of the way.

"Just let me." I mutter. His shameful eye continues to avoid my presence in front of him.

My fingertips finally find themselves underneath his bangs, gently dragging along the top of his cheek as they push the hair back, revealing the red void of tissue that used to be his beautiful blue eye.

I unknowingly allow my curious fingertips to stay on his face, still touching the scarred skin. My emotions get the best of me as they burn at the back of my eyes, sending a red heat onto the surface of my cheeks.

It's not the blood that scares me. It's not the gore, either. And it's definitely not Carl's wound. Nothing about Carl Grimes could ever scare me, in that way.

The boy had once seen me mostly naked—something that I didn't express much embarrassment about. A much-needed medical aid that I couldn't give my own, injured self, at the time. Carl was there for me. Although very awkward, his presence made the whole thing a little less scary.

In this moment—as he winces under my gaze—I realize how different the two situations are. His shamefulness about his injury is something that I'm to blame for. And although I'm here to help, now, the damage is already done. I could never be there for him the same way he was for me, on that one, desperate night.

My fingers remove themselves from the skin, as I slowly pull my hands over my mouth.

The boy searches around, after a few moments pass with his wounded eye still exposed. Once his confused eye finds me, his eyebrows raise and his face softens a bit.

"Is it that ugly?" He quietly scoffs, a shy smile playing on his lips.

Those words are enough to send my guilty, building tears spiraling into none other than a dry sob. The warmth of the tears soon covers just underneath my eyes, and the heat on my red face burns like no other.

My cries suddenly begin overpowering any dignity I had in my demeanor.

"No, no—I'm sorry." He apologizes. Through my teary vision, his face immediately grows concerned, his eyebrows knitting together. His hands slowly find my waist. "It was a joke." He whispers.

The boy pulls me in, all at once. My hands still cover my crying, red face as I involuntarily sob, allowing myself to slowly lean into his warm embrace.

"A very bad joke." He mutters, running a gentle hand up and down my back.

My face leans into his shoulder, separated from the fabric of his shirt by my own hands. "I—I'm s—"

My futile attempt at forming words just sends more violent sobs echoing throughout my body.

"I'm s—sorry." My weak voice finally manages to say. "I'm so sorry." I shake my head back and forth, a child-like mannerism that immediately embarrasses me, even more.

"Megan?" Carl's body vibrates with a bit more force, as he enunciates my name. His gentle hands drift down my back before finding my waist, and slowly prying me off of him. "Megan."

Embarrassment flushes through me, the redness on my crying face evident to the boy sitting on the bed just a few inches in front of me. I stand, timid under his gaze.

His hands finds my elbows, gently trying to pull mine away from my face. I immediately jerk them out of his grip, still containing my sobs within my palms.

"Hey, hey." He allows himself a tighter grip on my elbows, finally managing to inch my hesitant hands away from my own face. "I need you to look at me."

I suck in a quick breath. And then another one. And then another one. My body jerks as I struggle to breathe between my sobs.

My eyes finally find the face of the concerned boy. His full attention on me, as I stand in front of him. His long hair dangles around his neck as he leans forward, getting closer to my face.

"This," He loosely points to his wound. "This is not your fault. And I need you to understand that."

"No." I mutter. "No." I growl. "I'm th—" A sob cuts through my words. "I taught Ron—I taught hi—"

"He's gone, okay?" He starts. "And I'm here. I made it." His head slowly nods up and down, trying to get me to further understand his words.

"But—"

"But nothing, Megan." His concerned eyebrows furrow.

"We're here, now." He starts. "You and me, okay?"

My lips quivers and for a relieving moment, my tears seem to slow down a bit.

"You don't hate me?" I start, my tears quickly inching their way back. "Why don't you hate me?" My prominent voice turning into a pitiful whisper.

"Come here." He mutters as his hands circle around to the surface of my back once more. His muscles tighten as he gently pulls me back into him.

It doesn't take much of his touch to send me right back into his arms, allowing myself to melt into him.

"I could never hate you." He says into my hair. His breath warming the side of my head. "You understand that? Never."

"But—" I start, abruptly shaking my head. "I got you shot."

"I've done it all, before." He mutters, a strong tone in his voice. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Give me your hand." He says again.

I step back a bit from him, raising my palm. The boy grabs it in one hand, and lifts up his shirt with the other. He places my fingers over a small patch of rough skin toward the right side of his abdomen.

"Feel that?" He asks, looking at me with intent.

"Yeah," I whisper, matter-of-factly. "I do."

"I've already been shot." He starts. "I did it once, before. And I did it again. See? No big deal." The boy sarcastically shrugs, obviously just trying to make me feel better.

The information I'd known all along, only now makes its way to the surface.

Beth told me that day in the guard tower, that Carl had been shot before. She said it was a close call. That he's lucky to be alive. And I'm the one to blame for this second test of his ongoing luck. A test that would've ended everything if he hadn't been so lucky his second time around.

And even though he did make it through a second gunshot, I still feel guilty for having not been treating his life like the miracle it is.

"I can never forgive myself, Carl." My voice cracks. Although quiet and small, our close proximity allows him to hear me, just fine. "I almost got you killed, and I wasn't there. I never came visit you." I mutter. "Everything you went through, and I wasn't there." I squeeze my eyes shut, allowing the tears to cascade down the skin of my face.

"That's okay." The boy pulls me tighter into his embrace. He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, pulling me in so that I'm sitting on his leg, trapped within his tight arms.

"Because I forgive you." He says into the hair above my ear, his arms giving me a gentle squeeze. "Yeah—I mean—I wished you were there. But you're here now, right?" He asks.

I pull my head off of his shoulder, looking at him through my teary eyes. The skin of his abdomen continues to warm up my hand that is still under the fabric of his shirt.

"Right?" He teases, gently squeezing my body and wiggling it.

"Right." I chuckle with a sniffle, wiping at my eyes with my other sleeve. My simple word meaning nothing but a higher commitment to our friendship.

"And everything's okay between us?" He continues. "And now we can finally have that fresh start that we came here for?"

"Yeah." I mutter. "I'd like that."

"Me too." He says, with a relieved smile. A sight I didn't know I'd longed so badly to see. The expression melting whatever's left of my heart.

Our curious eye contact lingers for a moment. His eye flicks down to my lips. The skin underneath my eyes feels heavy and sticky from all the tears I just let out on Carl's shoulder.

I choke a nervous gulp down my throat, letting myself sink into the temptation. My eyes drop down to the boy's lips, before taking another look into his eye, just to be sure.

Without words, it's evident what the boy is thinking about. The same mischievous activity running through my brain.

A few moments pass while I wait to feel the warmth against my cold, lonely lips. But it never comes.

Carl waits, slowly breathing against the skin of my cheek. A nervous smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth.

There are plenty of things that can be holding the boy back in this hesitant moment, but I decide not to ponder them too far before I slowly begin to lean in, giving him an opportunity to do whatever he must.

With a tightening grip around my back, the boy quickly closes the gap between our lips. The eagerness of it all draws me in further.

A nervousness I'd felt once before, now brings nothing but comfort in this desperate moment. The feeling that both the boy and I yearn to hold onto. The simple feeling that fills my body with warmth, but—at the same time—is also my biggest fear.

Carl pulls back from the kiss, first, taking a deep breath. My eyes immediately blink open as I take a nervous breath. Our foreheads resting on one another. His eye then flutters open, drifting around the skin of my red, splotchy face. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

"Since the last time?"

"Pretty much."

The boy slowly pulls me back toward him, and I let my head rest on his shoulder. The two of us allow ourselves to sink into a few more moments of the comforting embrace.

"They brought Eugene back to the house, earlier. A bullet grazed him. I heard someone say that the one of the doctors got killed while out on a run." He starts, his calm, soothing voice vibrating my body. "I ran here as fast as I could." He chuckles, his body gently bouncing mine back and forth as well.

"You didn't really need your bandage changed?" I let out a loose laugh.

"Nope." He sucks in a breath. "I was supposed to get it changed tomorrow." A deep chuckle coming from his throat. The pleasing sound making my eyes flutter closed.

No more words come out of my mouth, as I allow myself—for a naive moment—to feel complete within Carl's arms. Our slow breathing moves in sync for a few moments, before overlapping a few seconds apart from each other. My hand still underneath his shirt, leaving my fingers right on the warm patch of rough skin, where the apologetic boy placed them.

Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you—the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that—once it's gone—leaves you out in the cold.

And this feeling—if ever taken from me—will be sure to leave me nothing short of frostbitten.

The boy cranes his neck, placing a warm kiss on the skin of my forehead. He then moves his warm lips closer to the skin of my ear. "Megan?"

"Yeah, Carl?"

"Your hand is freezing."

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5498 words

A/N

the gif at the beginning of this chapter is the one that really started it all: my love for capcut xoxo

also this wasn't intended to be a nod towards cold hands, but also I'm not mad about it! I'm just anemic so people I date tell me that my hands are cold <\3

☆vote. i don't have a creative reason anymore I'm just begging u to vote ☆