Emotionally, you feel like you've just been gut punched a few times, kicked in the ribs, and thrown out of a moving motorcycle.

Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe it is. Maybe it's worse. You don't know, and don't have the luxury to find out, because, well, you feel guilty, and guilt is not something known with a brief description. Guilt is complicated as hell and is most likely the basis of human's morality. Guilt doesn't pound inside people's minds as a constant reminder. It prefers to tug just a few strings at a time, pulling suddenly so that one can only feel an abrupt thump in their heart. No. This is wrong. Don't do it. You're going to hurt the other person. Stop.

Guilt is stupid.

You decide that the saying "Time stands still" is probably true. You can't feel anything moving but your thoughts, like they have stolen the whole world's speed and are now leaving sonic booms in their tracks. But you can't just stand here contemplating like an idiot either, because they're all looking now, awaiting your answer. You curse under your breath, on your face is still that obnoxious expression of what-the-hell-is-happening-ness, and you hate it. You despise yourself when you can't react in time, when all you can do is stare, dumfounded. This isn't you. You are the fluffy sheep whose bones are titanium, the unbreakable toy that came in a box labeled "Handle with care".

Still, you say nothing and glance around the room, where all eyes are on you, expectant of a reply.

You tell yourself to say something, but your mouth is now a stubborn motherfucker that refuses to move. Instead, your mind skips back and forth in memory lane, jumping to random rejections you have witnessed in your life. You revisit tear-brimmed eyes and knitted brows, faces that grimace to attempt a smile. You see flashes of trembling shoulders and distant gazes. You hear the simple question of "Why" asked in shaky voices and the loud banging of a lunch tray. You recall the clandestine affections that the grizzly bear possesses toward a precious flower, and the surreptitious infatuation of the sadistic beast toward he who traps oceans in his eyes. You know they aren't as brave as the person standing in front of you right now, because they are sure of their defeat. They know that the battle has been lost way before they fought.

That's why they didn't fight, and that's why, within their words, they sigh.

Are you going to do the same to him? Are you going to render him motionless with a simple rejection, turn his eyes dull and solemn when, right now, they are holding so much hope? You don't hold special affections toward him. You consider him a regular friend, who you often annoy just for fun. Hell, you haven't even been aware of his feelings until he holds out the bouquet.

The flashbacks you have keep toying with your decision, and it is guilt that surrounds you again. For once in your life, you feel like a child who has the decision over a delicate but heavy glass jar. You can drop it, or keep it. Dropping it means that it will break, that pieces of it will scatter across the floor. You may not be cut by the broken glass, but the responsibility will still drag you down. But holding the jar is no better, because you know it is heavy, and that you are going to, sooner or later, have to let go.

All these come to your mind in a rush, but it seems like people have grown tired of waiting for your answer. They begin to nudge at you, waving their hands in front of your face because they think you blacked out. You may have, but you are completely aware of what is happening. You look at him, the sincere way his eyes lock with yours, and the patience in them as he holds out the bouquet. Something tugs at your insides again, and you hate that guilt has such an effective way of reminding you that it is there.

You swallow then, your heartbeat accelerates at the thought of your intended answer and its consequences. You barely have any time left, as you can visibly sense the patience wearing off of his face.

So you say yes.

You watch as relief washes over him, as his eyes glow with contentment. You take the bouquet and try your best to look happy about it, but the lead-like feelings of yours don't let you go that easily. Suddenly, the bouquet feels like your metaphorical glass jar, weighing down your hands and begging you to drop it. You don't, because, from the moment you said yes, you have accepted the heart he gave to you, expecting you not to rip it apart like some fragile piece of paper.

Maybe if you take a deep breath, it will help a bit. Maybe then, the guilt will disappear, and maybe then, the fact that you only said yes because of sympathy won't trouble you as much. Air fills your lungs and then escapes through your nostrils. You know it doesn't help one bit, because the heart-pounding weight is still there, now blocking your throat and constricting your lungs.

Emotionally, you still feel like you've just been gut punched a few times, kicked in the ribs, and thrown out of a moving motorcycle. Now that you have chosen to hold the jar, guilt tugs harder at the strings in your heart, asking you if this is for him or for your own peace of mind, making another thump echo in your chest. The sly piece of shit.

.