'Cheers.' We clink mugs, and I sip at my tea. I don't know what's in this golden flower tea- aside from the obvious- but it tastes heavenly. Sans and I are sitting on the front-steps of the house, cross-legged, watching the sun's watery rays begin to fade as twilight sets in. It's been a month since I first met him. A month since I fell, twisted my ankle, cut my knee. He's changed my life. But I don't think he's changed me. I feel… grey. Tired.
I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.
My bruise hurts.

I scroll through my timeline with one thumb, music blaring in my ears on full volume, and I wonder if I'll get hearing damage. Everyone on my instagram is very, very pretty, tanned skin, blonde hair, flat stomachs. Curves in all the right places.
Sans has taken Papyrus bowling tonight, but I told him I felt ill- I haven't been out in public for days, too anxious. He's worried, I can tell.
The bruise is fading.

This morning I couldn't get out of bed. It feels like the whole world is weighing down on me, like the simplest task is a mountainous challenge. The curtains are shut and I'm curled up in a greasy ball under the sheets. I'm spiraling again, something I haven't done since high school, but I know I can't leave the house, else Sans will get hurt. Sans will get hurt, and it will be all my fault.

'I'm worried, Luce.' Sans whispers into my shoulder, his arms draped over my waist. 'I'm worried about you.' I wish he'd leave and let me wallow, I'm ugly, cheeks hollow, hair dark with grease. I think I might be going crazy, a little bit psycho. A little bit nuts. I know that he's going to leave me soon, because who could be with me? Who could deal with someone like me? I haven't felt like this since I met Sans. I feel like I'm back to square one, back to the insane bitch that I used to be. Back to being a mess. Soon he's going to leave. Tears fill my eyes and I try not to choke on the lump in my throat. I'm so bloody scared.
'I'm fine, just sick is all.' He grunts in acknowledgement, reluctantly, and kisses my neck quickly before heaving himself up.
'Pizza?'
'Pizza.'

Sans takes me out today, because it's been two weeks and I haven't left the house. I finally told him that it was because I was scared, but I refuse to tell him why. I can't. I shower and dress and tie up my hair, but even with fresh-smelling hair and clean skin I still look ugly. Takes me a while to stop looking at myself in the mirror and scratching at the back of my hands. As soon as we step out the door I know I'm a goner, whispers in my ears and static in my brain. My stomach is twisting and turning, and still everything is grey, but sharper, harsher.

'Just a walk.' He smiles comfortingly at me, eyes full of concern. He leads me away from the safety of our house, holding me by the hand, as if that will make it better. No. All I can think about is being attacked again, being cornered, being hurt. Everywhere I look there's a shadowy figure, a knife, a fist. I'm jumpy. I feel like my blood is fizzing and frothing inside me. My ears feel like they're full of water. My eyes flick back and forth desperately, as if looking for an escape. Sans' hand, once comforting, feels like a cage around my hand.
You're going to die Sans is going to die He's going to die because of you because of you you you it's aLL YOUR FAULT
A whimper escapes me, and Sans turns to see me crying and shaking.
He takes me home.

I'm staring at the dark flecks in the white painted walls, curled up on my side, letting the tears run down my face. Why am I even crying? I am so, so scared, but I don't know why anymore. I think I might have known once. I'm crazy, crazy, crazy.

'Lucie just tell me what's wrong! You need to leave the house, you can't stay in this room forever!' Sans is almost yelling. But I'm not scared of him, he's the only safe thing in my life; I'll never be scared of him.
We're outside. The sun is high in the sky and birds are chirping, but I still feel cold. I'm only here because Sans was getting worried, and I don't want Sans to ever worry about me. Anxiety is eating me up inside, but I have to hold it together for him.
WAS THAT HIM? I think I saw him. I'm sure I saw him. I'm sure that was him. He saw me, and he saw me with Sans.
No! I have to be strong, for Sans, because me being sane makes him happy.
His arm is around my waist for support. One foot before the other. I can do this. I can be okay for him.

We lie together, his fingers tracing patterns into my arm.
'You've really got me worried, Luce.' He says, looking into my eyes. 'What happened? This happened overnight.'
'Just... sick...' I murmur, a tear rolling down my cheek. 'Sick, sick, sick...' I sniff, and he wipes away the tear with a thumb.
'I think I might love you, Lucie.' He whispers. My breath catches in my throat.
'I love you too.' I say, and I mean it, I really do. In books and in the movies they describe that moment, the confession, when you tell each other that you love each other, as a rush of joy. But to me it is just a truth, something I've known in my heart, and it doesn't make anything more colourful. Everything is still grey. He pulls me tight close to him, and I feel a little warmer in his arms.
'Don't ever leave me, Luce. I don't know what I'd do.' He kisses my head.
'I won't.'

I'm still so glad to have him.

I really messed that one up.

I've always hated going to that shop, ever since I moved here. The aisles are always crowded with monsters and humans. The cashier is relentless in her judgmental stares. My fingers fumble for my change. My smile wobbles. My hands shake. Papyrus wanted to make spaghetti, and seeing as I was feeling a little better today, Sans convinced me that I should get out on my own and buy some ingredients.

The shopping bags are cutting into my palms.

Just keep your head down, in one two three, out one two three. Easy. It's easy.

IT SHOULD BE EASY WHAT'S WRONG WITH Y-

He's there. The thug. He's standing right there. He's in front of me.

He's smiling. It was him the other day. He did see us. My heart rate leaps, eyes wide with horror.

The shopping bags have fallen, splitting open.

I'm running.

I've stopped.

Pain.

I look down. It feels like I'm on fire. I can't make myself move anymore. My limbs are sluggish and heavy.

I start to smile, then grin, then laugh hysterically, pressing my hands to my stomach and feeling pain spike through me, feeling my hands become warm and wet.

For the first time in weeks, everything's not grey anymore. It's red.