I visit the café much more often after the realization that Jean became smitten with someone else. I feel as though the thought of Mikasa now processes through Jean's brain more than anything, and the knowledge suffocates me that Jean does not even realize what he continues to do. It's been a couple weeks since then, and I now spend my days escaping his attention in order to allow myself some breathing time. After all, we were not officially together; the both of us only went with the flow, and now, I feel as though my feelings were pushed onto him, and he only succumbed to it in order to allow me to feel more comfortable.

The more I think about it, the more my heart races and clenches, squeezing more insecurity into my head. I sigh and stare out the window, mind wandering and shutting out everything around me, no longer concentrating on anything. My daze breaks with a tap on my shoulder, and as I look up at the figure before me, the timid smile and blue eyes behind glasses, my head pounds and my heart rushes, my eye fleetingly staring around the figure, searching for the one Jean is so enamored with. When my mind processes no one there, I gulp and stare back at the other, throwing them a smile before nodding at their presence.

"You look a bit pale, Marco," Armin states as he sits beside me, removing materials from his bag to place on the table. He takes a moment to look at me, waiting for my response, only to return to his task when I took too long to speak up.

"I'm fine," I watch as he fetches more and more paper and books out his bag, wondering how much work he needs to get done. "Are Mikasa and Eren not coming?"

"Oh, no. Not today," he's now shuffling through his papers, scrambling to separate them into appropriate piles and searching for something, eyes furrow in frustration. "Eren has work and Mikasa went out with some of her friends."

I let out a breath, silently telling myself that I should stop being silly, but my mind races and I'm staring back out the window. Armin continues to shuffle through his papers, the ruffling and rumpling sounding beside me, and I feel a bit upset; at myself, for being ridiculous and jealous and needy over something that no one could control. A heavy sigh escapes my lips and I turn my attention to the cup of coffee in front of me, cold from sitting so long, yet I pay no attention until I take a sip, grimacing at the taste, and setting it back down. Armin is now staring at me, a look of concern flashes before he places his papers down.

"Are you ok, Marco?"

"I'm fine," the response was automatic and quick, startling Armin a bit at the way it rips out my lips. I wince and apologize, rubbing at my eyes a bit before I stand. "Sorry, Armin, I just remembered I needed to go somewhere."

I apologize again, walking away with the cup in hand, placing it on the counter before walking out, breathing in a bit before venturing towards the flower shop. As I walk, I feel terrible for the way I treated Armin at the café, and vow to apologize more sincerely when I see him again. I hum as I walk to the shop with the route in mind, looking out for anything different I did not see and taking care to make sure I don't stumble.

Stepping into the store, being welcome by Christa and the bell overhead, I wander about, staring at flowers I saw my last visit and flowers I know are new. Christa stands beside me with a smile, asking me how I was, to which I smile back with a, "I'm fine. How are you?"

The routine follows with a bit of small talk, Christa walking back and forth between me and any customers who look for flowers, making me wonder if I might be a hindrance. She pats my shoulders with a light smile, almost as though she reads my thoughts, before walking away and coming back with a flower, pink in color.

"This is a pink camellia. In the language of flowers, it means 'longing for you.'"

My face contorts and flushes, but she chuckles a bit, looking down at the flower with a gaze I can recognize. Her smile was light, cheeks flush red and eyes glimmering with joy, and I look around, noticing someone missing from the seen, realizing that it's been a while since Ymir appeared.

"Ymir's been busy with work," she shrugs before moving the flower back to its spot. "I suppose I do miss her a bit more than I would have imagined."

My mind paralyzes, unsure of what to say, understanding, in a sense, how she feels. Then, I think, "But Jean is here. Jean is right in front of me." The thought does not ease me, but makes me tense with worry and fear, and Christa looks at me knowingly, before walking off at the sound of the bell, greeting another customer. I take in a deep breath, brushing my hair back, and look back at the pink camellias, feeling as though I had no choice but to buy some, to take the time to identify and acknowledge my feelings. I sigh once more, looking at Christa who nods at me, understanding what I need, before setting off to get the flowers, wrapping and ribbons ready.

Everything looks perfect; Christa always takes her time to be precise and neat, even with such a simple thing as wrapping up flowers, something I can't put my mind into, shaking my head as though telling myself I would never be able to pull it off as she does. She snorts a bit at my reaction, startling me, before I broke out into a smile, a bit of laughter nearly jumping out, but I broke my hand up to my lips, coughing into it before taking the flowers, paying, and setting out with a farewell. She waves me out, smiling before attending another customer.

I take my time walking back home, my mind racing through how to approach Jean about everything, only to backtrack, restart a new route in order to allow me more time, and continue to think about something I inevitably have to talk about. It takes me multiple routes, new stores found, and soon, I stand before the door of the house, staring at it, willing it to open on its own, but it does not do as I hope. I take more deep breaths, telling myself it's alright, that I'm fine and nothing bad will happen, but I stay there, lost in my own anxiety.

"Marco?"

I spin around quickly, staring back at the figure before me, heart hammering and throat swollen with fright, the flowers falling out of my hands before I scramble to pick it up, accidentally slamming my head against the side of the door, the pain shooting through my head. Another hands shoots into my field of vision, rubbing against the area I injured. My eye waters and my throat constricts as I grab at the hand rubbing against me, pulling it over my eye as I lean against it, tears leaking out against my will as I sniffle and whimper past clenched teeth, body shaking from the anxiety and tears and exhaustion.

"Shit, Marco. You're going to be ok. It's just a bump, alright?"

Jean moves about, the sound of keys clanging against one another and soon, the door is open and he's pulling me in with him, stumbling over the flowers, but paying it no mind. As I step past the flowers, the thoughts of how much I miss Jean wells in me, the pit of my stomach fluttering with butterflies and nausea, and a flower is pressed against the floor; flatten by the shoe that mindlessly stood overhead. I turn my head, pressing it against Jean as he brings me to the bedroom, sitting us both down before attempting to pull me away, only to fail as I cling to him, desperately holding him as tight against me as possible. He moves to rub his hands against my back before he kisses the top of my head and breathes in deeply.

"I miss you so much," I choke out, attempting to pull him closer to me.

"Hah?" Jean tenses a bit before shifting and peeling me away. "What are you talking about? I haven't gone anywhere."

I look at him in the eyes, staring dazedly into the confusion that soaks his being. I raise my hand, trailing it from the corner of his eye to his lips before dropping it and averting my eye, getting up and walking out the room. I walk to the entrance, a few petals spread across the floor, trampled and forgotten. I lift my head up, stifling the tears, ignoring Jean's concern calls, and pull the door open to pick up the pink camellia, its wrapping askew and petals missing and bent and broken. I take a moment to mourn the flowers before turning back to Jean, staring at him through tears, no longer attempting to smile as the pain remains strong and the negativity hangs over me.

Jean stands there, stuttering an apology, telling me he'd buy me flowers, that he didn't mean to forget about them and another apology and swearing. We stand by the doorway for a pause, Jean taking in deep breaths, waiting for me, and I, waiting for him. But he does not move. I feel unwelcome to this house, to Jean, and I know it's silly and my own mind overreacting, but the heavy feeling sinks deeper into me as I let out a sigh, weak and feeble. I walk up, the pink camellia in front of me, between Jean and I, a makeshift barrier that grows into a wall. I hand Jean the flowers, before walking past him.

"Marco, I'm sorry. For whatever I did."

I stop mid-step and shook my head, frustration and anger for myself welling and overflowing.

"No. It's not your fault."

After all, longing for you when you're still here is just ridiculous.