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Tommy is tired.
He's tired in the way sleep can't fix, tired in the way that makes every step feel like a marathon, and every breath feels like his last. He tries to sleep it away anyways, sleeping for twelve hours at a time, but he never feels rested.
Sometimes, he wishes he never wakes up.
He never makes his bed when he wakes, the act of simply getting up already feeling like the world is weighing on his shoulders. Would it even matter, if he made his bed? At the end of the day, it will be messed up again anyway.
When he finally does eventually get up, he spends most of his day just sitting around his house. Knitting and sewing helps pass the time, and he makes sweaters and blankets and scarves and gloves. He even made his pet spider, Shroud, a little bandana and sweater. On particularly good days he goes and sits on the bench and watches the birds and squirrels and bugs.
On particularly bad days, when the thoughts are too loud and old wounds burn, he goes out to the bench as well, for a different reason. He stares off the cliff and wonders if anyone would notice if he jumped, and if they would even care if he did.
He never does, but the thought lingers still.
His chest aches most days, and his throat burns with suppressed sobs. He can't remember the last time he's spoken to someone, can't remember the faces and voices of his old friends. Tubbo had run off with Ranboo and Quackity, and Wilbur, Phil and Techno had replaced him with Ranboo.
His heart screams for company, for friendship, but no one heeds its call. Day in, day out, he sits in an empty home and waits for visitors who will never come. Sometimes, he stares at his communicator and his heart screams to send a message, to ask Tubbo to hang out, something.
He never does.
He's so lonely it hurts, and he can't even do anything about it. The only people who ever cared about him have long since moved on, and everyone else hates him.
He thinks if Hanahaki was real, his lungs would long since be full of forget-me-nots and foxglove, hollyhock spilling from his lips.
Maybe it would be better that way.
Oftentimes when he gets a nosebleed, he doesn't bother to staunch the flow with a tissue, simply watching the blood drip drip drip onto the white porcelain of his sink. He wonders if he could bleed out from one, if he waited long enough it would drip drip drip away all his blood and leave him a shriveled husk (more than he was already.)
He similarly doesn't bother to patch up small cuts, and he scratches at scabs until they ooze blood and he watches as it puddles upon his skin. Sometimes when he is strong enough to cook he stares into the silver of kitchen knives and images them stained red. He shakes himself out his thoughts and hours have passed.
He sets the knife down.
Every day feels like a limbo, a repeating hellscape of monotony and apathy and loneliness and it's driving him crazy. He wants to change but he knows he's too much of a coward to do it himself.
If this is life, he muses, then he doesn't want it. Though, if that endless expanse of blackness was death, he doesn't want that either. He wants to close his eyes and let his consciousness fade away like the night sky at dawn, for his mind to embrace nothingness with open arms.
He doesn't want to die, but he wants to be dead.
Maybe one day he will feel better, maybe one day his chest will no longer ache, maybe one day he will be able to get out of bed and face the day with a smile, but that day is not today. So for now he drags himself through the day and wishes for a change he isn't sure will come.