He wouldn't call it a rejection, per say. He thinks a slight is a much better term for this kind of stuff. And to be honest, he doesn't really care too much about it. It's more like his mind has been numbed from the many times it has happened. It's much better than the alternative, which is something he'd rather not think about. It's something he'd much rather avoid at all costs, which to be honest is not all that much. There's not much left to take from him; after all, his pride is already into the negatives, and all he really has are some stupid glass shards and a bunch of flowers, yellow carnations. They grow in hordes around him, and their glow seemingly a horrendous attempt at trying to cheer him up, like yellow carnations do that. They stare up at him, their petals swaying in the wind as if that will inspire some sort of happiness. If he was going to be honest about it, he would have torn them all up and dug a hole a mile deep to bury them, but he left them there, surrounded and cornered by these stupid, stupid flowers. He tells himself it's a reminder of sorts--just of what, he doesn't know. He'd like to say all sorts of things--of happiness, of joy, of something he had held dear once long ago, but he's long forgotten about those kinds of things. Instead, these carnations bring a fear of death along with them, a cold kind of fear that instills ice and sharp claws into one's heart. He doesn't think that's what it's supposed to be. After all, these are yellow. They sit prettily in the fields, swaying from side to side as the wind guides them gently to a new angle, a new point of view, a new place to look down from.

He supposes that isn't the best way of going about these things--after all, that girl is still there, doing whatever she was doing, and he can't run, and he can't face her, and she's going to turn around soon, and she's going to stop being preoccupied soon, it's all going to be so soon that he won't be able to handle it. He supposes that there's nothing to do, that if it's fate or whatever that dictates his fade into the wind, then he'll just have to accept it. He'd accept being tossed around as other people's puppet, a punching bag for their happiness, because if he wasn't going to be doing it, if he tried to pursue happiness like he did before, what would happen? The world would be brought to shambles! It wouldn't happen, it couldn't happen. In a way, he could probably consider himself satisfied with current standing in this field, and these stupid carnations could wave around all day and they wouldn't get a thing out of him. Except all of him. In a way, he was okay with it. If he told himself it didn't hurt, if he told himself it was all okay, if he told himself that that's just what was supposed to happen, then it would hurt a bit less. His cage of steel wire would cave a little less, and it was okay to sit there a little longer to hug his knees.