[It's that voice that attracts their attention the most. That voice- not welcome or even wanted, enough to make something curl in their stomach, even now. Months ago, they had told Frisk- none of this matters. None of it should matter.

It shouldn't matter now, either.

Except they listen to a story about a dumb kid, whose best friend wasn't very nice- and that something in their stomach twists.

It's always been easiest to put a smile on their face when the situation called for anything but.]

I'd much rather hear the rest of your story, actually. About the story that doesn't end very well?

[Just because they're quiet doesn't mean they know how to be quiet on sand. Every footstep is a loud crunch as they come closer to the fire, taking a seat in the circle and propping their chin on the back of their hand, eyes fixated on the flower.]

Pray do tell- how does it end?

[Come on, Flowey. Don't you want to tell them how it is? How it really is?

Last chance.]