It's pretty obvious to you that Dick Grayson is the most perfect man alive. He was charming, muscular, and would fight to the ends of the earth for anyone he cared for—the problem was, you weren't sure if that group of people included you or not.
You'd met Dick all the way back at Hudson University, the Ivy League that you had somehow managed to get into, and the one that he had no problem securing his spot in. Even without his adoptive father's last name on half of the buildings, he was an amazing gymnast, surprisingly intelligent, (it wasn't your fault that you had assumed he wasn't, his partying was all the tabloids portrayed), and so... genuine, for someone raised in a life of utmost luxury.
As you cough out bloodied, soft petals, another previously ignored thought becomes obvious to you—you'd fallen in love with him, and in your heart of hearts, you knew that he would never love you back. How could he? He was everything you weren't: extroverted, loving, and even a fucking Calvin Klein model. The only solace that you had was the fact that in a month's time, you'd finally be at peace from the torment, ignoring the fact that you'd probably be dead, lungs covered in heartbreak induced, cobalt blue flowers.
A knock at your door shook you out of your poison-flower induced daze. It was Dick, most likely, because you'd made plans with him to go to the new club in New Carthage, which was decidedly the 'most boring college town of all college towns,' in his words. You opened the door and prayed that you didn't look as sick as you felt.
"Hey!" He exclaimed, bursting into the house with the energy that made your heart both figuratively and literally ache. He looked good, and that probably distracted you from trying to keep your facade up. Fitted black shirt, tailored black pants... there was no mistaking that he came from money. "Why aren't you ready yet? I thought that we decided on—" his eyes flitted from your ragged t-shirt, all the way to the petals in your palm. "Please tell me that isn't what I think it is."