#Maybe not a whole theory but like there's a piece of a theory here

[rainyadventurer]

Ralsei's Magic in Battle

Deltarune Chapter 4 spoilers below cut.

(Edit: I'll keep this original post here since it was an interesting experience with the game and added to my experience with the narrative during a blind playthrough, but I apparently had the wrong equipment equipped to get Ralsei's magic to where it could be. Oops.

Long story short: Accidentally causing Ralsei's magic stat to be lower during chapter 4 made me think it was a narrative thing vs user error in properly equipping fluffy boy.

You can read the ramblings below if you want. There's probably some interesting thoughts in there still.)

So, I'm not sure if I did something to his armor/weapon that made this change, but did anyone else have Ralsei's magic become significantly weaker?

A good bit of my battle strategy had been to take advantage of Ralsei being able to heal us at least 100 HP. But, during the roaring knight fight, his healing magic wasn't particularly strong. In the try that I won, I think he was healing us 48 HP.

During chapter 4, I managed to get his magic stat up to 18, but the max healing he's done in battle is 90 (before boosting his magic super high, I think it was around 70 HP healing). Which is not what he used to be able to do with a lower magic stat. Susie, with a magic stat at like 12 (? I forgot but it was lower than Ralsei's), was able to heal us around 100 HP.

So, I feel as thought I have to ask the question:

Is Ralsei getting weaker?

Fluffy boy is keeping big secrets from us, and he just keeps smiling through the pain.

If his magic is tied to his emotions, it would make sense for it to be less effective with how scared and cornered he's feeling.

But, what if it's not tied to his emotions? He's a Darkner. I'm not sure if we know whether Darkner magic works the same as monster magic. Could there be something (aside from stress and strain of circumstances) that is causing him to become weaker? Like, the item from the light world he's connected to? Does it have something to do with the prophecy?

Did the damage he take from the roaring knight cause harm that he's not talking about?

Is Susie going to take over his role as healer, and we lose Ralsei from the party? Is Ralsei physically exhausted? Does he even sleep???

If anything, I find it really interesting that something being up with Ralsei was noticeable in battles. I noticed it within the first few battles because he's the designated healer, and it immediately caused me to be very concerned about how okay he was. When I realized I couldn't fix it with equipment, it really emphasized that something was fundamentally wrong--not just on the over-world but in the battles where survival is on the line.

It also meant that I had to use more items than I had previously been using (since I relied a lot on Ralsei's magic in earlier chapters).

[megumismyhusband]

you’ve always looked up to nagi.

back when you were just a wide eyed kid sweeping ash off your coat in rainy alleyways, you’d sneak copies of the morning paper from the butcher’s stand. every front page that bore his name had a circle around it. seishiro nagi cracks arson case in under three hours. detective nagi solves string of disappearances no one else would touch. you’d read them so many times they stayed burned behind your eyelids, reappearing in the haze of sleep or when the night shift dragged too long. he was brilliant. always just a few steps ahead. a soft-spoken, disheveled genius who couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair or tie his shoes but could find a missing person by staring at a map for five minutes.

that’s why you’re here. well. partly.

you’d worked hard. harder than anyone else in your unit. took all the cases no one wanted. talked your way into witness interviews, stayed up all night dusting glass for prints, memorized floorplans. you earned your name. and lately, you’ve been hearing that name more and more. some say you’re the next nagi, except less lazy. some don’t even mention him at all anymore.

and now you’ve been asked to work a case with him. a real collaboration. two detectives, one mystery, a high profile locked room murder with too many suspects and not enough time. it’s the kind of thing you would’ve dreamed about back when you were young. so imagine how you feel when you first meet him and find out he’s a lazy piece of shit.

he shows up to the crime scene half an hour late, dragging his feet like someone’s forcing him to walk. his coat is only halfway on. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt. he yawns through the introductions and leans against the doorway of the drawing room like he’s about to fall asleep standing up.

“hey,” he says. that’s it. no handshake. no nod. just hey.

“detective nagi,” you say, trying to sound like your lungs haven’t turned to ice. “i’ve read all your—”

“can you tell me what happened so i don’t have to read the file?” he interrupts, blinking at you like you’re the boring part of his dream.

you clench your jaw. give him the rundown. short, professional, clipped. he doesn’t write anything down. he doesn’t even pretend to be listening. just stares past your shoulder, then down at his own hand like he forgot it was attached to him.

“huh,” he says at the end of it. “sounds annoying.”

you think he’s going to follow that up with a question. or a theory. or anything. he doesn’t.

the other officers exchange looks. this isn’t new to them. but you? you’re spiraling. is this really him? the man who’s solved killings in a single night? the one who once found a body buried beneath a well just by the texture of the dirt? is this what he’s become?

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. you’re the one with the sharp mind now. the one who doesn’t sleep, who gets results. he’s a relic. an old headline. and it doesn’t matter if he slumps in chairs or gets distracted by moths or starts eating licorice halfway through your suspect interview.

except it does matter. because even when he’s doing nothing, somehow he still gets it right. he’ll mumble something under his breath, and it’ll be the one detail you missed. he’ll ask a question that sounds stupid, but it’ll turn the whole case on its head. and you hate how fast your heart starts beating when that happens. like it used to when you saw his name in bold ink.

you admire him. you still do. but now it’s quiet. like a secret you keep in your coat pocket. you tell yourself it’s just curiosity. maybe pity. maybe professional interest.

it’s not. and every time he yawns through your theories or scratches his head and accidentally gives you the final piece of the puzzle, you feel it settling in your chest.

this is going to be a long case.

you end up in the study with him after hours. two cups of lukewarm tea between you. crime scene’s cleared out, but neither of you’s left. you’re sketching out timelines on a napkin and he’s lying sideways on the settee like he’s at home.

“you don’t have to be here,” you tell him. “i can finish the layout.”

“i’m bored,” he says, like that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse to insert himself into your perfectly structured logic map. “besides. you missed the bit where the maid took her break ten minutes early.”

you blink. “how do you know that?”

“she smoked. matches in the flowerpot outside. old ones and one fresh.” he shrugs. “people always hide them in the dumbest places.”

you stare at him. “you never mentioned that.”

“you didn’t ask.” he yawns. “you’re really intense, huh?”

you bristle. “i work hard.”

“i know,” he says, almost too casually. “it’s kind of interesting. haven’t seen someone work this hard since… well. ever, really.”

you try not to let that register. not out loud, anyway. “i grew up reading about your cases.”

he rolls onto his back, arms behind his head. “ew. don’t say it like that. makes me sound old.”

“you are old.”

he huffs, but you catch the small smirk he tries to hide under his sleeve.

the weird thing is… you kind of start liking talking to him. once you stop expecting him to act like a proper detective, it gets easier. he’s easy to talk to when he’s not being a pain. he doesn’t judge your theories. he doesn’t interrupt you unless he has something important to say. and when he does say something, it’s usually helpful. like, annoyingly helpful.

you start bringing extra pens and snacks. he starts showing up on time. not all the time. but enough to notice. one day he actually ties his shoes.

“you’re rubbing off on me,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of disease. “i stayed awake all of yesterday. didn’t even nap.”

you arch a brow. “want a medal?”

“yes. but also a nap.”

you roll your eyes. but you hand him the spare coffee anyway.

you don’t say it out loud, but there’s a rhythm now. you work better together than you’d expected. and maybe you don’t look at the papers anymore. maybe you don’t circle his name. maybe now you look up when yours is next to his.

maybe that means something.

tags: @kaidostwin @levihanmyotp @ohagiyoo @oorosiidinmotive @wonubby @xoxojisu @yvanilaa @sevarchive @thetwinkims

join taglist here!

[electrodasher]

What did the mysterious caller tell Kris in the kitchen?

ID: Screenshot from Deltarune. Kris is alone in Noelle's kitchen drinking chocolate milk while a voice coming from their cellphone says: "...dark... fountain... next...". End ID.

Maybe everyone's seamlessly mixing memes with serious theories, but no, the mysterious caller does not literally say "police sacrifice next week". Most of the ellipses in their dialogue mark inaudible and/or unintelligible words, not pauses, and we know this is the case because at the end of the chapter we see them speak a full, clear, hesitant sentence: "...Kris... / ...don't forget, Kris... / ...you promised." Compare with the fragments we get in Noelle's house:

…dark… fountain… next…

...Susie... must not get... guitar...

...need... soul...

Without… soul… Kris… will…

...Susie... guitar... code... stop...

…police… sacrifice… next week…

… church... tonight…

…Kris… dark world… no soul… can't…

…Susie… guitar…?

…I'll be… right there…

By paying attention to word order, capitalization, and the placement of the ellipses, we can piece together at least some of the conversation. Go ahead an reblog with your best guesses. I'll go first, assuming the caller is the Knight and the Knight is at least partially Dess:

Kris, we'll meet in the dark world again. I'll make a fountain in the church next.

Listen: Susie... must not get her hands on my guitar…

And you need to keep that soul inside you a little longer.

Without the soul… Kris, how will you seal the fountains?

I'm telling you, Susie must not get the guitar or she'll see the code inside. You have to stop her before that happens.

The police chief was a necessary sacrifice. I only have to keep her in the shelter until next week…

Got that? See you at church… tonight...

…Kris, if you go into the dark world with no soul… you know you can't seal the fountain.

What? Susie got the guitar…?

Damn it. I'll be hurrying things along, then. Mom'll be right there…

Notes and reasoning under the cut.

The Knight explains their plan.

Maybe Kris explains that they're at the Holiday's with Susie. The Knight remembers the guitar and warns Kris. Kris explains how they had to take us out to keep us from reading the code, or maybe just complains about us in general.

In response, the Knight reminds Kris why they have to keep putting up with us.

Kris can survive without injury a whole night without the player soul, so no, I don't think the caller is saying they'll die, unless they specified a whole day or week or even longer. So what else could it be? Any Lightner can open fountains; Monsters like Susie and Darkners like Ralsei can ACT, make independent choices, and use magic. But sealing the fountains has been repeatedly mentioned as an ability exclusive to Kris, and they do so by using their red human soul. I guess they could be talking about saving files or commanding battles instead, but fountains specifically were mentioned 3 lines ago.

The Knight harps on about the guitar; if this is Dess, she could be extra-stressed by a stranger grabbing her sentimental belongings. Kris has nothing new to say, so maybe they bring up Undyne instead. They might not be personally super worried about her, but they could totally worried about people asking questions and linking Kris & co. to her disappearance.

This is where the heaviest speculation lies. First of all, I'm confident that "police" here refers to Undyne and not Asgore like some people think. Dess or Rudy would call him "your dad"; Carol and most other adults would call him "Asgore" or "your father"; and others are unlikely to call him by his ex-title. Second, I'm skeptical that "sacrifice" refers to something being done to her "next week". If Kris knew of such a sacrifice, I'm very skeptical that they would help kill or maim even a stranger - they can barely handle killing virtual avatars of their friends. The Caller might be springing the sacrifice" on them in the spot, but if that's the case, why would they do that instead of withholding it from Kris as long as possible to keep them cooperative?

Sounds like the Knight tries to conclude the call.

"No soul" here could only refer to either Kris or the Knight, since everyone else seems to have normal monster souls that can't persist outside of a body. If it's Kris, this would mean that they A) have no soul outside the player/SOUL, or B) the player displaced their original soul. If it's A), that could be explained by them being the Vessel. If it's B), that soul must've gone somewhere; for example, if Dess absorbed it, then the Knight might be the resulting "horrible beast with unfathomable power". OK that's long as fuck but IDK how to put it in simpler terms so I commend you if you understand what I'm saying.

1-8 are from the first call in the kitchen. 9 & 10 are from the second call in Dess's room after Susie gets the guitar.

This is my best attempt at splitting "I'll be" and "right there" into separate sentences. Not exactly the most natural turn of phrase ever, but Deltarune dialogue is not always 100% naturalistic, especially when it comes to exposition.

[kdh-tally]

please please please 🙏 make a part 2 to the role reversal au. You should write about them somehow surviving and their interactions with the boys. It'd be funny too see boys get flustered by hot demon girls😂

Btw ever since you mentioned the 'dark girl crush' concept they I imagine that in the reverse au they give off a mix PIXY and red velvet and pinkfantasy. Maybe with a little bit Sabrina Carpenter and Dove Cameron in there😋

KPDH Swap Au Pt 2

Prompt : Swap Au Continued!!

Author's Note : I went into a deep dive on Pixy after listening to the preview you sent and OMG. I'm so sad they've disbanded bro :((( These aren't proof read... You can read PT 1 here -> Swap AU

They're Back??

Months pass and the boys try to move on.

They’re on a hiatus, Bobby forced them to take one.

Jinu has thrown himself into training.

He was definitely haunted by the loss of Rumi and wasn’t able to get her off his mind EVER. 

Romance and Abby would get closer.

They’d bond over the one who got away ☹️ 

Mystery won’t talk as much, which is bad cause he was barely talking in the beginning.

My guy misses his girl

Well she was never really his girl but he most definitely would've made her his girl if he got the chance yk?

He’s a wreck.

Baby's the only one who's fine.

He does miss the girls a teeny tiny bit though, it was like having three older sister who were constantly trying to kill you.

They never found the girls’ bodies. Just the glowing aftermath of their magic in the air.

Jinu insisted that was the end of the, that there was absolutely no way for them to come back. It was a last goodbye.

He was wrong 💀

A crack opens in the fabric of reality during one of their dance practices.

A portal flashes, a wave of power hits, and out of their ceiling descends them.

Zoey, with her hair still styled down as it was during their final performance.

Mira, casually chewing gum and adjusting her gloves waaay too nonchalantaly.

Rumi, throwing a very playful smirk at Jinu.

What the actual hell?

Mystery just stares.

While he did miss Zoey he hadn’t expected to be faced with her so soon…

He doesn’t speak or move. Actually I don’t think he eve could if he wanted to.

Zoey beams at him “Did ya miss me?”

“I- um.” he’s stuttering and can barely get a word out

Baby has to remind this guy how to breath.

“Out through your nose, in through your mouth.”

Abby’s jaw is dropped. He genuinely forgets what he was doing.

Romance is right beside him, holding onto his shoulder for stability cause bro is scared he might fall over just from Mira’s presence.

“Cute. Still absolutely whipped, huh?” she smirks.

They die.

Jinu goes silent then he’d get angry.

He’d feel like the whole sacrifice thing must’ve just been a joke since they obviously just popped up looking completely fine.

“You look fine for someone who got burnt into pieces right in front of me”

“Would you rather I crawl in here bleeding?” Rumi sassed back, eyes narrowed as she tried to understand just why he was so upset.

“I watched you die, Rumi. So tell me why you’re standing here like nothing happened.”

Ohhhhhh. Jinu’s lost and probably thinks the whole sacrifice thing was a stunt or something since all the girls look fine!

The lightbulb goes on in her brain.

“I thought I was gone for good too,” she admits. “Not sure how I'm here but i meant what I did, Jinu. I’d do it again even if it meant I wouldn���t come back”

The two just stare each other before Jinu pulls her into a hug. 

“Take me with you next time. Living without you is hard”

Getting Forced Into Society

The girls adjust quick.

Lounging in the Saja Boys’ dorm like they own it. 

Mira has her legs up on Abby’s desk as she watches fan videos and theories about what must’ve happened to the girls to make them disappear.

“Someone thinks we were holograms,” she laughs before stopping to look at the boys. “What's a hologram?”

Zoey was poking around in Mystery’s lyric notebook, reading everything he had ever written for her since the day she disappeared.

Mystery is trying not to die of embarrassment. 

Rumi is petting Derpy, the tiger, like he’s her pet.

He might as well be.

Jinu is seething out of jealousy. “That should be me.”

“You’re getting jealous of a tiger?” Abby side eyes him (like ur one to talk 😑).

Baby walks in with food and immediately tries to back out. 

“I’m not dealing with this today.”

Zoey flips her hair and follows him, smirking “C’mon Baby~ You know you missed us”

Rumi and Mira nod in agreement with her words, they missed teasing the guy.

“I hate all of you,” he’d grumble before flopping beside Mira and watching theories with her.

Zoey eventually joins them, she refuses to give Mystery his lyric book back and so he follows her.

All four of them are chilling on the couch.

Mira, abusing her influence, somehow gets Abby and Romance to bring all of them snacks.

Both boys are competing against each other and they don’t even notice.

Rumi is watching them in amusement, and Jinu is watching Rumi.

In this au, Jinu was the one with the Choo Choo pants and Rumi bullied him for it.

Rumi would wear the pants here, after much teasing from Jinu, only because she didn’t have any clothes to change into.

Totally not cause she secretly found them cute or anything…

“So,” she’d turn to him, “what did you do while I was gone?”

“Sleep, eat, miss you, dance, practice, think about you, cook, dream about you, go live, write about you-” Rumi interrupts him by throwing a pillow at his face.

Fan Reactions (Because They’re Public Again)

Time to redebut into kpop society again!!!

Everyone is quivering in their pants because tf you mean the random girl group that appeared, dropped 3 BANGERS, won the idol awards, (almost took all of their souls not that they’d know or anything) have come back???

They’d drop a new album called like Armageddon. 

The girls would eat up “Armageddon” by Aespa

Actually feel like a decent amount of aespa songs would suit them.

Other honorable mentions!!! “Bewitched” and “Swan Song” by PIXY (they have unfortunately disbanded ☹️) “Egoistic” by Mamamoo 🥰

The whole thing is terrifying in a good way

The boys watch all their stages from behind the scenes, or they hide in the crowd but have been caught multiple times because Mystery and Romance are not subtle about their huge crushes.

“She looks even hotter than before. How is that allowed?”

Mira would give a little wave to the camera, knowing they were watching. Abby waves back then realizes she cannot see him amongst the huge crowd 💀

Whenever Rumi sings, she proudly shows off her patterns (feel like in this au she too would be a half demon but so would Jinu). They’re glowing and everything, fans chalk it up to special effects but Jinu is so flustered cause she looks so fineeeeee.

Ship Wars Are Back

Zoeystery

Zoey goes live one day with the Moonies (name i made up after Honmoon lol) and one of em point out a VERY familiar book in the background.

It’s Mysterys.

She picks it up and shows it to the camera, not opening it or reading it for them obvi. 

“A really good friend of mine gave this to me” she smile sweetly to the fans, she knows hes is watching. 

Miromabby

These two are in a constant war for her attention.

Mira doesn’t even plan on choosing, she knows she has both of them under her control.

However, she would make them compete for her affection just for entertainment.

“Watch this,” she’d tell the girls before turning to the boys, holding an incredibly cute lunch bag. “Romance got me lunch.”

“I made it myself!” The man perks up at his name being called. 

“That’s nothing, I cooked her breakfast” Abby would counter.

Fighting ensues.

Rujinu

Jinu sits Rumi down and forces her to record free with him.

It’s not for the fans or anything, its just for them to listen to whenever they miss each other.

It’s all laughs and smiles in the production studio, Jinu refused help from anyone, only wanting it to be them.

They definitely shed a few tears, the lyrics just got so real.

They’d be on the couch, Rumi all snuggled up next to him with her legs over his. She’d be asking about a bunch of human stuff. 

Since she’s back to stay she might as well learn.

Jinu isn’t really listening and just stares at her.

She looks at him in slight confusion and amusement, “Can’t focus?”

“Never can when I’m around you,” he’d kiss her. 

Baby could not care less. He's happy his band members are happy.

All In All

The girls survived

The boys survived

Everyone is alive.

They’re back

Bobby is ecstatic

No one in the kpop industry is safe from both of these absolute powerhouses.

[offdxty]

The images of a fire, of a body consumed by flames, a being watching as another shifted and started to exist, eyes wide and in awe, skin moving and squirming, DNA changing, cells duplicating, a world opening up, a recognized house, a recognized woman, blood, tears - all of them continue to exist, continue to be while Harrow speaks. They race back and forth, pop up and disappear, a heavy-lidded gaze following each of those pictures with the tiniest of movements - irises vibrating, watching without looking, without focus, while words are taken at the very same time.

A hypothesis, another one, being made and voiced out into the room between them, the space that exists, filled with oxygen and carbon dioxide; Maybe Kane wants to be Kane, to be someone, because Kane thought he is just that. Maybe he wants to follow orders, an instinct eager to do what it was made to do, to fulfill its purpose.

Both could be correct, both could be the opposite. Both could be both at the same time - correct and not correct, a fact and a theory, knowledge and assumption.

...And Kane swallows, sucks a bottom lip between his teeth, bites and chews on it until the skin begins to feel a little tight, a little raw - only then he lets go of his own flesh, nostrils flaring with an exhale of air, lashes glistening as he blinks once, twice.

---He doesn't know whether any of this is right or wrong, whether any of these suggestions, ideas, possible reasons, apply to him or not. Perhaps he's just functioning because he follows a direction, perhaps he's only grieving because he took the very same emotion from the one he'd been copying; Like fragments of a life that is his own but not his own at a same time, fractions of experiences and memories that have happened to him, but not to him. Not to Kane, not it, yet Kane, yet it, because the DNA exists, the cells exist - copied, split, copied again, split once more, taken apart, reassembled, morphed and merged together until an image had been formed, a face and a body and a breath, hair and lungs and an appendix.

But not all of it, only parts. A whole physical existence, but only pieces of a life. Kane had seen him, Kane had watched, Kane had observed and Kane had made a decision; Now here other-Kane is, and he wonders... he wonders and thinks and feels, and all of it might just be... instinct. Learned behavior.

It makes everything feel even worse, causes eyes to close and lips to purse.

...But maybe, just maybe... ---Maybe none of this applies to him. Maybe it does, but partially. Maybe there is something else to him, maybe he does think, does feel, and none of it is fully attached to pure instinct and learned behavior anymore.

Error should not produce grief, Dr. Harrow says such himself; In case grief applies, the whole of not-Kane might stem from an origin more sophisticated. Is this grief... real grief, he feels? An emotion made of something else than learned behavior?

Maybe Kane, not-Kane, it... wants it all. Maybe Kane follows a direction, a code, instinct and learned behavior, while also grieving, thinking, feeling. Can he be... both? Can he be a something-someone?

... He doesn't know.

Even though he thinks about it all, takes those words and syllables filled with information to consume them, dissect them, try to put them back together into what he thinks makes sense... he has no real knowledge regarding the matter. He has never considered any of it, has never followed a pattern of existence like the one he's currently involved with... Perhaps he's just offering theories in return. Even though he knows he's thinking, most likely feeling, perhaps having an emotion - there's no proof existing, at least none he feels familiar with. All he can do is to listen to the man in front of him, to take what he's saying, and to... react. To... try and figure it out.

It, whatever it might be.

Eyes flick back open, silence stretching for another while; A spine straightens and Kane's gaze focuses on the wall above the other as his hands slide along his thighs, then let go of fabric, of muscle - his arms fold in front of his chest instead, hands tucked into each armpit as he inhales, exhales, swallows, lifts his chin.

A nod. Then a shake of a head. Both actions are happening without a word falling from full lips, and yet they seem thoughtful - deep in a way, meaningful.

"He questioned his own humanity." A fact. Kane did say such out loud, after all - spoke it directly into the camera he left behind, hoping for someone to find it on some faithful day. Someone did indeed.

"---It changed him, like it changed everything within its reach - flora, fauna, life. I guess that upon seeing me, he found another reason to..." A brief pause, as if Kane's struggling to find the right words for what he tries to say; He swallows, again and then takes another, deeper inhale of air.

"...To doubt it. What he believed to be." ... "---I don't know if he made a mistake. I don't know if his final decision to self-destruct was based on me, my existence. I think... I think he already made that decision before we got to meet each other."

He wouldn't have survived. Kane knew. And Kane's aware of the fact that Kane knew.

"But... I do think that it's... ---sad. The consequences. The act itself. He should've been the one to go back to his wife, but he couldn't. He had no choice. No matter what he did, he wouldn't have been able to find his way back out, to stay alive. ---That's what I meant with him putting hope on me instead, because I am him - yet I am not. I am not him, not quite. ...But I would like to be...---someone."

Silence was a more useful tool than any question, especially when the subject truly began to speak. Arthur didn’t dare interrupt, instead just watching - noting the return of the odd colors in the subject’s pupils, the unspooled words that seemed like blood spilling from a wound. A rupture of something that had been compressed, maybe; it fascinated him far more than anything else did. 

The change in posture didn’t go unnoticed, the curling of those fingers in search of contact. The way he recounted what happened at the lighthouse with something close to reverence - as if there were something there that he truly did care for, that he valued. They were behaviors that likely were learned by watching, there was little to no proof that they were understood; and that gap between function and comprehension was where Arthur lived. 

“You’re responding to memory,” Arthur noted, again stated like nothing more than fact. “The memory of events can sometimes be… difficult. Especially memories of observation. You observed as Kane chose to self destruct, the same way you observed Lena react to your presence. Perhaps the fact they bother you so severely isn’t because of the emotional weight, but because they were new sensations. Whatever part of you is ‘learning’ found these moments worth flagging as important.” 

His voice dipped as he spoke, just enough to suggest depth without delivering any comfort. “That’s curious. Memory without ownership shouldn’t carry emotional charge - so I don’t believe that it does. I think that those moments are important to you because they are ones that gave you guidance and direction, and that’s what you are searching for.” 

Arthur shifted. He leaned forward, raising a hand; offering a hypothesis, to see how it was handled. “Kane gave you a direction. He gave you two, actually - ‘do not look’, and ‘go find Lena’. You looked, because your internal programming demanded it. You were meant to look at Kane. You were meant to copy Kane. You watched him, even as he… self-destructed. But when he was gone, when there was nothing else to observe, you needed a new rule to follow. 'Go find Lena.' You did that.” 

Arthur leaned back again, his hand falling down gently into his lap. “Maybe the reason you want to be someone is because you think that Kane thought you were someone,” he offered. “And you think that you’re failing Kane’s orders, in some way. Maybe you have a drive to succeed, to fulfill your duty. Maybe you still want to satisfy the parameters of a command you were given.” 

His eyebrows raised, as if offering the theory; though he didn’t let it sit for long before offering evidence against it. “But - if that were true, here’s what I can’t quite solve. If you are just something - an echo, a mimimc, a residual pattern - then you shouldn’t care about failing. Error should not produce grief - and if it does, then the grief itself is part of the design. Which suggests an origin more sophisticated than something I’m prepared to explain.” 

His fingers tapped again, eyes looking almost as if he were actively thinking that through, right now;  he was. He inhaled softly, followed by an exhale; and then he rested his head behind him, again, against the wall. 

“… Let me ask you this. If Kane did think you were someone - and you turn out to be something - would that make his final choice a mistake? Do you think he made the right decision, in ending himself and sending you?” 

[maraschinotopped]

ive been staring at the naqtube channel page just doing analysis thoughts in my head for like 15 minutes and ive just been hit with the realization that Damn this is not normal. normal people dont do this. either the mental illness or the mild sickness is doing something to me right now.

[beanghostprincess]

Let's say chocolate is a metaphor for traditional relationships that happen to appear good but are too sickly sweet for Sanji to handle and after WCI he ends up not liking chocolate. At least for a while. He needs to move on from what happened first. But he wants to force himself to like it because he should like chocolate. It is one of the most basic ingredients when making sweets and it is also everywhere.

So what if it makes him want to throw up? What if his stomach betrays him when cooking? What if he needs to stop every two seconds to breathe because his lungs don't work properly when he smells chocolate? He will keep trying and trying to make it work. Everybody loves chocolate, after all, he should too.

But then, one day, Usopp sees everything he has around the kitchen. Like. That's an awful lot of sweets and a disgusting amount of chocolate and he doesn't seem like he has slept in a week. So of course he is concerned. "Why- What's all of this about, Sanji?" He tries to hide his nervousness with a laugh.

Sanji grips the counter tighter. So much his knuckles turn white. "I- I don't know. I guess I was just. In the mood for chocolate." But he doesn't sound sure at all. In fact, he looks like he's about to cry.

"Well." He looks around the room without wanting to touch anything but approaching Sanji a bit to check on him. "Luffy can have all of my portions because I kind of... Not like chocolate?"

"You don't- You don't like chocolate?"

"No? Too sweet. I actually pretty much hate it? The smell already makes me ill."

"Me too."

"You what?"

"I think I don't- I don't think I like chocolate anymore. Is that- I don't know if I ever did. Is that alright?"

"Why wouldn't it be alright, Sanji? It's just chocolate. Nobody can force you to eat it. Or cook it if you really don't want to."

And Sanji realizes that maybe... Maybe it is alright for him to not want chocolate, and a wave of relief takes over him for a solid second.

[kingmlem]

Fucking...

Oof.

[snekdood]

so august 2018 is when my peak being-crazy-made art craziness happened, huh

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (2/2) | orange theory

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda, isack hadjar, and liam lawson + special feature franco colapinto and lance stroll (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : quiet moments where love is tested through the smallest acts because sometimes, peeling an orange says more than 'i love you.'

୨ৎ : genre : fluff & romance ୨ৎ : word count : tbd

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : race weekend <3 also if you guys liked the addition of franco and lance pls lmk and i will keep them in my one-shots <3

ʚ・kimi antonelli

you ask him to peel an orange for you one afternoon, not thinking much of it.

he blinks, looks at the fruit in your palm like it personally insulted him. “…you can’t?”

“i can. just asking.”

kimi rolls his eyes but takes it anyway, wordless. you assume he’s doing it just to get you off his back.

except every time you glance over, he’s still quietly focused. thumbs working carefully along the seams, jaw tight in concentration.

when he hands it back, peeled neatly, he mutters under his breath, “don’t make this a thing.”

but then the next day, there’s an orange in your bag. already peeled. wrapped in a napkin with a tiny corner note that just says: eat something.

he never says it outright, but you catch him keeping extras in the fridge. watching when you reach for one, subtly grabbing it first.

once, while traveling, he grumbles, “the oranges here suck,” and spends ten minutes trying to find the sweetest one at a random airport kiosk.

kimi’s love isn’t loud. it’s in the things he does without asking. in the way he makes space for you in his routines. and he never lets you notice until it has already become a habit.

ʚ・ollie bearman

“peel this for me?” you hand ollie the orange and grin.

“easy,” he says, like a man who has peeled maybe one orange in his entire life.

cut to him ten seconds later, absolutely struggling. peel halfway off, juice everywhere, face a little too serious for citrus duty.

“you good?” you ask.

“babe, i got this. trust the process.”

by the end, it looks more like orange chunks than slices, and your kitchen towel is a crime scene.

he hands you the peeled mess with proud eyes. “there. gourmet.”

you bite into a piece and smile. “tastes like chaos.”

ollie smirks. “tastes like love.”

you think it ends there, but later that week, he walks in with a little plastic orange peeler from the grocery store. “look what i got. so i don’t suck next time.”

you stare at him, stunned.

he shrugs. “i googled it. i’m evolving.”

ollie might joke and make a mess of it, but he’s the kind of boyfriend who learns for you. who sees the meaning behind silly little gestures. and yeah, maybe he can’t peel an orange like a pro yet, but he’ll try every time. that’s what makes it perfect.

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

you hand him an orange with the simple request: “can you peel this?”

yuki doesn’t even blink. “what? why can’t you do it?”

you grin. “just testing something.”

“testing what? this isn’t school. i’m not peeling oranges on command.”

he rants for two minutes. hands flying, eyebrows furrowed, pacing like this is a full-blown debate. then he snatches the orange and goes at it like it personally offended him.

you watch him peel with furious focus. lips pursed. intensity unmatched.

when he finishes, he tosses it on the table. “there. happy?”

you burst out laughing. “yuki… you passed.”

he blinks. “wait, what?”

“it was a tiktok thing. a love test.”

“you’re insane.”

but after a few seconds, he shifts in his seat. picks up the orange again and starts pulling the white bits off.

“still kinda ugly,” he mumbles. then softer, “next time, just ask for fruit. no tests.”

the next day, he peels you one again. this time without a word, just places it in front of you like it’s nothing.

he complains. he yells. but he also listens. learns. and peels your oranges like you matter, even if he grumbles the whole time.

ʚ・isack hadjar

you hand isack an orange and ask him to peel it.

he squints at you, suspicious. “why? is it poisoned?”

“no. i just want to see something.”

“oh. it’s a bit. i hate your bits.”

still, he takes the orange. peels it slowly, deliberately, while muttering, “can’t believe i’m falling for this again.” then hands it to you with a flourish. “there you go, citrus royalty.”

you laugh and take a bite. “that was the orange peel theory,” you say. “you passed.”

he stares at you. “the what?”

you explain. he shakes his head. “you realize i’d do it even if it was poisoned, right?” then casually adds, “don’t make that weird.”

later, he sends you a meme of a guy peeling 40 oranges at once with the caption: me proving i care about you.

he’ll mock your tiktok love tests. he’ll call them dumb. but he’ll do them anyway. every single time.

because behind the sarcasm and chaos, isack hadjar is actually a big softie. if peeling an orange earns your smile, he’ll keep doing it. with flair.

ʚ・liam lawson

“peel this for me?” you ask, tossing the orange into liam’s lap.

he blinks at it, then up at you. “…sure,” he says, no questions asked.

and he does. carefully. quietly. thumbs working slowly along the peel. no mess. no grumbling.

when he hands it back, he even splits the slices for you. “don’t eat the bitter part. i got rid of it.”

you’re stunned. “that was fast.”

he shrugs. “you wanted it.”

simple as that.

the next time you reach for an orange, he just takes it from your hand and starts peeling. like it’s muscle memory now.

liam doesn’t turn it into a moment. he doesn’t overthink. but he remembers how you like the slices stacked. how you hate the white strings. he even keeps tissues in the glove box of his car just in case you bring snacks again.

he’s that kind of boyfriend. quiet. thoughtful. constant. the type who peels oranges without needing to prove anything.

and it always makes your chest feel warm.

ʚ・franco colapinto

you ask franco to peel an orange for you and he lights up like you asked him to co-host a cooking show. “of course. one sec—should i get a knife? do you like wedges?”

you blink. “whatever works…”

five minutes later, your kitchen is a michelin-star performance. orange peeled, pith removed, segments arranged like art on a napkin. and a glass of water beside it.

“there. rehydration included.”

you stare at him. “it was supposed to be a tiktok thing.”

“a test?” he repeats, looking betrayed. “wait, i crushed that.”

and he did. franco becomes obsessed. peels oranges for you daily. puts them in your bag. posts stories like: she’s well-fed, folks.

franco turns fruit care into a full-fledged love language. he’s proud of his peeling skills. starts competing with himself over neatness and speed.

and every time he hands one to you, he says something like, “nothing but the best for my love.”

it’s not about the orange. it’s about how happy he is to give something to you. how he turns a silly test into a part of how he loves.

ʚ・lance stroll

“can you peel this for me?” you ask.

lance looks up from his book, then at the orange. he nods once and sets his bookmark down.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t make a joke. just peels it, slowly and carefully. removes every bit of the pith before handing it to you with a quiet, “here.”

you almost expect more. but that’s it.

he goes back to reading.

when you tell him about the trend, he raises an eyebrow. “you know i’d do anything for you, right? not just fruit.”

after that, he just starts doing it. no asking. orange? peeled. banana? peeled. strawberries? washed and in a bowl.

it’s not a big gesture. he doesn’t make it a production.

but he listens. he shows up.

and you start to notice how often he does things without being asked. like quietly plugging your charger in at night or packing snacks before a long drive.

lance loves in peaceful, reliable ways. no spotlight. just presence. and that’s exactly why it sticks with you.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[celtrist]

Next thing you'll say is he doesn't have a tail

ref to this pic

EDIT: Just to keep things clear I didn't really think about bringing it up but not everyone's gonna click to see the first picture and might be confused. Alastor was stated to know only a little bit of broken French, the reasoning due to being from New Orleans. Speaking standard French is very much not a thing in New Orleans, so he would logically only know French-Creole. This is very different from the standard French language and a large misconception that people from New Orleans speak regular French. So yes, he does speak some French, just not as well as people make him nor would it, in theory, be the regular French that everyone makes him speak [but I wouldn't put it past the writers to not do that research but maybe I have too little faith in them]. I'm not from New Orleans, I visited it once so it's not like I'm an expert. But I HAVE looked into it and just bothering with one Google search will tell you it's not common and you'll even have a special term called "Louisiana French" pop up. With that all said, these were statements made on years past streams and could've been changed in the official series. However, as of right now, the official statement is that he speaks only a little broken French that should technically be French-Creole if they're going by and that he's from New Orleans to know that language. And again, I don't have a lot of faith in writers to do the research into it being Louisiana French rather than regular French, but now I'm rambling lol This is just a bit of context for this comic so people who were curious can understand it a bit more. And it's totally possible I got something wrong, so feel free to point it out when I do. I just like to dig into the nooks and crannies of information for things :3 2nd EDIT: Just for any future reblogs, I did get somethings incorrect in the above (not surprising), so here's some of the corrections I got:

@mangotangerine: "A tiny nitpick - it would likely be Louisiana Creole, which is one of the French-based Creole languages (Haitian Creole is prob the most well known as it has about 10-12 million speakers vs Louisiana Creole which has around 10,000 due to multiple factors but especially legislation in early 1920s outlawing it). Louisiana French is an umbrella term for the various French dialects/etc in the region (e.g., the dialect Cajun French)." (We actually had a whole conversation in the comments of this post and highly suggest looking down there in case you're interested in learning more!)

@alyssumflowers: "I am from New Orleans and a little bit of a language nerd. You're confusing some things here. Cajun French is a dialect of French. My great grandmother spoke it fluently, my grandfather in pieces.

Louisiana Creole is another language entirely. The word "creole" means mixed and a creole language is basically a mixture of two or more languages. Sort of, it's a linguistics thing. Anyways. Louisiana Creole has next to no speakers left and I've had a hard time trying to find somewhere or someone to learn it from because I really want to." (Always great to hear from someone who has more insider knowledge on the subject! So I wanted to give this it's share due as well, hope you can fine somewhere to learn it! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ )

Thank you for the comments! My previous statement still stands about Al probably not speaking normal French, but I wanted these corrections still known and pointed out :3

[mandalhoerian]

Repost because tumblr's tags were broken yesterday and it ate my post up 😞 Spoilers and translation notes for Rafayel's intertidal zone & analysis because it kinda floored me, I was just as a blank page as he was throughout this. I had to watch it like 5 times to understand what the story was saying and dig into chinese and japanese versions of this to piece together what was really happening. It may be my idiot brain not getting it and maybe it was like the easiest thing to understand for you but. Yeah. I may be just dumb LMFAO AND!!!! There's also a theory of mine into how Rafayel is actually able to read mc's mind/wishes through their lemurian bond, so stay tuned for that I guess

EDIT: correcting some transcriptions of chinese characters and the translations. sorry about that! google couldn't transcribe it correctly. for clarity's sake i will also include original screenshots. please tell me if anything is wrong!

EDIT 2: Check out part 2 to this as well for stuff I missed!

EDIT 3: An Abysswalker connection I found

EDIT 4: Debunking the myths of non-consent & Rafayel hurting MC in the spicy scene

So Rafayel’s whole deal in this memory, I believe, is dependency. Like, too much intensity, too much need, too much fear -- about scaring her off, about what he sees himself possibly becoming in the future, overall just being too reliant on mc and getting scared by it.

Let's begin with this massive fear of being a taker, not just in the “I’m stealing someone’s fries” way, but in this existential, soul-deep kind of way where he’s terrified of turning everything he loves into something he exploits out of demand for his art. And yeah, it’s sad when you first hear him say it, but it’s also really interesting when you look at how this all ties into his relationship with MC and his inspiration source drying up because of her.

Before Rafayel became an artist, he looked at the world in this super pure, wholesome way. Sceneries and nature were just there, things to admire and feel awe over without needing to do anything about it. Like, imagine standing at the edge of a desert, looking at a sea that’s drying up. Sure, it’s tragic, but it’s also kind of beautiful in a raw, heartbreaking way. That’s how Rafayel saw things, he could appreciate them without feeling like he had to do anything.

But then Rafayel started creating, and suddenly, sceneries weren’t just sceneries anymore. They became inspiration. He wasn’t just admiring beauty, he was extracting something from it, its meaning, its pain, its soul, to turn into art for other people. And that made him feel all kinds of icky, because now he wasn’t just looking at the drying sea. He was taking from it. Just as he's using his people's pain in his art as well, that's also a thing.

Now let’s talk about MC. Rafayel loves her like he used to love those sceneries,,, in this pure, untainted way. There's a parallel here. But here’s the kicker, he’s not the same guy who can just admire something and leave it untouched anymore.

And suddenly, this is no longer only about losing inspiration for him.

This happens after he and MC get together, and it’s like all the pain and anguish that used to fuel his creativity just.. ... dries up. He can’t find that spark anymore because now his life is surrounded by love instead of suffering. In fact, his inspiration starts coming from her and it's starting to clash with how he makes art. In the phone call, he seeks her out and says he needs her so bad and she only needs to talk to help him out. This is the first wink wink nod nod of the story.

So what does Rafayel do? He goes on this big, dramatic trip to "find inspiration" (or at least his muse), but it’s not just about his art. He’s not just looking for inspiration, he’s trying to figure out how to be less dependent on her and becoming increasingly more restless over this. The temparature and physical discomfort is making things worse, he's anxiously overthinking, and imagine trying to fight this and the longest art block as of late off when all you want to do is indulge in this special person and be comforted like a lap cat all day every day.

He understands that if he lets himself indulge without restraint, one day his love for mc will turn into pure need. He’ll become more and more greedy, and he doesn’t want that and is afraid of being abandoned because of that growing neediness and dependency.

This is in relation to his art, because as @/dat-silvers-girl put in the comments, he's struggling with "the genuine fear of not being able to enjoy anything in life because all you're thinking about how to use it (as an artist)" . what if he starts doing this to her? to their love and relationship? take from her, and become someone who only takes in every area of life -- like someone who only exploits things by extracting what he feels about them to use it for his art. he's afraid of that, he doesn't like that and possibly doesn't like himself who does it. so why should she? she would leave him for sure, in his head, that's a solid reason to.

The first time around he brings up his anxiety about MC leaving him out of the inner realization of his dependency, the possibility of just what he can become, and fear of abandonment. she effortlessly soothes his worries. It's heavily implied they did it afterwards and after hearing "her life has already been consumed by him" he tweaked out a little bit and his "obsession" seeped through.

After it fades to black, he says ほら……僕もとっくに……君に侵食されてしまっているんだ…… which means "See... I've already been completely consumed by you too" in Japanese instead of the life being made a chaotic mess localization. While I think MC's line was jokey and lighthearted, I don't think this man is joking at all. Rafayel didn't say his life was consumed by her as well, he said HE was consumed. Ouh.

This took the edge off from him for a while but they hadn't gotten to the root of the problem yet, so he was back to square one after the memorial hall, because remember, he's trying to find inspiration as an act of making this dependency of his better. Pain and suffering are all around him here, which his inspiration feeds off of. The dried up ocean he could hear weakening, the skeleton of the whale, the burden of his people and homeland more prominent than before. And what does MC do? Tear through the perspective of pain and introduce a hopeful alternative, "Isn't it a surprise to see an ocean in the middle of the desert?"

This is a place that gave Rafayel the height of helplessness and suffering when he visited by himself before despite momentarily being hopeful after the locals told him such a place existed. But now, she was there to comfort him through his loneliness and pain, hug him, and give him hope yet again. He brings up how he wanted to come here with the most important person to him when he was still hopeful about it before consumed by the pain of it all, and that wish has been granted. That moment has to be so powerful for Rafayel. Literally light at the end of the tunnel.

It had me reeling that he just sat in the car after all that, staring at her for god knows how long until she woke up. He was probably overthinking again, but my interpretation that it was heavily emotional for him (it could have meant so little for MC but the world for him, she doesn't even know) and he wanted to be in that moment with her, just feel and look without restraint. Indulge a little. (I can just imagine him going just a little bit more, I'll go after she wakes up.) And like. His eyes are shining in the darkness is the description here. Perhaps he was feeling so much here. So much love. So much happiness. And he's about to go in for a kiss (heavy breathing and everything) after that, but holds himself back and actively has to pry himself away. He's feeling the neediness again.

That’s why he makes an effort to actively wean himself off and says he'll be okay on his own. What he says to her after MC is like "spoiling him" being all "hey you're sick maybe don't go? or let's go together?" (which is NOT helping Rafayel at all) is even more meaningful in Japanese and I didn't know why they left out this context, but the rearranged line would be "Do you want me to become a sea creature beached on the sand after the sea recedes, unable to breathe on my own ever again?"

Yeah. YEAH. This is about dependency. (He's saying don't coddle me I'll literally become that wolf tearing his shirt meme 😭)

So of course his stubbornness and anxiety force him to do things without MC and distance himself, he can do it. He’s determined to prove to himself that he can endure it on his own.

I also feel like part of the reason he insisted on going to the salon alone is that he’s still worried mc might come to dislike the version of him who's someone he's so sure she will leave, who isn't perfect and he hides behind the persona he's put up just for her. If he truly becomes addicted to her and shows her everything/his true self, and she ends up leaving him, it would completely break him. He's trying to be like "im so normal about her haha" but he's so not normal about her at all. He's literally obsessed I feel like, and perhaps this is him fighting it knowing it's not healthy.

and OOOH about why he ends up coming back from the salon all hot and bothered.

I have strong context that she flicked the bean in there after he left her high and dry in the car ("hot water washes away the stickiness from my body and his stifled breaths still echo in my ears, enveloping me along with the steam in the bathroom. The warmth from his fingertips lingers in the places where he touched me..." is the english. however, in chinese, it goes "熱水洗去身上的黏膩，壓抑的喘息迴盪在我耳畔，和浴室裡氤氳的水氣一起包裹著我." stating "the suppressed breathing" -- which doesn't have any possessive adjectives when I translated it on google and later explicitly asked chatgpt if it had any his/my adjectives involved, just to be sure. it said no but i'd like it if a real chinese speaking person could give their input on this !!! PLEASE DONT LEAVE ME WITH CHATGPT

so um. if the context is in fact the case that he heard her masturbating to him, the intensity with which he attacked her would be normal, I think 😭

I have belief that MC unconsciously shatters his "training himself to be without her" determination through their bond. She just keeps thinking about him the entire time. about him reading her thoughts, though. we still don't know all about the lemurian bond they share. I’d say it grants him some sort of mind/heart reading ability or connects their minds together (when she was thinking about whether she should hug him, he answered “yes”).

At the salon, I imagine Rafayel was already thinking about her like crazy. Then he realized, or perhaps, "heard" she was still worrying about him and thinking of him (as much he thought about her) and decided to go back. Rafayel probably felt that suppressing himself was only making her more anxious and unsettled. She's thinking all about him, unconsciously calling to him to come to her, she didn't want to let him go at all, wanted to go with him, etc...

but even if it was his own decision and no mind reading was involved... uh. If you ask me. He did quite literally hear her after coming back. That's also something that might make him think she wants him as much as he wants her, which made his self-restraint utterly meaningless from the start.

Disregarding this theory of mine proven wrong until a Chinese speaker helps me out here, MC returned to Rafayel's room. A translation omission happened here from what I saw. There are no possessive adjectives in the Chinese text about the room she returns to, and the Japanese one states she returned to the guest room (doesn't specify which one. She was also able to enter Rafayel's room without needing to knock before.)

so uh. she went into rafayel's room y'all. the line "this is my room, you're the one who walked in here" MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE. (SO LIKE. NOT ONLY DID SHE GO INTO HIS ROOM, SHE FLICKED THE BEAN THERE AND HE POSSIBLY HEARD IT. SHE'S MORE OF A FREAK THAN HE IS, I UNDERSTAND WHY HE LET GO AFTER THAT LMFAO)

I don't put it past him to get worked up after he finds her in his room post-bath even without my theory lmfao (idk why they put her in a dress when she should be in a bathrobe or something 😭)

His conclusion at the end of this memory that "he finds inspiration in pain and the art of creation is a part of his life. mc made him realize love and art are so alike. even if they don't complete him but burn him instead he wants them (love and art) with every fiber of his being" and MC says she doesn't like that, rightfully so.

So like. There's SO MUCH to unpack in here.

When Rafayel says he finds inspiration in pain and that creation is a part of his life, he’s admitting something raw and essential about himself: pain isn’t just a byproduct of his art, it’s intrinsic to it. For Rafayel, pain and art are intertwined in a way that’s almost inseparable. It’s like his muse isn’t just beauty, but beauty that hurts.

But then he takes this further by connecting art to love. He’s realized that both art and love demand the same from him: vulnerability, passion, and sometimes suffering. They don’t necessarily complete him (he’s not romanticizing them as salvation), but they burn him, wear him down, consume him (coincidentally, this is something he said to MC in the JP dub of this memory, that she consumes him), but also give him life. And for Rafayel, that’s the crux, even if they burn him, he wants them with every fiber of his being.

This is such a Rafayel thing to say. It’s dramatic, it’s tortured, but it’s also deeply SUBTLE. He doesn't spell all of these out, mind you, I got a headache trying to understand him. Or I'm just slow, I don't know. It shows how much he values creation and connection, even if they come at a cost.

MC, on the other hand, challenges this perspective. When she says she doesn’t like that he views love and art as things that burn him, she’s pushing back against the idea that suffering is a necessary part of creation, or love. MC doesn’t want Rafayel to see their relationship as something that requires him to hurt. She’s telling him, “You don’t have to destroy yourself to love me.”

When MC says, “You’ll never have to burn for me,” she’s giving Rafayel an alternative to his destructive mindset. She’s saying that love doesn’t have to hurt, that their relationship can exist without him sacrificing himself on the altar of passion. It’s a refusal to let Rafayel romanticize pain as the price of love.

And I love that Rafayel goes, "Will you help me look for other parts in life outside of pain?" in response. This is NOT about art or inspiration anymore, and the way the dialogue is written is just AUGH. Again I had to rewatch this over and over again for the nuances and subtext.

I love MC's response, she knew exactly what to say. “I’ll always be the one who walks along the shore with you. Of course, diving into the sea bed is fine too. If it can snow in the desert, there will be a day when the ocean returns.”

MC’s response is layered with metaphors, but at its core, it’s about unwavering support and hope::

Walking along the shore: This represents safety and companionship. MC is saying she’ll be with Rafayel in the calm, in the moments where they’re just observing life without diving into its depths. She’ll be his steady presence, his grounding force.

Diving into the sea bed: This is an acknowledgment that life and love sometimes require going deeper and they may go through hardships, into the unknown, the murky, the challenging. MC isn’t afraid of this, she’s willing to go there with him too.

Snow in the desert and the ocean’s return: This is a symbol of hope and transformation beyond being a nod to The Sea of Golden Sand. Snow in the desert seems impossible, just like the idea of Rafayel finding inspiration outside of pain might feel impossible to him. But MC believes in the extraordinary, in change, and in the possibility that beauty and creation can exist outside of suffering.

Her words are a promise: she’s willing to stand by him, to face the unknown together, and to hold onto the belief that a new way of seeing the world is possible.

And Rafayel LOWKEY PROPOSES IN RETURN.

By saying “let’s watch the sea together,” he’s accepting MC’s offer of companionship and hope in the long run. He’s recognizing that life doesn’t have to be about diving into the depths alone, it can be about sharing the experience with someone else, even if it’s just standing on the shore and watching.

“Every sea”: This phrase is key. Rafayel isn’t just committing to one kind of life or one kind of inspiration, he’s opening himself up to all possibilities. Watching every sea means embracing all facets of life, whether they’re calm or turbulent, painful or beautiful. It’s a marriage proposal declaration that he’s ready to explore the world beyond pain, with MC by his side.

So. I love that his inspiration returns after his freak is accepted by MC because he literally feels the acceptance through the bond.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. This memory DRAINED me. They were just supposed to bang what the fuck happened. Why did I have to go treasure hunting to find what was going on in this card. anyway...

[olivethewriter]

The Theory of Clark Kent

You were the new girl in Smallville.

You’d just moved into your cousin Chloe’s townhouse to finish high school, and as much as you didn’t exactly dream of a town where cows outnumber people, you tried to stay positive. You kept your head down, focused on school, and did your own thing—varsity sports, a 4.0 GPA, and a part-time job at The Talon.

But no matter how much you tried to do your own thing, Chloe’s friend group kind of swallowed you whole. Which would’ve been fine… if it weren’t for him.

Clark Kent.

Chloe’s annoying, snarky, do-gooder best friend. You couldn’t stand him, as a matter of fact you despised him. And you were pretty sure the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t just the fake boy-next-door act either. It was how he always had to compete with you.

You were used to being the best. The smartest. The fastest. The one teachers praised and students envied. But then came Clark, all tall and humble with his stupid blue eyes and casual perfection. If you got the highest grade in the class on a math test? Clark beat your score—in another period. You crushed the fitness exam in P.E.? Clark doubled your reps and didn't even break a sweat.

“Sorry I beat your score, superstar,” he’d say, looking down at you like the universe itself handed him the win. “Someone’s gotta keep things interesting.”

“Oh, buzz off, farm boy,” you’d snap, rolling your eyes and stomping away.

Your rivalry only got worse from there. You started studying more. You even baked your (evil) history teacher muffins. But the worst part? You couldn’t explain why Clark Kent got under your skin the way he did. Maybe it was because he was too perfect—athletic, smart, kind. Suspiciously kind.

Then everything shifted.

It happened late one night when you were closing at The Talon. You were taking the trash out when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw someone messing with Chloe’s car—the one you’d borrowed.

“Hey! Back off!” you called. But if the guy heard you he didnt let it show. So you approached. Stupid, in hindsight, but it wasn’t like you were going to just let him steal it. You were inches away when he turned and shoved you against a brick wall.

You kicked, punched, flailed, screamed. You were sure you were doomed when suddenly, the pressure lifted. The weight disappeared. And instead, there were those familiar blue eyes, lit up in the dark like some kind of divine intervention.

Clark.

Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, clinging to him like he was the last solid thing on Earth. But once the adrenaline wore off, you jumped back like he was a live wire. Your brain was filled with questions.

“How did you get here so fast?” you blurted. “What were you doing out here?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking guilty as hell. “I was… getting coffee?”

“Here? At 10 p.m.?” you raised your eyebrows

He offered to drive you home, and you let him—mostly because your legs were shaking, and your eyes were still welling with tears.

But after that night, you couldn’t unsee it. The weirdness. The speed. The perfectly timed rescues. The way he caught you that one time before you tripped, like he knew before you did.

You paid attention. Watched. Waited. And when the pieces started coming together, you set a trap…

You invited Clark to the old grain mill. Climbing to the top level, you looked out over the edge, feeling the height in your bones. Clark stood a few feet behind you, confused but curious.

“Listen, Clark,” you began, voice steady. “You’re super fast. Strong. You lift things like they weigh nothing. And you’re always there. Always. Just before something happens.”

His smile dropped. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re different.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I’m just like everyone else.”

You could tell he was lying. The way his jaw clenched. The rehearsed tone. He’d said this before—to someone else, maybe even to himself.

“So Clark, you’re telling me if I jumped off this building right now, I’d just fall? Die? And I wouldn’t find you at the bottom waiting to catch me?” You raised your brows, fighting a smirk. You knew you had won. 

“Y/N, please don’t,” he said, voice suddenly panicked. “I won’t be there. Just come down and I’ll explain, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,I'll come down” you said—and jumped.

The wind roared past you, but you barely felt it. A second later, you were weightless in warm, steady arms. When you opened your eyes, you saw his—blue, wide, terrified.

“OH MY GOD, why would you do that?!” he practically shouted, setting you down.

“I didn’t die,” you said, brushing dust off your shoulders. “And… I proved my theory.”

Clark looked—pissed. Like, actually mad, you couldn't help but think this was the first time you had seen him angry. “You did all that… for a theory?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes. It’s not like I could’ve just asked you. Because news flash—I tried.”

His jaw clenched. Then his eyes softened.

“I wasn’t trying to lie. I just didn’t want you to think I was some kind of freak.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Clark, you literally have superpowers. ‘Freak’ isn’t the word that comes to mind.”

“Really? Then what is?”

You shrugged. “Special, maybe. Or different. Or just… heroic.”

He let out a breath of a laugh. “I’m no hero.”

“Are you sure?” you asked. “Because you’re always trying to save people. That sounds pretty heroic to me. I mean, you have saved me twice now, most guys would’ve just asked me out by now—but you’re out here catching me mid-fall.”

You smiled at him, soft and teasing. He blushed.

“Clark?”

“Mmhmm?”

“When are you going to kiss me?”

You didn’t have to wait long.

His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leaned in. His lips met yours in a way that was soft and warm and just a little unsure, like he wasn’t totally convinced this was real.

But it was real.

One of his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth moved against yours. Your hands found his hair, fingers curling through the soft strands as your heart thudded hard in your chest. When he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushed yours, slow and curious, and you didn’t pull away—you leaned in, kissing him like you’d been waiting all year for this exact moment.

You both pulled back slowly, a little breathless. His forehead rested against yours, and you caught the tiny, smug smile tugging at his lips.

“Who’s keeping things interesting now, farm boy?” you whispered.

You grabbed his hand and started toward your car.

And for once, Clark Kent didn’t race you.

[justaladyiguess]

Jax 001 Theory AKA An almost definitely wrong TADC theory

I thought it was weird that they gave specific attention to Jax seeing the license plate. Like, there's a whole shot dedicated it. And it doesn't serve much of a purpose. I guess it lets us know that this is Jax's car? But it's in the episode. A full shot dedicated to seeing him notice it. A full shot dedicated to the plate itself.

And there's a shot afterwards of him reacting to it. Not even a particularly comedic shot. It feels more in line with his reaction to Kaufmo's funeral in episode 2.

True, it could be him reacting to the awful adventure he just had, but we just had a scene where his smile turned into a scowl. And, you know, pretty much the rest of the episode. Or it could be him reacting to the absurdity of the license plate, but considering the day to day adventures Caine creates, this seems a bit tame to get any reaction from him.

So that gets me wondering, does the license plate have any significance? The number at the top right could be some sort of reference. But it's the 001 that intrigued me. It's typically a number given to the first of something. Maybe even the first person to come to the circus?

Instantly the idea sounded ridiculous (because it is, this theory is almost definitely wrong). I mean, Jax himself said that Kinger had been here the longest. But take a look back at what he actually said.

"Supposedly been here the longest"

At first glance, this seems to mean that Jax can't be sure who's been here the longest. Which makes sense when you consider Kinger's memory issues and all the circus members who have abstracted. And, let's be real, this is probably what the line means. But if you'll let me be delusional for a second, there's another way to read this line.

What if Jax means that everyone assumes Kinger had been there the longest? But he knows it's not true because he's been there the longest?

For most characters, it wouldn't make sense for them to be purposefully vague with their wording. But this is Jax. It's completely in character for him to keep things from the other circus members for no reason. In the first episode alone he kept his supply of keys and Kaufmo's abstraction a secret. Jax will lie about pretty much everything, and he's pretty good at it too.

Further delusions can also be found in episode one. When Pomni tries take her headset off, Jax says this.

Could it be that Jax knows the circus members all tried to take off their headsets because he was there when they did it? Again, probably not. This is the weakest piece of evidence I have, but I figured I'd include it anyway.

And that would explain a fair bit of his behavior. Jax seems more comfortable in the circus than any of them. He has access to keys. He's only momentarily surprised by Kaufmo abstracting. He's incredibly jaded. He seems bored with the adventures, deliberately causing chaos to get them off track (his hijinks on the syrup truck, sucking up the ghost in the mansion, and trying to dunk Ragatha in the oil). It almost reads like a gamer who's played the game a thousand times and is trying anything to make it interesting.

Again, I'm fully aware that this probably isn't the case. I'd say there's a 0.01% chance that this will be confirmed in any capacity whatsoever. It will almost definitely be disproved. But until then, I thought this would be a fun idea. Maybe it'd be a good fic.

But hey, that's just a theory...

A DIGITAL CIRCUS THEORY!

and cut.

[hypertechnica]

exploring unexplained darkner lore: WHEN does a darkner gain consciousness, exactly?

alternate title: WOODY THEORY IS ACTUALLY RELEVANT BUT NOT IN THE WAY WE THOUGHT??? MAYBE???

there are so many unanswered questions regarding how darkners and dark worlds “work” and i’m really fascinated by the worldbuilding put out so far - but we still don’t really know what the deal is, not really.

the way ralsei explains dark worlds in chapter 3 basically tells us what we already know, but explicitly - darkners are objects in the light world. they’re not “real” and derive “purpose” from being needed by lightners (which is a whole can of worms.)

as evidenced by lancer’s “all gone!” reaction to susie asking where his dark world went in chapter 2, sealing dark fountains DOES effectively destroy the world, but not necessarily the people inside it (if you decide to recruit them.) there’s an obvious ethical dilemma here that’s been on people’s minds since chapter 1 came out. to me, the biggest question is:

does the dark world always exist, inaccessible to lightners, or is it physically created and destroyed on the same day? are the fountains portals or creators?

the repeated phrase “the unending pillar of darkness that gives my body form” (ralsei’s unused manual)/“the dark fountain that gives the world form” (tv time credits) (there might be more instances im forgetting idk) does imply the latter, as well as the descriptions of “creating fountains” “making dark worlds” as opposed to, say, “opening doors” to them.

but the concept of time here is… weird. darkners consistently refer to the past, every dark world we enter has history, darkners even speak of people from other dark worlds! and the histories always parallel what happened to their corresponding object and space in the light world. chaos king is bitter and hates lightners because they abandoned him and everyone else - because they’re toys left in an abandoned classroom. cyber city doesn’t have this problem because they’re situated in a computer library regularly used by lightners, but queen is struggling with the internet outage. kris’ living room is… a child of divorce. and chapter 4? man i don’t even know. the darkners in the church are so cryptic i haven’t been able to analyse it properly.

so if darkners remember their lives as objects, were they always alive, or were they created by the fountains and “implanted” with those memories? are they even “real” memories?

chapter 3 raises the most questions regarding this. tenna KNOWS kris, watched them grow up. ramb comments on how kris and their friends used to play make believe WITH THE SAME OBJECTS we know now - im failing to remember the line but i know it mentioned how queen and king were at war! and in chapter 4 it’s revealed that dark worlds are warped by the mind that creates them. this raises so many questions - are all objects in the light world sentient and able to communicate with each other, just invisible to lightners? or are objects “summoned” into consciousness with memories of their lives automatically created for them?

and that made me fucking realize. ARE DARKNERS LIKE THE TOYS IN FUCKING TOY STORY???? THINK ABOUT IT. TGINK ANBOUT IT

tenna’s past with spamton is a huge indicator of this - they were business partners, right? and they had a falling out because of a mutual misunderstanding involving the mysterious person calling spamton and making him a Big Shot. well, how the hell did spamton know tenna, if they’re from different dark worlds?

in what i’m fairly certain is game tenna’s last piece of dialogue in the sword route, he says “they never should have brought that computer home…”

spamton knows tenna and mike before tenna’s dark world is created. they communicated and had a relationship before ANY of the dark worlds were created if we take “1997” as the literal year of spamton being a big shot. all because the dreemurs brought a computer home, allowing tenna to meet spamton… now, you could argue that this is because the prophecy is controlling everything, but we already see ways in which the prophecy has been contradicted, so i’m uncertain if the prophecy has THAT strong of a hold on the world. (if that ages bad in the next ten years womp womp)

AND. although we don’t know if this is every object or just objects that have previously been animated via fountains, but tenna shows signs of sentience even in the light world!!! y’all know the line of dialogue with mettaton where he plays a “salacious music video”!!!! look!!!!! THE OBJECTS ARE SENTIENT ITS FUCKING TOY STORY

DARKNERS EITHER LITERALLY LIVE AS SENTIENT OBJECTS (LIKE TOY STORY, THE BRAVE LITTLE TOASTER, ETC) OR IN A MORE ETHEREAL SENSE LIVE ON A SEPARATE PLANE OF EXISTENCE AS DARKNERS BUT CAN ONLY DIRECTLY INTERACT W LIGHTNERS WHEN A FOUNTAIN GIVES THEM ANTHROPOMORPHIC FORM

WAITER! MORE WOODY THEORY PLEASE gets shot 57 times

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

X

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

X

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

X

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

X

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