coolgrl111

[coolgrl111]

i miss you and your challengers smaus💔💔

hiiiiiiii!!!❤️❤️miss all of u sm!! i’m on vacation rn for around 6 weeks but will still try my best 😽 send requests for smaus and one shots!!!

[coolgrl111]

initially drew ATP for fun but decided to make it dedicated for you! afterall ur SMAUs and writings make me kick my feet n’ giggle. hope u like it 🫶🫶

IM GENUINELY FLOORED AT THIS MASTERPIECE HELLOOO?? you are so talented im in shambles!!! I CANT BELIEVE U DEDICATED THIS BEAUTY TO ME IM IN TEARSSS THANK U SM😭😭😭😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ i love u this is so perfect THE LITTLE PEACE SIGN AWE happy babies

[coolgrl111]

welcome back connor murphy

[coolgrl111]

maybe smth with reader dating art but still being friends with patrick and she acts sometimes like pat isn’t there and babies art and patrick makes fun of him which embarrasses art until she stands up for him 🤞

it could also be freaky if u want idc gurl <33

OKAYYY let’s try hopefully u like!! also im sorry for edging u, i can not write smut ❤️

you’re curled up on art’s couch with your legs slung over his lap, still wearing his hoodie that swallows you whole. he’s got one hand on your shin and the other scrolling his phone lazily, and you’re ranting about your day to whoever will listen.

“anyway,” you say, leaning in to fix the way art’s curls are falling across his forehead. he doesn’t look up from his phone but leans into your touch like a puppy. “i told the girl at the register, i was like—‘he’s allergic to almonds, please just double check the label’—and she looked at me like i was insane.”

“because you are insane,” patrick says from the armchair, sipping his soda obnoxiously. “the dude’s not even that allergic.”

“he could die, patrick.”

“he sneezes.”

“he swells up! like a balloon!”

art sinks lower into the couch, pulling your throw blanket up like he’s trying to disappear. “can we not,” he mutters, cheeks flushed. “it’s not a big deal.” you pat his cheek gently, turning his face toward you. “it’s a huge deal, baby. i don’t want you to puff up.” patrick chokes. “baby? bro, she’s talking to you like you’re three.”

“shut up,” art mumbles, but he’s turning red from the tips of his ears down his neck. “you’re just mad no one calls you baby.” patrick grins, kicking his feet up. “nah, i’m good. but it is real cute the way she wipes your mouth like you’re helpless.”

“he had jam on his face!”

“you licked it off.”

you blink at patrick like he just said the sky is green. “it was organic strawberry preserve. you don’t waste that.”

“you’re sick,” he says, shaking his head, but he’s laughing. “you baby the hell out of him. one more cooing word and i’m calling an intervention.”

art groans, hiding his face in the crook of your arm. you can feel him grinning there, but he’s still dying of secondhand embarrassment.

“well maybe if someone loved you like that, you wouldn’t be so pressed,” you say sweetly, letting your nails scratch art’s scalp as he hums. “don’t be jealous. he’s just cuter than you.” patrick raises his brows. “you hear that, art? you’re the cute one.”

art gives him the finger without looking up.

“you gonna let her keep feeding you berries like some kind of forest nymph or—?”

you press a strawberry to art’s lips before he can reply. he opens his mouth obediently. you don’t even break eye contact with patrick.

“yeah,” you say. “i am.”

patrick looks scandalised. “jesus christ.” art chews slowly. swallows. sighs. “i hate you both,” he says, completely pink. you kiss his temple. patrick gags dramatically.

you smile. “next time, we’re bringing whipped cream.”

art makes a noise that sounds like a whimper. patrick’s already getting up. “i’m leaving.”

“bye pat,” you both say in unison. and then you’re alone again.

the door clicks shut behind patrick and art doesn’t move for a second. then he exhales slow and deep like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“you’re evil,” he mutters against your shoulder, but his hands are already sliding under the hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve been wearing all night with nothing under but tiny shorts.

“me?” you blink innocently, shifting in his lap so your thighs straddle his. “i was just defending your honor.”

“you fed me a berry like i was some medieval prince.”

“you are.”

his eyes roll back in his head and his hands grip your waist like he’s at war with himself. “jesus,” he mutters. “you know what you do to me?” you tilt your hips forward gently, slow enough to feel him through his sweats. “remind me.”

he groans, head dropping back against the couch. “you’re annoying.” you lean in, nosing against his jaw, then lower—tongue dragging slowly along the column of his neck until he twitches beneath you. his hands slip lower, cupping your ass through your shorts. “can’t believe you pulled that in front of pat.”

you grin against his throat. “you liked it.” he doesn’t answer, but the bulge growing under you speaks loudly. you rock your hips again, just to feel him gasp.

“fuck,” he breathes. “okay. okay. off.”

“what?”

“the hoodie,” he says, tugging at it now, voice low and a little desperate. “off. i wanna see you.”

you pull it off slowly, theatrically, letting it fall behind you on the couch. he stares. your nipples are hard from the cold, your skin warm from sitting against him, and he drags his hands up your stomach like he can’t decide where to touch first.

“jesus christ.”

you smirk, leaning down to kiss him slow. his mouth opens under yours, eager, hands already tugging your shorts down until you’re grinding on him bare, soaked through and smug.

“so wet already?” he whispers, stunned.

you shrug. “you looked cute eating that strawberry.”

[coolgrl111]

I need down bad DILF!patrick au PLS ❤️

[coolgrl111]

congrats on 1.2k lovely, ure truly a great author!! i hope u reach higher milestones very soon💛

(SOB i was the one who req that cheer x connor, u did that prompt justice)

THANK U SOO MUCH!! that request was so fun but also hard to write, def shed tears 🫩 thank i for the request!!!

[coolgrl111]

i might be addicted to ur connor murphy text aus… i need more…

I LOVE YOU!!! he’s addicting to write for, genuinely have so much fun making them

[coolgrl111]

AHHHHH PLEASE DO A PART TWO FOR THE MLM PATRICK WLW READER I BEG 😭😔

OKAYYYY okay okay!!!!

[coolgrl111]

THE LAST OF US. CHALLENGERS.

a/n: GUYSSSS!!!! i have been thinking about this for so long and finally had the lovely encouragement of my dear mutuals. thank you so much @blastzachilles @jesuistrestriste @222col @cherrygirlfriend @tashism @voidsuites @diyasgarden @cha11engers ily ily

—

the sun was kind that morning.

warm, radiant.

it spilled across the cracked pavement outside their house, catching on the droplets of water art sprayed in long indents across the driveway. the hose hissed in his hand, steady, controlled. he liked mornings. they were simple.

art had only just retired.

a quiet press release. a photo of him holding up a racket, smiling that slanted grin. no tour, no speeches, no farewell match. he didn’t want that. he didn’t want to become someone people said goodbye to.

he didn’t miss the game. not exactly. he missed the rhythm.

the way everything had a place—routine.

out here, everything was softer, unscored.

but he had tashi. he had patrick. he had mornings like this one—sunlight filtering through the bushes, cicadas buzzing like an old television left static in the next room.

across the street, someone was mowing their lawn. two blocks over, a child’s laughter rang out and broke open the stillness. somewhere, a dog barked.

and inside, tashi was asleep on patrick’s chest.

they’d fallen like that after breakfast, curled on the sunken couch, limbs tangled. the tv hummed low in front of them—an old tennis match, just background noise. tashi’s hair was damp from the shower, her cheek pressed against patrick’s heartbeat. his arm was slung around her waist, fingers trailing along the curve of her spine.

he wasn’t watching the match. he was watching her. eyes half-lidded, breath soft, like the whole world had finally gone quiet just for them.

they were happy. art was happy.

lily was upstate with tashi’s mother—one weekend, that was the plan. time to breathe. time to let the dust settle after everything. after the match, after the headlines, after the choice.

they had chosen each other.

the three of them in this too-small house with mismatched mugs and an overgrown backyard and a fridge full of groceries they bought together. patrick had moved in two weeks ago. no more hotels. no more rivalry, or radio silence. he woke up to their voices now. he knew where they kept the sugar. he belonged. they all did.

art shut the hose off. the driveway gleamed. the sun was higher now, warm on his shoulders. he looked up, squinting. there was a sound—a low thump, dull and heavy, like a car backfiring—but then it came again. and again. louder. closer.

his first thought wasn’t danger.

until he heard the screaming.

tashi sat up like a knife. patrick’s hand went to her shoulder.

“what was that?” she asked. the words sounded foreign in her mouth. too sharp.

art was standing in the yard, frozen. water pooled at his feet. across the street, a man ran past, shirt torn, blood streaked down his jaw. not stumbling. sprinting. there was a woman behind him, bare feet pounding the pavement, mouth open, shrieking. she didn’t stop—art didn’t move. he just watched as she caught the man and brought him down like a wave crashing on rock.

he took a step back.

the second that woman hit the man, the second he saw the blood and the way her body moved—like her bones didn’t fit right—he dropped the hose and ran.

his feet slapped wet against the concrete, heart punching against his ribs.

the front door swung open under his hands and he was shouting before he even saw them.

“tashi? patrick?”

tashi stood in the living room, already upright, eyes locked on the window.

patrick was behind her, halfway to the door.

“i heard screaming,” art said, breath sharp. “someone’s—someone’s attacking people outside. i think—i don’t know. i think something’s happening.”

inside, patrick was locking the front door. “don’t panic,” he said, voice flat, like he was convincing himself. “we’re okay. it’s probably—just some freak accident. someone on drugs.”

“that wasn’t normal,” tashi said. she was already in motion. shoes on. bag in hand. “that was wrong.”

they tried calling lily. her grandmother. the neighbour who drove them to the airport that one time. no signal. no answer.

“shit. shit, shit, shit!”

tashi tried her mother again. one ring. two.

then silence.

she stared at the screen, thumb hovering, as if willing the signal back would make it so. patrick stood behind her, pacing. art leaned on the edge of the kitchen sink, watching the window, blinking too fast.

“nothing?” patrick asked.

tashi didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

“we have to go,” art said, voice flat. “we need to get to her. get our girl.”

tashi grabbed the bag they kept by the front door—just in case. extra clothes. passports. protein bars. it had always felt a bit paranoid. now it felt like a lifeline.

they moved fast. not speaking much. they were too damn scared. patrick loaded the car. tashi checked every lock. art lingered on the front steps a second too long, looking at the street. it was quiet now. too quiet. the calm before before the storm.

then they were in the car.

the car rocked forward inch by inch, boxed in by horns and sirens, people screaming out of open windows. art’s hands were tight on the wheel, jaw set. patrick kept glancing out the back, watching the way the skyline smoked.

tashi’s phone sat in her lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“try again,” art said. his voice was low. hoarse.

she did.

the line clicked.

and this time—

it rang.

tashi sat up straighter. eyes wide.

patrick leaned in.

one ring.

two.

three.

“—tashi?”

her mother’s voice. sharp with panic. full of motion.

“mama! it’s me—where are you? are you okay?”

static. the sound of something crashing. voices yelling in the background.

“i’m—i can’t—i don’t know what’s happening—your father went out and—lily’s here, she’s here, but—”

“let me talk to her,” tashi piped up, already crying.

then— a shift in the sound. the phone jostling.

a smaller voice, high and soft, piped through the speaker

“mama?”

tashi covered her mouth with her hand. patrick closed his eyes in relief. art swallowed hard, staring at the road but not seeing it.

“oh, baby,” tashi breathed. “baby, we’re coming, okay? stay with grandma, we’re coming, we’re—”

“i drew you something,” lily spoke up innocently. “for when you get here. i put sparkles on it.”

tashi choked out a laugh, like a sob wearing a mask.

“i love you so much,” she said. “so much, lily. we’re gonna be there soon.”

“okay,” lily said. her voice a whisper now. “i miss you.”

art bit his lip so hard it split.

then—

a crash. a scream.

the sound of the phone dropping.

then static.

nothing but static.

unbeknownst to them, that would be the last time they’d hear their sweet baby’s voice.

tashi called again and again. no answer. just the same broken noise.

they were certain she was okay. right?

“i’m sure it’s—“

“forget it patrick, let’s just get to her. okay?”

patrick nods at her instruction, complying. he didn’t want to push anyone, not right now. one thing he knew for certain is that tashi and art do not play about their daughter.

the roads were already swollen—people pouring out from side streets, families with bags, kids crying, the sound of sirens somewhere far and constant.

“jesus,” patrick murmured, watching out the window. “people are everywhere.”

“they wouldn’t shut down the city unless it was bad,” art spoke up, eyes on the road.

tashi turned on the radio. static.

then, a voice, shaky and high-speed—

“—advising residents to stay inside. repeat, do not try to leave by vehicle—roads are obstructed, we are getting reports of violent assaults throughout all districts—”

a new voice interrupted. sobbing. a man.

“—my wife—my wife is—oh god, she bit me—she bit me—”

tashi switched it off.

“i’m really fucking worried about lily— and my mom.”

“me too, tash. but we’ll get them, and then figure out what the fuck is happening right now.”

they were moving at a crawl now. cars jammed in every direction. people cutting through lawns. some running. some limping.

and then—a crash. two cars up ahead. a van plowed through a sedan. the sound of metal folding in on itself.

“fuck!” art cursed loudly.

patrick flinched. tashi’s hand shot out to brace herself against the dash.

“go around,” she said.

“there’s no room,” art muttered, checking the mirrors.

then they saw it.

a figure in the street—multiple. one of them dragged a man from the wreckage, mouth already at his throat, teeth gnashing.

patrick’s voice cracked. “oh fuck.”

art threw the car into reverse, tires squealing, people yelling behind them.

more infected spilled out from a side alley—fast, twitching, wild.

“where do we go?” tashi snapped.

“i don’t know!” art yelled, sweat pouring down his back. “everyone— get out.”

they flung the doors open and spilled into the street.

heat slammed into them, thick and humid and laced with smoke. the air was full of noise—sirens, screams, the distant thud of helicopters, the grind of metal against metal. people were everywhere, running in every direction, some bleeding, some dragging others, some not looking human at all.

patrick grabbed tashi’s hand. art pushed forward, arm out, clearing space. they didn’t know where they were going—only away.

they barely made it ten feet before the first one turned the corner.

a man—what used to be a man—sprinting full force, mouth wide open, skin pale and torn around the cheeks, eyes blown wide and milky. his jaw hung crooked, like it had been unhinged on impact. something in his throat made a sound like boiling.

he tackled another man to the pavement, biting deep into his neck. there was no hesitation. no reason. only hunger.

tashi stopped moving. just for a second.

then art grabbed her arm. “don’t look. go!”

they kept running.

another infected lunged from between two cars. a woman this time, barefoot and twitching. one foot bent the wrong way, bones visible through a tear in her ankle. her fingers were blackened at the tips, like frostbite.

she reached for tashi—howling.

tashi dodged, barely. stumbled.

then something else tackled her.

a man, snarling, breath wet and wrong. he slammed her into the pavement, teeth gnashing near her face. his eyes were leaking. his gums were peeling back from raw, red teeth. the stench of rot and blood hit her like a punch.

she screamed.

patrick was there in seconds. he threw himself at the attacker, ripped him off her with a guttural sound—half fury, half fear. they hit the ground hard. patrick didn’t stop. his fists connected again and again with the man’s skull until the thing stopped moving.

his knuckles came away slick with blood.

“you ok?” he gasped, pulling tashi to her feet. “run.”

she nodded, dazed, scraped. didn’t even feel the blood on her temple.

art was ahead, fending off another one—this one slower, limping, foaming at the mouth. it reached for him and art swung the crowbar he’d picked up from somewhere.

a wet crack. the body dropped. art was breathing like a runner past the finish line, adrenaline buzzing like static in his ears.

“stay behind me,” he said, voice low, steady.

he didn’t look scared. but his hands were shaking.

they ran again.

a fire burst out of a building just ahead. a man jumped from a window, landed wrong. a woman screamed. a police car smashed into a mailbox and flipped, wheels still spinning.

tashi turned to look at patrick.

his eyes were glassy. blood smeared his shirt. not his.

“you okay?” she asked.

“no. not even fucking close.” he said. “but i’m not dead. you’re not dead.”

“yet,” art muttered. “so, let’s keep it that way.”

they didn’t stop running.

not even when the ground shook. not even when another wave of infected screamed in the distance, closing in.

because stopping meant death.

—

time didn’t pass the same anymore. it didn’t tick or chime or unfold. it just dragged. like a torn bag behind a car.

they’d found a place.

not safe, not really. but empty. forgotten.

a rusting factory on the edge of some highway, windows shattered long before the world had ended. the walls were lined with old machines—hulking, silent things covered in dust and vines.

the air smelled like oil and iron and wet concrete. patrick had made a joke about “living like kings.” no one laughed.

they slept in a corner behind stacked crates, wrapped in coats they didn’t own. someone else’s blankets. someone else’s shoes. everything was borrowed now. nothing belonged.

patrick sat with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on a single crack running down the ceiling. he didn’t speak much. the quiet spoke more.

tashi curled beside him, knees drawn up, face pressed into the sleeve of her jacket.

art stood by the window, the one with the least glass, staring out at the dead lot below. he was thinner. paler. his hands stayed clenched even when he was asleep.

every noise outside made his head snap up.

art looked down at his wrist where a friendship bracelet sat tied there. a tiny thing—pink and green thread, uneven knots, a plastic bead shaped like a heart sitting crooked in the middle. lily had made it the day before she left for her grandma’s, tongue between her teeth, little fingers working hard.

“so you don’t forget me,” she’d said, climbing into his lap. “just in case.”

he laughed. kissed her forehead. “i couldn’t forget you if i tried.”

“you could,” she said, dead serious. “if you hit your head or something. so just wear it ‘til i come back.”

he promised he would.

and he kept that promise—through the screams, the fire, the flight, the blood. it stayed on his wrist, just above the cracked face of the watch he never used anymore.

sometimes at night, he pressed it to his lips. he didn’t even know he was doing it.

patrick noticed, but didn’t say anything.

tashi saw it once when he was washing his hands in an old sink, the water brown and stinking. she stared at it like it might speak.

they hadn’t said her name out loud in days. it hurt too much. their darling, darling girl.

but the bracelet said it for them.

every frayed thread. every faded knot. every bead still warm from his skin. it was a reminder of all she was, everything perfect in the world.

lily was only seven.

freshly seven. her birthday had been three weeks before the outbreak. she had a cake with strawberries on it. she asked for socks that matched and a toy sloth. tashi made her pancakes shaped like hearts, that art playfully stole a bite of. he could, he was retired. he read her to sleep that night—his voice soft and loving.

none of them said it out loud, but they knew.

they knew what a child looked like alone in this world.

they knew the odds.

still, sometimes, tashi whispered into the dark,

“maybe they got out. maybe they’re somewhere safe.”

and patrick would nod, because what else could he do?

art wiuld sit with his jaw tight, fists curled, breathing too slow.

“yeah. maybe they got out.”

outside, the wind whistled through broken beams.

inside, the silence was heavy with heartbreak.

they didn’t talk about tennis. or who they used to be. what they used to have— and what more they could have had.

that version of them died in the car, on that street, under that sky.

[coolgrl111]

oh wow

[coolgrl111]

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019 @hrrysglitter

[coolgrl111]

congrats on 1200!!!!! ur just the funniest person ever on tumblr soooo i think more people should recognize that tbh. all hail coolgrl111

THANK YOUU!?!?! you’re so sweet!!! funniest person.. well i try🙂‍↕️

[coolgrl111]

1,200 followers????

WHAT????

this is so so crazy!!!?? THANK U!! im so grateful for all the friendships i’ve made on this silly app. love all my moots.

god bless everyone who loves my cringey ass challengers and slushy social media aus🫶🫶

everyone spam requests because i’m gonna smash about a million to celebrate🤗🤗

[coolgrl111]

a little bf!hamzah because why da heck not😘

[coolgrl111]

ahh nooo pls dont die ur so sexy I LOVE UR SMAUS am so geeked!!

THANK YOU SM🙈🙈i’m so glad people still fw the social media aus omg

[coolgrl111]

MORE HAMZAH PLEASSEEE

OKAYYYYY

[coolgrl111]

mlm Patrick and wlw Reader fake dating to make Art & Tashi jealous

🧁🍭🍫🍩🍰 *bribes you*

do we like?? do we want a part 2??😅😅😅