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isabelckl · 9 hours ago

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the way reading this felt like being locked in a dark room, feet chained to the walls, forced to remember how being young, confused, and in love with your best friend was somehow the worst and the highest moment of your life

࿐𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 - 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥.

⚢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆— Actress!Ellie x Actress!Reader

⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — introducing our charming little lovebirds: a shy, wide-eyed girl with a barbie pencil case and dreams that far exceed the confines of her locker, and a quirky transfer student who believes that spider-man comics outshine the brilliance of stage lights. their paths cross in the drama club, but that marks merely the start—prior to the fame, before the headlines, and before everything unraveled.

⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 5,7k

⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒— loser!ellie x loser!reader as pre teens and cute nerdy theater kids, modern au, fluff, purely introductory, internalized homophobia, parental dismissal, quiet yearning, high school awkwardness, AFAB!reader, multiple part series.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⭒࿐

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

“𝐈𝐟 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.”

← 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 →

"𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅." — 𝑺𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒉𝒐, 𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝟏𝟕

𝐅reshman year was a letdown.

You’d imagined something cinematic—hallways with lockers slamming shut in rhythm, a secret staircase where cool kids smoked after lunch, someone falling in love with you in the library. You thought it’d feel like High School Musical.

But it didn’t. It felt like the cafeteria smelled like boiled carrots and the fluorescent lights buzzed loud enough to fry your nerves. It felt like a blank notebook you were afraid to mess up.

The other girls at fourteen seemed like they were living in a different timeline than yours. They knew how to contour, how to gloss their lips just right, talked about boys like it was a language you’d never learned. Who kissed who at Maya’s party, who was chatting with a sophomore. They had hundreds of friends on Facebook, cropped tops from Forever 21, and big phone cases that matched their nails.

You didn’t hate it, not at all, it just wasn’t you.

You weren’t the cool girl, not even close. You had glasses way too big for your face that always slipped down your nose no matter how many times you pushed them up. You had pink braces that clicked when you tried to laugh quietly, and a glittery pink pencil case with matching Barbie notebooks that nobody except you thought were cool. Your backpack was covered in pins of cartoon characters and hand-drawn hearts, crooked little doodles you’d outlined in gel pen the night before the first day of school. You weren’t popular, you weren’t stylish, you weren’t mysterious. You were just… there. Quiet. Easy to miss. But honestly, you didn’t mind it. Being invisible was safer. Less room for disappointment.

Your two best friends from middle school had moved away over the summer. New cities, new schools, new lives that no longer included you.

But had one thing.

One bright, shining, indestructible thing: acting.

It wasn’t just a hobby— it was the thing that made your chest feel full, that made your skin feel electric. Since you were old enough to talk, you were reenacting movies in front of the mirror, memorizing monologues you didn’t fully understand, and watching the Tony awards with your heart in your throat.

You’d seen your first broadway show at six—Annie—and something cracked open in you like a warm, glowing firework. The lights, the voices, the way everything and everyone seemed larger than life when it was onstage. It was like magic. And from that moment on, it wasn’t even a question. You knew what you wanted.

To be there. To make people feel something.

You said it out loud for the first time at eight years old.

“I want to be an actress.”

Your mom laughed. Not cruelly, not with venom, but in that soft distracted way parents do when they don’t think you’ll remember.

“Sweetheart, don’t be silly….that’s just a phase. Like when you wanted to be a vet, remember?”

And she never really got it.

She said she didn’t want to encourage you too much, because “you’ll just get your hopes up and be let down.” She said it kindly. With love, even. She made your lunches and tucked you in and told you she was proud of your grades. But when it came to acting, her face would always go still, eyes shifting to the left like she was already preparing for your heartbreak.

“You’re smart,” she’d say. “You could be a lawyer. You could be anything…else.”

Your sisters were no help either. Both older, both terrifyingly cool. At dinner, the conversation always veered toward their lives.

“Sarah’s studying for her MCATs.”

“Caroline made homecoming court.”

Sarah was in college already, pre-med. She had a boyfriend who drove a Jeep and wore cologne that made the whole house smell like a department store. She wore real makeup and never got pimples. Caroline, the middle one, was a senior at your high school and acted like she didn’t know you in the hallways. She had perfect hair, long and glossy and always curled just right. She was in student council, dated boys on the football team, and once said that drama club was “just for weird kids who don’t get invited to parties.”

The first day of drama club was held in the small black box theatre tucked behind the gym, where the lights always flickered and everything smelled like dust and stage paint. You sat in the second row, because the first row felt too eager and the third row was already filled with girls in varsity jackets who’d done Broadway Bootcamp over the summer. You tucked your hands in your lap and tried not to bite your nails.

And then a girl walked in.

Late, obviously. Freckles. Rectangle glasses. Short auburn ponytail. The sleeves of her hoodie were too long, dragging over her fingers. She wore a Spider-Man backpack, one of those bright red ones with the cartoon eyes, and scuffed-up black converse that looked like they hadn’t survived a single day of middle school without battle scars. No makeup, no notebook, and no damn clue where she was supposed to sit

The teacher pointed her towards the empty chair beside you without a word. She dropped into it with a thud, one leg bouncing under the seat, and gave you a quick little smile. Shy. Crooked. Nervous.

That’s when Mrs. Dalton, your drama teacher, clapped her hands and said something terrifying, “Let’s start with the name game!”

Everyone groaned.

She made you go around the circle. Say your name, a hobby, and then—horrifyingly—“Hold hands with the person next to you while you say it. Acting is about connection!”

You wanted to vanish. When it got to you, your cheeks were already burning.

“Um. I’m—uh—I’m…” you stammered.

“Louder, please,” Mrs. Dalton prompted.

“I’m Y/N. I like musicals. And… I dunno. I have a cat.”

There was a little polite fake laugh from the group. You turned to Ellie. Her green eyes went wide for a second, like you’d passed her a live wire. And then—slowly—she held out her hand.

God, it was sweaty. Yours too. You both laughed quietly under your breath.

“I’m… I’m Ellie,” she said, voice scratchy like she hadn’t used it all day. “I like comic books.

And that was it.

You liked her right away in that instant, safe way girls sometimes find each other when they’re young and dorky and alone in a too-bright school with tile floors and slamming lockers.

You squeezed her hand, just slightly.

“Nice to meet you, Ellie.”

You early noticed that Ellie was like nobody else.

She couldn’t sit still for more than a second—always fidgeting, bouncing her leg, interrupting herself mid-sentence to chase some new thought. She didn’t care about boys or lip gloss or whatever shoes were trending. She liked the things boys liked, carried herself like she didn’t notice or didn’t care who was watching. Once, her shirt rode up when she stretched, and you caught a glimpse of Superman boxers hanging loose on her hips. You remembered blinking, your curiosity sparking sharp and sudden like maybe there was a whole universe inside her you didn’t understand yet, but wanted to.

Two weeks after those first drama club afternoons—smiling at each other in the hallways, passing notes instead of real conversations—you finally sat together in the cafeteria and actually talked. You asked where she was from, and she told you, matter-of-fact, that it was her first year here because she and her dad had just moved after the accident. No sisters, no brothers—just Joel. Her mom had died in a car crash last year, and she said it like she was filling out a school form, clear and steady, not a flicker in her voice. But you saw it anyway, in the way she didn’t quite look at you when she said it, in the way her thumb kept worrying the edge of her tray.

“Joel’s cool,” she added, shrugging, “You should come over after school if you want. We can watch Marvel movies or…something.”

And just like that, with those green eyes and a lopsided grin, she cracked your whole world open.

You became the kind of girls that got shushed during warmups.

The kind that whispered through tongue twisters and giggled through breathing exercises, who were always caught mouthing the wrong lines during someone else’s scene. The kind that stayed after class to “rehearse,” only to end up curled sideways on the prop couch with your heads pressed together, talking about life and movies and dreams.

You always sat together in class, in the back row, whispering commentary during boring lectures and pretending to take notes when really you were writing fake movie scripts in the margins of your notebooks. You shared your snacks. She gave you her hoodie when you forgot yours and never asked for it back. You even had your own handshake.

By November, you weren’t just best friends. You were limbs tangled in a heap on the auditorium floor after rehearsals, breathless from laughter. You were secrets whispered behind the curtain, gum shared under the risers, matching doodles in the corners of each other’s binders. She always carried an extra sharpie, and everyday you both drew something stupid on your arms—stars, a frog, dumbass in messy block letters. Neither of you washed it off.

By December, there was no you without her. You didn’t sit anywhere unless she was already there, kicking her feet against the table leg, saving you a seat with her backpack. You didn’t walk to class without her shoulder brushing yours. She didn’t go to the library unless you tagged along.

She made stupid jokes every two seconds and talked about Superheroes like they were real and the best thing in the world, debated why Andrew was a better Spiderman than Tobey with her whole chest, and made you rank the movies on a napkin at lunch. You instead talked about musicals—The Last Five Years, Waitress, Hamilton—and she’d pretend to hate them but knew all the songs.

One afternoon, when rehearsal ended early and she was walking you home, you asked, “Okay, but if you don’t like musicals, why are you even in drama club?”

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected you to call her out.

“I like acting,” she said with a shrug. “But like, dramas. Serious shit. Not all the singing stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. Ellie. Serious. Yeah, sure.

She groaned. “Okay, fine, the main reason was because I wanted to make friends. Happy?”

You smiled, eyes soft. “Did it work?”

She looked at you for a second. Then grinned, crooked and sheepish.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think it did.”

She tried to educate you on what she called “real music,” rolling her eyes at your room full of Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift CD's before handing you a stack of Joel-approved essentials — Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Pearl Jam. One afternoon she even played guitar for you in her garage, perching on an amp like she was at the Michigan Stadium. It was objectively terrible; her fingers stumbled over the frets, her voice cracked on the high notes of Stairway to Heaven, but you’d clapped like she’d just won a grammy and told her, “I’m sure you were a rockstar in your past life.”

She’d rolled her eyes and muttered, “...You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

Then smiled like maybe she didn’t mind.

You told her about your mom, about how she always said it was just a phase. You told her about your sisters, how they never saw you as anything but the weird one with too many dreams and too little chill.

You told her you wanted to be an actress. Like, a real actress. Capital A. The kind who gets her own trailer and the biggest line on the poster, the kind who cries on cue and wins Oscars and thanks her high school drama teacher in her speech.

She tilted her head at you, fingers laced behind her neck, one foot thrown lazily over the arm of the couch. The overhead lights buzzed, but in that quiet little pocket of the world, it felt like the only thing that existed was her gaze—steady, unreadable, resting right on you.

She looked at you like none of it was embarrassing. Not the dream. Not the barbie notebook stuffed with movie ideas. Not your pink braces or your crooked glasses or the pimple that had just appeared in the middle of your forehead. She looked at you like it all made sense, like maybe you could actually do it.

“You’re gonna be famous one day,” she said. “And I’m gonna tell people I knew you before you were cool.”

You rolled your eyes. “So you don’t think I’m cool now?”

“You’re cool in, like… a deeply tragic loser kind of way.”

You hurled a throw pillow at her head. She caught it, laughed, and pulled you down onto the couch with her in retaliation. You ended up tangled in a heap, breathless and cackling, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

“I don’t believe in God,” she then said, voice low. “But maybe I believe in fate. Especially if fate’s pretty and knows every lyric to City of Stars.”

Your face went hot immediately. You tried to scoff, but she just grinned, smug and soft all at once, like she knew exactly what she’d done.

And in that moment—pressed against the cushions, your hair static-stuck to her shirt, your cheeks aching from smiling—it hit you.

It didn’t matter what your mom said. Or what your sisters thought. Or how invisible you felt most of the time.

Because someone finally believed in you.

Not out of obligation. Not out of kindness.

Just because she did.

It happened on a Tuesday. Two weeks after you turned fifteen and right after fifth period. You were halfway through blocking Act II, Scene 4—the scene with the kiss.

Originally, your scene partner was supposed to be Jackson Mullins, a sophomore with a fake mustache he definitely drew on with eyeliner and a tendency to say “line?” every ten seconds like it was part of the script. But he wasn’t there. He’d skipped rehearsal to go to his cousin’s birthday or something, and Mrs. Dalton—already ten seconds from full meltdown—rubbed her temples and asked if anyone could just step in so we can please move forward today, thank you.

Ellie raised her hand immediately. Way too fast, like her elbow had launched on instinct.

“I’ll do it!” she said, voice higher than usual. “I... I mean—if that’s cool. Or, like… not weird.”

She then blinked at you through her glasses.

You shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Yeah. Sure. Cool.”

Your voice cracked on cool.

Everyone assumed you’d skip the kiss, that’s what most people did. Block the scene, wave vaguely at the kiss line, mutter we’ll add it later, and move on. No big deal.

But that afternoon, something felt… different. The air buzzed, the stage lights were too warm, the script pages in your hand felt heavier than usual. When Ellie stepped into Jackson’s spot, her hoodie sleeves half-covering her fingers, eyes wide, chewing on the inside of her cheek, you didn’t want to pretend.

The script said: She moves in close. Then, with a pause—she kisses him.

Your palms were sweating and so were hers. You could see it.

And still—you reached out.

Ellie’s breath caught. She smelled like cinnamon gum and that exact kind of Axe deodorant boys wore in middle school, except it didn’t bother you. It smelled like her. And she was standing so still. She didn’t even blink when your fingers brushed the sides of her face.

You leaned in without even thinking.

Your noses bumped and your lips landed crooked and too soft. It was quick, awkward, sticky. You forgot to close your eyes. She gasped—literally gasped—like someone had spoiled the ending of her favorite movie. Then she jumped back, hand flying to her mouth.

Silence. Total, all-consuming silence.

The entire cast stared. The sound of a water bottle dropping from someone’s lap echoed like a gunshot. Mrs. Dalton’s mouth was halfway open. Even the tech crew peeked out from behind the curtain.

Ellie stood frozen, then she blurted out, “Thatwasmyfirstkiss.”

The words came out like one breath, fast and panicked, and the second she realized she’d said them out loud her hands flew up to cover her face.

“Oh my God, that was—sorry. That was dumb. I shouldn’t’ve said that. That’s so dumb, right? I just—uh—yeah. Sorry.”

You blinked as your heart was hammering. You could still feel the ghost of it—your lips on hers, the way she smelled, how warm her cheeks were under your fingertips.

“D-don’t worry,” you said quickly. “It was just for the scene. I don't know why I did it.”

A lie. Not to hurt her, just to protect the moment. To not make it worse.

But she looked at you, a little too long. A second passed—then two—before she nodded, eyes flicking down to her converse.

“Right,” she said softly. “Yeah. Totally. Scene stuff.”

Mrs. Dalton clapped her hands once, too loud. “Okay! Great work, girls. Let’s… move on to Scene 5, please."

After the kiss, things with Ellie were a little… different. Not bad or weird, just tight. Like a string pulled between you that neither of you wanted to tug on too hard. You still sat together every day and shared oreos and playlists and whispered about the drama club mean girls like nothing had changed. But there was something in the air now. Charged. Floaty. The moment before lightning.

She’d brush your hand when passing you a pen, and your skin would sizzle like she'd pressed a lighter to it. She’d laugh at something you said—really laugh, full-body, head thrown back—and your stomach would do this horrible, fluttery thing that made you want to throw up and kiss her at the same time. You’d catch her looking at you sometimes when you weren’t doing anything special—just tying your shoe, or doodling mandalas in the margins of your papers—and your face would flush so hard it made your ears ring.

You told yourself it was nothing.

You didn’t like girls. Right?

But the truth was, you’d never liked boys, either. You’d never daydreamed about kissing them or held your phone waiting for texts or felt anything when they smiled at you in the hallway. You used to think you just hadn’t met the right one yet. That your crush would come like a lightning bolt.

Unlike you, Ellie had always known she liked girls.

It wasn’t dramatic or difficult or complicated. It was just the truth. It was there when she saw Megan Fox bend over the hood of that yellow Camaro in Transformers, her whole body going still in the living room as unknown tingles curled in her lower belly. It was there when she developed an impossible crush on her sixth-grade biology teacher. When she realized she liked girls in tank tops and girls in band tees and girls who would never, ever like her back — and she’d carried it with her like a secret she never thought was shameful, only inevitable.

But when it came to you? It was different.

You made her feel fuzzy and stupid, like her chest was too small for her heart. Like the world narrowed every time you said her name. You made her feel like maybe being fifteen and confused and nervous was the best thing that could ever happen to a person.

She stayed up all night sometimes, filling her notebook with dumb little comics of you and her. She’d draw herself as Spiderman and you as Gwen Stacy, swinging between buildings, saving you in the nick of time, being impossibly cool — at least on paper. She’d kick her feet while she sketched the upside-down kiss, giggling like a crazy person, erasing and redrawing your smile until it looked just right.

One time Joel walked in without knocking, and she panicked so hard she literally chucked the notebook across the room like it was about to incriminate her in court, then immediately leaned back in her chair in the most unnatural, “I’m totally just chilling” pose the world had ever seen. Joel just gave her a long, confused look, shook his head, and scoffed like he didn’t even want to know.

One night, at a sleepover, you were lying side by side on her bed, both in old pajamas, your legs tangled under the blanket. The lights were off, just the soft orange glow of her lava lamp filling the room, and your arms were barely brushing. You’d been talking about nothing until there was a charged pause.

Very softly, Ellie asked, “Have you ever… liked a boy?”

You swallowed. “I…I don’t think so.”

There was a long silence as you felt her breath shift beside you.

“Like, like liked?” you added. “No, you?”

Ellie exhaled as a little laugh slipped out. “Hell nah.”

You waited. Then you whispered, like it was a secret passed under a pillow.

“Is that… weird? I mean, girls our age are fucking them.”

“I mean, I don’t think it's weird." She laughed, nervous, small. "It's just the way... we are. There's nothing wrong with it, right?”

You turned your head to look at her, and she was already looking at you. Your faces were close. Too close. Not close enough.

You could see her freckles in the dark, the way her mouth parted like she wanted to say more. But she didn’t. Neither did you.

You didn’t know if you liked girls. You just knew you maybe liked Ellie. Her smile. Her jokes. The way she said your name. The way she tapped her pencil against her nose when she was thinking. The way she looked at you sometimes behind her glasses, like you were something more than just her best friend, and how much that scared you, and how much you wanted it anyway.

It was so pure, so naive. A little clumsy, a lot of heart.

But still — you couldn't be in love with your best friend. You were just fifteen. You still wrote your i’s with hearts. You were still figuring everything out. And you couldn't fuck up the best thing that had ever happened to you just by being confused... right?

But the inevitable happened on the opening night, months later.

The curtain was scratchy velvet and the stage lights were blinding, the whole auditorium smelled like hairspray and old wood. You’d spent the entire afternoon in the girls' bathroom with a hot curling iron and glittery eyeshadow, reciting your lines in the mirror until someone banged on the stall door and yelled “five minutes!”

Jackson had come down with the flu three days before opening. Typical. Left the whole production in chaos and Mrs. Dalton nearly cried in the hallway.

But Ellie—Ellie, who had been helping with props and lights and knew every line by heart just from being around—offered to step in. She’d shrugged and said, “I mean, I’ve seen the play like a hundred times. How hard can it be?” She’d spent every lunch since then cramming monologues with you in the corner of the cafeteria, script pages stuffed between your trays of pizza and chocolate milk.

She was so nervous that night. She tried to hide it, but she kept tugging at her costume collar and muttering things like “Do I look like a ghost? I think I look like a ghost,” and “If I forget my line, just, like, improvise. Or faint. Fainting’s dramatic, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “You look fine.”

“Fine?” she gasped. “I was going for devastatingly handsome.”

“You look like a Shakespeare nerd lost in a thrift store.”

She grinned, cheeks flushed under the warm buzz of backstage light. “God, thank you. That’s literally the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The show went perfectly. Better than perfect. You remembered every line, every cue. Ellie stumbled once and called a chandelier a “lamp-thingy” by accident, and it made the audience laugh right on cue, and Mrs. Dalton whispered “genius” like she’d planned it.

Under the amber stage lights came the slow dance. Just the two of you, swaying in time to the quiet swell of strings, her hand on your waist, your fingers laced with hers. The backdrop faded. The audience blurred. All you could feel was her—warm and nervous and whispering the lyrics under her breath like a secret only you were meant to hear.

The kiss scene was late in the second act. The theater was hushed. Every spotlight was on you. The music swelled, soft and slow, just like you’d rehearsed.

You stepped toward her.

Ellie’s hands were shaking. You could feel it when you reached for them, pulling her closer. Her eyes were huge and terrified and starry, and you mouthed it’s okay just before your lips met hers.

This time, you got it right. Your noses didn’t bump. Your eyes closed exactly when they should. The whole auditorium exhaled with you.

And right there, forehead to forehead, breath shared between words you weren’t even acting anymore, it hit you like a line you hadn’t rehearsed.

You were in love. Real, actual, heart-thudding, word-stumbling love. And from the way Ellie looked at you—like you were the scene and the spotlight and the whole damn play—you were pretty sure she knew it too.

The audience exploded when the curtain fell. Parents clapping, people cheering, Mrs. Dalton actually wiping a tear under her little glasses. You searched the crowd, heart in your throat.

Joel was in the third row, standing on his feet, clapping harder than anyone. Big proud-dad smile on his face like he’d just watched his own kid win the Super Bowl.

Your mom didn’t come, neither did your sisters. But somehow, that didn’t sting as much as it used to. Not with Ellie beside you, grinning with glitter smudged on her cheek, hands still warm in yours.

Backstage, amid the chaos of costume changes and crumpled programs and half-finished water bottles, Mrs. Dalton talked to the principal. Her voice was low but firm, sharp in that way only theatre teachers could pull off when defending a choice they knew was right.

You didn't know it but apparently a few parents had already filed complaints. Said it was “inappropriate” to have two girls kissing in a school production. Said it wasn’t “family-friendly.” The principal mumbled something about context and community expectations, but Mrs. Dalton only crossed her arms and said, clear as day, “They’ll have to get used to it.” And that was that. She walked back inside with her head high and gave you and Ellie the proudest smile either of you had ever seen.

You noticed Ellie was standing weird when she came inside your dressing room after knocking. Her shoulders were drawn up tight, chin dipped, her weight rocking almost imperceptibly on the balls of her feet. She’d changed into those too-big pants she always wore some minutes ago, the ones that swallowed her whole, and she had her fists shoved so deep into the pockets it looked like she was trying to disappear into them entirely.

Her glasses kept sliding down the bridge of her nose. She didn’t push them up the usual way with her index, but with the side of her knuckle, like she couldn’t risk unclenching her hands. A small, jittery motion, over and over.

You turned slightly in your chair, wiping the last bit of stage makeup from under your eye, yapping without really thinking like you always did. “You did really well on stage, Ells! Seriously, I think Mrs. Dalton is gonna want us to do, like, waaay more plays together after this. You were totally in character the whole time, and—”

Ellie wasn’t listening to a single word you were saying. She was too busy staring at you, the way the yellow bulb above the mirror caught in your hair, the way your face always made her feel weirdly punched in the chest, as if some ghost pressed its hand into it.

You’d always been beautiful to her, since the first time she saw you.

Not in the way people said it casually, but in the way that kept her up at night. Dreaming about you so much it almost felt like a sickness, wishing you’d stop looking at her like she was just your friend and start looking at her like she was something you could maybe want. She wanted to kiss you again. God, she wanted that so bad her hands were still shoved in her pockets so she wouldn’t do something stupid like reach for you, but before she could even—

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Your brain stalled, the makeup wipe freezing mid-swipe. Your jaw dropped just a little bit as your head turned sharply toward her. Ellie’s eyes then went huge, wide, green and panicked like she hadn’t meant to say that, the words had slipped out by accident, tripped over her tongue and tumbled into the air before she could stop them.

“I—shit—no, wait, that’s not what I meant, I didn't mean to say that— I mean, I do like you. Like like. A tiny amount. A normal, non-psychotic, totally chill person who definitely wasn’t thinking about how your laugh makes me feel like I’m standing under a stage light—oh my God, I fucked up so bad—”

You blinked and stepped forward, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest from the force of its beat. “Ellie.”

“You probably think I’m just some creepy obsessed dyke now—”

“Ellie.”

“I mean I do like you, but like a normal crush. My brain did a stage dive.”

“Ellie.”

Her mouth finally clamped shut as you reached out, your hand going to her warm freckled cheek.

“I think I’m in love with you too.”

She stared at you. “Wait. Like... actual love love? Or are you just saying that because I blacked out and confessed like a total loser?”

You laughed, cheeks burning too. “I said it for real, dumbass."

Her whole face turned red. She looked like her brain had blue-screened, like her Gay Windows XP had a shutdown. And then, very softly, in a voice like she was trying not to explode: “…cool. Coolcoolcool.”

You snorted.

She blinked, like she needed to reboot again.

“So like… um…” She cleared her throat and scratched the back of her neck. “Would you wanna—do you wanna, maybe… be my girlfriend?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

Her face dropped. “Wait—fuck, no—I didn’t mean like—shit, I made it weird again, didn’t I—”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you interrupted, smile so big it made your jaw hurt.

Her mouth dropped open. She blinked again as her even her ears turned red.

“Wait—for real?” she whispered. “Like… seriously? You’re not just saying that to be nice? Oh my god, you’re gonna realize later this was a mistake and dump me in the cafeteria and I’ll have to transfer schools and—”

You just leaned in and kissed her. Quick and soft, just enough to make her shut up.

Her hands stayed awkwardly at her sides for a beat too long before they finally floated up, hesitant, brushing your elbows.

“Wow... I have a girlfriend…I think I’m gonna die.”

You laughed. “You’re not gonna die.”

“I am. But like, in a good way.”

“𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒘 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 / 𝑻𝒐 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 —” — 𝑬𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝑫𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒆

𝐘ou sit back in the chair, legs elegantly crossed beneath the gentle cascade of your black velvet dress, the slit high enough to catch the glimmer of studio lights with every subtle movement. A thin microphone is clipped to your collarbone, delicate as jewelry. Across from you, the interviewer leafs through her notes with practiced grace, her smile gentle, professional.

And then—like it’s merely another item on her agenda, just another piece of trivia—

“So, you’re dating Chris now… but who was your first love?”

You hesitate. Your smile doesn’t fully blossom—just lingers there, ghostly, like a memory tucked between the pages of a cherished book.

“...My first love?” you echo, voice softer and deeper now. It had traveled a long way to get here. “I was fourteen.”

Your gaze drifts slightly off-camera, as if you’re observing something invisible to others. “It was very important to me.”

A pause stretches. The interviewer leans forward slightly.

“And… how did it end?”

Your hand shifts against the satin armrest. Sitting a bit a bit taller, shoulders drawn back like a shield. Yet your eyes lower, just for a moment. Just long enough to reveal something—grief, guilt, perhaps a blend of both.

“Uh…”

You clear your throat, smile thinning to a fragile thread.

“Can we… change the question?”

𝐄llie reclines in the chair, one boot casually hooked on the stool's rung, her fingers idly twisting the silver ring on her thumb. Her short hair is tousled, pushed back with a carefree ease, as if she had just stepped out of the rain or simply skipped the mirror. She wears a faded black shirt rolled up to her elbows, and jeans that fit just right. Ink traces her forearm, faintly visible under the lights.

Her posture is relaxed, but her eyes tell a different story.

The interviewer’s voice is warm and manly. “So, Dina is your first public relationship. But… was there someone before?”

For a moment, Ellie remains silent, pressing her thumb against the ring, watching it spin. Then, without the usual smirk that cushions her truths, she replies quietly:

“I had a big someone before,” she says, voice raspy but softer than the room around them. “She was like… my first everything.”

A shift in the atmosphere, the kind that goes unnoticed by those not paying close attention.

“And what happened?”

She raises her gaze just enough to meet the question, then lets it fall again. Her expression flickers—something unnameable dances through it like a breeze behind a curtain. The usual sharpness of her jaw softens. Her lips part, then close again. She almost speaks, but hesitates.

And when she finally finds her voice,

“I’d rather not respond.”

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OHHH MY GOD. i’m so, so excited for this new chapter, this whole new era of writing we’re stepping into. i genuinely can’t believe i’m launching myself into actually starting this series, but here we are. i won’t lie, i feel a lot of pressure, but it’s the good kind, the kind that means i care so much about making it special for you. i’m so ready for you to follow me into this new journey that is unscripted, to build this world together the way we did before. it makes me so happy to be writing a series again, and even happier to be doing it with you. love you all endlessly <3

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓— @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @sewithinsouls @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @les4elliewilliams @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @doodl3b3ans @savagestarlight28 ࿐

#and it didn’t help that forget her by girl in red was on repeat while i read this..#im not okay

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