#How to thrive in online learning
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Social Media and Criminal Justice Education
Using social media for learning provides opportunities for criminal justice students to create personal learning networks (PLN), professional career, and criminal justice discipline networking opportunities that might not otherwise be available in the students in their local area. Social media engagement enhances the studentâs inspiration and comprehension (Erstad & Silseth, 2023). BeforeâŚ

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#Criminal Justice Education#Digital Learning#Higher learning Social Media#How to thrive in online learning#Social Media Learning#Technology in Education
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this is a vent. but also i think the tags include more vent than the actual post. sawwry.
if it matters, i do have DID, and right now its kas. kas always pops up whenever nate (who is host) or [other n] gets upset. kas is always here and ready to bite. i have been feeling like this more often than not since ive been trying to make my bluesky more active again. i am in pain. but can i afford to take a break? no prolly not.
#i understand we need a bluesky in order to thrive as an artist. but if anything its made nate and i want to kill ourseleves more often than#often than not.#why do we need to constantly promote ourselves to be able to sustain our shit#why was i created as a retaliation to our trauma from fucking being on twitter on 2017. always so fucking obsessed with fucking NUMBERS#with external validation#like i need that shit to live??!??!?!?!?? fucking HELL#alt.vent.txt#i dont. holy shit nate and the others draw so fucking well. he draws and he loves adapting to environments#look at him. he can animate now. he learned how to edit videos#he thought it was fun. i was enjoying it in the background. i love seeing him thrive but holy shit#people are so fucking ungrateful.#and i dont want nate to die. kas is not the main host. kas is not. i am not.#nate deserves so much more than whatever online strangers can ever give him. what the hell.#...no need to check in nor understand what alters or what a system is. i am simply furious.#what the hell did i expect from a twitter-like#i think i should unfollow that big numbers person on there too. i fully know they've muted me already.#or maybe not. lets see. sila ata mauuna. that viper person already has way last year. a year's worth of pretending to like me way to go#which is also a fascinating phenomenon btw. popular artists on bsky are more or less insufferable half the time
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that "....ohhh shit" moment when a work awakens something deep within you
#hdg#that's what this post is about#i just finished the original stories#it's crazy how they mirror something i'd been going through lately#for ~10 years i'd been up in arms over... changes in the online world#i won't directly say what those changes are but i'd been letting them bother me#thinking i couldn't thrive in the new world they'd created and could only thrive in the old one#yet as time went on there was a feeling telling me to just stop trying to fight it#adapt to the new world and learn to thrive in it#'none of this affects you directly anyway. everyone else you know has accepted these changes. so why continue struggling?'#last year i finally laid down my arms#then i realized things aren't as bad as i thought they were#i realized i missed out on so much love by not coming to terms with this much much sooner#and i realized i'm not a man. not a woman either but still not a man.#all i want now is to be loved and nurtured...
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Welcome to the raft, Opal! â¨

We asked, and you answered.Â
đłď¸Thanks to nearly 30,000 of you who voted in our online poll, weâre otter-ly excited to introduce our newest southern sea otter, Opal.Â
đŚŚOur team is already hard at work training Opal to join Ivy, Selka, and Ruby on exhibit.Â
đThey describe Opal as smart, sassy, confident, and protectiveâan otter that watches out for her raft. đ We can hardly wait for you to meet this gem; stay tuned for updates on the timeline for her official debut!

In addition to enchanting visitors and showing off for the exhibit live cam, Opal has a big part to play in the conservation of her species. Opal may act as a surrogate mother to orphaned sea otter pups as part of our sea otter surrogacy program. Though Opal was deemed unreleasable by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service after she was rescued as a stranded pup, she may give young pups a second chance by teaching them the skills they need to survive in the wild, like grooming and foraging.Â
Our work with sea otters has a real impact on their survivalâand the vital coastal habitats they call homeâas the two are inextricably linked. The sea otter is a keystone species, which means that the health of sea otters is a good indication of the health of other species and ecosystems nearby.Â

By releasing their adoptive pups back into the wild, our sea otter surrogate moms help restore Californiaâs treasured kelp forests, keeping them healthy and thriving! Learn about the history of our Sea Otter Program and how protecting this beloved species has enormous environmental benefits for Californiaâs coastal ecosystems.
#team opal has triumphed#otterly opalescent#gem of the kelp forest#keystone queen#monterey bay aquarium#ocean#sea otters
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You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.
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Youâre two months in, and youâre still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.
Sheâs answering emails while editing a reel. Sheâs sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you donât do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.
Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. Thereâs a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.
You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent thatâs definitely fake but somehow not thriving. Sheâs got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.
âYouâre getting faster,â she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like sheâs letting you in on something. âThe captions today? I liked them. Youâre starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. Thatâs good.â
You try not to grin too much, but itâs hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy itâs measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says somethingâs good, she means it.
You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when sheâs about to say, âWe can do better.â Youâre getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now youâre finding your footing.
âDo you ever sleep?â you ask, half-joking, because sheâs been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.
She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. âOnly when a campaignâs not launching. So⌠not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.â She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. âAnd I think youâre going to be really good at this.â Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and youâre already certain, this isnât just an internship. This is the beginning of something.
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Itâs a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olgaâs workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.
Youâre working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore thatâs trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and youâre adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. Itâs nice. Peaceful, even.
Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. âDo you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?â
You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. âIâŚâ You swallow. âI donât know.â
Olga looks up immediately.
You donât say anything else at first. The words stall. Itâs not that you havenât talked about it before itâs just that people usually donât ask, not really.
She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. âHey. You okay?â
You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, âI didnât grow up with a family. I was left at a childrenâs home when I was a baby.â
The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just⌠slower. Softer.
Olga doesnât gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.
âIâm sorry,â she says. Quiet. Real.
You shrug, though it feels awkward. âItâs fine. I mean, itâs just⌠how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just⌠didnât have anyone to ask questions like that about.â
Olga nods slowly, like sheâs letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently âWell, just so you know any time you want to say, âMy 'mentor' once told me this,â you can go ahead and start with me.â
You let out a soft laugh, surprised.
She smiles, warm and a little wistful. âI know itâs not the same. But youâre not on your own here, okay? Not while youâre working with me.â
For a moment, youâre not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. Youâre just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.
The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.
She glances at the clock, then at you. âThatâll be Alexia.â
You blink. âAlexiaâŚ?â
Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.
Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.
Even if you donât follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now sheâs in Olgaâs office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.
She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.
Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. âAle, this is the one Iâve been telling you about.â
You freeze. Alexiaâs gaze lands on you, kind and curious. âSo youâre the apprentice,â she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. âOlgaâs been bragging.â
You blink again. âSheâshe has?â
Olga shrugs like itâs nothing. âOnly a little. Maybe a lot.â
Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. âItâs really nice to meet you. Iâve heard youâre doing great work.â
You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like youâre meeting a living legend, because you are. But sheâs also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.
Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexiaâs shoulder with hers. âShe only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,â she says, teasing.
Alexia grins. âAlso because I love you.â
Thereâs a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. âDo you want me to go?â you ask, half-joking.
Olga laughs. âNo way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. Youâre family now. Might as well meet the boss.â
Alexia raises an eyebrow. âIâm the boss?â
Olga winks. âIn football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.â
You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what âfamilyâ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.
You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.
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You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.
Itâs late almost midnight. Youâve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and thereâs the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft âWait, this transitionâs betterâ from Olga.
She gets up to stretch, as she often does when sheâs been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. ââŚWait. What?â
You glance over. Sheâs holding the small, slightly curled photo thatâs been with you for as long as you can remember. Youâve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.
You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just⌠always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. âWhy do you have this?â she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.
You sit up straighter. âWhat do you mean?â
She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. âThis is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photoâs from when they were kids. Iâve never seen this before, how do you have this?.â
Your mouth opens slowly. âWhat?â
She steps closer. âDonât play dumb.â
You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. âIâm not. I didnât know who they were. Iâve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.â
Olga stares at you like she doesnât believe you.
âI swear,â you say, voice trembling now. âI never knew. I didnât know.â
But she isnât hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. âSo you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?â
âI didnât know!â you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. âOlga, I didnât. They were just two girls in a picture Iâve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-â
âYou expect me to believe that?â she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. âYou knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.â
Your breath catches. âI didnât even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?â
But sheâs shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. âI trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?â
She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like sheâs afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. âPlease, Olga. Iâm not using you. I didnât know. I swear to you.â
But her voice cuts through the air like glass. âDonât say another word.â
She storms toward the door. âOlgaâplease!â
Her hand is on the knob already. âDo not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.â And just like that, sheâs gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.
You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.
You donât remember sitting down. Just that suddenly youâre on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.
The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.
The photoâs gone. She took it.
You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if youâre cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You canât stop replaying the last ten minutes Olgaâs face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worseâlike a lie.
âI didnât know,â you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. âI didnât know.â But the silence doesnât answer. It just presses in around you.
You donât know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just⌠part of the mystery of you. Youâd imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.
You wipe at your face and realise youâve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.
You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob thatâs already too far out to swallow back.
You donât know what hurts more: the fear that she wonât believe you or the feeling that she already doesnât, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:
What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?
You donât know how to hold that. You donât even know if you want to.
The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you havenât already begged her to believe?
Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.
You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.
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You shouldnât go in to work, you know that.
You didnât sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that havenât fully bloomed. You look like someone whoâs been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.
So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.
The walk to Olgaâs office feels longer than usual. Everythingâs sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who donât know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.
When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olgaâs at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.
For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didnât have to fake.
Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesnât. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.
You nod stiffly, not that sheâs looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack whatâs left between you.
You donât speak. Neither does she.
The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. Itâs tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.
Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.
You canât stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.
And now, sheâs right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. Sheâs typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didnât sleep well either.
You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.
So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.
Youâre halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.
âHola,â Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if sheâs stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.
You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.
Donât make eye contact. Donât breathe too loudly. Donât be more than necessary.
Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.
âAleâŚâ
Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. âYou were tossing all night,â she says softly, âso I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.â She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. âI got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when youâre stressed.â
Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didnât know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, âThanks.â
Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. Itâs a small, domestic gesture. One that wouldâve felt sweet yesterday.
Now itâs a stone in your stomach.
They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olgaâs eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothingâs going in.
Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. âHey,â she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. âNice to see you again.â
You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.
You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.
She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. âBueno,â she says, brushing her hand against Olgaâs arm. âIâll leave you both to it.â
Olga doesnât look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, âThank you,â
"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.
"I um. I don't drink coffee"
"How come? Don't like it?"
"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"
"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke
"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"
Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.
The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.
Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.
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Olga doesnât go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.
She shouldâve gone home, she doesnât go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a cafĂŠ to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.
She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.
Eliâs car is in the driveway. Sheâs home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. Itâs still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasnât looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesnât need to. She remembers it perfectly.
She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.
Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.
âOlga?â Eliâs face brightens with warm surprise. âQuĂŠ haces aquĂ, cariĂąo? Alexia isnât with you?â
âNo,â Olga says quietly. âSheâs at home.â
Eli frowns a little. âIs everything alright?â
âI justâŚâ Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, âCan I come in?â
Eli steps aside, instantly serious. âOf course, hija. Youâre always welcome.â
The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves, birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that havenât moved in years.
They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesnât take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.
âI have to ask you something,â Olga says, voice steady but low. âAnd if itâs nothing then we never have to talk about it again. Iâll forget it. Weâll both forget it.â
Eli nods, cautious. âOkayâŚâ Eliâs brow furrows. âWhat is it?â
Olga doesnât speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eliâs breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating youâd miss it if you werenât looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.
Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesnât blink. Eliâs hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.
Olga doesnât move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.
âWhere.. Where did you get this?â
Olga doesnât answer, she just says, âYou know who this has come from donât youâ
âIâve not seen that in twenty five years,â Her voice catches, âAfter.. Afterâ Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, âOlga. Please. Where did this come from?â
âItâs true isnât it,â Olga whispers. âYou have another daughterâ
Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, âYesâ Olgaâs throat tightens. Eliâs voice is barely there. âWe left that with herâ
âI donât understand how you could do it!â Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back sheâs kept buried too long. âYou gave up your own daughter,â Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like itâs cursed. âAnd just carried on like she didnât exist? How?â
âI didnât carry on,â Eli says, voice low and shaking. âDonât you dare think it didnât break me.â
âThen why?â Olga demands. âWhy didnât you fight for her? Why didnât you tell anyone?â Olgaâs voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. Sheâs standing now, breath short, pacing Eliâs living room like sheâs trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadnât planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.
Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. âYou donât understand what it was like,â she says quietly, pleading. âShe was born with a heart condition. We didnât know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldnât even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.â
Olga stares at her, hollowed out. âSo you gave her away.â
âI thought sheâd get help,â Eli whispers. âWe couldnât afford the surgeries. We didnât have insurance or savings, I wasnât working at the time. My parents wouldnât help. We thought⌠we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.â
Olgaâs breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, itâs not enough. âShe grew up in multiple childrenâs home,â she says bitterly. âWith no one.â Eli flinches like sheâs been slapped. âYouâre the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,â Olga says, voice shaking. âYou tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for Godâs sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just⌠gave her up?â
Eliâs eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. âYou think that was easy for me?â she says, hoarse. âYou think I didnât wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadnât seen her since she wasââ
âDonât,â Olga snaps, tears brimming. âDonât make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,â Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. âI see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.â
âStop,â Eli whispers. âPlease, stop.â
Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. âAnd you never told Alexia. Or Alba.â
Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. âThey were so young they didnât need to know, have that burden.â
âYou gave up your baby,â Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. âYou let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.â
âI didnât let her disappear,â Eli says, voice shaking. âShe was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldnât give her! We did what we thought was best for her!â
Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. âSo you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?â
âShe wouldâve died if Iâd kept her!â Eli cries. âWe couldnât afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasnât abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.â
Olgaâs voice rises. âAnd youâve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.â
Eliâs hands shake now. âBecause I didnât want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.â
âWell, itâs here now,â Olga whispers. âShe grew up in a childrenâs home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesnât understand the meaning of family, I donât even think sheâs ever felt what itâs like to be loved. Do you understand that?â
Eli explodes raw, desperate. âLeave it alone!â The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. âJustâshut up!â she screams. âYou donât understand what it cost me! You donât get to stand there judging when you werenât there!â
The front door slams open. âWhat the hell is going on?â Albaâs voice slices through the room like lightning. Sheâs standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. âI could hear you both shouting from the street.â She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, whoâs barely holding herself upright. âWhat the hell is going on?â
Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. Sheâs trying to breathe, but she canât steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.
Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. âWhy were you yelling at her?â Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. âWhat did she do?â
âShe didnât do anything,â Eli croaks out, broken.
âThen whatâ?â Albaâs voice wavers. âWhy is everyone crying?â No one answers.
Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.
Alba doesnât understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sisterâs name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.
Alexia answers almost instantly. âAlbs?â
Her voice is warm, calm, but Albaâs isnât.
âAle,â she says quickly, âyou need to come to mamĂĄâs. Now.â
âWhatâs wrong?â
âIâI donât know, but Olgaâs here, and sheâs crying, and mamĂĄâs⌠somethingâs wrong. I think itâs big mamĂĄ was screaming at her I heard her from the streetâ
Thereâs a pause. Then, âIâm on my way,â Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesnât yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.
The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasnât just a misunderstanding.
Sheâs still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, whoâs slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like sheâs bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.
âOlga?â Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.
âWhat happened?â Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. âIs someone hurt? Whatâ?â
She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olgaâs arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexiaâs breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.
âOlgaâŚâ No response.
Alexiaâs eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.
âWill someone please tell me whatâs going on?â she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. âMamĂĄ? Olga? Talk to me.â Still, no one speaks.
Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. âI need some air,â she mutters, almost to herself.
Eli rises instinctively. âOlga please, waitââ
Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and whatâs on her face is something Alexiaâs never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. âI canât even look at you right now,â Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. âYou are not the person I thought you were.â
Alexiaâs breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and sheâs suddenly terrified. âWaitâOlga, pleaseâjust⌠what happened?â Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.
Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. âMamĂĄ,â she says, voice trembling. âWhat did you do?â
Eli doesnât answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.
And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her lifeâfeels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, sheâs never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isnât just something they can fix. Itâs something that changed everything.
The cool night air hits Olgaâs face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.
She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.
âOlga,â Eli calls gently. âPlease. Just come inside. Letâs talk, mi amor.â Olga doesnât turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.
Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. âPlease tell me⌠their father at least knew.â
Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.
âYes,â Eli whispers. âHe knew.â
Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. âAnd he still let her go?â
Eliâs voice cracks. âHe didnât want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like Iâd never seen before, he just he knew we couldnât give to her what she needed. We didnât have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everythingâ
Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. âThey lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a childâ she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. âSo you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.â
Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.
The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesnât move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.
Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.
Eli breathes in deep like the confession sheâs about to make might crush her lungs if she doesnât hold herself steady. âSit down,â she says softly, looking to both daughters.
Alexia hesitates. âMamĂĄ, what is this?â
âPlease,â Eli says. âJust⌠sit.â Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. Sheâs crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like sheâs in church, waiting to confess. âI never thought Iâd have to say this out loud,â she begins, voice shaking. âI thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.â
Alba shifts uncomfortably. âWhat do you mean?â
Eliâs lips tremble, but she goes on. âYou had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Albaâ
The silence detonates. Alba blinks. âWhat? You⌠youâre joking, right?â she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. âIs this some weird joke orâ?â
âNo,â Eli says. âItâs not a joke.â
Albaâs face falls. âNo. No, that canât be true. I donât rememberââ
âYou wouldnât,â Eli cuts in gently. âYou were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldnât afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way sheâd survive.â
Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words wonât compute. âNo,â she whispers again. âNo. Thatâs notâyou wouldnât do that. Youâre not like that.â
âI did,â Eli says, her voice cracking. âWe made the only choice we thought we had.â
Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.
Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. âYou lied to us,â she says, flat and cold. âOur whole lives.â
Eli looks up, stricken. âAlexiaââ
âYou let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.â
âYou did,â Eli pleads. âI loved you every day of your lives.â
Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. âBut not her.â
âNo,â Eli whispers, ashamed. âNot like I should have.â
Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but canât stop the tears. âI didnât want this,â she says hoarsely. âI didnât want to be the one who broke you. Iâm so sorry.â
Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. âYou knew?â
Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. âI found out by accident,â she finally manages. âI-IâGod, Alexia, I didnât want to know.â
Alexiaâs eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.
And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, âA little sister... we had a little sisterâŚâ And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide openâand that itâs going to change everything.
The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesnât cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.
âNo,â Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. âNot now.â Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.
Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, âHow could you know and say nothing?â she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. âYou found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?â
Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. âI didnât want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.â
Eli steps forward, voice pleading. âAlexia, please. Olga didnât keep this from you to hurt youââ
Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.
âWhy didnât you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didnât you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? Whatâwhat was her name?â
Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexiaâs eyes. âIâI donât know,â she admits finally. âWe⌠we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her âBaby Girl.â Itâs probably been changedâ
Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.
Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia canât see her family healing from this.
The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasnât moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Sheâs staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.
Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.
Then, quietly, she moves.
She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olgaâs. The contact is light, but to Olga, itâs enough to keep her breathing.
âI need to see her,â Alexia says suddenly, softly. âI need to know she was real.â
Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. âWhat?â
âA photo,â Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. âDo you have one? Anything?â
Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Albaâs sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.
She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.
Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink:Â "Baby Girl Putellas Segura."Â Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.
There arenât many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.
In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the babyâs forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.
In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before itâs taken away.
No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.
Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like sheâs afraid it might disappear. âShe looks like, us,â she whispers. âHer nose. The shape of her eyes.â
Eli nods, wiping her face. âI only looked at these once,â she says. âThen I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldnât.â
Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. âShe was real,â she says, mostly to herself. âShe was ours.â next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.
Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.
She glances sideways. Alba hasnât moved. Sheâs still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if sheâs heard anything, itâs impossible to tell.
âAlbaâŚâ Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Albaâs direction. âDo you want to see her?â Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.
Alba doesnât answer. For a long moment, she doesnât even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexiaâs hand. She doesnât reach for it. Doesnât move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.
Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. âShe looks like you,â she whispers. âWhen you were little.â
Albaâs lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. âWhy didnât she get to stay?â she says finally, voice fragile and small.
Eliâs breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, âShe was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for herâ
Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, âShe had Papa's chin.â
It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesnât cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You havenât moved much since you got home. Havenât wanted to.
The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.
Youâve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.
Youâd tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldnât let you. Wouldnât hear you. She thought youâd used her. That youâd known. That the photo meant something youâd kept hidden, but you hadnât known. You still donât know.
That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. Youâd stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photoâs gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone elseâs truth.
You wipe at your eyes again, but they wonât stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.
You donât know whatâs happening.
You donât know what to do.
You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but thereâs nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.
Itâs almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.
Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri đ
You havenât told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now⌠nothing feels simple or safe.
You press call.
She picks up quickly. âHey,â she says, voice warm and soft.âEverything okay, you never call this late?â
You donât answer right away. Your throatâs too tight. âCan you come over?â you manage. âPlease?â
She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. âIâm on my way.â
You donât move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesnât ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that donât hesitate.
You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.
Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âI just⌠I didnât know who else to call.â
Patri nods, patient. âYou can always call me. You know that.â
You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, âI thinkâŚâ You pause, heart hammering. âI think Alexia Putellas is my sister.â
Silence. Patri doesnât laugh. Doesnât flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.
You look down at your hands. âThere was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they wereâ You shake your head, tears rising again. âOlga saw it and lost it. Thought Iâd known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasnât answered my messages. I donât know whatâs happening. I donât even know if Iâm going crazy.â
Patri takes your hand in both of hers. âYouâre not crazy,â she says softly. âAnd even if it sounds impossible⌠it might not be.â
âI donât want anything from them,â you say quickly. âI didnât even know. I just⌠I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just⌠no one.â
Youâre crying again, but you donât try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you donât say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, itâs the first moment youâve felt even a little less alone.
Patriâs fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. âYouâre not no one to me.â
It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. Thereâs no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.
âYou hear me?â she says again, firmer now. âYouâre not nothing. I donât care if you donât know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.â
Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.
You nod. A small one. But itâs real. âThank you,â you manage, your voice breaking.
Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. âWeâll figure this out,â she says. âTogether. Okay?â And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didnât feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.
âCome on,â she says gently. âIâm taking you to breakfast before we face the world.â
You want to protest, you donât look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but sheâs already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like itâs not up for debate.
So you let her.
The cafĂŠ is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.
You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.
âYou donât have to talk,â she says, watching you. âJust eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets⌠complicated again.â
You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, âWhat if she never forgives me?â
Patri doesnât hesitate. âThen she doesnât deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. âSheâs hurt,â Patri adds, softening. âI get that, but if she canât believe you, if she wonât even try to, then thatâs on her. Not you.â
You glance down at your coffee. âIt just⌠it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had⌠something that made sense.â
Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. âYou do,â she says. âYou have me and Iâm not going anywhere.â
You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.
She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. âYouâve got this,â she whispers. âText me when youâre done. No matter how it goes.â
You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.
You step away from the cafĂŠ, the last of Patriâs warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, sheâs over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasnât slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.
You donât know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesnât matter whatever flicker of healing youâd just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.
She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesnât shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow thatâs worse.
You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, Iâve made it worse.
You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.
The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it⌠still just out of reach.
The office is cold when you step in, or maybe itâs just you. Either way, you donât take off your coat.
You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.
She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"
Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. Sheâs not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though itâs just any other morning.
You swallow. âI, umâŚâ Your throat is dry. âI met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.â
You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.
âShe didnât know who I was,â you add. âTo you. I didnât tell her. At firstâ
Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, âDo you love her?â
The question stuns you, not because you hadnât thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. âI donât know,â you say honestly. âMaybe. Itâs a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sexâ
Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like sheâs filing it away somewhere.
You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesnât push. Doesnât snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow⌠that quiet is the most painful sound of all.
The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.
You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. âI spoke to Alexiaâs mami.â
You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.
You turn slowly, but sheâs not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.
Your voice barely makes it out. âYou did?â
She nods once. âYeah.â
You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasnât said yet. âI showed her the photo,â Olga continues, still soft. âThe one you had. She went pale. I didnât even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.â
A breath shudders out of you. âI didnât know,â you whisper. âOlga, I swear to youââ
âI know,â she cuts in.
Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.
âYou were just a baby,â she says quietly. âLeft with a photo and nothing else.â
You blink back fresh tears. âThen itâs true.â
Olga nods, slowly. âThey gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldnât afford the care you needed. Yourââ She pauses, breath catching. ââyour father⌠he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.â
You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.
âThey loved you,â Olga says. âYou were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.â She swallows hard, and now itâs her turn to look away. âBut they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.â
The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.
You whisper, âWhat was my name?â
Olgaâs voice trembles. âThey didn't get to name you.â
You close your eyes, it doesnât feel real and yet it explains everything.
Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if sheâs carrying something sacred and she is.
She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.
âThey know,â she says, barely above a whisper. âAlexia. Alba.â
You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers donât shake this time, but your breath catches.
âI didnât want to say anything until I was sure,â Olga continues. âUntil I had the truth.â
âAnd now they know.â You say it aloud. Like youâre testing it. Like it might disappear.
Olga nods.
âThey didnât before?â you ask.
She shakes her head slowly. âThey had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.â
You stare at her. âWhat did they say?â
Her lips press together for a moment. âAlba was⌠broken. She didnât believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.â
Your chest tightens.
âAnd AlexiaâŚâ Olgaâs voice trails off, her gaze dropping. âShe was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.â
You wince. âAt you?â
Olga meets your eyes. âShe didnât understand why I didnât tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didnât come to her the second I suspected.â
You nod slowly, taking that in.
âI told her I needed to be sure,â Olga says softly. âI owed that to everyone.â
Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, âDo they⌠want to see me?â
Thereâs a pause and then âYes,â Olga says. âThey do.â
You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that donât sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. âI need time.â
Olga doesnât speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but thereâs none, she just nods. âOf course,â she says gently.
âI justâŚâ you start, then stop. Try again. âItâs a lot. Iâm still trying to believe itâs real.â
Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didnât realise sheâd been holding. âYou donât owe anyone speed,â she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.
You nod slowly.
Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like sheâs giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.
Just⌠waiting.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
Patriâs apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. Itâs quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you wonât have the appetite for anything more.
Youâre curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photoâs not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be itâs burned into your thoughts.
Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.
You stare down at the tea. âI have family.â
The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like youâre saying them for someone else. Patri doesnât speak. She waits.
You exhale shakily. âPeople Iâm related to. By blood. Iâve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.â
She glances at you, softly, kindly.
You keep going, voice fragile. âThey want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.â You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. âBut I donât know if I can do it.â
Patri tilts her head. âWhy?â
You blink hard. âBecause Iâm not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have⌠pieces, but they donât fit right. What if Iâm a disappointment? What if they only want who I couldâve been, not who I actually am?â
The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.
âI donât know how to be someoneâs sister. I donât even know how to be someoneâs daughter.â
Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.
When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, âWhat if I ruin it just by showing up?â
She leans forward then, soft but certain. âBaby,â she says slow, âYou ruin nothing by existing. If anything, youâre the one thing that might put something broken back together.â
You donât reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hairâs a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like sheâs cocooning herself from the day.
Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.
She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.
Alexia hums, sensing something. âEverything okay?â
Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. âI need to tell you something,â she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"
Alexiaâs eyes flick up from her phone. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothingâs wrong,â Olga assures quickly. âJust⌠weird and you have to promise not to freak out.â
Alexia raises a brow. âThatâs never a comforting preface.â
Olga gives her a tired, warning look. âIâm serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just⌠listen.â
Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. âFine. I solemnly swear. Go.â
Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then âMy assistant, the one you met at the office⌠sheâs the girl Patriâs been seeing.â
Alexia blinks. âWait. What?â
âShh,â Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexiaâs arm. âYou promised. No freaking out.â
Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. âWait. Your assistant is Patriâs girl? She's the one who everyoneâs been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?â
Olga nods slowly. âYeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just⌠looked like a date.â
Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. âAnd youâre just telling me this now?â
Olga shrugs. âI didnât know until today. I wasnât spying. I was just... walking. Processing.â
Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. âDios. Patri and your assistant. Thatâs⌠wow.â She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. âIs she even Patriâs type?â
Olga gives her a flat look. âYouâve met her once, and all you said was she seemed âtoo polite.ââ
Alexia shrugs, but sheâs smiling now. âPolite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.â
Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexiaâs shoulder, a little quieter again.
After a beat, Alexia asks, âIs that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?â
Olga closes her eyes. âThereâs more to it⌠just not for tonight.â
Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. âOkayâŚâ
Olga squeezes her hand gently. âJust donât mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.â
Alexia rolls her eyes. âYou act like Iâm the drama.â
Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. âYouâre the captain and the drama.â
Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olgaâs forehead. âFine. Iâll behave.â
But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexiaâs thoughts just a little longer than before.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
Youâre mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and youâre scribbling notes on a pad beside you.
Patri is lounging, because thatâs the only word for it, in the visitorâs chair next to your desk. Sheâs got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though youâre indoors. She hasnât said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.
You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.
Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.
She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins âHola, jefa.â
Olga narrows her eyes. âPatri.â
You freeze mid-sentence on your call. ââYes, weâll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, Iâll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.â
You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga
âHey,â you say, cautiously.
Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way thatâs both maternal and mildly terrifying. âYou know this isnât a cafĂŠ, right?â she says to Patri, deadpan.
Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. âHad the morning off. Thought Iâd escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.â
Olga glances at you, unamused. âIs that true?â
You give her a tight, sheepish smile. âI didnât know she was coming.â
Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. âWell, now that youâre here, maybe youâd like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesnât understand what a brand kit is.â
Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. âThat sounds horrifying.â
Olga deadpans, âWelcome to my life.â
You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.
âFifteen more minutes,â she says to Patri. âThen sheâs mine again.â
Patri gives you a wink. âIâll take what I can get.â
Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The office quiets again after Patri leaves she kisses your temple before she goes, murmuring something only for you, and you hold onto the warmth of it like a tether. But it fades fast once the door closes behind her.
Olga doesnât look at you right away. Sheâs working or pretending to. You sit for a while. Typing. Staring. Breathing. Trying to decide if the knot in your chest will ever untangle itself.
You think about the photo. About the scans in the box. About Eliâs face when she realised who you were. About Olga saying your sisters know now. That they want to meet you.
You think about what you said to Patri and then, softly, âOlga?â
She looks up immediately, her eyes are calm, steady gentle in the way only someone whoâs known heartbreak can manage.
You clear your throat. Your hands tremble a little in your lap. âI thinkâŚâ You hesitate, then push through. âI want to meet them.â
Olga doesn't move for a second. Then she slowly exhales, and something loosens in her shoulders. Not relief something quieter. Respect, maybe. Care. âOkay,â she says, her voice low, warm. âIâll let them know.â
You nod, once. It still scares you. Youâre still not sure who youâll be to them or who theyâll be to you. Sisters. Strangers. Something in between, but youâre ready to try and maybe, for now, thatâs enough.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
The home Olga and Alexia share is quiet and vast, tucked away, the kind of place with balconies full of trailing plants and old tiled floors. Olga brings you up the driveway, but she doesnât say much. Just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours once or twice, letting the silence be whatever you need it to be.
You stop in front of the door, your hands are cold, you didnât realise you were shaking until you saw the key tremble in Olgaâs hand. She glances at you. âTheyâre all here.â
You nod once. Like if you say anything, youâll turn around and run Olga squeezes your shoulder gently. Then opens the door.
The flat smells like coffee and lavender. Eliâs sitting at the dining table. She rises when she sees you, hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but she doesnât. Not yet. Behind her, Alba leans in a doorway, arms folded tight, guarded and uncertain. Her expression is blank but her eyes are anything but, and then thereâs Alexia.
Sheâs sitting on the sofa. Casual, almost too casual hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, one leg bouncing anxiously. She stands up when you come in, and for a second, nobody breathes.
This is it. Youâve imagined this moment so many times and never, not once, like this.
Alexia speaks first. âHi.â Just that. One syllable, but her voice is soft.
You nod. âHi.â
Olga touches your back gently, guiding you toward the sofa. You perch on the edge, knees close together, hands tight in your lap.
Alba stays back.
Alesia sits back down and studies you like sheâs trying to make sense of whatâs right in front of her and still canât believe it. âI didnât know,â she says. âUntil last week, I didnât know.â
âI didnât either,â you whisper.
You look at her really look at her. Sheâs familiar in ways that donât make sense. The shape of her nose. The arch of her brow. The curve of her mouth when she frowns like yours in the mirror.
Eli clears her throat. âThis is yours,â she says quietly, and sets the shoebox down on the table in front of you.
You donât open it yet. Youâre too afraid of what it is will make real, and you really didn't want to cry in front of these people.
Instead, you look at Alexia again and then to Alba, whose jaw is clenched, whose arms are still crossed like armour.
âIâm not here to take anything,â you say, your voice shaking. âIâm not trying to force myself into your lives. I donât even know how to do this. I just⌠I wanted to meet you.â
Alba looks away, Alexia doesnât, she leans forward and when she speaks again, itâs quieter. âI donât know how to do this either,â she says. âBut I want to try.â
Your breath hitches. You nod. Once and when she reaches out, you let her take your hand and time passes in silence, Olga offers you a drink, and the only noise is clanking of glasses in the kitchen,
Alexia hasnât let go of your hand even when Olga puts your drink on the coffee table in front of you.
It rests between hers, light but sure, a quiet anchor as you sit across from her on the low coffee table. She doesnât look like a football legend right now. She looks like someone trying not to break apart a thousand different ways.
Olga sits beside you right beside you. So close her thigh presses against yours, one of her hands resting on your back as if sheâs afraid you might suddenly vanish.
You feel both of them, like weights you can lean on. Eli sits a few feet away, silent, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes are rimmed with red, lips pressed in a line. Alba leans against the far wall, arms still crossed, distant but listening.
The shoebox sits unopened on the table. Alexia breaks the silence first.
âSoâŚâ she starts, glancing between you and Olga, âYou work for my girlfriend. Thatâs wild.â
You blink, a little startled by the shift but youâre grateful for comfortable small talk. Itâs a rope thrown into the storm. You nod. âYeah. Almost three months now.â
Olga leans in just enough for her temple to graze your shoulder. âSheâs brilliant,â she murmurs. âTakes her job too seriously, though.â
You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. âSays the woman who once scheduled tweets from the bathtub.â
Alexia barks a laugh genuine, caught off guard. âShe would.â
âShe did,â "I did" you and Olga say in unison, and for a beat, it feels like a normal moment between friends.
Then silence creeps in again, you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.
âYou guys are close,â Alexia says softly, looking between you and Olga.
You nod. âSheâs been⌠I donât even know what Iâd call it. Kind. Patient. The first person who made me feel like I wasnât just⌠passing through.â
You feel Olgaâs fingers tighten briefly at your back. A silent Iâm still here. Alexiaâs expression softens. âI get that,â she murmurs.
You look at her carefully. âIs that why youâre⌠so good to Alba?â
She looks over at her little sister still silent, still watching and her whole face changes. Itâs not obvious, not loud, but itâs there the sharp tenderness, the unspoken devotion.
âSheâs mine,â Alexia says simply. âAlways has been.â
You nod slowly, your throat tightens, and suddenly you canât speak Olga shifts beside you, gently leaning into your side, just enough to steady you.
You donât say anything more, neither does Alexia, not right away, but somethingâs changing in the room. Not resolved not fixed but thawing.
Across the space, Alba watches it all with unreadable eyes and Eli quiet and still presses a hand to her mouth, as if afraid her emotions might spill out and ruin this fragile moment.
You look at your sister, she smiles at you. Small. Real and you smile back.
Itâs quiet again now, not the awkward kind itâs something else. Something rawer.
You feel Olga still beside you, warm and steady. Alexia hasnât moved far either, perched on the sofa her fingers tap silently against her knee, like she wants to speak but knows this moment isnât hers.
Youâre looking at Eli. She hasnât looked at you once. Not really. Not since you walked through the door. She sits rigid in her chair, her body folded in on itself like sheâs trying to be smaller, her hands twist in her lap, restless and unanchored. Her lips are pressed together like sheâs keeping a dam sealed with sheer will.
You watch the way her thumbs rub over one another.
You do that.
You watch the way her brow creases when sheâs thinking too loud to speak.
You do that too.
It strikes you all at once not in your chest but in your gut, like something old and invisible pulling taut.
Youâre hers you always have been, your voice, when it breaks the silence, surprises even you. Soft. Uncertain. âYou look like you need a hug.â
Her head lifts, slowly, slowly, she meets your eyes.
Everything in her face is shaking. Guilt. Hope. Fear. Regret. Love, too but buried beneath years of silence and sorrow.
Her mouth parts, but no words come out, the others donât move. Not Alba. Not Alexia. Not even Olga.
You donât push her, you just let the words sit in the space between you Eli swallows. Her eyes fill before a single tear escapes. Her hands go still and then quietly, brokenly âI doâ
You stand placing your bag down, she seems surprised by your action but she stands and when you take steps forward she meets you halfway.
She hugs you like sheâs terrified youâll disappear again, her arms wrap around you, trembling, and your face presses into her shoulder. You breathe her in lavender and something warm beneath it. Something familiar you didnât even know you missed.
Her whole body shudders as she quietly cries, you donât say anything, you just hold her back, you donât know what youâre forgiving. There was nothing to forgive for you, you donât know what still needs to be mended, but in this moment, youâre not lost. Youâre held.
The security buzzer goes, you swallow as you and Eli pull away at the same time, "I'll get it that, that'll be" Olga stops herself she knew Patri was coming for you, but she didn't know whether you wanted everyone knowing.
You nod with a little smile, you look to Alexia, "I take it you know"
She nods, "She talks about you a lot, I just didn't know, you were, you, until yesterday"
Patriâs car pulls up as the door is opened just as the sky softens into twilight you stand near the door, jacket pulled around your shoulders, feeling the air shift as the visit comes to a close.
Olga helps you gather your things gentle, wordless, still keeping close like sheâs afraid too much space might crack something in you. Alexia lingers near Patri's car they have a quiet conversation you don't catch, her arms folded but her expression soft, uncertain when it turns back to you. Alba follows behind at a distance, watching still wary, still processing, but here that was something.
Eli hasnât said much since the hug. Sheâs been quieter than ever, her movements slowed like the emotion has worn her thin, but sheâs remained close, watching you with eyes too full for casual conversation.
You hold the letter in your hand for a long time before you finally turn to her.
Itâs folded neatly. Ink smudged in one corner from where your hand trembled. You hadnât planned to give it to her but there were too many things you couldnât get out in front of everyone. Things too complicated. Too raw. And you wrote it for that circumstance.
You step closer. Offer it with both hands. She looks down at the paper like it might burn her fingers.
You speak quietly, for her only. âI didnât know how to say it all. So I wrote it instead.â
Eliâs hand reaches out slowly, like sheâs afraid if she moves too fast youâll vanish again. She takes the letter her fingers press around it like itâs fragile like you are.
She nods, eyes shining, lips parting but she doesnât speak. Just holds it close to her chest.
"Ready to go babe?" Patri smiles, "Pina and her sister are already there"
You nod and turn, your eyes meet Alexiaâs, she gives you the faintest smile, then steps aside to let you go. Olga brushes her hand over your back as you move past her, a silent Iâm proud of yo and as you walk around Patri's car to get in, Alba finally looks up.
She doesnât say anything but for the first time, she doesnât look away.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
The front door clicked shut behind you, and with it goes the last of the tension you carried into this house hours ago. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, the kind that doesnât fade easily. The kind that changes things.
Eli stands where you left her, still holding the letter like itâs made of glass.
Her eyes donât lift from it Alexia gently steps toward her. âMami?" but Eli barely hears. Her lips move, soundless.
âI canât,â she whispers finally. âI canât read it. I donât know if I can take what it says.â
Olga watches her closely, her fingers curled around the hem of her jumper, but she doesnât interrupt. Sheâs already said what she needed to say today.
Alba, who hasnât said a word in what feels like forever, finally pushes off the arm of the couch. Her voice is soft, a little raspy.
âDo you want me to read it to you?â
Eli looks up, startled, Alba doesnât smile. Doesnât flinch. She just holds out her hand. Eli hesitates for a moment, eyes searching her daughterâs face. And then, wordlessly, she presses the letter into her youngestâs palm.
Alba walks to the center of the room and sits down on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. She opens the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with tender fingers.
She clears her throat as everyone takes a seat and begins.
I don't even know where to start with this I feel for years of my life I always wanted this moment, the opportunity to have my say, so this probably won't flow or make much sense but I'm going to vulnerably honest and true to myself.
I never blamed you, growing up I never resented you, disliked you, or hated you for the decision you made. I would always wonder what I did wrong. Why I wasn't good enough. The reason you couldn't keep me and love me like parents should, I was always focused on me and my short comings, I never spoke or thought negatively for the decision you made.
I saw everyday the pain giving a child up caused, I heard my carers talk of the despair and sheer pain they would witness when children were removed from the care of their parents. I would hope you didn't ever have to feel that because it wasn't a choice you had made but I understand the gravity of the decision that was made to leave me at the hospital for you and your husband.
I obviously now know the reason for your decision, and I think it's important for you to know, I did get that help I needed and that you may be interested in the journey that took. I had five surgeries before my second birthday, to try and mend the heart I have, I spent the first three years of my life living in the hospital you left me at, before I was discharged to my first foster family but I had very complex medical needs and they couldn't deal with that so I was moved on. I moved I think 5 times before I was 10 and deemed fit enough to live in a communal home where I stayed until I was 12 but then I needed to move again due to my age to what they call a half way house until I was 18.
Tangent lol, back to the heart, its never going to be a fully working healthy heart, I can't eat certain foods I can't have certain drinks and I work everyday to just be the healthiest I can be to give my heart the best chance of being able to sustain me and make the need for a transplant stayed off for as long as possible. That's a case of when and not if.
Olga explained to me of the passing of your husband, I am truly sorry for you Alexia and Alba's loss, I couldn't begin to imagine the pain it caused to loose such a big part of your lives.
I'm not here to ask anything from any of you, I don't know what any of us want from what we've learned, or what any of us expect to happen.
I just hope that this doesn't affect the relationship you have with your daughters because even before I learned what I know now, from the stories I heard from Olga you sounded like such a warm loving tight nit family. It may not be my place to say but I hope it doesn't change what they think and see of you, you are still the mother they know and love that hasn't changed because they learned of me. You are still that same person, and if anything it just shows what strength you have to make the hardest decision a parent can make along with your husband and carry on and raise two amazing people.
I hope you can begin to heal and most of all forgive yourself for the decision you made all those years ago.
You made the right decision, for me and for your family.
I wouldn't be here today without the decision and sacrifice you made so,
Thank You
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
Youâre not expecting her.
The quiet of the office is a comfort today, Olgaâs out in meetings, the afternoon sun is casting soft shadows across your desk, and the rhythm of your tasks is keeping your mind anchored. Or at leas distracted.
Then the bell above the door chimes, you glance up.
Alba lingers awkwardly by the entrance, her eyes scanning the space like she might still change her mind. Sheâs dressed simply jeans, oversized tee, hair up in a messy knot and something about her posture makes her look younger than she is. Vulnerable.
You stand slowly, heart thudding. âHeyâŚâ
Alba walks in a few paces, stopping near the front counter. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. âI know Olgaâs not here,â she says quickly, like a disclaimer. âI waited. I didnât want to⌠ambush or anything.â
You nod, unsure what to say yet. Sheâs clearly nervous, more than you thought she would be from the stories you'd heard of her from Olga.
âI justâŚâ She exhales through her nose, avoiding your eyes. âI wanted to talk. To you. If thatâs okay.â
You gesture gently toward the small seating area. âOf course.â
You both sit, but she perches on the edge of the chair, like sheâs ready to bolt. She doesnât look at you, not directly, but her voice is soft and unfiltered. âI donât know how to do this,â she admits. âIâve been all messed up since we found out. Itâs like everything I ever knew just cracked and now I keep wondering what it means. For me. For us.â
You nod, letting her speak without interruption.
âI guess I justâŚâ She finally glances at you. Her eyes are rimmed red. âI want to get to know you, because out of anyone it's really not your fault, but I donât know where to start.â
Your voice is quiet but steady. âMaybe we donât have to know. Maybe we just try.â Alba blinks. You smile, just a little. âWe could⌠start with dinner? No pressure. No heavy talks unless you want to. Just two people who might be something to each other, seeing what that feels like.â
Alba gives the tiniest laugh, almost a scoff at herself. âI havenât felt this nervous about dinner since my first crush in high school.â
You grin. âShould I be flattered or terrified?â
She laughs again, fuller this time. âMaybe both.â
You reach for your notebook, tearing off a corner and scribbling. You hand it to her a small list of places you can eat in the city and your phone number"
âPick one. You text me when you're ready. No pressure. Just⌠dinner.â
Alba looks at the paper in her hands like itâs more than just ink and names. She nods slowly. âOkay,â she says, quieter now. âOkay.â She stands after a moment, lingers at the door again like sheâs debating something. Then she turns back. âThank you. For not making it harder.â
You offer her a warm, careful smile. âWeâve both had hard. Iâd rather try something else.â
She nods and then sheâs gone.
đ§âđ§âđ§âđ§
The restaurant is quiet and tucked away one of those cozy little places with exposed brick, warm lighting, and waitstaff that treat you like family. Youâre early. Youâd rather wait than arrive to faces youâre not quite sure how to greet yet, but you donât wait long.
Alba arrives first.
She spots you at the table and offers a small, shy smile as she slides into the seat across from you. Sheâs dressed casually, but there's something softer in her eyes than the last time less guarded.
Youâre about to say something when you hear a familiar voice at the hostess stand. âAlba!â
Alexia. Your heart stutters. You werenât expecting her. Alba glances at you, a half-smile creeping in. âI may have⌠invited someone.â
Alexia arrives at the table with a warm grin and no hesitation at all as she kisses both your cheeks like sheâs always done it. âHi,â she says, taking the seat beside you. âI figured, three sisters is better than two, no?â
Itâs strange how easy the word sisters rolls out of her mouth. You blink at her, then at Alba, then you smile. âYeah. I guess it is.â
The conversation starts simple, menus, drinks, Alexia teasing Alba about how she always orders the same pasta everywhere she goes. You laugh when Alexia makes a terrible pun in Spanish that Alba groans at. Youâre hesitant at first, still watching the way they interact like a spectator, until Alba nudges your arm and mimics your confused face when you try to translate the joke. You burst out laughing.
It surprises even you.
A bottle of wine appears. Glasses are poured. Somewhere between the bread basket and the main course, something shifts. Itâs light, natural, unforced.
You find yourself talking, not deeply, not yet, but honestly. Sharing silly work stories, how you met Patriâ
âOkay, wait,â Alba cuts in, grinning now, fork paused mid-air. âYouâre the secret girl Patriâs been sneaking around with all this time?â
Your face heats instantly. âIt wasnât sneaking,â you say through a laugh. âShe just wasn't exactly wanting it announcing it to the locker room.â
Alexia shakes her head, amused. âPatri is awful at subtle. She was glowing at training after she met you. G-L-O-W-I-N-G.â
You laugh, covering your face for a second. âOh god.â
Alba leans in slightly, her tone playful but with an edge of sincerity. âJust so you know⌠if she hurts you, Iâll kick her ass.â
You snort into your wine.
Alexia raises a brow. âAlba, Patri is my teammate.â
Alba shrugs, utterly unbothered. âDonât care. I like her, but blood is blood.â
Youâre laughing now, genuinely, shaking your head. âIâll be sure to tell her sheâs been warned.â
Alba points at you with her fork. âDo that. I want her scared.â
Alexia mutters something about drama queen, and Alba throws a breadstick at her. It misses, barely.
Youâre still smiling, Alba leans back in her seat, glass in hand, her grin a little wicked.
âSoâŚâ she begins slowly, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, âhowâs the sex with Patri?â
Alexia nearly chokes on her wine.
You blink, stunned, heat rushing to your cheeks. âAlba!â
âWhat?â she laughs. âIâm curious!â
Alexia looks horrified. âYou canât ask her that!â
âI just did,â Alba smirks.
Youâre giggling now, one hand covering your face as you try to recover. âGod, okay, um⌠we havenât⌠actually done that yet.â
Albaâs face flickers with surprise. âReally?â
You nod, a little shy but honest. âYeah. Sheâs been⌠really respectful. Which is kind of adorable.â
Alexia leans back, visibly relaxing. âThatâs sweet. Patriâs always been a softie underneath the sarcasm.â
You bite your lip, then laugh quietly. âIt is sweet. But sometimes I just⌠want to be disrespected, you know?â
Thereâs a moment of silence, Alexiaâs eyes go wide, Alba hollers with laughter and you shrink back slightly, eyes darting between them realising who they are to you as your face burns. âOh my God wait. I canât talk like that in front of you, can I?â
Alexia makes a strangled noise, waving her hand like she needs to shut her ears. âNo. You absolutely cannot. Your my baby sisterâ
Alba wipes a tear from her eye. âToo late.â
You all dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. The kind that breaks through walls you didnât even realise were still up. You glance at them Alexia still slightly horrified, Alba grinning like she won the lottery.
Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with a soft, content look on her face. âYou know,â she says, her voice quieter now, âI really didnât know what to expect when I found out. I was angry. Hurt. But right now?â She looks between you both. âThis feels right.â
You meet her gaze. âIt does.â
Albaâs smile isnât wide, but itâs real. Thereâs still so much to say, still so much to feel, still so much to learn, but for now, thereâs wine, warmth, and the first real night where you donât feel like a stranger.
Just a sister.
#alexia x reader#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas fanfic#woso fanfics#alexia putellas#woso#barca femeni#barcelona femeni#alexia putellas imagine#woso imagine#alexia putellas x y/n#alexia putellas one shot#fcb femeni
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Hey, firstly I just wanted to say Iâve been consuming your content for years and thank you and Blue for being the only thing that kept my academic brain from turning to mush during online COVID middle school!
But Iâm entering a new academic era, notably Junior year of my very rigorous collage prep program at my high school. Iâve always thought I would go to collage after high school but Iâve recently stumbled into some very interesting ways of making a living only perusing my creative passions (some very scary publishing opportunities). So Iâve been wondering if I actually want to go to collage or not, since going to collage just to be a published writer is an objective waste of money and I donât want to spend the rest of high school breaking my neck earning collage credits Iâm not going to use.
So I was wondering, if you had known you could make a living only perusing your creative passions, would you have spent the time, money and academic energy going to collage for something you didnât end up doing professionally?
(I would ask my advisor but heâs too obviously pro collage and doesnât have any experience making a living creatively).
(Sorry for the long ask)
No problem about the long ask! This is a very good question!
I'll start with the short answer, which is that nobody can make this decision but you, and if you decide not to go to college right now, that does not mean you are deciding to never go to college. Especially with Covid, plenty of people are taking gap years, and plenty of full-on adults go to college later in life, simply because the mood strikes them, or they now have income to burn, or they're interested in a career change, etc. This is not a coinflip that will decide the trajectory of the rest of your life.
For the longer answer, for me personally? Knowing I'd be able to earn a living doing art would have no bearing on my decision to go to college. Setting aside that a ton of the literary analysis my job is based on is skills I learned in college, I liked college because it gave me the opportunity to learn a wide swath of things, from anthropology courses to dinosaur science. I like learning new things! College was an opportunity to learn a ton of new things, and even if it was very challenging in places, I thrived in it. I didn't go to college with the goal of becoming qualified for a Real Job - because of who I am as a person I think I'd seriously struggle at most Real Jobs, and I knew that even back then. I was in college to learn, and to learn how to learn. I got my degree in mathematics, a thing I do not use in my Job, but the functionality of mathematics - to logically reason through problems, step by step, comparing it to known problems to map the way to solutions using operations that preserve truth - is an invaluable skill that I apply everywhere there are problems to solve, especially literary analysis. I learned a wide swath of tools with surprising applications, and I couldn't have known when I started how I might use them in the end.
However, there's a big caveat there. This was my personal experience of college as a playground where I could work towards a solid major and also branch out to take weird one-off electives and summer courses when anything struck my fancy. But I was in on a scholarship to cover a good chunk of my tuition, and one of my relatives very kindly paid for the rest. I got to do college without accruing any college debt, and that is an enormous factor. I can only share my personal take, but I'm not going to pretend that things would have been the same if I'd had to enter adulthood finding a way to quickly pay off a six-figure sum.
I've been extremely lucky to get to the point where I can navigate life in a way where money is very rarely something I need to worry about. It was certainly not always like that, and I do not miss those times, but it invariably shapes the way I see the world and the steps I took to get here. For me personally, I do not consider college in any way a waste of time; I think the opportunity to learn is one of the most exciting things out there. But my experience cannot be pretended to be universal.
This decision is yours, and it is also not final. Whatever choice you make, you can always choose again later. You have time.
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TOTAL BATTLE LOGİN - PRO+

Welcome to the ultimate gaming experience with Total Battle, a strategic online war game that challenges your tactical skills while immersing you in a captivating medieval world. In this article, weâll explore the essentials that every player needs to know, including how to navigate the Total Battle login process, maximize your gameplay, and delve into comprehensive guides that will elevate your strategies. Whether you're a seasoned general or just starting your journey, youâll find valuable insights and tips to help you conquer your foes and build a formidable empire.
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One of the significant advantages of total battle is its comprehensive total battle guide that aids both new and experienced players. This guide provides players with vital information on unit formations, resource allocation, and battle tactics, ensuring that you always stay one step ahead of your opponents. With regular updates and community contributions, this guide evolves alongside the game, maintaining its relevance and usefulness.
When you visit totalbattle, you are welcomed with a user-friendly interface that simplifies the login process, allowing you to jump straight into action. The platform is designed to be intuitive, making it easy for players of all skill levels to navigate and find helpful tools and resources that enhance their gameplay experience.
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Welcome to your ultimate total battle guide, designed to help you navigate through the exciting world of Total Battle efficiently. Whether you are a newcomer seeking to understand the basics or a seasoned player looking for advanced strategies, this comprehensive guide is here to enhance your gameplay experience.
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Total Battle combines elements of strategy, city-building, and warfare. Familiarize yourself with the core mechanics to maximize your success:
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Strategic Gameplay Tips
To gain an edge over your opponents, implement these tips into your strategy:
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The game offers various tactical features to gain dominance over your rivals. Mastering these can lead to significant advantages:
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Battle Tactics:Â Experiment with different formations and tactics to find the best approach during battles.
Event Participation:Â Engage in special events that often yield unique rewards and opportunities for bonuses.
Utilizing this total battle guide will empower you as you embark on your journey in Total Battle. For further assistance or in-depth lore, donât forget to check out TotalBattleLogin.com. Start your adventure today and conquer your foes with confidence!
Totalbattle
Discover the captivating world of Totalbattle, where strategy and action collide! Immerse yourself in the exhilarating gameplay designed to challenge even the most seasoned gamers. From building your powerful empire to forging alliances with other players, the Total Battle experience is ever-evolving and engaging.
The game seamlessly blends elements of classic strategy with modern features, ensuring that every session is unique. Whether you are a newbie or a veteran, the Total Battle guide is your essential tool for mastering gameplay tactics and optimizing your journey.
Accessing the game through the Total Battle login portal opens doors to exclusive events, rewards, and updates that keep the excitement alive. Enhance your gameplay experience by diving into rich lore and strategic warfare mechanics that Total Battle has to offer.
Join a vibrant community of players who share tips, strategies, and camaraderie in their quest for dominance. Donât miss out on the opportunity to enhance your skills and achieve greatness. Take the first step by visiting Total Battle and preparing yourself for an epic adventure!
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JOB REQUIREMENTS




summary: when you signed up to become f1's new rising star isack hadjar's personal assistant, you didn't realize that taking care of his three-year old daughter was going to be part of the job requirements.
F1 MASTERLIST | IH6 MASTERLIST
pairing: young single dad!isack hadjar x pa!reader wordcount: 2.2K content: alternative universe - single dad, toddler behavior, fluff, use of y/n note: wrote this in one sitting who am i. this is more of a pairing exploration than an actual fic, the idea just attacked me. lmk if you want to see more of them!

EVENT MANAGEMENT THRIVED on a few core elements, but in the high-octane world of motorsports, less was always more: organization, determination, and adaptability. These three qualities were preached like holy gospel to every employee, an anthem you recited with choir-like devotion.
You adored it.
You prospered in the rhythm of conscientious planning, relishing the sight of your carefully color-coded folders transforming into seamless hospitality experiences for the Racing Bulls team. A rainbow gradient arranged each of them following their respective topics, and your notes were written in neat 1.5-line spacing with a smooth gliding blue pen.Â
What started as a side hustle to earn additional money had become the heartbeat of your life, so much that your college degree in marketing had shifted to online classes so you could commit yourself fully. After all, a studentâs timetable was rarely vacant, and availability was another salient currency when you dabbled in a world as tumultuous as Formula One. Combining event management with its adrenaline was a gamble, one youâd taken with hungry hands, much to your parentsâ overly vocal dismay.
Your work ethic would have eventually led to a promotion; you were sure of it. Although you hadnât quite expected that promotion to be a spot as Isack Hadjarâs personal assistant.
The reason for the switch had been told through hurried whispers, something about his PA quitting right before the season opener, leaving his calendar messy and unattended. The team scrambled to find a replacement. A day in, and your name had apparently come up, your expertly organized folders had spoken for themselves, and next thing you knew, you were managing Racing Bullsâ up-and-coming talent.
You didnât speak much to him during the first few weeks. Mostly, they were about cleaning up the mess his last assistant had left behind: you wondered how theyâd managed to get anything done with the thousands of stray, half-written notes left around on crumpled paper, each one threatening you with an aneurysm. Still, amidst the handful of emails you exchanged and the scattered conversations you had, you managed to gather a few keywords that could classify what kind of man Isack Hadjar was.
Easygoing. He never fussed about the social media obligations you threw his way and partook in them with blinding enthusiasm. He happily interacted with the crowd, would quickly fire off replies to your emails about an upcoming event, and always ended them with an unprofessional (but oddly charming) smiley face. Shy, awkward. As confident as he appeared in his car or around the team, Isack often stumbled over his words in more intimate settings: the few times you were by his side to run through his daily schedule, heâd give you half-answers with cheeks flushed pink, followed by an horrid attempt at a joke, and inevitably a water bottle knocked somewhere. Young. At twenty-one, the same age as you, he often hovered between friend and boss, hesitant to treat you like a subordinate or even as a colleague.
It was part of the reason you were so astonished upon learning he had a whole daughter. See, Dad was not a keyword youâd planned to add to your mental files.
âIâm very sorry to ask this, really,â Isack had apologized on media day during the Bahrain race weekend, his eyes earnest and rimmed with exhaustion. âBut I couldnât find a daycare that would take her in, and no family member could babysit.â
You blinked at him. The request replayed in your mind like a broken record. âIâm not a babysitter, Isack. Iâm your assistant,â you said, but your mind was halfway there.
He offered a sheepish grin. âTechnically, youâre already babysitting me.â
âYouâre a grown adult,â you deadpanned, deeply unamused. âYou donât need me to change your diaper, unless you forgot to tell me about a pharmacy run for incontinence medicine.â
âSheâs three,â Isack said, his brows knitting together, and he looked more offended at your accusation toward his daughter than your jab at him. âShe doesnât need diapers anymore. Sheâs very capable. I justâ I need my assistantâs assistance to take care of her. For one weekend, just one.â
Assia Hadjar was a beautiful girl, truly. With thick brown curls, wide hazel eyes that reminded you of a startled deer, and freckled tan skin, she was the spitting image of her father. Sheâd looked so shy the first time Isack first introduced you, hiding behind his legs and shifting nervously in her sparkling blue shoes. It had fooled you into thinking that, even though your gift didnât lie in childcare, you could manage it for a single race weekend. You heard Isackâs weak âOh putain, merciâ when you nodded.
What naivety.
Youâd expected that one weekend with Assia would be the longest forty-eight hours of your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer mayhem that ensued.
First, there was the meltdown over the blue cup. Youâd given her the green one: same shape, same cartoon princess (Tiana, if youâre interested in any precision), but somehow the wrong color. Cue tears, snot, and decibels you imagined an opera singer could reach, not a three-year-old. Youâd tried to explain that all the cups were the same, even offered to swap them, which was deeply ironic coming from someone who wouldnât write on anything other than squared paper, but by then, sheâd upgraded to the âlying on the floor and wailingâ stage.
Then came the pasta incident. Who knew a girl no more than three apples tall could have such strong opinions on pasta shapes? Again, coming from the one person bossing the entire staff team around. Apparently, penne was a direct insult to her pride, and only the twirly ones were acceptable. When youâd asked her to demonstrate âtwirly onesâ with a picture, sheâd drawn what looked like a worm on the back of your neatly printed itinerary.
By the end of one weekend, youâd found pasta shapes you never knew existedâand probably didnâtâ, learned that the Pokemon theme song on repeat will break your sanity, and discovered that the N-A-P word was a threat to national security. You were certain youâd done a horrible job because, at some point, youâd shamefully texted Isack an emergency SOS about a crying tantrum when youâd forbidden her to adopt a random spider from the paddock.
But when Isack came to pick her up, Assia had run to him grinning, eyes bright, babbling about how âY/N was the best everâ and you âmade the pasta worms taste sooooo goodâ. Youâd braced yourself for mockery, but instead, heâd looked at you with a relieved gratitude that made your chest ache.
The following day had entailed your full initiation to toddlerhood, which included watching Disneyâs Mulan on repeat for the hundredth time. You wondered how she didnât get tired of hearing the same song, with the same lines, over and over again (yes, you were still reluctantly humming along. Itâs Mulan.)
Halfway through the hundred and first time, Assia had fallen asleep curled into your side, half-lying on the floor and back against the feet of your hotel room couch. Her sparkly blue shoe had been abandoned in a pile of her belongings, including an Umbreon plushie, next to your bed. Youâd meant to get up and tackle your emails, maybe catch up on the sponsorship decks that were piling up, but somewhere between a shirtless Li Shang and the beginning notes of A Girl Worth Fighting For, your eyelids had grown impossibly heavy.
You woke up as the credits rolled quietly in front of you, a crick in your neck and a crayon in your hair. Looking around, eyes bleary and slightly dazed, you noticed Isack leaning against the doorframe of your room. His arms were crossed on the Racing Bulls compression shirt he was wearing, hugging his biceps tightly, and you found yourself staring a beat too long in the dim light of the room. A fond smile thinned his lips.
âRough night?â he asks, and he must have taken your stare for confusion because he stumbled upon an explanation. âYouâ you gave me a duplicate of your key for the room. So I could pick her up after the interviews.â
âI remember, I remember, I justâ Ugh,â you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and not speaking too loud so as to not wake Assia. âI fell asleep during a childrenâs movie. I think thatâs a new low.â
âCouldâve been worse,â Isack laughed. His gaze drifted to the almost empty blue cup. âAt least you figured out she liked the blue cup, this time.â
You glared at him, but reached for the water bottle on the table. âContrary to popular beliefs, and by popular I mean mine, she likes a lot of things,â you grumbled, unscrewing the cap. âExcept naps. Or any vegetables with funny textures. Or fizzy sodas. Orââ
You paused, catching the way his smile softened as he watched you. It occurred to you that youâd never had Isack like this in your presence: relaxed, not fumbling over himself. âWhat?â
âNothing.â He rubbed the back of his neck. âItâs just⌠I think youâre better at this than you think.â
âRight.â A snort escaped you, and Assiaâs asleep form shifted against your side. It was late, Isack could still carry her to bed without waking her up, so you smoothed her hair with a featherlight touch, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. She frowned, small fingers clutching the crisp fabric of your carefully ironed shirt, and buried her face deeper against your ribs. âSheâs so stubborn,â you murmured absentmindedly. You couldnât help but add, âjust like her dad.â The few months youâd worked for him had taught you the family resemblance was striking in that regard.
Isack arched a brow. A surprised chuckle fell out of his lips. âThatâs rich coming from you.â He padded over quietly, sneakers muffled on the carpet, and settled himself next to Assia. Slowly, with a carefulness that constricted your chest, he tucked a curl behind her ear. âSheâs never that⌠open. With strangers, I mean. She likes you.â
Your eyes darted from the small girl to her father in amusement. âDoes she, now? The tears and screams could have fooled me.â
âShe does, she couldnât shut up about you,â he insisted, huffing out a laugh. âShe, uhâ she takes after her dad for that too.â
That time, your carefully maintained professional front cracked, a tiny fissure in the businesslike ice wall you so meticulously built over time. Your eyes widened, heat tightened your cheeks and crept up your neck, and your hand froze on Assiaâs hairâright next to Isackâs. He wasnât doing any better. The admission seemed to have robbed him of his usual confidence, leaving him unable to meet your gaze for longer than a second.
âIâ I mean, Iâm, Iâm glad thatââ You never stammered. You were composed, efficientâ your voice carried, and your words were deliberate, measured. Now, you werenât sure you even remembered how the English language worked.
Isack smiled to himself as the title screen to Mulan rolled on again. You wanted to throw a pillow at him. Yet, with Assia curled up and fast asleep between the two of you, you still sat through another hour of songs about fighting and honor.
You thought it would be the end of it. One ambiguous weekend, and youâd slip back to your usual schedule, rearranging Isackâs meetings and leaving his daughter to his capable family or caretaker. You could ignore anything ever happened that night, and pretend the glances you stole when you thought the other wasnât looking was a figment of boredom during bland days.
But the next race weekend, Assia refused to go to daycare as a whole.
âShe said she wants to be with you,â Isack said, looking ridiculously apologetic. Jesus, that little girl really had him wrapped around her finger.
You, on the other end, had been stunned to silence. âMe? She wants to be⌠with me?â
âSheâs been asking for you all week,â he admitted, eyes darting to the side. âAnd Iââ He hesitated. âSheâs⌠sheâs happier with you than sheâs ever been at daycare.â
You stared at him. You had a sneaky feeling that the universe had played a cosmic joke at your expense. âButâ Isackâ Iâm not even good at this,â you protested. âMy entire process was based on Google, a spreadsheet she doodled on, and a prayer.â
His laugh sounded awkward. âLike I said, she likes you,â he said simply. The softness in his voice was foreign to you, but not entirely unwelcome. What he said that night in your hotel room came back full force, and your cheeks darkened a few shades. âThat should be enough, right?â
You wanted to tell him that, no, it wasnât enough. You were in over your head, it wasnât what you signed up for, and your messy color-coded folders cried out for a well-needed weekly organization. Instead, you found yourself nodding, because somehowâdespite your many, many failuresâyouâd become the one person this tiny human trusted more than anyone else.
That was how your weekends became a strange blend of racing schedules, sponsor meetings, and toddler tantrums and giggles. And for reasons you couldnât quite comprehend, you found you didnât mind it at all. At first, you thought it was the job requirements. The obligations, as usual.
But maybe it was Assia and her loud determination. Maybe it was Isack and the way he stared when he thought you didnât notice.Â
Maybe it was a bit of both.

ŠLVRCLERC 2025 â do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.
#ᯠmy writing.á#isack hadjar#isack hadjar x reader#isack hadjar x you#ih6 x reader#ih6 x you#f1 x reader#f1 x you#formula one x reader#formula one x you#isack hadjar imagine#ih6 imagine#isack hadjar fic#ih6 fic#isack hadjar fluff#ih6 fluff
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Private Investigator Abby who doesn't disclose her career until she trusts you.
Private Investigator Abby who majored in psychology after enduring multiple traumas, specializing in body language and nonverbal cues.
Private Investigator Abby who spent her childhood people watching and her teenage years studying theater. Not to perform herself, but to spot the performance in others.
Private investigator Abby who caught a special interest in criminology after witnessing the dark sides of humanity, seemingly thriving in broad daylight completely unchecked.
Private Investigator Abby who learned lockpicking from a girl she met in juvenile detention, the only friend she ever truly trusted. They started out as mortal enemies. Abby still wears her woven bracelet, but she never talks about why.
Private Investigator Abby who has zero interest in being on social media or seeking validation online but carries three burner phones and a cracked iPad she uses to track corrupt politicians, abusers, cheaters, and corporate douchebags.
Private Investigator Abby who wears a dark brown shoulder holster, shaped perfectly to her body, her white shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the slightest hint of a tattoo on her collarbone.
Private Investigator Abby who drives a sleek black Dodge Challenger that growls to life the moment she turns the key. Her muscular thighs tremble against engine purr, and she likes to just sit there and feel it first thing in the morning. There's always a box of protein bars and spare change rolling around. She keeps fresh clothes in a backpack and a locked box in the trunk.
Private Investigator Abby who lives in a small, hidden apartment above an old boxing gym. It smells like sweat and leather downstairs, but upstairs, she curls up on a squeaky futon, her weighted blanket heavy with cedar and sage. The space has minimal clutter and blackout curtains for the days a brutal migraine hits. There's a kettle and Earl Grey always on standby. She enjoys it with so much cream it turns the tea a milky, warm beige.
Private Investigator Abby who trains every morning before dawn. She rarely uses the gym downstairs, there's too much chalk and attitude. But she does burn herself out on her pull up bar and she keeps a full set of dumbbells stacked against the livingroom wall. She might hit some rounds on the heavy bag downstairs if nobody else is training.
Private Investigator Abby who swears off relationships because she only seems to attract emotional vampires or people whose demons don't dance well with hers and she's exhausted enough as it is.
Private Investigator Abby who has weekly movie nights with her best friend Manny, throwing popcorn at his head when he won't shut up about his womanizing escapades, while secretly craving a little affection.
Private Investigator Abby who takes on an infidelity case and ends up bumping into you in a tiny corner cafĂŠ after midnight. It's winter and her nose is still pink from pacing outside during a short break from milling through files. These cases always make her heartsick, but when she meets you for the first time, and you smirk at her with those ocean deep eyes, she forgets there was ever pain.
Private Investigator Abby who spends the wee hours of the morning listening to you talk. About your life, about your hobbies, just chewing the inside of her lip as she gazes at you from across the table. The only thoughts flitting through her mind are some different ways to pause the clock so she has more time with your beautiful voice, and convictions of how devastatingly alluring you are in the low light of a rundown coffee shop.
Private Investigator Abby who gives you her number and loses sleep wondering if you'll call. When her phone vibrates across the tile counter the next night, she's in the middle of cooking dinner. She barely remembers to turn off the stove before she's calling you back.
Private Investigator Abby who spends months texting you back and forth, a smile permanently etched on her face. She's afraid to tell you how much you mean to her but she's more afraid not to.
Private investigator Abby who takes you on several dates before she's brave enough to invite you over. You make her feel calm and safe but she's still healing from the one who didn't and you deserve every ounce of her attention.
Private Investigator Abby who frets that the ugly sides of her career will bleed into her connection with you, but learns over time that you're steady and trustworthy. She buys you a super dorky mug so you can drink tea with her when you visit.
Private Investigator Abby who lets you sit on her lap while she reviews footage, her fingertips tracing soft shapes on your knee as she loses herself in another investigation. Somehow, when you tell her how clever she is, how good, her touch always seems to drift higher.
Private Investigator Abby who lets you tease her for weeks when you're out of town and she can't quite scratch the itch the same way you do when you're together. You send her a photo that makes her hot all over and she falls asleep looking at it.
Private Investigator Abby who takes you on a sunrise stakeout the moment you're home.
The pavement is slick with dew and the streets are empty. She parks her car under a half dead pine tree, angled at a vantage point she needs before killing the engine. Maybe she also chooses the spot to give you the best possible view of the pink and orange sky. She won't tell you out loud. You'll only catch it in the corner of your eye, the way she watches you like you're the real sunrise.
The windows fog up from the warmth of your bodies. She hasn't said a word in twenty minutes, but her jaw is tight. You're both trying not to feel too much because she's supposed to be focused on a job. The tension makes her shift in her seat.
"Abby?"
"Hm?"
"How much time do we have?"
She drums her fingers on the leather steering wheel before glancing at her watch. She presses her back into the driver's seat, her thick thighs parting to make room for you.
"Enough. Come here."
#abby anderson#abby tlou#abby tlou2#abby the last of us#abby anderson tlou2#tlou abby#abby x reader#abby x you#abby fluff#abby smut#abby anderson the last of us 2
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Kitchen
Ęá´á´
s Ęá´Ęs x Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę
áŻâ
â synopsisâ : How does the LADS boys handle themselves in the kitchen?
áŻâ
â tagsâ : prompt, soft, fluff & possible OOC
ââââââââââââââââ ËËË â
ď˝ĄË âď¸ Ë・â・Ëâ˝ ËËË ââââââââââââââââ
đđđŻđ˘đđŤ
Xavier in the kitchen was almost a disaster waiting to happenâno exaggeration. He had a knack for forgetting to turn off the stove or neglecting to set a timer, leaving his meals charred and inedible more often than not. While eliminating Wanderers with effortless precision was second nature to him, cooking seemed to be his weakness. Typically, Xavier gravitated toward quick, easy mealsâcup noodles, ready-to-eat optionsâand never fussed over what he ate.
Despite his mishaps, he genuinely put in the effort to learn, committing to recipes and working to improve. With time, practice, and a few burned pans later, he eventually became efficient in the kitchen. Once he mastered the basics, he started preparing large meals, focusing on quantity so youâd never be short of options, making sure you had plenty of your favorites to choose from.
. . ââââââââââââââ â
âş.
đđđ˛đ§đ
Zayne embodied the perfect image of husband material. Though his job as a Linkon doctor kept him busy with back-to-back surgeries and long hours at the hospital, he never failed to make time for youâespecially if you were craving his cooking. Despite his demanding schedule, he made it a priority to prepare meals whenever he came home, often late into the night, just to see your face lit up with each bite.
Zayne was meticulous in the kitchen, his precise nature extending from surgery to the ingredients he handled. Aside from his disdain for carrots, he had an impressive knowledge of different vegetables and how to bring out their natural flavors in every dish. Whether he was baking or cooking, he always followed the recipes to a tee, ensuring every detail was perfect, particularly when trying something new. His care and precision in the kitchen mirrored the way he treated youâattentive, thoughtful, and deeply considerate.
. . ââââââââââââââ â
âş.
đđđđđ˛đđĽ
Rafayel may come off as bratty and spoiled, but beneath that exterior, he harbored surprising culinary talent. It wasnât something he flaunted, considering that most of his meals were either prepared by Thomas, brought or ordered online. But when the mood struck him, Rafayel could whip up a dish with flair, though he often relied on instructions and recipes to guide him. His creativity shined through, however, as he loved experimenting and adding his personal touch to any recipe.
You were always his first taste-tester, the one heâd eagerly present his latest creation toâsometimes a surprisingly delicious innovation, other times an odd combination that left you questioning his choices.
. . ââââââââââââââ â
âş.
đđ˛đĽđŽđŹ
Sylus, much like Zayne, could easily be considered husband material, though he typically didnât need to lift a finger in the kitchen thanks to his personal chef. Yet, when the occasion called for it, Sylus was more than capable of preparing a meal. Confident and knowledgeable, he rarely consulted recipes, instead relying on his sharp memory and expertise.
While patience wasnât his strong suit, he made an exception when you were involved. If you were there to taste his dish, Sylus would put his full effort into crafting a meal that catered to your palate, making sure each seasoning and flavor hit the right notes. For someone who thrived on power and control, cooking was one of the few activities where he allowed himself to slow down, focusing intently on every detail. After all, he wanted it to be perfect for you.
ââââââââââââââââ ËËË â
ď˝ĄË âď¸ Ë・â・Ëâ˝ ËËË ââââââââââââââââ
â°ď˝Ą Author's Note: There's significant parts that are definitely inspired by Infold's Special Chapter; "Ways Of Making Chocolate" chibi report on this prompt.
I'll be working on some requests (specifically a continuation of Grief) by next week since preliminaries are approaching soon, I'll be off from writing for a few days.
#âşËâ
: Writings#love and deepspace#love & deepspace#lads prompt#zayne#zayne love and deepspace#zayne lnds#zayne l&ds#zayne x reader#rafayel#rafayel x reader#rafayel love and deepspace#rafayel lnds#rafayel l&ds#xavier#xavier x reader#xavier love and deepspace#xavier lnds#xavier l&ds#lnds#lads#l&ds#li shen#qi yu#shen xinghui#Qin Che#l&ds sylus#sylus x reader#sylus love and deepspace
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Some notes on Chitra đđĄđ
The 14th Nakshatra. Itâs ruled by Mars and is the bridge between sidereal Virgo and Libra. Being contained between 23.20 degrees Virgo and 6.40 degrees Libra.
Deity: Tvastar the celestial architect
Their symbol is a Jewel/Pearl. Some sources would say itâs symbolized as a diamond as well. Their yoni is a female tiger.
This can apply to Sun, moon, Ascendant, lagnesh or Atmakaraka in Chitra. Honorable mention ketu in Chitra.
Here are some observations Iâve made about them:
â They look good on camera.
â Usually have thick defined eyebrows.
â Theyâre one to obsess over their appearance in a very thorough way.
â They have round eyes that look glossy like marbles. Their face is heart shaped.
â At a certain point they learn people like looking at them; as many find them physically attractive. Theyâre not one hide away from that gaze of others, but embrace the attention that comes with being attractive.
â They love attention and being the center of things.
â They hate having body hair. Many opt to getting laser: permanent hair removal. Ironically enough a lot of them tend to be genetically very hairy.
â Even Chitra men hate having body hair. My Chitra guy friend used to shave his legs and I thought it way so weird for a (straight) guy to do that??.đ
â Chitra women are thicc. They usually have full hips and big butt.
â Fun fact: when I used to do astrology readings , I offered a reading where Iâd describe your physical appearance based on your birth chart , and literally every single person who bought that reading had Chitra Sun, moon or ascendant. Mainly ascendant though.
â They are good at orchestrating drama. They highkey love drama.
â They live for controversy/ creating controversy
â Being the conductor of the drama then being the one to try to fix it , is a classic Chitra trope to me.
â They actually have a masterful talent of orchestration of drama but never get caught or blamed for it.
â They know how to be manipulative of social narratives. They know how to act or say things in order to get a certain reaction from others.
â This why they make good lawyers, bc during prosecution you have to make the defendant person look guilty through power of suggestion & insinuation. And put that seed of doubt in the juryâs mind based on their line of questioning. Basically indirectly accusing them without saying it directly.
â Theyâre naturally passive aggressive. They can display the mask of cordiality but secretly plot of someoneâs downfall.
â They can poke and prod people to get an emotional or angry emotion out of them.
â A lot of them are very critical and judgmental. They can be judgmental towards family members especially.
â One thing Iâve see with Chitra that no one ever talks about is how good they are at predicting social trends. They usually know about /do something a few years before itâs popular.
â I sense theyâre good at trend forecasting since Libra naturally has Aquarius in their 5th house. 5th house= talents, Aquarius= the future. So they have a talent for predicting the future.
â Two examples of this:
â #1 Kim Kardashian (who has Chitra Sun) and her affinity for social media was ahead of its time. Her long-hair-bbl-aesthetic was arguably the first prototype in the copy paste look you see on Instagram.
â Also when I watched KUWTK , in a 2012 episode she had a selfie book, and would take selfies with a mini LED light attached to her DSLR camera. Now itâs the norm to have mini lighting equipment in your purse. But she had that even before iPhones were that mainstream.
â #2 Soulja Boy (who has Chitra moon) is a known pioneer with music artists/social media. He was one of the 1st to have an online image as a rapper / go viral /have a viral dance for a hit song etc. Basically that formula is the mainstream strategy for success in the music industry in present day. But he did all that in like 2008 before iPhones/IG/tiktok etc.
â They will thrive in any career where you have to curate the aesthetics of something. Being a stylist, decorator, image consultant are all very Chitra-like.
â These natives are good at making money. Any Chitra person Iâve known IRL is good at money management or they are wealthy. đ°
â Theyâre good at party planning or event planning.
â Iâve also seen this be a successful social media influencer Nakshatra. They will post on socials and in a relatively âshortâ time gain a lot of engagement/followers etc.
â They seem to be always on the pulse of social trends/ pop culture etc
â They love dressing up as different personas, they are good at impersonating people. They like to personify different cultures through their aesthetic.
â They attract very aggressive people as partners.
â Libra naturally has their 7th house in Aries so they attract people with Martian energy. Aggressive, straightforward, blunt, controlling.
â They have a spouse that is a different ethnicity than them. Likely to be in an interracial relationship.
â A lot of them are very intelligent and get high marks in school, some even be valedictorian, magna cumlaude, summa cumlaude etc.
â Many get involved in politics or law.
â They are social climbers
â They love to argue.
â The especially like bantering. Theyâll be sports commentators, podcaster, fashion critic, pop culture critic, etc.
â They get over things quickly. They donât dwell on the past and let that hold them back from future endeavors. Theyâre always trying to achieve something new.
#astrology#vedic astrology#chitra#sidereal libra#venusian#sidereal virgo#astro observations#astrology observations#starsandsuch#2024
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Canât sleep, and, as is my wont, I fell down a horrifying internet rabbit hole,* this time about September 11, 2001.
I was in seventh grade French class, in the Hudson Valley region of New York, when I got a call from the front office that my mom was there to pick me up. Steven B. commented: âa lot of people are getting picked up this morning!â
My mom was crying, she tried to explain what had happened, but I think my brain kind of rejected what she was saying. I didnât really get it/appreciate what happened until I was 19 or 20, when I was a collections management intern at the 9/11 Memorial Museum before it opened to the public.
Thatâs when I finally Got It and everything Iâd been repressing. Every year after that I would watch the live news footage from that day on YouTube.
It haunts me, not just because of what happened, but because of what it led to. How much pain, how much grief, how much suffering and war and genocide could have been averted if the FBI and the CIA hadnât been locked in a power struggle? Where would/could the country be politically if the two orgs had compared intelligence and intervened?
As a historian, I think itâs important avoid binary thinking like âoh a, b, and c happened and thatâs why Elon Musk is staging a coup.â Itâs obviously much more complex than that. Whatâs occurring in the USA Federal government is the result of decades of careful GOP planning and strategizing and if we can isolate a cultural moment that âledâ to it, it would be the election of Ronald Reagan, and even that is far too simplistic.
Idk, Iâm rambling. I donât consider myself to be old, but itâs almost like I refused to grasp what had happened that day in 2001 because I was cognizant of the fact that something massive, something of global historic import, had just gone down, and my 12 yo brain couldnât deal with it.
But now Iâm 35 and I saw history. And that was the end, I think of the world the Baby Boom generation raised their millennial kids to thrive in.
At some point I binge watched Fringe, and that shot where itâs revealed that Leonard Nimoy is in the parallel universe because the camera pans out and itâs revealed that his office is in one of the WTC towers? I couldnât breathe for a minute.
*once in grad school the rabbit hole was the genocide in the Balkans in the 90s and everything I read that night is seared into my brain.
ETA: Iâm intentionally not discussing that things I saw and learned working for the museum, and my feelings about the deaths which occurred that day. It feels almostâŚunholy to talk about that stuff online. I donât believe in god or a higher power, but âholyâ is the only word that makes sense there.
#when ur old enough to analyze shit that went down when you were 12 from a historical perspective#tw: 9/11/01#cw: 9/11/01
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"Namibia is the driest country in Sub-Saharan Africa, and home to two of the worldâs most ancient deserts, the Kalahari and the Namib. The capital, Windhoek, is sandwiched between them, 400 miles away from the nearest perennial river and more than 300 miles away from the coast. Water is in short supply.
Itâs hard to imagine life thriving in Windhoek, yet 477,000 people call it home, and 99 per cent of them have access to drinking water thanks to technology pioneered 55 years ago on the outskirts of the city. Now, some of the worldâs biggest cities are embracing this technology as they adapt to the harshest impacts of climate change. But Namibia leads the way.
How did this come about? In the 1950s, Windhoekâs natural resources struggled to cope with a rapidly growing population, and severe water shortages gripped the city. But disaster forced innovation, and in 1968 the Goreangab Water Reclamation Plant in Windhoek became the first place in the world to produce drinking water directly from sewage, a process known as direct potable reuse (DPR).Â
That may sound revolting, but itâs completely safe. Dr Lucas van Vuuren, who was among those who pioneered Windhoekâs reclamation system, once said that âwater should not be judged by its history, but by its qualityâ. And DPR ensures quality.Â
This is done using a continuous multi-barrier treatment devised in Windhoek during eight years of pilot studies in the 1960s. This process â which has been upgraded four times since 1968 â eliminates pollutants and safeguards against pathogens by harnessing bacteria to digest the human waste and remove it from the water. This partly mimics what happens when water is recycled in nature, but Windhoek does it all in under 24 hours...

Pictured: These ultrafiltration membranes help to remove bacteria, viruses and pathogens. Image: Margaret Courtney-Clarke
âWe know that we have antibiotics in the water, preservatives from cosmetics, anti-corrosion prevention chemicals from the dishwasher,â Honer explains. âWe find them and we remove them.â
Honer adds that online instruments monitor the water continuously, and staff ensure that only drinking water that meets World Health Organisation (WHO) guidelines is sent to homes. If any inconsistencies are detected, the plant goes into recycle mode and distribution is halted until correct values are restored.Â
âThe most important rule is, and was, and always will be âsafety firstâ,â says Honer. Â The facility has never been linked to an outbreak of waterborne disease, and now produces up to 5.5m gallons of drinking water every day â up to 35 per cent of the cityâs consumption.
Namibians couldnât survive without it, and as water shortages grip the planet, Windhoekâs insights and experience are more important than ever.
Interest from superpowers across the globe
In recent years, delegations from the US, France, Germany, India, Australia, Singapore, and the United Arab Emirates have visited Windhoek seeking solutions to water shortages in their own countries.Â
Megadrought conditions have gripped the US since 2001, and the Colorado River â which provides 40 million people with drinking water â has been running at just 50 per cent of its traditional flow. As a result, several states including Texas, California, Arizona and Colorado are beginning to embrace DPR.
Troy Walker is a water reuse practice leader at Hazen and Sawyer, an environmental engineering firm helping Arizona to develop its DPR regulations. He visited Windhoek last year. âIt was about being able to see the success of their system, and then looking at some of the technical details and how that might look in a US facility or an Australian facility,â he said. â[Windhoek] has helped drive a lot of discussion in industry. [Innovation] doesnât all have to come out of California or Texas.â

Pictured: The internal pipes and workings of Namibia's DPR plant. As water becomes scarcer in some parts, countries are looking to DPR for solutions. Image: Margaret Courtney-Clarke
Namibia has also helped overcome the biggest obstacle to DPR â public acceptance. Disgust is a powerful emotion, and sensationalist âtoilet to tapâ headlines have dismantled support for water reuse projects in the past. Unfortunately, DPRâs biggest strength is also its biggest weakness, as the speed at which water can re-enter the system makes it especially vulnerable to prejudice, causing regulators to hesitate. âTechnology has never been the reason why these projects donât get built â itâs always public or political opposition,â says Patsy Tennyson, vice president of Katz and Associates, an American firm that specialises in public outreach and communications.
Thatâs why just a handful of facilities worldwide are currently doing DPR, with Windhoek standing alongside smaller schemes in the Philippines, South Africa and a hybrid facility in Big Spring, Texas. But thatâs all changing. Drought and increased water scarcity worldwide are forcing us to change the way we think about water.Â
Now, the US is ready to take the plunge, and in 2025, El Paso Water will begin operating the first âdirect to distributionâ DPR facility in North America, turning up to 10m gallons of wasterwater per day into purified drinking water â twice as much as Windhoek. San Diego, Los Angeles, California, as well as Phoenix, Arizona are also exploring the technology."
Of course, DPR is not a silver bullet in the fight against climate change. It cannot create water out of thin air, and it will not facilitate endless growth. But it does help cities become more climate resilient by reducing their reliance on natural sources, such as the Colorado River.Â
As other nations follow in Namibiaâs footsteps, Windhoek may no longer take the lead after almost six decades in front.
âBut Windhoek was the first,â Honer reminds me. âNo one can take that away.â"
-via Positive.News, August 30, 2023
#namibia#africa#desert#water shortage#water conservation#dpr#potable water#water recycling#clean water#drought#united states#colorado river#science and technology#sanitation#good news#hope
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What happened and is still happening in the Netherlands, in Amsterdam specifically, is a pogrom.
I want that to be very clear. That it is attack on Jews for being Jews. And that attack is in the form of a pogrom.
I have seen multiple videos and clips that have been posted online and right now the only thing I am feeling is enraged.
I am so angry. I am sure that other feelings will come that is if my go to method of dealing with emotions i.e numbing doesn't kick in first.
But for now I am burning with anger.
I have said before that Never Again was statement that Jews told ourselves about how we not ever again allow ourselves to be in positions like we were in the Holocaust and in the past. That we would Never Again allow you, goyim, to mass kill us like before and to do all that you have done to us.
And how you, goyim, took this statement, this promise, and this affirmation and have used it against us and universalized it.
Well allow me to state and affirm that we shall not go quietly or peacefully. We will not lay our necks on your blades, we shall go easily into deaths you aim at us. And we never did no matter how much propaganda you have spread to push the lie that we did.
You have told us over and over to learn our lessons from the Holocaust and so we did.
And we learnt from every expulsion, from every ethnic cleansing, from every genocide, from every pogrom, from every blood libel, from every Inquisition, from every massacre, we have learnt from it all.
We know that you will not help us, that you will not be there for us, and that you don't care.
So if you think that for moment that this time you will succeed like you have before then you are fools.
Because we know now that everything we have tried doesn't work.
Being cooperative doesn't work, being nice doesn't work, being mean doesn't work, fighting back in way doesn't work, assimilating doesn't work, totally isolating doesn't work, because over the very long history we have tried it all.
So this time around we will fight for our lives and our futures and our people.
And in the end we still be here and those who tried destroyed us well they will turn out like everyone else who have tried the same, words in the history books.
I am furious yes, and I put my faith in my people and our G-d and I know we shall survive and thrive.
For I say look at all those who tried before to destroy in totality and I say to you where are they now.
Am Yisrael Chai ×˘× ×׊ר×× ×× the people of Yisrael live
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Your body is so perfect. Iâm so jealous and I think I need to go on a diet..
I saw this ask earlier but I wanted to wait until I had time to really sit down and respond to it properly.
This is my body. And this is also my body.


Anon, what you see on this blog is a curated version of myself. My body is positioned in ways that are aesthetically pleasing, which cover up the things that I'm self-conscious about, like my stomach. I try to be as body positive as I can be, but I still struggle with accepting my body as it is!
I don't eat as healthy as I should. I'm always dehydrated despite my best efforts. I'm messy and a little gross and human just like everyone else. The things you see online are curated to show the best parts of ourselves, because it's human nature to want to be liked, and want to be wanted
Going on a diet is the last thing you should do. It's the last thing any of us should do, honestly. In fact it's been medically proven that 95% of people who go on a diet to lose weight end up gaining that weight back, because restrictive diets *don't work*. The vast majority of us are not going to change our bodies, and unless it's medically necessary for quality of life, we shouldn't be trying to change our bodies.
The key, my dear, is to change how you see yourself. Find love in your body. You CAN love yourself exactly as you are, it just takes effort and time! The progress I've made in the last few years is IMMENSE, and compared to how much I hated myself ten years ago? I'm thriving
I still have my moments, anon, where I see things in myself I don't like. I have my insecurities. I see people I think are far more beautiful and perfect than me and I get jealous and sad. But I work to change how I *feel*, not how I look. Not who I am.
I'm beautiful, anon, and so are you. I hope you learn to see that
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Gushing Over Magical Girls | Confessions of a Rotten Girl
The Journey of Self Accepting Sexuality and Kink

(Censored a bit because boo Tumblr).
More and more lately we have seen people online going on about how they want no more s*x in media, or at the very least no more pointless s*x in media. But trying to say what should and shouldn't be in a story purely because you deem it pointless completely misses the point. If you pay attention to the stories, you'll see when s*x has a meaning.
Usually it's something like showing how close two characters are, or the lust a certain character feels, and yes sometimes it is just fan service, but there is nothing wrong with that either.
Today we wanted to talk about two semi recent (within the last year) pieces of media that have shown s*x in ways that matter to the story. Those medias would be the manga / anime series: Gushing Over Magical Girls, and the song "Confessions of a Rotten Girl.
Both of these works center on the theme of a school aged girl learning about her own kink and sexual identity and coming to terms with the fact. Their ages are important as middle school to high school is exactly when people tend to start feeling these things (sometimes even younger).
Here is where we are gonna split the works into sections! First up is Gushing Over Magical Girls!
Throughout the story Utena finds out she is a sadist who loves to torture magical girls. At first she is disgusted by herself, thinking she needs to stop.

But the more the series goes on, the more she starts to accept this side of herself.
But the thing is; even though Utena is part of an evil organization and is playing the part, she never fully gives in. She isn't evil. She still supports the magical girls and wants to see them thrive with their La VeritĂ forms. Utena is suspicious of Venalita and plans to work against them if things go south (of course this has yet to be seen as the series is on hiatus).


We think it's really cool to show a character come to terms with their kink and even sexual identity (she only ever plays with girls, just saying) through a story. People get so wrapped up in the "rights" of fictional characters that they forget they are just tools for the writer to tell their story. Both manga and anime are visual mediums, you can't just say what a character is thinking, you need to SHOW it. So the easiest way to do so would be having Utena actually preforming these actions on the magical girls. It also just makes it more interesting and action packed.
On the flip side we have Hatsune Miku from Confessions of a Rotten Girl. With music it isn't a visual medium, and thus the song can get away with sharing the character's thoughts through words and not visuals (although the music video does show the content Miku consumes).
In Miku's case we also have a school aged girl coming to terms with her sexual interests and identity. She also is into bondage but she is really into you guessed it, YAOI. Oh Fujo Miku how we love you.
While Utena's version of demonization is more fictional in the sense of being a villain to the magical girls, Miku's is more grounded in realistic depictions of religious guilt and trauma.

At first Miku is at confession and talks about her interests being temptations and that she is burdened by shame. She even goes as far to say she is eating the forbidden fruit.

As most of you probably know, this refers to Eve in the Garden of Eden eating from The Tree of Knowledge. Christians see this event as a tragedy, the birth of original sin. But look what Miku says:


"Could Eve be our idol? Could she lead us through the light? We'd all be disciples of her lemon driven bite".
This isn't someone upset about the bite, she is PRAISING Eve. To me this reads as a little baby Satanist in the making. If you don't know there are two types of Satanists. The first kind do not believe in Satan but instead see him as a symbol of freedom. The second half share those same beliefs but actually believe in Satan. Satanists do not see Eve eating the fruit as a tragedy, they see it as liberation. They see it as the beginning of free will.
Both Utena and Miku chose to live as their own authentic selves. Neither are really evil, but if people see them that way, then so be it.


#This one felt important after the rise of puritanism in fandoms lately#Gushing Over Magical Girls Manga Spoilers#Gushing Over Magical Girls#Confessions of a Rotten Girl#Hiiragi Utena#Hatsune Miku#Mahou Shoujo ni Akogarete#Vocaloid#Queer#Satanism
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