#aged care software

[ezihealth]

[electralift]

Leading Software Provider For Home and Community Care in Melbourne

AIM Outsourced Financial Management Services are designed to assist Aged Care Providers with proven and reliable data processing services (either in full or in part) at cost-effective rates to help them improve day to day running of their business through timely and accurate financial reporting. Our role is not limited to providing software for Home and Community Care Melbourne. We also provide expert advice on financial matters, ensuring our clients are well informed and know exactly what they are getting from us and how it will benefit them.

[nimx]

the kids are getting into vocaloid these days god damn

[aimsoftware1]

 Retirement Village Software: Streamline Your Operations and Improve Resident Care 

Retirement village software is a comprehensive software solution that can help you streamline your operations and improve resident care. It can automate many of the tasks involved in running a retirement village software, such as:

Managing resident records

Tracking occupancy and waitlists

Scheduling staff and activities

Managing finances and billing

Generating reports

Communicating with residents and families

This can free up your staff to focus on providing the best possible care to your residents.

In addition, retirement village software can help you improve resident care by providing you with the tools you need to:

Track resident health and care needs

Develop personalized care plans

Coordinate care with other providers

Monitor resident satisfaction

This can help you ensure that your residents are receiving the care they need and that they are happy with the quality of life in your retirement village.

If you are looking for a way to streamline your operations and improve resident care, consider investing in retirement village software.

[nuaigaiconsulting]

Interoperability In Healthcare System For CCRC & LTPAC | NuAIg Automation Nuaig helps CCRC and LTPAC service providers enhance and boost their operation efficiency by implementing interoperability in the healthcare system. To read the complete interoperability case study visit the website. To book a free consultation mail at info@nuaig.ai.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Corporate Rivals

Bruce is really excited to hire a boy genius from a small time town. He found him by accident while scrolling through some creative writing competition past winners on various school sites. He originally wanted ideas for his own contest for the annual Wayne Young Writers Scholarship when he stumbled up Amity Parks Youth Authors.

Daniel Fenton's science fiction had won second place, and Bruce thinks he only lost due to the judges not realizing all the science of the gadgets his charaters used were real. Real, well explain and proper research. Daniel obviously knew his stuff and knew it well.

He had reached out to Daniel with a science scholarship opportunity, wanting to see what he would come up with. He gave him a basic assignment asking him to fulfill a prompt "Software or Hardware development for disabled" in either theory or model. If he created something worthwhile, Bruce would send him ten grand.

Daniel did not disappoint, not only doing the theory paper but also sending back a prototype of a pocket ASL translator. It would be an app on a phone that would have an AI watching through a camera of the person doing sign language and say out loud what the person was saying. It had a few bugs here and there, but for a high schooler, those were very impressive accomplishments.

Bruce found himself sponsoring the boy for early high school graduation. The young Fenton boy was a genius just like his parents, but he lacked proper motivation. Bruce suspected it was due to his school not challenging him enough much like Tim.

When Daniel got his diploma Bruce offered a few rid to Gotham University with the condition he would be a employee at WE. Daniel agreed under the condition it was as a proper employee and not a unpaid intern. A little daring for a kid getting already a amazing deal but Bruce liked his moxy and agreed.

Daniel Fenton was to be a worker in the RD department for WE tech in one week.

He couldn't wait to introduce him to Tim. Two young geniuses would get along swimmingly with their shared brain prowess!

______________________________________

Tim hated the new guy.

They were the same age, but everyone acted like he was amazing for finishing high school and starting university while also being a top WE reseacher and Devloper at such a young age.

Oh Tim was CEO, but as many people have whispered, he didn't graduated Highschool or have a GED so the only reason he got to be CEO was because of nepotism. Danny on the other hand got his position through hard work.

Which was ironic, seeing as the company has never done so well since Tim came on board. Their sales, PR, and production numbers all tripled because of him. Danny, on the other hand, was a sloth with little to no ambition. He didn't even work well with others! He mostly did solo projects and everyone seemed fine with that since genius "need their own space"

Tim has been networking since he was three years old, and failure to do so had always reflected badly on him and his company. He spent his entire life careful choosing his words and his actions. Even his appearance, what he wore, his hairstyle even the hand gesture when he talked, were planned before hand.

Then comes Fenton, who avoids crowds, dressed in the worst formal wear Tim has ever seen . Black jeans were not formal!- and acted like this important office was just a after school hang out spot. Now Tim was much more laid back than his board co-workers, who were all in their fifties or older, and even more relax then the mangers or superiors of lower stations but even he could not understand Fenton blaring music, bags of chips lingering everywhere and his ordination skills were none existing!

Not to mention the fact Daniel didn't believe in using computers unless he had to. His office was covered in towers of paper that he scribbled and work on! It was such a waste!

And yet, despite all of that, Daniel was rapidly becoming an asset to WE. His ASL translator app wasn't finished, but it had everyone buzzing with excitement and would be well received when it was released with Wayne Phones as a built in app.

Tim tried to avoid him as best he could least he get offended by his lack of work proper behavior

Daniel Fenton did not understand what it meant to put your all into something that you lost yourself along the way. Best to ignore him.

________________________________________

Danny couldn't stand his company CEO. Timothy Drake reminded him a little too much of the A-listers but without the bulling bit. Somehow, that made it worse.

Timothy was popular because he was well liked. He didn't need to relay on his good looks or aggression to make other yeild to him like Paulina or Dash. Even if he was ridiculously good looking to the point, Danny confused him for a siren when he met him.

He had the ability to walk into any room and take command if it. Timothy didn't even need to speak, his very presence commanded attention and awe. Not to mention how great he was at his job.

WE had always been a popular corporation but under Timothy's command they rose to one of the most important corporations in the world. Bruce Wayne was raised to run a company, Timothy Drake was born to run it. There was a large enough difference between the two that anyone could see Timothy was superior at running things.

Danny was nothing like that. He couldn't talk to people, couldn't make them like him, and often he was overlooked for his sister or his wacky but loveable parents.

He was the other Febton. The one that was there and nothing else. A few months ago he was even considered the dumb Fenton, who somehow was skipped over for intelligence.

Then he wrote a little story and everything changed.

Danny turned out to be a proper Fenton, after all, having gotten the attention of Bruce Wayne for his mind. His parents haven't been so proud of him in a long time, and he found himself accepting the job position after graduating high school early before he knew it.

Along with the job came a move to Gotham city. He went after debating it a great deal with his family and friends, but the deal was too sweet to turn down. Now he was in Gothem and he knew absolutely no one.

Danny didn't know how to make new friends here. Tucker and Sam had been the ones to approach him at the beginning of their friendships. He also was scared of getting close to his co-worker less they suspect his Phantom powers.

He knew that Metas was not welcome, and he thought Batman wouldn't care that he was technically dead and not with a meta gene.

So he focused on his work, avoiding large crowds and keeping his head down. He would turn on music to help pass the loneliness and would gater papers to write down his thoughts less they made him mad by running around his head all day.

This anxious insecurity was something Timothy Drake would never understand. He just shone like a fallen star, dazzling the masses with his neat press suits, easy charisma, and intelligent bedroom eyes. Best to ignore him.

________________________________________

Dick never really ventured to WE now that he moved out. He made a habit of trying to visit Tim every two weeks for lunch to fix this. He also really wanted to spend more one on one time with his little brother now that they reconsidled from Bruce's timeline fiasco.

He was still well known by the employees, even new ones, so when Dick arrived to the lobby he was waved in by security. The receptionists were all huddled together muttering to eachother and missed his entrance since security didn't call out to him.

Dick could tell the gossip they were talking about was juicy based on the way Lola was wiggling her eyebrows and Stacy and Isaiah's reaction.

He creeps closer to the front desk, hoping to hear something good.

"Isn't that against the rules?" Isaiah asks.

"WE doesn't have anything like that. Not since Thomas Wayne married his old PA and had Bruce. I think it's cute that Mr.Drake is following in his adoptive Grandfather's footsteps."

Dick paused, shocked. Tim liked someone at WE!?

"They aren't even dating yet, Lola"

"Yeah but you can cut the sexual tension with a- Mr. Grayson! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you. How can I help you?"

Dick blinks. "Oh I'm here to see Tim for lunch. But what was that about Tim you were saying?"

The woman pales as the other two quickly become busy with some email or another.

"Oh, um, I'm so sorry, sir. I shouldn't have -"

"It's fine I don't mind a little chat between co-workers. I'm just curious"

Lola stares before nervously blurting "Rumor has it that um, Mr.Drake has a thing for Daniel Fenton"

"The new boy genius?" Dick thinks about it considering what he knows of Tim's type and his past preferences in partners before nodding "That tracks actually"

He says his thanks and hurries away to Tim's office unaware he may have confirmed a relationship between Tim and Danny.

The gossip circles in WE exploded with the news everyone careful not to let the two subjects hear a whisper.

[eleafsoftware]

https://eleafsoftware.com.au/service/

At E-Leaf We Develop Solutions That Target The Whole Healthcare Industry

Our team at E-Leaf has in dept experience in aged & community care domain we understand how to incorporate compliance.

[milksockets]

why scan?

scanning is something i've done for probably about 12 years now (i'm ancient, for this site), with varying degrees of regularity, intensity, etc. it has ratcheted up since the dawn of 2023, though, which begs the question: why? why put so much time into what could not-wrongly be considered a passive activity, hunched over a piece of clunky machinery with the express purpose of preserving others' creations? the answers are several, and fascinating (not really).

i am a [sober] drug addict. anything i pursue, consume, create--more often than not--ends up taking on addictive qualities. i'll eat the same specific food item for a month, then never want to see, let alone taste it, again. i'll listen to one song on repeat for days until i'd rather hear nails on a chalkboard than have it shuffle on and assault my ears. one of the reasons that my scanning has increased in volume recently is that i acquired library cards to the 3 nyc library systems: nypl, brooklyn, and queens. as soon as i was able to, i pillaged + plundered those fine centers of learning, leaving any given library with as many hefty scan-worthy books as i could [barely] carry. here, finally, was a *free* way of obtaining more + more + more visual media to consume.

2023 saw me get my first legal, full-time job. as such, my adjusting to that hellish reality resulted in a steep decline in my own personal creative output. collaging, writing, and rapping all fell to the wayside as i slowly acclimated to a life of work that almost everyone else my age has known for over a decade is generally unbearable + detrimental to the maintenance of outside pursuits. in times of famine within my own artistic harvest, scanning, archiving, and sharing others' work is a means of feeling as though i am still contributing to the global oeuvre.

there’s an element of losing my mental self in a series of physical motions that becomes almost automatic after some time. “zoning out” is not something endemic to my daily life; if anything, i’m almost always too zoned in. relief is necessary.  especially considering the shitshow this past year has been in terms of my personal life.

i am a product of capitalism’s cultivating a craving for constant consumption. 

it seems that visual content is only going to continue to get more + more uninspired. has everything been done? did social media ruin it all? in any case, i feel a need to document the past. to a degree, it’s my version of doomsday prepping. (god forbid books go extinct altogether.) 

i have always gravitated towards solitary activities. this topic could be a thesis in its own right.

i thrive on external validation. this reliance is something i’ve improved upon over the past several years, but it hasn’t been altogether extinguished. even though the materials i scan are not of my own creation, i nevertheless feel a vague pride in showcasing them. occasional appreciation thereof satisfies this fixation on others’ attention, albeit in a diluted form. 

i am fortunate to live in a city bursting to the gills with cultural institutions. i am also lucky enough to have some disposable income that can be directed toward fulfilling my ravenous desire for visual media. 

((i keep getting messages about the specifics of my scanner + "process":

i have a cheap ass hp envy 6055e and i just use the software it comes with.

there's nothing special or fancy happening here, and i could definitely invest in a better and/or a large format scanner, etc. but i really just don't care enough and it's not like i'm getting paid for this lmao))

[user211201]

Chronivac Coworkers

--- Originally posted on 2022-09-19 by davidrodge ---

You sit down at your desk and rub your eyes. Another day of paper pushing and number crunching to get through. It wasn’t like you had done anything particularly interesting the previous night. You had stayed up a little later playing some mediocre matches of online gaming - but when I guess when you get to be around 40, your body constantly feels like it’s been dragged behind a car down the high way. Not that you didn’t take care of yourself, in fact you’d say you looked pretty good for your age…

You stretch in your seat, and reach for your coffee as your computer powers on. The few windows illuminating the office show the first few morning beams of scorching July sunlight. Behind you, the door opens and your Coworker David strides in.

“Morning Adam!” He says in a strangely cheerful voice. You put your coffee down from your lips and give him a stare. Normally David was about 20 minutes later than he already was, and usually he walked into the office with the same enthusiasm you’d see in a man walking towards a guillotine.

“Morning Davo,” you say, typing in your far too long corporate password. “You seem less Zombie-like today, what are you so excited about?”

David Smiled as he sat down in his chair opposite from yours. You were techniqually Davids senior Manager, but the two of you had developed a decent friendship between Friday drinking and the occasional tennis match.

“Oh Nothing Adam, I just got to the top of the waitlist for this super cool Software, and I was finally able to download it!”

You nodded, half listening as you began logging into all your engineering system.

“Very Interesting, what’s the program called? Is it like a Gaming platform?” David opened up his laptop and started to type furiously.

“No it’s not a game at all, It’s an app called the Chronivac. It’s supposed to be a reality altering software. I had a friend in the UK that sent me the information for it, He said that it completely changed his life.”

You paused from your coffee long enough to lean over and roll your eyes at him.

“I hope you didn’t have to pay any money for it.” You moaned, “This Job doesn’t pay you enough for you to be wasting your time on Overseas Scams.”

David was absolutely transfixed on his laptop. A wide, slightly crazed looking grin spreading over his face.

“It actually ended up costing me thousands of dollars,” he said, now in a far quieter voice, “but it was completely worth it.”

“THousands Of DoLLARS!” You exploded, immediately turning the heads of the fellow desk jockeys nearby,

“SHut UP man,” David hissed, half closing his laptop defensively. You simmered as the both of you waited for the rest of your colleagues to return back to their work. David narrowed his Eyes at you, smile creeping back onto his face.

“It wasn’t a waste of money and I can prove it too you. Just let me find your profile really quick.”

“Wait, this thing has a profile for me on it?” You said, now even more concerned then before. “David, This seems like some really dangerous software And I definitely thing that you shou-“

Davids Computer cut you off with a cheerful beep, and immediately you felt a strange sensation course through your body.

“What the hell!” You shout as you start the world around you starts to grow. You feel a strange tightening sensation in your body, as you glance downward. Your clothing seemed to liquify, shifting from a smart suit and dress shirt into a casual tee. In shock you glance at the bay window and catch a reflection of yourself. There you were…. Or rather, there you were 20 years ago! You lift your hands up too your face and feel your skin. Wrinkle free, young, and real!

“ there’s no way this is real,” you say in a whisper. This has to be a dream you think, as you continue to explore your now unfamiliar body.

David leaned over the edge of his desk beaming,

“ See I told you man! This program is incredible!” He looked you over, seeming to be proud of his work. “Dang it’s crazy what taking 20 years off a man can do!”

You take a brief pause from reveling at your new found youth.

“ this is incredible David! How is this even possible?!”

“It’s the chronivac man! Like I said it’s freaking amazing and can change anything!” The wild grin still fresh on his face.

You stand up, coursing with a newfound energy.

“WE HAVE TO TELL EVERYONE ABOUT THIS!” You say ecstatically. The grin drops from David’s face.

“What?”

You begin to jog away from the desks, heading straight for the break room where you knew, most of your coworkers would still be gathered.

“We can change anything with this! This is going to be the coolest thing any of these morons have ever heard about!”

“Wait! No stop! Aww shit-“ you hear David shout as you continued running. You barely processed his voice or cared. You felt so alive! The excitement in your chest was all you could feel or even think of right now. You slid around the corner, breaking into a sprint down the hallway. You could hardly wait to introduce your new younger self to your coworkers and tell them about this amazing new device.

“GUYS, YOU WOULDNT BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO-“

Suddenly your voice catches In your throat, as your mouth dries out In an instant. You keep running, starting to trip over yourself on the concrete floor.

“ what the” you gasp through a dry mouth. Your tongue feels like a pillow in your mouth as you tumble to the floor. You are vaguely aware of the sight of your hands, which appear to be changing color and texture. Your vision fades with the sight of your fingers turning bright blue and seeming to collapse in on themselves.

You can’t seem to find your voice, or be able to move as you feel yourself shrinking. You feel an indescribable softening sensation on all sides as you slide to a stop. Suddenly, it’s over as quickly as it started, and there you lay on the floor. Your brain slows down, filled only with the most basic thoughts now.

“ what….. happened…” you think to yourself with great effort. Your aware of footsteps coming towards you from your position on the floor.

“ Sorry about that man, I just couldn’t have you sharing my new toy with the rest of the world. It’s kind of like a private club, ya know?

….David? You think through fuzzy thoughts.

“ I’m still learning how to use the program haha, but you did turn out to be a nice pair of underwear Adam.”

You feel your now small form being lifted from the floor, then shoved into a pocket. David’s pocket.

“Don’t worry man, we’ll get you sorted out. I think you’ll make a really good practice for me before I start changing myself.”

You couldn’t respond at all, but felt almost at home In the musky warm pocket you were haphazardly shoved into.

….so … nice… you find yourself thinking. You try to shake the fuzz out of your primitive mind. Trying to remember anything besides the new world you found yourself in. You faintly hear David through his clothing.

“ alright, I think the first thing we should do is get you home so we can have some fun.” You feel yourself being lifted from his pocket and placed back on the ground. You felt a longing to be back in the warm musky dark.

“this time however, I think we’ll turn your awareness off.”

David smiled punching his new specifications into the chronivac program. Adam wouldn’t remember any of what just happened, and also be open to his suggestions. The underwear on the pavement started to expand, shifting and changing until Adam once again stood in front of him with a slightly dazed look on his face.

“is it weird that that kind of turned me on…” David muttered to himself.

“Dave… what the hell is going on? Adam said In a bewildered voice. His voice echoed in the parking garage that they now stood in. David smiled, and typed into the chronivac.

“you were about to give me a ride home, remember big guy?”

Adam, still looking confused, but seemingly unaware of the last 20 minutes of his life shrugged and fished for his car keys.

“Alright man but don’t judge about the mess in my car.” He smiled and clicked his horn. The two of you walked over to the old SUV Adam drove and stepped inside, scooting aside the old take out bags and random junk. Adam sheepishly got In and fastened his seatbelt.

“Thanks for taking me home man, I wasn’t feeling the best.” David said hiding a smile while still typing in his computer. Adam started the car and began to pull out of the parking lot.

“no problem man, it’s been a boring day for me anyway.”

I’m sure it was… David thought pulling up Adams profile again. David pulled up Adams profile. He continued to explore it as they got on the highway - passing the braves stadium. Now it was time to really see what this program could do. He clicked on the occupation section and replaced senior engineer with Uber driver and hit enter. The cars interior suddenly shifted, quickly becoming neater and tidier. An Uber sticker appeared on the windshield. David smiled and Adam glanced over at him.

“Hey you owe me tho David,” he smiled “I could be making money right now instead of driving your ass around.”

“for sure man, I’ll make it up to you.” David grinned. He clicked onto Adams body specifications.

Alright let’s slide that age way down… maybe 22? He looked good like that, but let’s pump up his muscle mass by 80 pounds and increase his attractiveness level. David pulled open Adams identity profile and messed around with a few things. Instead of being a work friend, Adams new relationship to David was a complete stranger. David deleted Adams previous educational experience tab and input college fraternity brother into his profile. He dropped the IQ level down to one of the lower settings. It might be nice for Adam to worry about less right? He input “easygoing” into his profile. He hit shuffle on race, just for some added fun and eagerly hit enter.

the change was immediate. Adam shifted in his seat, losing a few inches of height but gaining a ridiculous amount of mass everywhere. His legs filled in his pants so quickly David thought they might burst. His arms ballooned outwards and his face shifted to a cocky smirk. His pecs jutted out against his shirt, bouncing with the cars motion. The clothes he previously wore liquified and stretched tight against his body - becoming a simple tee shirt and short shorts. His hair styled itself into a skin fade, and a tan crept over his body. A backwards cap materialized on his head, and a stud In his ear as he glanced over at David.

“What? You like what you see man haha?”

The new Adam raised his arm and flexed his now massive bicep.

You both laughed as you felt a mixture of pride and arousal. Adam put a beefy arm on the dash of his car and started typing into the gps, stopping at an intersection .

“Where was it you said you wanted to be dropped off again sir?”

David rattled off his address, trying to hide the growing… excitement that was beginning to show In his crotch. The new Adam glanced down and smirked at David, but continued driving. David smiled, reviewing Adams profile again.

“ So what do you have going on in your life… Adam right?” David asked, trying for conversation with his previous boss.

“We’ll I’m just chilling at the university right now…” Adam said with a dull laugh, “spending a lot of time at the gym and with the boys right now.”

David nodded absentmindedly, sliding Adams sexuality to nearly 100 Percent gay. Just to see what would happen. He slid the Libido curser to high and glanced back up at Adam. A distracted look now plastered on his face, one hand on the wheel, one hand now migrating down to his shorts.

“… and you know… spending time… with the boys.”

David could barely contain his excitement as the two pulled up to his house. Adam threw the vehicle in park and shifted his Adonis frame in his seat to face David.

“Hey man, don’t even worry about the ride today, it was nice meeting you. I’ll void the bill In the app.” He said with a smile. David met his gaze and blushed. Oh my god, was he flexing?

“Oh that’s really too nice of you man, there’s really no need.” David stuttered

Adam smiled and bit his lip, he hopped out of the car to get David’s door.

“No I insist. I Really enjoyed being your driver today.”

David stepped out of the car, amazed by what he had been able to do to his friend. The new Adam held out his hand for a solid high five. He winked and said,

“Message me if you ever need a ride again bro.” With that, he strutted back to his car, then got in and sped down the road - blasting music.

David stood on the edge of the driveway. Clutching his lap top and trying to calm himself. He began to stride into his house, weighing his options. People had warned him, that the chronivacs power could really go to your head if you didn’t have a handle on it. He unlocked the door and paced into his living room. David hadn’t thought much about it, but man had he really surprised himself. In the space of 1 hour he had changed his boss into a horny college himbo without so much as a blink.

He through himself onto the couch and started up at the ceiling. David smiled, thinking of the limitless possibilities that now awaited him. He could literally become whatever he wanted to. Could change the world in whatever way he wanted. The possibilities were so endless p, he had no idea what to do.

After a moment of watching the rotating fan David grinned. He didn’t know all the things he wanted to change, but he did know what he wanted right now. He pulled his laptop back up and fired up the chronivac. Adams profile still displayed on screen. David clicked into Adams relationship status and began clicking around. It took a second to find the option, “willing to sleep with any man.” But David aggressively slammed the enter button and pulled out his phone, finding an Uber text string with the new Adam.

“Thanks again for the free ride today man. Was wondering if you wanted to ride anything else tonight? 😘🍆”

He waited breathlessly for a moment before three dots appeared on his screen, and then a message. Apparently a picture the new Adam had taken at the gym.

“on my way back big guy”

David slammed his laptop closed and ran to change into some more relaxed clothes. That was enough messing with the chronivac for the day. It was amazing what a horny stud he had been able to change his boss into. And ridiculous how quickly David had fallen for him.

David wrestled with his tie and glanced out the bedroom window as a car raced up. The new and improved Adam jumped out and started sauntering towards the door, already removing his shirt. David could only stares as he felt himself begin to go hard. He and Adam were going to have a lot of fun tonight.

[desert-fern]

A Gun Amongst Daggers - Jake “Hangman” Seresin X Fem!Navy Seal Reader

Part 20: Golden

Summary: When Jake meets a woman at the Hard Deck, the last thing he expects is for her to be a Navy Seal. And not just any Seal, the Commander of Seal Team 3. She’s beautiful, smart, dangerous, and everything about her just makes him want to get close. Her name? Bear. When the Seals need backup, Cyclone puts the Daggers on their radar and now, Jake has to work with Bear and her team, all the while trying to stay professional. Can he do it? Or will he end up falling for the Navy sniper and mission Commander?

*Image is from Pinterest*

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE! 18+ ONLY. MINORS & BLOGS WITH NO AGE/EMPTY BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

Warnings: swearing, mostly just fluffy and sweet (lmk if I kissed anything)

Word Count: 4.2k

Masterlist >> Part 19 >> Part 21

===

Bear had made herself scarce on the long days aboard the Lincoln. She was finally well enough to busy herself with work, dealing with paperwork and helping Bug work through the massive amounts of evidence they had against Hazard. It had surfaced from the Riyadh Air Base Commander that a few others were likely involved in the scheme and that Hazard had to have had help in orchestrating what he had. Bear knew his work ethic and there was no way that he and Chip were the only ones involved. Hazard could barely complete his paperwork by himself.

So she, Bug, Flare, and Phoenix, who was acting as the Daggers representative, spent hours combing through everything. “So, what I’m hearing,” Phoenix began, shuffling through the file in front of her. “Hazard was in contact with this Saif character weeks before the mission…”

“So before or after he planted the keystroke recorder on my laptop?” Bear asked, stretching out lightly, still trying to avoid pulling the few remaining stitches left in her torso. “Because the pieces I have say that he planted this thing after he made contact.”

Bug snorted at how Bear was holding the keystroke tracker, dangling it between her fingers and letting it swing in the air. “That was my thought too.”

“Wait, you had the wrong documents on the way to Riyadh, right?” Flare spoke up suddenly. She’d been awfully quiet lately, something that was unusual for the young woman. “I spoke with IT when we got to the base, and they told me that they didn’t find anything odd in the software, only one strange login that required three different password retries. Maybe that’s when he fucked with the email?”

“He fucked with a lot more than just my email,” Bear groused. Her pride was still wounded from how easily Hazard had been able to fool her. How his greed had not only nearly destroyed her, but also had resulted in Jake getting caught up in the middle of everything and was nearly killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “He deserves so much worse than what is coming to him.”

The other women in the room nodded. Flare biting her lip to stop it from trembling. She had been adopted in a way by Bear, the older woman serving as a mentor to her throughout her journey to becoming a Lieutenant. So when Bear had vanished, been taken, Mei had broken down the minute she saw Bug shake her head sadly. Even just thinking about the events made her heart break. “He does,” Flare mumbled in the silence that had befallen the room. “I’d give it to him if that weren’t Shrike’s job.”

“You and me both, Mei,” Phoenix replied, her face drawn together in a frown. She had seen first hand how Bear’s disappearance had impacted everyone, herself included. Bear had brought them all together, sewn the two teams into one single-handedly, and her absence had hurt every single person who cared for her. Not to mention Jake. The blonde had been practically inconsolable the minute he found out she was gone and had dove head first into helping Bug and Fireball sort out what they knew from what they didn’t.

It had been both good to see and worrying all at the same time. Jake had barely taken a moment to breathe; all he had wanted was to bring Bear home. Home to him. Bear, however, had had other plans. She crawled her way out of the unimaginable hell she had been through, and stood in the open doorway like a ghost. Phoenix had spent those in between weeks keeping an eye on Jake, making sure he ate, showered, and above all, had a place to grieve. They had become unlikely friends as they grieved together, leaning on the other in a way they never deemed possible.

Jake had been absent since the USS Abraham Lincoln had left Jebel Ali and it was worrying to Phoenix. She now sat in another meeting room, this time without him, and she couldn’t help but be concerned. “Though I’m pretty sure Shrike led Hazard directly into Jake’s path.” Her voice broke the pensive silence that had blanketed the room.

Bear grinned, a toothy expression that was so much like her old self that it made the others in the room smile too. “That wouldn’t surprise me,” she mused aloud. “Bug made it clear that the Seals couldn’t touch him, but as Maverick and Jake told me a few days afterwards, they were under no such instructions.”

Flare nodded. “Maybe they should have been. I know that Nat over here would have killed him if Jake hadn’t gotten there first.” She was met with a sharp look from Phoenix, but Mei stood her ground. “What? I wanted to kill him too, but that wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Still,” Phoenix grumbled. She had folded her arms across her chest, staring darkly at Flare. “He hurt my friends. You should be thankful that it wasn’t my fiancée here instead of me. Hazard would be a grease spot.”

“Fiancée?” The room was quick to explode into questions, making Phoenix lean back in her chair, trying to get away from the chaos that had erupted among the women.

Bear looked at Phoenix curiously. “Man or woman?”

“Woman, why? You have a problem with that?” The pilot’s voice was sharp, challenging. She was daring Bear to say something, anything.

“Not at all.” Bear was calm, almost amused by the look in Phoenix’s eyes. “I have two moms, Natasha and have been known to have a girlfriend too. I was merely curious.”

The anger appeared to visibly leave Phoenix at Bear’s words. “Okay then. And yeah, she proposed a few weeks before we left.”

“Congratulations, Nix,” Bug told her, smiling gently. “I think now is a good time for a break, don’t you?”

“Oh for sure.” Bear nodded. “Take a break ladies. I’ll lock up after you all.” She stood up and ushered the other three out of the room before shutting the door and sitting back down. She has wasted so much time recovering that she was behind when it came to her job, so she had to make up the time. Whether or not people understood wasn’t the point, Bear took pride in her work and the fact that she had been captured and nearly killed because someone on her team betrayed her would be a story told with her name for years to come. All of the admirals who had opposed her promotion would use this as ammunition to defend their positions on why women couldn’t be Seals.

She wouldn’t let them.

Her job was hers for a reason.

So she had to prove them wrong. Hazard would pay and Bear would get the last laugh.

She wouldn’t let him win.

So she busied herself with the papers covering the table in front of her, and there she sat, reading frantically and desperately searching for the missing piece.

====

Jake knocked on the door that he knew Bear was hiding out in. He hadn’t seen her for longer than ten minutes at a time over the 18 days that had passed while traveling, and he was worried for her. A part of him wondered desperately if she still cared for him like she had assured him she did, if Bear could tear herself away from plotting revenge for just a moment to be with him.

And what if she couldn’t? What did that mean for them?

But, they could discuss this later.

They had to.

He received no response from the other side of the door, so when he tried the door, he was surprised that it even opened. “Teddy? You in here?”

Nothing. Just silence.

Jake stepped into the room, eyes widening at the papers scattered about the room. He couldn’t find Bear at first glance, but hidden behind a stack of papers, her head pillowed on her arms, sat a sleeping Bear. “Teddy…” he whispered, grinning a little as she stirred at the sound of his voice. “It’s late, darlin’.”

“Hmmm…” Bear let out a soft, sleepy noise at the sound of his voice, shuffling a little towards the noise source. She was dreaming, but was still lucid enough to understand the words being said. “Jake?”

His face split into a grin, loving how soft and sleepy she was. Jake had been lucky over the weeks to see more than the one side of herself that she usually displayed. It was almost like Bear was intentionally dropping her walls when he was around and it thrilled him to see a part of her that she usually kept hidden. “Yeah darlin’, it’s me.”

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Came to get you so you could go to bed. It’s late Teddy.” He was amused by the situation, loving her messy hair that had slid from its bun, and felt himself fall a little more for the woman across from him.

“It is? I swear I was only in here for an hour…” she trailed off, glancing at her watch. “Never mind, I guess I got caught up in this.”

“Did you find anything out?” Jake took a seat next to Bear, chuckling as she propped her booted feet up on his lap.

“I did,” Bear began, flipping through the pile of papers she’d been pouring over earlier. “He had help. Saif had him recruit four others that were completely useless to the plan by the way, but we have two of them in custody now. Apparently there was someone else with the four, someone who fought Hazard on every turn. Colton mentioned often that this person was a huge flight risk.”

Jake’s face darkened. “Who?”

“Easy Flyboy. I took care of it.” Bear had scooted her chair closer to him, gently smoothing the crease between his eyebrows with the pad of her thumb. “They will be handled accordingly.”

“I know. I know. It just pisses me off that this happened so easily,” Jake whispered, leaning into her touch. “All because a man got too greedy.”

“Chip surrendered to us a few days ago. Told us that he had been blackmailed into joining Hazard. He will likely face time, but he never actually did anything. Only acted as a lookout for Hazard under threat. Dex, on the other hand, keeps denying everything.” Bear ran a hand over her face, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “We have theories on the other two, but no identities yet.”

“Maybe I can help?” Jake offered. He had theories of his own while helping Bug and Fireball. Dex had been one of his picks early on, while Gallows and Dodger, his other two had shown no indication of involvement but that didn’t change the gut feeling he had. “Would Chip indicate who else is involved?”

“Maybe. But it’s late and I should go to bed. This will all be here in the morning.” Bear yawned, stretching out. “Ow!”

“Are you okay?”

Bear smiled softly. “I’m fine. Just pulled on a stitch, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her. “Flyboy. I would tell you if I wasn’t fine, okay?”

“Okay.” But he didn’t look sure. So Bear slid from her chair to his lap, peppering kisses over his face.

“Believe me now?” she asked, kissing his nose.

“Mhmm.” Jake had been caught off guard by her movement, but let his hands wander down to her ass, squeezing it once, twice. “I do.”

Bear grinned as she kissed him again, letting herself relax against his chest after pulling back. “You sure? I thought for a moment I took the last Dagger braincell.”

“Darlin’, you’ve had my last one for ages,” Jake replied, grinning at the woman in his lap. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sap.”

“Mmm you love me.”

“I do.”

Jake kissed her forehead, smiling against her skin when Bear curled closer to him, burying her nose into the crook of his shoulder. “Come on Teddy. You need to go to sleep somewhere that isn’t a table.”

“But it’s comfy,” she mumbled against his shirt. “And I’m already dressed.”

“That’s great for a nap,” Jake countered. He loved Bear. Honestly he did. But how she had survived this long on her own was a miracle to him. She lived simply and from what he had seen, she seemed to have a hard time putting herself first.

It was a good thing that he was here now, he hummed to himself, letting his hands move up and down her back. He would always put her first. Bear was worth it. She was worth everything. “But you need real sleep. In bed. Not on a table.”

“Hmmm.” Bear let out a soft noise, already half asleep from Jake’s warmth and the steady thrum of his heart. “Kay.”

“Come on Teddy. I can’t carry you to bed like I did before,” he whispered, gently running the back of his hand over her face. “You have to stand up.”

Bear groaned, moving her hips back slowly before placing a foot on the ground. “I really don’t want to right now.” She knew that whining like a child probably wasn’t the best move, but she was too tired to care.

Jake chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Darlin’, you gotta. I can’t carry you. C’mon, help me out here.”

“Fine.” Bear slid out of his arms, standing between his legs. “I guess I’ll just be cold all night long then.” She knew it was a low blow, but she was too tired and too caught up in his touch to care. All Bear wanted was to be close to him tonight. To share in his warmth, his touch. She wanted to wake up with his arms around her, with her head on his chest, like she had those weeks in Riyadh. It wasn’t fair to have the distance between them, but Bear couldn’t be caught. So despite her insistence, she knew that it wasn’t fair to either of them to keep pushing. “Goodnight Jake.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold on now, darlin’.” Jake shot to his feet, following Bear out the door and down the deserted halls. “Don’t run away from me.”

“If I were to run, would you chase?” The glint in her eyes was full of mischief, practically daring him to try something in the middle of the empty corridor. “Or would you stand and watch?”

“Careful Teddy. Don’t push your luck.” Bear saw his pupils dilate suddenly, the comforting green eclipsed in a moment. “You’re playing with fire.” He’d backed her up against one of the walls, looming over her. Jake looked smug as he braced himself with an arm next to her head.

“Is that right?” The smirk on her face grew wider and Bear slipped out of her position with a practiced ease. She stood a ways off from him, grinning as Jake drew a shuddering breath, almost like he was trying to restrain himself. From what? Well, she had a few ideas. Namely her finally finding out if the rumors that she had heard on base were grounded in fact or fiction. “And what are you going to do about it?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed. Jake knew that her baiting him would only end in a position that neither could explain if caught, but goddamn was he willing to take that risk. The sounds that Bear would make; the whimpers under his mouth, the shivers as his touch turned teasing. God help him. He wasn’t strong enough to handle the temptation that was every little thing she did, and it was only a matter of time before his grip on his resolve snapped. Then, only then, would he show her exactly what he would do about it. But for now, Jake grit his teeth and kept his mouth shut.

His non-reaction made Bear pause. She had finally caught on to the amount of self-control he had. From his darkened gaze, to the tenseness of his muscles, she finally saw just how on edge he was. All because of her. The thought hit like a freight train and she could feel heat pooling behind her legs at the look he was giving her.

But they couldn’t. Not yet anyhow. They both knew that once they gave in to the desire, there was no going back. So Bear let her smirk fall a little, watching Jake step towards her. “I’d show you here and now what I would do about this little attitude,” he growled. “But you deserve better than that.”

She grinned, the thought spiraling through her mind. She needed him, needed to feel him, to feel the muscles she’d traced over during countless make out sessions. But that was for another time. Bear bit her lip, looking up into his eyes, watching the pupils constrict and his eyes return to the lovely green she adored. She took a cautious step forward, placing a hand against Jake’s nearly heaving chest. “I can’t wait,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw.

“Mmmm…” Jake hummed, watching her step back and continue down the hall. All it took was for her to get close, to tease, to give him some sign that she was willing to relinquish her control, and Jake could barely control himself. “Goodnight Teddy.”

She had led him to her room, standing in the open door and looked up at him. “Goodnight Flyboy. For real this time.” Bear was watching the emotions flicker over Jake’s face as he stood over her, his eyes hidden in shadow but she could make out the very real glimmer in them.

“Teddy…” His voice was rough, sending more shivers racing through her body, but there was hesitation. Like he regretted saying what he had moments earlier.

“Jake?”

He licked his lips, lost in thought. “Yeah. Jus’ thinkin’.” The twang on his words made Bear grin a little, stepping closer so that they were almost chest to chest.

“Thinking about what?” She was grinning, relishing in his hesitation and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was what was occupying so much of his brain space.

“You.” Even though Bear had expected it, the weight of the word hit hard, slamming into her body like she wished he would. “Thinkin’ ‘bout you, Teddy.”

She swallowed hard, her brown eyes flicking over his face, searching for any indication that he was lying. “I should…” her hushed tone was so unlike her. It was too timid, too fragile.

“Yeah…”

“Jake?”

“Teddy?”

“I love you,” she whispered, letting her words fill the silence between them.

Jake’s hand slid along her jaw, cupping her face. He knew that she could see his gaze tracing an invisible line from the chocolate brown of her eyes to the lips he wanted to feel everywhere, but he couldn’t find it within him to care. So he bent down and closed the distance between them, his lips finding hers like he’d kissed them a million and one times before. He felt her sigh against his mouth, which made him grin when he pulled back. “I love you more.”

A soft look flickered over her face, the very same look he would wake up to less than a week ago. “That’s not possible,” Bear replied softly, the earlier heat between them reduced to a low simmer. “I don’t know if you can, but you can sure try.”

“Mmm. I’ll spend my life convincing you.” And damn her to Hell if those words didn’t send her heart racing. Jake was here, practically ready to pledge himself to her forever. The rational part of her was screaming that it was too early, but that one part was bouncing up and down in exhilaration, thrilled to have found Jake. “See if I don’t, darlin’.”

Bear smiled up at him, indulging him in another gentle kiss. “I need to sleep, like you said earlier.” She tried to back up, but Jake slipped his arms around her, doing his best to keep her from moving. “Jake, honey. Come on.”

“Not without me.”

“Jake… you know we can’t.”

He heaved a sigh, playing it up a little to hear Bear let slip that little giggle that never failed to make his heart sing. “Fine. But I want to see you tomorrow at some point.”

“Deal.” Bear stuck her tongue out at him, grinning as he pressed a kiss to her nose, making her giggle again.

“Good.” Jake was still holding her close, savoring their proximity and the feeling of her against him.

“Ummm… Flyboy?” Bear was laughing gently at his hold on her. “You do have to let me go.”

“Fine.” Jake stepped back, giving her one last peck before leaving her standing at the open doorway, watching him retreat down the hall away from her.

===

Bear kept her promise the next day, having stepped out of her meetings to have lunch with Jake. They sat together with Rooster and Bob, both men expressing their desires to see their partners after having been away for far longer than expected.

“Well she understood, but hated every minute of the fact that she couldn’t fly out here.” Rooster had just stuffed a mouthful of his sandwich in his face and had been waving his hand around in an attempt to explain. “She’s Navy too,” he turned to Bear to clarify.

“So am I going to face the gauntlet that are the Dagger wives?” Bear asked jokingly, grinning at the look on Bob’s face.

Bob shrugged. “Maybe. All I know is that I have one hell of an apology to make,” he said, taking a sip of his water. They had become close since Jake had beaten the shit out of Hazard weeks ago, Bob providing a calming soundboard for her frustration about how easily she’d been fooled. It was something she hadn’t felt comfortable sharing with Jake just yet, and Bob offered his ear.

“You have one hell of a lucky woman, Bob.” Bear shot the bespectacled man a wink, before turning to Rooster. “You too, as I would imagine. Us Navy ladies are a force.”

Rooster grinned at her. He still didn’t trust the attachment that she and Jake had, but she was fun to be around, so he could look past what he still viewed as a trauma bond and just focus on befriending Bear. “You haven’t met Nix’s girl yet, have you?” He asked with a smirk.

“No, why?”

“Rooster, man, don’t.” Jake’s tone was off, like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “C’mon.”

“You wanna tell her, or should I?”

Bear glanced between the two men, confusion filling her expression. “Tell me what?”

Jake sighed, eyes narrowed at the man across from him. “Nix’s girl is my ex,” he said simply.

“You’re clearly over her though, right?” Bear was watching him carefully, reading every microexpression that crossed his face.

“Yes. I am.”

“Good. So I don’t see the problem here, Bradshaw,” Bear spoke coolly. Jake had told her about Rooster’s insistence that they had trauma bonded over everything that had happened in Riyadh and she still wasn’t completely over it. “I don’t know what you were hoping for here.”

“I meant nothing by it,” Rooster said quickly. He had been caught off guard at the frigidity of her tone and knew that he had made a misstep. “Just that Bagman over there has a type. Women that could and would kick his ass. Reaper is exactly like that.”

“Sounds like my type of woman,” Bear mused aloud, shooting Jake a wink.

“She’s amazing,” Bob chimed in, trying to break the tension that had erupted moments earlier. “Nat loves her so much that it’s insane.”

“Damn right I do,” Phoenix said as she came and sat next to Bob, reaching over to slap Rooster upside the head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do Chicken, but knock it off.”

Rooster swallowed hard, trying not to choke on his food. “I was just… never mind.”

“Good.” Bear nodded before standing up. “I have to go get the last of my stitches out, so I will see you guys later.”

“Hold up.” Jake stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and got up after her. “I’m comin’ with you.”

Bear rolled her eyes playfully. “Anyone else want to tag along?” She asked, glancing at Rooster and Bob.

“I’ll come to make sure that Jake doesn’t crack his head open when he inevitably faints at the sight of blood,” Bob said, grinning at his teammate. He had gotten a lot more comfortable with his team and they soon found that his shyness hid a wicked sense of humor.

“Bradshaw?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Alright then kiddos,” Bear said teasingly. “Let’s go.”

===

Bear had finally gotten the last few stitches out and she was so fucking happy. The itchiness was gone and she could finally stretch without fearing that she would tear something. So it was a great day.

Her and Bob were chatting about restaurants in San Diego, what their favorites were, recommendations for date nights, and the like. Jake was walking behind them, just content to be with her before Bear darted off into the pile of paperwork that was continuously looming over her. “No!” Bear exclaimed loudly, bumping into Bob. “You never go to Lorenzo’s for a special occasion!”

“Why not?”

“Well, let me tell you all about…” Bear went into a ramble that Bob seemed to follow, but she had lost Jake almost immediately.

They continued walking, Bear and Bob filling the silence with their chatter, until Bob ran into someone.

“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Look what they just decided to throw into my path. Commander Bitch, her lap dog, and Where’s Waldo.”

===

A/N: Ooops… 🫣 I did say we weren’t completely done with the drama and yeah… big thank you to @startrekfangirl2233 & @sarahsmi13s for your support. And even bigger thanks to @dakotakazansky for helping me with plot lines.

Taglist: @horseshoegirl @roosters-girl @lovinglyeternal @lavenderbradshaw @roosterforme @bobby-r2d2-floyd @bradleybeachbabe @footprintsinthesxnd @twsssmlmaa @fandomxpreferences @dempy @gizmodear @fighterpilothoe @chaoticassidy @eli2447 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @djs8891 @rhirhikingston @sisterslytherinog @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak @sgt-barnesveins @taytaylala12 @urmom-999 @formulapierre @pinkpantheris @havlindzk @a-beaverhausen @killcomet @buxkybarnez @topgunruinedme @hangmanscoming @smoothdogsgirl @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby

[ezihealth]

7 Tips for Choosing Aged Care Software Navigating the Path to Enhanced Care

Imagine a future where residents in your aged care facility receive personalized care plans, seamlessly tracked medication schedules, and engaging activities, all orchestrated by an intuitive software system. Sounds like a dream, right? Well, with the right aged care software, this future is closer than you think.

But, navigating the sea of available options can be overwhelming. Worry not! This comprehensive guide equips you with seven essential tips to ensure you choose the software that empowers your facility to deliver exceptional care, streamline operations, and boost staff satisfaction.

Tip 1: Chart Your Course - Understand Your Needs and Requirements

Before setting sail, you need a map. Start by charting your unique needs. Consider the size and type of your facility, the specific requirements of your residents, and areas for improvement. Do you need robust medication management? Comprehensive care planning? Engaging activities for residents with dementia? Enlisting staff from different departments in this needs assessment ensures a holistic approach.

Tip 2: Explore Uncharted Territories - Assess Functionality and Features

With your map in hand, explore the software landscape. Focus on solutions specifically designed for aged care. Scrutinize features like care planning and charting, medication management, secure communication, reporting, and resident engagement. Prioritize essential functionalities while keeping an eye out for features that address your specific needs, like fall detection or financial management modules.

Tip 3: Navigate the Rough Seas - Prioritize Data Security and Compliance

Protecting resident information is paramount. Choose software that adheres to strict data privacy regulations and employs robust security measures like encryption, access controls, and audit trails. Opt for a vendor with a proven track record of data security and consider cloud-based solutions with disaster recovery options. Remember, data breaches are not just storms you want to weather; you want to avoid them altogether.

Tip 4: Smooth Sailing with Interoperability

Seamless integration with existing systems is crucial. Choose software that plays nicely with your electronic health records (EHR) and other essential tools. Open API access empowers future integrations with even more technologies, ensuring your vessel remains adaptable and future-proof.

Tip 5: Clear Skies with User Friendliness and Training

Even the smoothest sailing requires a user-friendly interface. Invest in software designed for staff with varying tech skills. Intuitive design and comprehensive training resources, including online tutorials and in-person sessions, guarantee smooth adoption and optimal crew performance.

Tip 6: Reliable Support Makes the Journey Easy

Don't get lost at sea without a sturdy support system. Choose a vendor with a reputation for responsive and reliable customer service. Consider available support channels, response times, and access to technical expertise. Remember, ongoing software updates and bug fixes keep your journey smooth and efficient.

Tip 7: Reach Your Destination - Make Informed Decisions and Implement Effectively

With the information gathered, compare shortlisted vendors. Request demos and pilot implementations to test-drive the software. Gather feedback from your crew, address concerns, and develop a comprehensive implementation plan. Remember, choosing the right software is only the first step; effective implementation is the engine that powers your success.

Arriving at Excellence: The Final Voyage

Choosing the right aged care software is an investment in the well-being of your residents, the efficiency of your staff, and the future of your facility. By taking these seven tips to heart, you'll navigate the waters of software selection with confidence, arriving at a destination where excellence in care thrives. So, set sail, equip your vessel with the right tools, and embark on a journey towards a brighter future for all.

Additional Resources:

* Glossary of terms for aged care software.

* Case studies of successful software implementations in aged care facilities.

* FAQs to address common concerns about choosing aged care software.

With this comprehensive guide and additional resources at your disposal, you're now well-equipped to make informed decisions and confidently navigate the journey towards software excellence in your aged care facility.

Conclusion

In conclusion, choosing the right aged care software is a critical decision that can significantly impact the efficiency and quality of care in any aged care facility. By following these seven tips — assessing specific needs, prioritizing user-friendly design, ensuring comprehensive features, evaluating cost and value, checking for scalability, researching vendor reputation, and ensuring compliance with regulations — facilities can make an informed decision that best suits their unique requirements.

Ezihealth connecting Healthcare stands as a testament to the importance of integrating technology thoughtfully and effectively in aged care. By selecting the right software, facilities not only streamline their operations but also enhance the level of care provided to their residents. It's about creating a harmonious balance between technology and human touch, where software solutions empower caregivers and residents alike, fostering an environment of efficiency, safety, and compassion.

[survivingcapitalism]

“It feels like shit. It feels like community care is not a thing. The world is so self-centered right now. If something doesn’t immediately affect you personally, then it’s not something to be concerned about,” she said. “I live with severe PTSD. I already lost a child. I’m not willing to lose another child.”  

Hannah Neely, 42, lives in Minneapolis with her husband and two children, ages 10 and 12. She had cancer of the immune system, and between the disease and treatment, her immune system was severely weakened. Before, Neely was a teacher, but she is now too disabled to work. Her husband is a software engineer, although he was recently laid off. 

Neely, her husband and her children wear masks. They do not socialize or eat indoors at restaurants. For a while, her children took classes online through the public school system, but eventually she sent them back to school masked. 

“We go to the store, we go to doctor’s appointments, we go to our kids’ school, but that’s kind of it. And we mask everywhere,” Neely told The 19th. 

In a strange way, Neely feels “lucky” to be a cancer survivor, because it means she doesn’t need to justify her concern about COVID to others. Most people she interacts with do not think she is being unreasonable. 

“I am disabled in a way that is invisible, but sympathetic. I haven’t faced the medical gaslighting people with [chronic fatigue syndrome] have faced. … No medical professionals have ever told me I’m overreacting,” she said. 

Some family and friends have engaged in a sort of wishful thinking. 

“People sometimes say, ‘It’ll be fine. Hannah, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You can’t actually say that with any certainty,” Neely said.

[genericpuff]

Lore Olympus Art Analysis - Getting to the Bottom of It

For ages now it's been a common point of discussion - what's the process involved in Rachel's creation of Lore Olympus?

As a community, we've all discussed and speculated Rachel's process among herself and her assistants and how it seems to result in cheaper art each week. Same face syndrome, the overuse of the multiply tool, the dull backgrounds that often enter nightmare fuel territory, the lack of color vibrancy compared to Season 1, the repetitive poses and shots, the theories that different assistants are handling different aspects of individual panels, the clear lack of buffer, the list goes on and on.

But I think we've finally gotten to the bottom of what's going on. Or at least, deeper than we've gotten before and it feels like now we're closer to fully understanding Rachel's process than ever before.

Normally, I wouldn't care this much about dissecting the steps of creating a comic. Everyone's process is different, and when you're working with a team, that can introduce a whole new layer of understanding. I've worked with my own assistants in the past, trained to work in the animation industry which relies on coordination between people, and fully understand what's required to go into making a finalized piece of work put together by multiple people. All that's to say, having assistants doesn't necessarily mean you do less work.

When it comes to LO, though, I do feel this compulsion to tear into it more because Rachel seems to completely lack this understanding, and it shows in her work.

Before I continue, I want to throw in a quick disclaimer - when we criticize Rachel's art, it's not to throw any of her assistants under the bus. All of her assistants are incredibly skilled in their own right. When I criticize Rachel's art as a whole - regardless of who helped shape it into its final form - I'm criticizing not just the art itself, but her direction. Rachel is, essentially, a director of a team, and how she manages that team reflects how her work looks in the end after it's all been put together. I will be showing pieces of art from her assistants in this essay, none of this is to promote any shame or hate towards these people. This is purely an essay speculating on Rachel's directing capability and how she manages her team and is not meant to be taken as objective fact beyond what I am capable of proving as an outsider looking in. I consider her assistants people who are just being hired to do a job, I do not condone holding them responsible for the nosedive Lore Olympus has taken in quality over the past few years. These are simply points and speculations that myself and the ULO community came to after discussing it at length.

Alright, so, where to begin?

This essay started with me having a simple conversation with @loreolympusminoredits over on Instagram. They had pointed out a couple panels from a recent free episode where you could see the texturing wasn't being applied properly. You have to look really closely, but once you spot it, you can clearly see the outline of a square where the texturing block wasn't repeated.

It's VERY obvious in this last panel of Hades, look along the back of his shirt, you can clearly see the color warping from the texture block overlaid on top of him.

Now, I have a few theories for this on its own, it really depends on what drawing program these assistants are using. Some of them use Clip Studio. Others use Procreate. There is no consistent requirement in workstations or software among the team, which is Rachel's first mistake. There's a reason why the animation and film industry requires everyone to be using Adobe products whether they like it or not - because it keeps things consistent across the board. It doesn't matter how good you are at Clip Studio or how much you like Procreate, you need to be on the same software and hardware as everyone else to ensure that you can access the same tools, brushes, and workflow as the rest of the team. No one wants to have someone working primarily in Clip Studio who can't access the same brushes or files as the people working in Adobe. As much as I personally hate working in Photoshop, if I were to get an industry job, I would be expected to work in Photoshop, no questions asked. It's part of the job.

Moving on from that, this led me to wonder which assistant was doing these panels, because it's clear that this texturing problem is mostly at the end of Episode 242 during the Persephone / Hades conversation. There's also one stand-out feature that tells us it's the same person making these panels - the bobblehead necks.

Bobblehead necks have been a very noticeable feature in the comic's art decline over the past while. They typically happen when a character - especially a female one - is being drawn from the front. They're usually also defined with noticeable jugular and collarbone lines.

So, which assistant is it drawing the bobblehead necks?

Rachel's art team switches up a lot. Sometimes she has 3, sometimes she has as many as 8. Some assistants tag in, others are consistent.

So far the most noticeably consistent assistants in terms of participation since S2.2 (i.e. post-time skip S2) are Dnaeri, HardHeadedWoman, AmyKing89, and HeyItsJaki (as credited on their episodes). They're the usual team credited at the end of episodes, with the exception of maybe one artist not being present or an extra artist tagging in.

Upon checking their Instagrams, I am becoming way more certain of who does what and how Rachel does her process.

Let's start with HeyItsJaki:

Very thick lineart, distinguished collarbones, defined fingernails/fingers. Thick shading underneath the neck. Sometimes pouty lips if the expression calls for it.

Now let's look at HardHeadedWoman:

Very Disney/Warner Bros reminiscent art, with most notably, thick necks and distinguished jawline features on guys and hourglass figures/thin wrists/thin fingers on women.

And then we have Dnaeri:

It's harder to pin down her style because she seems to just draw whatever she's feeling like, but most notably are how she draws hands and collarbones, very similarly to Jaki, but with one noticeable difference - softer and rounder lines and shapes.

The irony is that Dnaeri and HeyItsJaki both have the same name - Jaki - so them having similar tells in their styles is just something I wanted to point out. Just a funny thought.

That said, Dnaeri DID post a drawing of Persephone once in her own style/interpretation, and there are definitely things to note here.

The collarbone distinction. The anatomy of the fingers and toes. The lighter lineart. The little 'dip' along the edge of the smile.

Moving on. Let's talk about the last assistant who I feel deserves a specific mention - AmyKim89.

You see, Amy is what I'm going to call the smoking gun. All thanks to this post:

Recognize that panel? That's the flat of Dream Persephone from Episode 204.

And this is what the final panel looked like.

Now, Webtoons cropping aside (don't mind the seam running through Persephone's chest) this confirms multiple things for us.

1. AmyKim89 was not the one to shade this panel.

2. The assistants are working purely off Rachel's sketches.

3. The assistants can be in charge of their own lining, which would explain the inconsistent lineart throughout each episode.

4. There are no backgrounds present meaning someone else is in charge of the backgrounds.

5. Flats can be changed and added to after the assistant has already done their job.

To talk about #5 first, notice the pantyhose that were added that make her legs disappear into her cloak. The baby's face changing. The added flower and necklace. Her eyes changing direction.

Regarding #1, look at how the shading makes the art so much more dull. The previous version of this panel with just the flats genuinely looks so much better than the finished piece.

This was, as I'm sure you can imagine, a pretty big find. While I'm sure Amy would probably not be happy to see me using her innocent post as proof for my hyperfocused ramblings tearing apart Rachel's process, I'm glad she posted it nonetheless because it finally shows us a smidge of what the process might be like during production.

Going back to the shading really quick - Amy was not the one who shaded that panel. But I did notice that out of every little inconsistent thing in LO, the shading is some of the most consistent, and it's consistently awful. Dull muddy tones, lack of consideration of space or lighting, clearly the multiply tool being used even when it really shouldn't be, placement of shading primarily under the eyes even when it makes the face look too dim to look good.

It's always being done with the same watercolor-like brush, with the same multiplied tones, and the same 'edges' along where the shading hits the light.

We also know that Rachel eyedrops her colors.

I don't think it's farfetched to believe that her assistants likely do too to a degree. Or they're working off color palettes from previous episodes they've done before which is resulting in this color dissonance where characters change colors, sometimes in between panels.

Considering the constant muddy shading, and the fact that the assistants may not be doing it, I believe it's Rachel doing the shading in the post-production. If you need more proof, here's a reel of her shading in Hades with the exact same techniques seen in finalized panels.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Rachel Smythe (@usedbandaid)

Otherwise, if it's not Rachel doing the shading, it could very likely be Dnaeri, as they're one of the longest-running assistants on the team (they came on during S1).

Moving on from that, let's circle back to AmyKim89's drawing of Persephone. She specifies she did the flats and lines for that panel, working off Rachel's sketches. But one noticeable thing is that there's no background.

This lead a bunch of us in ULO to speculate that Rachel is also the one throwing in the background and throwing PNG's of the characters on top.

Proof? How about the fact that there are panels out there with crunchy characters and pristine backgrounds?

I already suspected that the character was zoomed in and the background wasn't, but Amy's post confirms more than that - that the assistants are essentially drawing PNG's which don't get backgrounds until Rachel - or another one of her assistants - adds them.

Here's another panel that I strongly suspect was done by Amy judging by the colors (but the lineart feels like it could be Jaki):

Look at how she's floating in empty space. This wasn't drawn background first and Hestia second, this was drawn with Hestia first and they slapped a background behind her.

It would also explain why we get panels of characters missing their bottom halves or their limbs - because the backgrounds ended up being larger than they were anticipating in the final shot.

There are a whole bunch of things we can speculate on here knowing what we know from past essays and what I've laid out here.

Rachel may only be involved in the beginning and end of these episodes. She does the roughs, hands the sketches out to her assistants, which they flat and line, and she puts in the shading, dialogue/speech bubbles, texturing, and last details after they're all handed in. This would also explain why there are so many typos - lack of time to edit/proofread - and why sometimes there will be characters speaking but their mouths won't be open.

Rachel hands out the sketches to her assistants individually who flat and line it and hand them back. Sometimes they're handed individual panels, other times they're handed entire pages with a few panels on them. This would explain why we can go an entire scene with a character looking one way and then looking completely different by the next.

Think back to all those previous essays. Everything we've learned so far - that Rachel's buffer is miniscule, that she's shading with the multiply tool, that she's clearly only contributing the roughs and few panels that she makes from random drawings she did on a whim and waits until she can find a chance to shoehorn it into the comic.

Rachel started off drawing this comic just on her own. When she took on assistants, there were only two - AmbitiousIcarus and Madd_Joey.

But eventually, she took on more and more. Two became three, three became five, and nowadays, she maintains a consistent art team of 4-6 people per episode, not including herself or the rotating artists who come and go every now and then.

This has been happening steadily since the Episode 50's range of S1.

The summer when Lore Olympus' licensing rights for animation were sold to the Jim Henson Company.

I'm not gonna sit here and tell you that the assistants were the downfall of LO. I think they're all amazing artists, each in their own right - but their art is clearly failing to shine through in the wake of Rachel's poor management and organization. Rather than delegating single people to single roles - lines, flats, shading, texturing, etc. - she's handing things out panel by panel as she sketches them out... and considering how poor her time management is as we've all seen, it's not hard to come to the conclusion that these assistants are all being put in positions where they have to rush out lower quality work. Rachel is haphazardly dividing up the work between more people all the while contributing less and less on her own end in pre-production, post-production, and quality checking as time goes on. The final episodes weren't immediately noticeably bad as soon as she started taking on more assistants, but it's clear Rachel's involvement in the comic and its quality control has been declining rapidly since the Jim Henson purchase.

Again, this isn't to point fingers or assume the worst of anyone, but it really is food for thought. I hope that this was, at the very least, informative for those of us who've wondered over the years what Rachel's process is like. It definitely seems messy from what we can tell on the surface and frankly, if I could be in the same room as Rachel, I'd be using all this as an example of why she needs to manage her team and her time better. But that's not my place to do so. All I can do is speculate on it and spend way too much time writing an essay about it LMAO None of what I've written here is 'proof' of anything, as I'm not in the position to be able to do such a thing - that's reserved solely for Rachel and her assistants - but it's becoming plainly obvious what the workflow looks like and why the comic looks shittier and shittier every week.

All that said, I don't feel like her assistants get nearly enough credit for the work they do for Rachel. She can't even be bothered to remember the name of the guy who edited the books for her (it's Edwin, by the way) and you never see her bring up her assistants when she talks on interviews about how hard she works or how difficult it is to make a webcomic. At this point, Rachel may as well be the Queen of England - all the pomp and reward and credit, with nothing to show for leadership or actual work ethic.

It's not your work we're seeing each week - it's the work of people who are rushing to meet your deadlines, win your awards, and do your homework.

You are the sum of the parts you utilize in your workflow. You are not here purely of your own efforts. It can barely be called 'your work' at this point. Lore Olympus has become the Ship of Theseus - barely recognizable for what it once was after being haphazardly pieced together by the efforts of others.

And that's all I'm gonna say on that.

[aimsoftware1]

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[storysims]

HORSE RANCH - GAMEPLAY REVIEW 🤠

Confession time, I actually dislike horses in real life! I have been known to dramatically call them 'vehicles of satan' when pressed, so I was a little concerned about this pack's appeal for me specifically.

But considering I never really wanted horses in the first place, I'm happy to say that I mostly enjoyed my time with the pack! Buckle in, this review turned out to be an especially long one.

I was provided with an early access copy of Horse Ranch to review via the EA Creator Network! Software was not final at the time of my gameplay.

(quick preface - if you see any extreme typos or letters in random places, no you don't! my bird has developed the habit of crashing her little body into my keyboard at high speeds for fun. 😂 catching the typos and fixing them has definitely become a challenge for me! thanks in advance for the patience!)

The easiest place to start both this review and gameplay is the ranch community board! Much like the boards in other packs, this object is scattered throughout the world and contains a wealth of information about new content and events. Important options on the board are also available elsewhere - for example, calling the animal exchange to purchase animals can be found on feeding troughs and horse competitions can be entered from the equestrian center in town. While there isn't a traditional new career included in the pack, ranching has proven to be a full time job. However, options like community jobs and competitions can earn your sim more than enough to keep the ranch running. I was able to easily earn §250 to over §1,000 a day with only my test sim and her horse, and that's not accounting for nectar making and mini sheep + goats!

I chose to start my ranch with a foal and sim fresh out of create-a-sim, but horses of all ages can be purchased from the aforementioned animal exchange! Foals, when compared to full grown horses, have a slightly limited set of interactions and skills. In my opinion, this didn't detract from the experience of having a foal whatsoever! My sim was still able to bottle feed her foal, teach her to eat hay from both the trough & patches of wild grass, and give her lots of loving attention. Of the four available horse skills, foals are only able to progress in the temperament skill! Temperament is a skill built by interacting with and caring for your horse. As their temperament increases, horses exhibit less "undesirable" behaviors, like bucking. Horses with a high temperament skill will have additional social interactions, such as your sim being able to come to them for comfort while in a sad mood. As all of the horse skills go up to level ten, I would highly recommend focusing on temperament with your foals. Foals with a high enough temperament skill even receive a bonus trait after aging up!

After aging up, horses gain access to their remaining three skills: agility, endurance, and jumping. Each of the skills work together to create a well rounded horse, especially for competitions.

Agility - affects how quickly and easily a horse can move. horses with high agility are better at using training barrels, completing certain community jobs, and competitions

Jumping - horses with high jumping skill love to reach for new heights! they are better at using training jumps, completing certain community jobs, and competitions

Endurance - all about how resilient a horse is! a horse with high endurance skill will become fatigued less often, and do better completing certain community jobs, and competitions

Once your sim is able to mount their horse and start riding, they'll begin building the horse riding skill. Don't expect a smooth ride - from a sim's visible discomfort in the saddle to being bucked off, an unexperienced rider will definitely face some difficulties. However, sims with a high enough riding skill will find they can no longer be bucked off horses! Sims are able to go for a ride with their horses at three different speeds - a relaxed, energetic, or intense ride. Much like sending your sim for a jog to build the fitness skill, going for a ride will build your horse's endurance! The more comfortable your sim becomes in the saddle, the faster they'll be able to direct their horse - both while riding for skill and traversing the world.

While the horse riding and endurance skills can be built virtually anywhere, training jumping and agility require two new objects - training barrels and jumps! These can be found dotted around the world or placed on your home lot. As your horse's skill progresses, so will the training options! Sims can add additional jumping rails, direct horses to train alone, or train intently with the horse themselves. Intense training is a great tool - it builds skill faster, but also tires your horse out at an increased rate!

With horse skills covered, it's time to compete! Normal competitions take place every day from 7am to 7pm at the rabbit hole equestrian center in the Historic Appaloosa neighborhood. You can compete in four different competitions - Barrel Racing, Endurance Racing, Show Jumping, and Western Pleasure. Each competition has four levels of entry - beginner, intermediate, expert, and master. As your horse rises through the different competition levels, different skills will be required for entry. An expert barrel race, for example, will require both agility and endurance. Sims aren't exempt from skill requirements either! They'll need to meet the required horse riding skill for each competition. Every Saturday in game, the Ultimate Horse Championship takes place at the equestrian center. This challenge will require both you and your horse to have maxed all the new horse related skills.

Placing at the Ultimate Horse Championship is a requirement for the aspiration, so any aspiring champions will want to make sure they're in the best possible position to win - especially since this is a once a week activity. Prior to competing in any competition, I found it especially helpful to initiate the 'encourage training' interaction with my horse. If all the horse's needs are met, they will become confident! Confident horses do better in competitions. After completing the Championship Rider aspiration, your sim will receive the Grand Champ Trainer trait. Sims with this trait are able to train horses faster, build more fun while riding, sell horses for a higher price, and give competition advice to new riders.

In addition to purchasing horses, your sim can also rescue a horse! Rescue horses come at a reduced cost (§250 vs §1000), but also tend to have more negative traits, like being aggressive or defiant. The game even goes as far as to warn you about the 'difficulties' of rescue horses before choosing one, but that absolutely shouldn't be a deterrent. Difficult traits and all, there were few differences in training up my rescue. He needed a bit more reassurance during training, but he became a champion regardless.

Two horses of the opposite sex are able to breed, provided their relationship is high enough! Much like with cats and dogs, sims will have the option to encourage the horses to interact and eventually breed. Horse pregnancy in game was astoundingly fast - just hours after breeding, a notification and a small baby bump confirmed the pregnancy! Pregnant horses cannot be ridden or compete in competitions.

Pregnant horses will labor for a handful of in game hours before a foal magically appears alongside them. Foals born in game have the ability to be born with unique traits, such as curious, playful, and hardy! Horse genetics matter! If one (or both?) of the parents have won competitions, foals can also inherit the Champion Genes trait. This trait allows for faster skill building and a higher sale value for the horse.

Let's talk about unicorns. While they do actually sparkle in game, unicorns are unfortunately not a new occult in this pack - they're just normal horses. A unicorn horn can be applied to any horse from the 'head' category and will remain on the horse through outfit changes - much like tattoos or skin details for sims. Foals can also be unicorns, albeit their horn is a bit different! Until they age up into an adult horse, their horn will be a tiny nub.

Mini goats and sheep are the real stars of the pack in my eyes! Not only are they incredibly cute, they provide help in the garden and help your sim earn money! Most importantly unlike the livestock in Cottage Living, the minis aren't tied to an object. Fill your pockets full of sheep or goats and take a community job. These little guys will host a goat yoga class or even a sheep sleep study! Sheep and goats also provide wool and milk, respectively. Without Cottage Living installed, these are instantly sold for simoleons. With a high enough relationship, your sim can ask for help in the garden - sheep eat weeds and goats eat bugs! (Full disclosure, I did have some issues with this in early access. Maybe my lot was too big, maybe they don't like planters! I've seen a sheep eat weeds though, so who knows?) Additionally, if your rancher is feeling a little sleepy during the day, find a fluffy friend and talk to them about counting sheep! You'll have a quick (and adorable) power nap!

Sims can now make nectar! This skill goes up to level five and even has an aspiration to match. While leveling up in the nectar skill is a slow process, it pays off! If your rancher has the time to make nectar, it's a great somewhat passive source of income. Nectar needs to age to become profitable, which means you won't be selling your freshly made nectar any time soon. Store your unopened nectar in the new storage rack to start aging! While the storage racks can be placed anywhere, nectar will age faster in a basement. In addition to increasing profits, aging nectar also enhances any benefits associated with it. Different types of nectar provide different perks, which are listed below!

Apple Nectar - helps sims feel inspired. if nectar is at least lightly aged, inspiration persists after nectar wears off

Grape Nectar - helps sims feel confident. if nectar is at least lightly aged, a confident feeling persists after nectar wears off

Strawberry Nectar - helps sims feel flirty. if the nectar is at least lightly aged, a flirty feeling persists after nectar wears off

Potato Nectar - helps sims feel especially happy, or the opposite if they overdo it. if nectar is at least lightly aged, the consequences of overdoing it are significantly reduced

Prairie Grass Nectar - helps sims feel happy and reduces tension. surprisingly filling! if nectar is at least lightly aged, tension and hunger reduction is stronger

Trash Nectar - helps sims feel happy while making them a bit smelly. animals seem to react quite positively. having nectar that is at least lightly aged will improve the smell

Energy Nectar - helps sims feel happy and staves off sleep for a short time. if nectar is at least lightly aged, sims get more energy and happy feeling persists after nectar wears off

Vitality Nectar - helps sims feel happy. extends vitality for the living by a little, and for the dead by a lot

Berry Nectar - helps sims feel happy. if nectar is at least lightly aged, happy feeling persists after nectar wears off

Fruit Nectar - helps sims feel happy. if nectar is at least lightly aged, happy feeling persists after nectar wears off

In addition to these, there's three additional nectar types that can be made with different packs installed. I was not able to make them, even after having access to all of the packs. They were unlisted in the nectar maker. In the interest of including a full list, the missing nectar types are:

Plasma Nectar (requires Vampires) - helps vampire sims feel happy and refreshed. non-vampires should avoid. if nectar is at least lightly aged, vampire refreshment greatly increases

Valerian Nectar (requires Realm of Magic) - helps sims feel happy, with a little something extra for spellcasters. if nectar is at least lightly aged, spellcaster effects increase significantly

Moonpetal Nectar (requires Werewolves) - helps sims feel happy. werewolves may enjoy an increased sense of calm. beware, any werewolf who drinks too much will surely struggle to maintain control...

I'll be the first to admit - it was a bit of a bummer seeing another single step aspiration, especially one where I viewed the §100,000 goal as completely unattainable. Spoiler alert, its not. I've never made more money in this game than I have selling nectar! By the time my early access period ended, I had made just shy of half a million simoleons. After completing the aspiration, your sim will be rewarded with the Nectar-Know-It-All trait. These sims have the ability to craft pre-aged nectar, a stronger bladder while drinking nectar, and their negative emotions have less influence on their current mood.

Nectar is plenty profitable when sold normally, but this man is completely responsible for my unreasonable amount of early access wealth. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the Mysterious Rancher will appear in New Appaloosa and offer to buy your nectar for above face value - he claims nectar is in high demand every time, even though I surely singlehandedly ruined the nectar economy. For comparisons sake, I took 6 bottles of nectar to the rancher. In my sim's inventory, those bottles would have sold for §15,834. The Mysterious Rancher, however, paid §19,795. All of my sims are about to be incredibly rich.

As I said before, ultimately I did really end up enjoying this pack! For me personally, enjoyment doesn't always mean I would recommend something. If you love horses, I truly think this pack will be a great experience for you! My personal opinion is that I found the gameplay extremely repetitive. I don't see myself playing with horses again any time soon, and you will absolutely never catch me entering the Ultimate Horse Competition again. Ultimately, while fun, this just isn't a pack that I would pay full price for.

[heartsofminds]

‘cause no one breaks my heart like you

“Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.” or Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it’s hard to see). 

A/N: Okay so EXTREMELY long time, no see! I’ve been working on this little project since the end of September and have been driving myself crazy in trying to sculpt the words the way that I wanted and how to make this seem as realistic as possible. I appreciate every single person who has been so patient with me and my inconsistent posting and hope you enjoy 19k words of our favorite guy in the sky. 

(Year 3)

He loves me. He loves me not. 

He loves me. 

The strange thing about crying is never knowing when the tears will fall. There’s this burning sensation that comes with it; clearly juxtaposed to the watery mess your eyes want to produce. Your nose burns, your face is hot, and the all-consuming, mind-numbing squeeze of rubberband-like pressure around your temples makes you dizzy. 

Whether the dizziness is because of the crossed wires in your psyche (the hurt feelings and the busted-up ego that comes along with it) or the metaphysical spiral that sent you into a breakdown in the first place is up to your discretion. 

The thought pattern sometimes breaks you out of feeling so non-descriptively shitty. 

Because the thing about being a twenty-something that you’ve come to uncover is that life is shitty. Paying rent is shitty. Paying an arm and leg for a pilates workout is shitty. Office jobs are shitty. Office jobs that house cruel know-it-all men are even shittier. 

Shit, shit, and shit. 

You used to pride yourself on having a more extensive vocabulary than one filled to the brim with the swear word, but as of late, you can’t be damned to care. It’s not like anything you said at the office held any value to anyone anyway. 

You’re just a “kid” - “You and my sister are the same age!” And you’re also a woman; one of the fifteen employed by the grounds and building company you’re a consult for, and one of three on the fifth floor working on engineering consults and software materials for digital blueprinting. 

And the preparation for working in an environment like this - one where mumbled insults at the findings of a mistake on your colleague's draft or small comments about your body being made in passing (never enough to be called harassment, but certainly enough to make you question why it was even being brought up) - wasn’t new. 

The patent leather diploma propped up on the desk in your home office gave proof of it. Years spent with dreaded calculus exams and awkward office hours spent with even more awkward professors and snooty boys with poor attitudes served as the price you paid for the merit. 

So who can even be put to blame for thinking that you could handle it? 

The answer is definitely “you”, but accepting blame for these kinds of things - accepting the fact that in a way, you’re only reaping the consequences of your own actions - is never an easy thing to do. 

And your lips are chewed raw from all the intrusive thoughts plaguing your brain and sometimes you wish that you didn’t have this overarching tendency to view things from “outside of your body.” Sometimes being so critical inwardly kicked your conscience into a God’s eye perspective. 

The worry of if your work pants actually did make you look frumpy or if the makeup around your nose was caking like how it usually does if you blend it in before you let it get tacky. You worry if your hair sits the right way or if the secretary downstairs thinks you have a Dunkin’ Donuts addiction. And then that makes you worry if she notices the breakout forming on the left side of your face.

The worry then transpires from material to emotional and manifests in the form of the two things you’re most deathly terrified of; being a failure and being a failure who finds herself alone. 

Because what if you fucked around and lost the information to the three billion dollar hospital that you’ve spent the better part of fifteen weeks working on? What if you got fired because your bosses realized how inaccurate your math was sometimes? What if everyone was constantly laughing at you and that’s why you struggle to find a commonality with your coworkers? 

And what if, through this whole slue of hypotheticals that hadn’t happened yet but had the potential to happen, you found yourself in a position to be alone? What if your boyfriend - your darling, kind, and sweet boyfriend - finally saw you how you saw yourself? And what if what he sees makes him want to walk away? 

Bradley would never, you try and rationalize, but the more your brain tries to force the pieces of the jumbled insecurities to fit, you aren’t too sure. 

The fact that the same work colleagues who spark the flame of your self-doubt are the same age as he; thirty-somethings with wives and maybe a toddler or two. Your bosses who scare the shit out of you are in the same age range as the men Bradley knows and loves; his Uncle Maverick and Uncle Ice, and the commonalities are far-fetched but multiply the more you think. 

The more you torture yourself, really. 

And the excruciating rug-burn-like feeling slides its way from the depths of your stomach up your throat. When you were little, you used to imagine that it was slimy and plasmodia-esque. The Mucinex guy, you used to call it, and the feeling is so sickening and ugly and horrific, that the ugly little cartoon ploy almost seemed cute in comparison. 

You’re not really sure how your emotions caught up with you today. From how you run from them and shove them down and turn them off, you forget that you have feelings sometimes. 

But then you wake up freezing because Bradley took all the covers in the middle of the night and Dunkin fucked up your coffee and you spilled said fucked up coffee on your new work shirt that you know the stain is gonna be a bitch to get out. 

On top of that, your hair seems frizzier than what you remembered when you left the house and your lips are chapped with not a damned chapstick in sight in the abomination that happens to be your purse. 

David across the hall from your office says something about how you’re late and it’s probably because “You changed your outfit about six times. Know how you women are. My wife is the same way.” And that’s not the reason why you’re running behind at all, but you’re sure indulging in the fact that your boyfriend hopped in the shower with you uninvited and then proceeded to invite himself to bruise your cervix this morning isn’t exactly “safe for work” content. 

And your vagina hurts like a bitch because Bradley went too rough and the report you had filed was sitting on your desk with an intimidating note about how the numbers were inaccurate (“Fuck you, Michael and Rick from downstairs,” you think). 

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so tired and that the cogwheels in your brain are doing that fucked up thing again where it sends you into overdrive and your entire body feels numb. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you can’t cry; that you can’t actually process what you’re feeling until after five when you leave the office today. 

But the burning sensation doesn’t go away no matter how much ice water you drink or how many times you excuse yourself to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water. 

It’s all one big, nasty, slimy feeling that clouds your conscience until you’re met with the front door of your safe haven; Bradley Bradshaw’s home. The sniffles scratch at your chest like a stray dog begging to be let in. The whimper you let out is pathetic and you would’ve laughed at yourself if you hadn’t been so concerned with getting inside. 

Fuck. Was unlocking Bradley’s front door always this difficult? 

Bradley can sense you before he has any indication that you’re home. He joked how he could feel you oceans away when he was on deployment and while you thought that he wasn’t serious (Bradley was a sap and had a tendency to be so tooth-achingly sweet) you know that there’s some truth to it. 

It was odd how he was always so attuned to your needs; how he could always tell how you were feeling before you were even aware that you were feeling it. It was something that you had raved to your friends about in the earlier stages of your relationship. It was also certainly something that they had witnessed on nights out at the club when visiting you in San Diego.

Something inside Bradley loves you so deeply, but he also can’t deny the fact that he loves the praise; the reassurance that he’s a good guy who is always doing the right thing. He’s not doing it for brownie points, “per say”, but the praise does feel nice, and after having to fight tooth and nail to stand out - to be someone and mean something to someone other than his family - the good deeds and the compliments that arose because of them were satiating enough. 

But if he’s being honest with himself, he had always been that way. Despite his innate desire to recreate his parents’ epic love story, being empathetic and filled with space to make homes of other people’s sorrow was just something he was born with. 

Nothing new, and nothing special. 

You force the door open and try and breathe; the cold air of Bradley’s living room hitting your face and the dry heat of Southern California constricting your lungs even more than they had been. You just need a moment, you think. You just need to breathe and you’ll be okay. 

In, out. In, out. In, out. 

Suddenly you’re too aware of your heart beating inside your chest; the anger and sadness and frustration demanding to be let out. You can feel your trachea eroding away with your sobs. Your eyes feel like salt had been poured into them. Your body is heavy with the weariness of your soul, and something about today’s events and your life, really, has made your legs feel like they weigh a billion pounds. Moving them would only land you flat on your face.  

And then you’re made aware of your breathing and your heartbeat is out of sync. The feeling claws your insides and makes every fiber of your being sting.

Fuck. 

In. In. In. In. In! 

Bradley rounds the corner where your hallway extends into your living room. He has a basket of laundry in his arms. His chest is admonished with a shirt with a comically stretched “UVA” logo. Under different circumstances (one where you could breathe, for starters) you would have laughed at him and his expression reads that he’s prepared for it; the slight smile line near his mouth is quirked up on one side being his tell.  

“Hey, baby!” he says before coming into full view of you. 

You can see the light in his eyes leave and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drinks in your appearance. 

Your own eyes widen as you damn near suffocate in the doorway of Bradley’s home. Your sweet, sweet Bradley who you’re sure you’ve traumatized in the span of three seconds. 

You’ve had episodes like this before, but never in the presence of another person. 

They don’t happen frequently, and from various self-help Refinery29 articles and Google searches, you were certain that what you were experiencing - the sudden shortness of breath and the tunnel vision and the pent-up, white-hot frustration making your head woozy - was not normal in the slightest. 

And if it was anyone else you would tell them to get help. You would tell them that what they were experiencing didn’t make them any less of who they were before and that it would be absurd to define someone by such a small fragment of their experiences. But what you say to others is different than what you feel about yourself, because admitting there is an issue that you can’t solve by yourself is equivalent to weakness in your mind. 

Weakness isn’t something you’re allowed to show very often; not with Mikes and Bills breathing down your neck looking for something to boot your sorry ass out of the front doors of their company. 

Bradley recognizes the look you have on your face. It resembles that of new recruits during hypoxia training and even those unfortunate ones that experience g-lock while up in the sky. He’s had his fair share of freakouts and anxieties and he knows that the feeling is awful. Something inside the shelf of him breaks when he sees the same glimmer of fear in your eyes and a call for help on your face. 

He drops the laundry basket to the ground and rushes toward you. His feet move faster than his mind and if people on the base could see him now, it would be the last time they called him slow to react. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, softly grabbing your forearms and rubbing his thumbs over your wrists, “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.” 

His grip on your forearms drops to your waist as he subtly moves you into the entryway of his home. You can feel the vacuum of air behind you as he reaches around your back to shut the door and lock it. 

Bradley’s pupils search your face for answers your mouth can’t give him. He sees the slight bloodshot hue in the whites of your eyes. He sees the slight flush to your cheeks and knows that the dewiness of the shade isn’t because of the heat outside or the blush he had watched you apply this morning. He sees the forced movement of your chest; your lungs overworking themselves to keep you standing. 

Your eyes are staring right back at him but your brain can’t seem to register that you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with Bradley. 

The longer he rubs his thumbs in the crease where your elbow meets your bicep, the more feeling you regain. Your heart rate has slowed a good deal and the air you’ve so desperately been engulfing has allowed itself to make itself useful to you. 

He shushes you and steps closer, engulfing you in a wrap that could envy that of a boa constrictor with its prey. He peppers the top of your head with small kisses and he makes sure your ear is pushed up to his chest so you can hear the thump of his heart. 

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he moves your conjoined bodies so that his back is facing the door and you’re being held close to his front. Bradley slides down the navy blue painted oak so swiftly and carefully with you in his arms that you can’t even be sure when your view changed from his face to being at eye level with his coffee table. 

His hold is comforting and the dam that you’ve worked so hard to maintain all day has finally hit its peak of pressure and broken completely.

“You’re safe, baby. I’m here.” 

The sob that leaves your mouth is one that you don’t even recognize as yours. The last time you can remember hearing something remotely similar resonates in the memory of your niece throwing the biggest hissy fit ever known to man at her second birthday party last summer. 

Man, if only she knew that her competition was you instead of her new baby brother. 

“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispers into your hair, holding you as your body shakes so violently it jostles his large frame behind you. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Get it all out.” 

And you don’t know when the crying stops and turns into shallow sniffles or when the sky changed from its yellowed hue to the dark navy that usually blankets your late-night talks with the man behind you, but all you know is that Bradley Bradshaw is a saint. 

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who would stop the world from turning if that’s what you asked of him. 

Because it’s what you would do if he had been the one to ask instead. That’s how love works. 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

He loves me.  

(Year 4)

He loves me not. He loves me. 

He loves me not. 

Looking for blame was never your strong suit. 

But as you look outside the passenger window of an inherited Bronco on a chilly November night, the fingers you always seem hesitant to point uncurl themselves from your fist without resistance. You have half the mind to not actually point at the culprit of your anger who manifests in the form of the six-foot-one man seething beside you.

The radio is clicked off and the joyous laughter and cacophony of faux karaoke is absent in the midnight blue starlight. The windows are down despite the air surrounding the coast bringing the atmosphere to a standing fifty-five outside, and the wind from how fast your lover is driving taking the temperature down to at least fifty degrees even. 

Your eyes refuse to drink in his appearance for more than five seconds at a time because you know that you’re an angry crier who gets set off very easily. Exchanging looks with the fuel that set fire to the burning in your belly would not do you any good at this moment. 

When you had pulled on the pretty little cocktail dress and left Bradley to his own devices in the living room of your apartment, the thought of the anger brewing between you like a hurricane didn’t cross your mind at all. 

And how could it? 

In the four years of being together, there were a fair share of disagreements but nothing that wasn’t just a product of stress or small tidbits of jealousy and hurt feelings that brewed into something bigger than it was ever intended to be. They were usually resolved with a mature conversation on the floor of whoever’s living room followed by cuddles and on a few occasions, fervent makeup sex on the floor. 

It always gave you rug burn but you never complained. Having Bradley was something you craved so deeply that no consequence could ever outweigh the desire; even damn near purple knees and a sore ass from how domineering he could be. 

Love has a way of making the world stop turning. Nothing truly matters besides the feel of a warm body holding you in bed and the promise of sweet nothings weighing you down lovingly. That always is (at least in your case)  until too much pressure is applied and you begin to freak out - the ugly truth of how much love can hurt with each pained exhale that mimics simultaneous cries of pleasure and calls for help. 

“Does he really love me?” “Am I too much?” “Am I not enough?” 

Insecurities upon insecurities and you really have no true basis for why you think this way or why you feel like you will never amount to what Bradley deserves. If you’re being honest, it’s all a jumble of things and it reminds you of the ABC spaghetti-o’s you used to beg your mom to buy. 

Superficial and never really making sense, much like the word scramble of letters in your soup.

But despite you trying to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous - that the pit in your stomach that refused to move was nothing more than an overreaction - the ABC spaghetti-o mixture started to make sense of your anger and what may have caused it. 

And the insecurity you had felt that you tried to push down inside of you; tried to deny the existence that it was there and was, in fact, so excruciatingly real made way at Rueben’s wedding shower. 

It’s not like you hate being around Bradley’s friends - not like they’re strangers that you try and force small talk with so that the three-hour minimum interactions required for a get-together go by faster. Most of these gatherings have an imaginary itinerary that you’ve come up with and if you play the game right, you never come home with too bad of a hangover. 

The first thirty minutes will be spent giving side hugs and enthusiastic “Hey! How are you?”’s being tossed around. You’re always grateful that the years of sorority recruitment have prepared you for holding “safe” conversations; ones that don’t deter any deeper than being happy to see each other and the San Diego weather that never seems to change.  

Every now and again, one of the guys will hold up your left hand and inspect for an engagement ring before pushing Bradley’s shoulder slightly. A “You better lock her down before I do, Bradshaw,” nipping the air and making your cheeks turn slightly pink. 

Hour one will entail being tucked beneath Bradley’s arm as he sips a Budweiser and joins the circle of regulars that you often go to the bar with or host for dinner parties at his place. Mickey and Rueben will give you friendly exchanges and ask about your work and siblings. Javy and Jake will give you a curt nod and then start to babble away with your boyfriend about whatever hazing-like endeavor they’ll pull on the new pupils in their class. And sweet ole Bob will stand to the side with his hands in his pockets before offering to show you the newest picture of his two-year-old niece, which you graciously partake in viewing because she’s a cutie. 

You’ll slosh around the heavily poured margarita you’ve had in your hand for the past hour before Mickey will laugh and ask if you plan on drinking it at all, and you’ll give a faux introspective hum before shaking your head “no” and offering your drink to Bradley. And Bradley will ask what’s wrong with it and you’ll say it’s too strong and he’ll graciously take the glass and drop a sweet kiss on your temple.

And when he downs the drink with no grimace at the shit ton of tequila and triple sec poured into it, you’ll make note of how the margaritas you make at home are probably more of a mocktail than anything to him. You’ll then marvel at his ability to handle his alcohol, and recall asking him one time at the start of your relationship if a high alcohol tolerance was required to join the armed forces. 

Hour one and a half would be spent with Natasha kidnapping you from the group of aviators Bradley has concerned himself with. “Sorry not sorry, Bradshaw. We got stuff to talk about,” she’ll say and then drag you across the room to another corner of aviators (thank God they’re all women this time). And then you get another round of “Hi! You look so good!”’s thrown at you and a mojito to replace the margarita on account of Cali. The funny stories of hookups and boyfriends paired with all the constant belly laughing are reminiscent of college roommates after a night out at the bars. 

Hour two will include drunken karaoke (even if there isn’t a karaoke machine in sight) and some kind of serenade from Bradley. He always goes to the piano willingly (though it’s always anticipated that dear old Rooster is bound to end up there if the instrument is available) and he’ll pretend like he doesn’t enjoy it, but you know that his ego is inflated by everyone singing along and the praises sung to his playing. 

Hour two and a half will bleed into hour three and usually ends with people starting to head out and “See you tomorrow!” being tossed around. Nat always gives you a tight squeeze and holds your shoulders before making you promise her to get lunch sometime soon. You’ll agree even though you know that your schedules will never align and it more than likely won’t happen, but the drunken stupor you’re both in creates a bubble of extroversion that neither of you can seem to put a cap on. 

Bradley then takes you back to the car and turns on the radio. He’ll look over at you lovingly before kissing your forehead and rolling all the windows down. He knows that the sea breeze has made the air chillier than the number displayed on the weather app in your phone. You’ll groan as he gives you a, “C’mon, baby. You know I run hot!” with that cute laugh and head-shaking smile, and then you’re off down the interstate back to Bradley’s home, where you’ll stay the night and leave out back to yours around the same time he gets up for training. 

That’s how the itinerary usually goes, and the comfortability of it all keeps you sane and acts as a warm blanket that keeps you distracted from the sheer differences between your boyfriend and his world.  

But tonight was different, and the minute you step into the lavishly decorated venue, you know that your unofficial itinerary has no room to unravel despite the massive square footage of the party taking place around you. 

You recognized Natasha alongside the other female aviators that you were friendly with but certainly not close to. Because of the occasion at hand, a few girlfriends and spouses were also huddled around them including Rueben’s fiance, Izzy. 

And somewhere between the three glasses of champagne you had and Izzy’s stories about how she and Rueben were secretly “trying” but didn’t want anyone to know (you’re not sure how it’s a secret anymore because she blurted it out to her soon-to-be husband’s coworkers, but truly to each their own) planted a cherry pit of insecurity in your stomach. When you finished your glass of champagne and took note of how dizzy you were, the insecurity started to grow into the slimy monster that you were familiar with. 

Then came the picking yourself apart. 

Your eyes found the glimmer of engagement rings, baby bumps, and phones with family pictures as the home screen. Wearing your undergraduate alma mater’s class ring on your finger seemed infantile, and you made the conscience effort to slip it into the clutch you had been carrying with you the entire night. 

Phoenix noticed the sudden stiffness in your spine and how your eyes had a glimmer of sadness in them; how they held sparkles of wishing that you could relate. It’s a look she remembered having during her time in flight school. And because she had taken it upon herself to act as your big sister turned good friend since you’ve been dating Bradley, she knew that you wouldn’t speak up or excuse yourself from the conversation. 

Because you, much like her and so very much like Bradley, would rather suffer in silence and let the thoughts of not feeling good enough eat you alive until the joys of who you are become eroded to make room for the sorrows of who you aren’t. 

It came as a surprise to feel her hand guide you away from the giggling women to the front table housing cupcakes and plastic water bottles with the cheesy Canva-designed “Hitched to Fitch” labels replacing the ones they had come with. 

“Thank you,” you said, and she only nodded before handing you a bottle and grabbing one for herself off the table. 

“M’gonna head to the bathroom and then go outside for a bit. Meet you there?” she asked and you agreed, your hands busied trying to twist the cap off of your water bottle. 

Phoenix disappeared and your eyes started to search the room for Bradley. You’d even be satisfied to see some of the familiar faces that you’ve come to know via pool at Hard Deck or biweekly group dinners at your boyfriend’s house. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the room and realized that you didn’t see anyone you recognized for that matter. Instead of doing the smart thing and texting him about his whereabouts or trying to get some kind of idea about where he may have disappeared to, you did the opposite and headed outside to the back area where the sky swallowed any light in its darkness and the greenery around you smelled earthy. 

The November breeze chilled your bones and it took everything within you to keep your teeth from chattering audibly. You internally scolded yourself for being insistent that you didn’t need to bring a jacket to wear with your cocktail dress. When the wind chill had been brought up when you were putting on your earrings, Bradley had only shaken his head and laughed before making sure to put on the baby blue suit coat of his that you loved. You both knew that you’d have it across your shoulders come nightfall when the sun had set and the late fall wind chill kicked in.

The back of your heels dug into the blisters that had formed sometime during the evening and your champagne-induced mind can’t force you to walk any farther. And your intention was never to wander off and not let anyone know. It was to find Bradley and get some air, and you fell short in finding your boyfriend, so the latter had to do for the time being. 

Thoughts of the Law and Order episodes you watched leisurely slammed themselves into the forefront of your mind as the thought of a dangerous predator sent shivers up your spine. You chewed on your lips and crossed your arms over your chest; half thinking and half trying to preserve your body heat. You took a small step forward before your action was interrupted by the loud cacophonous laughter of the men that made up your boyfriend’s friend group. 

You smiled fondly and decided to wait a moment longer before making your presence known. Not very often do they get to joke around like that. 

“She’s letting you hit raw and you still haven’t knocked her up yet?” you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Jesus, Fitch, are you broken?”

You can hear Bradley chuckle along with the other males making up the group as you remained standing hidden behind the archway of the garden. If you had common sense, you would hit the gopher of your curiosity on the head like some dumb carnival game and would reveal yourself; softly joining in on the conversation and maybe even getting to put a face to the voice you had just heard. 

But instead, you stayed put and tried to flip through the catalog of voices that you had come to know. 

Reuben was ruled out because the statement was about him. Mickey’s voice was naturally quieter and softer in nature. “Hit raw” would never come out of Bob’s mouth ever. Hangman is an actual menace to society, but would “Never use the Lord’s name in vain, sweetheart. Was raised better than that.” And Javy was on leave visiting his family in Ohio for the next three weeks, you remembered Bradley mentioning earlier. 

So who could it be? 

An instinct - that old know-it-all voice that was cemented into your subconscious from years of mistakes and warnings from your mother - told you that the curiosity would actually kill you this time. Part of you thought it would be best if you found the bathrooms and waited for Natasha there. Your frozen toes and embarrassingly hard nipples would certainly thank you, but yet you do the opposite of what your panicked brain is telling you (one thing that the ABC spaghetti-o’s made clear to prevent you from getting your feelings hurt).

You had decided to snoop some more and God, did you wish you could beat yourself upside the head to forget what you had heard. Maybe a concussion wouldn’t be that awful. 

And by the time Natasha caught up to you, you had thanked God that the night sky concealed the sadness written on your face and that the cool air could be used as an excuse for your sniffles. 

Bradley, your sweet Bradley, had betrayed you, and he wasn’t even aware of how deeply that had cut you yet.

As you and Natasha made your way to the group of men huddled outside, you could feel the energy from Bradley shift, and from one look at you, he can tell that something in you has changed. His eyes are softened from both the scotch in his system and the tenderness he held in his heart for your being. Something in you just won’t allow his hazel irises to bleed into you. You already have enough blood surrounding the metaphorical stab wound that he unknowingly caused you tonight to last you through the goddamn week. 

He had reached out to bring you into him and tuck you into his front and wrap his arm around your torso. He knew that you were freezing and his suit jacket had been abandoned inside so blocking the wind with his body was the next best thing to warm you up, he had thought. His hand had grazed the goosebumps on your arms, but you pushed him away forcefully. He didn’t raise the question out loud, but when he turned to face you and saw the red tint on your cheeks and the straight line your lips were in, it confirmed what he had thought. 

You were pissed off. 

The thing about Bradley, though, is that he’ll never bring up someone else’s issue with him. He’s confrontational at heart but only about things that cut him deep; about things that stain his fingertips red with anguish and disappointment. And he knows that he has a lot of problems. He knows that what you had heard had to be beyond upsetting, and as you stood shivering with your arms folded over your chest and a good three feet put between you and him, he noted that the look on your face was something that he had caused. 

But because he’s him and because you’re you, he decided to let you come forward and let you confront him with your problem because the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you, and he certainly fell short in avoiding that scenario tonight. 

You stayed quiet and distant for the rest of the night. Your smiles and hugs and sarcastic quips were kept to a minimum and everyone noticed that something was off with you. When you had given Reuben and Izzy their parting hugs, he had whispered in your ear to “feel better soon.” Izzy had even made an effort (despite how “off her ass” drunk she was) to comfort you, and it was then that you realized that everyone had noticed you but Bradley. 

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who always happily obliged to love you and make you feel known and seen no matter the cost, but clearly, that was short of a few oceans away and the contempt of what he had done took precedence of the space you held for him in your heart now.  

All the realization did was piss you off more. 

Bradley had tried to give you his suit coat but you had just brushed it off your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Normally, you would profusely apologize and declare that the action was an accident, but you simply watched it fall, raised your eyebrows in a gesture of being unamused, and started making your way to his car. 

He had opened the passenger side door for you, but you stared at him; a look of utter silent disbelief and frustration rampant in your eyes. He couldn’t even process all that he was seeing reflected in your face before you reached your hand out to slam the very door he opened. You slung it open again before damn near hauling your body into the leather interior of the seat. 

He had half the mind to subconsciously reach out and shut the door for you until you started angrily buckling your seatbelt, to which he ultimately decided to back away and round about his vehicle with half caution and half emasculating retreat to the driver’s side. 

The wheels of how you were acting and how he could even begin to tread the water of what exactly had made you so painstakingly angry. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t speak to him. You didn’t even acknowledge him, and through the years of being an only child with a mother who doted on him like no other, Bradley had to admit that he was selfish; that he always wanted attention and always had to have it. The older he had gotten, the better he had become at concealing this, of course (Well, that’s debatable, you would have said if you were speaking to him) but he doesn’t like to share. Never likes to be pushed aside to have to make room for something else if he can help it. 

And his thinking is selfish…and absurd…and a “doorway for toxicity” (all things that his therapist had said before Bradley had stopped seeing him because he hates being called out), but he can’t help it, and despite keeping it at bay in his friendships, he certainly has a more than difficult time keeping it concealed in his relationships. 

Bradley blames the scotch he downed before he said his goodbyes on why he felt so wounded; on why the guilt and embarrassment were eating him alive. Everyone had known something was wrong with you and it hurt his confidence that he couldn’t be the one to pinpoint what exactly had caused your sour mood. He certainly had an idea, but he’d come to learn throughout the years that assuming things would never do him any good. 

The wound you had given his ego was further agitated by your show of slamming the door as soon as he turned on his heel to go to his side. Knowing eyes in the parking lot of the venue had made their presence known with hushed whispers and heeled footsteps walking faster to avoid running into him. 

Your anger angered him, and instead of being open to the idea of criticism and accepting his party in making you miserable tonight, his need to deflect kicked in instead. Old habits die hard, and he just couldn’t resist.  

He knew you would always forgive him; would always say sorry and mean it because you love him. He has a right to be mad too, he had thought. You let his suit coat fall to the ground on purpose. You refused his touch. You slammed the door to his Bronco not once, but twice. If anyone had a right to be angry, he knew it was you but who was to say that he wasn’t a second runner-up? 

Bradley knows that he was so incredibly wrong for trying to play you; trying to play chess when you weren’t even aware that there was a game being played, but so help him God if he got into a massive blowout fight with you in the goddamn parking lot before the night was over. 

And he’s pissed off but he isn’t an asshole (at least he doesn’t think he is intentionally). He settled for keeping his mouth shut because he knew it would keep your anger at a minimum with less material to be upset at. 

He backed out of his parking space and put his hand behind your headrest, his fingers lightly grabbed the ends of curled pieces of hair that wrapped themselves on the wrong side of the seat. You can feel the wispy touches and you tried your best to shrug him off. 

The ghost of his fingertips on your body drove you up the wall. Instead of harshly pulling your head away from him, you bend down to unbuckle the strap of your heel. You were sure you almost saw the tail end of a frown when you had come back up, but he was absolutely the last thing you wanted to look at for the time being. 

You could feel his stare on your face. His eyes traced your collarbone and followed the labyrinth of shadows up to your jawline. The temptation to give him some grace, to entertain his worries for just a second rang the bell inside your heart, but you were stronger than that. You deserved better than that. 

He didn’t care about you in front of his coworkers, so why should he get the privilege of caring about you now?  

Bradley, obviously attuned to your every move and gesture, sensed your subtle attempt at fleeing from him. He never knew how far away someone could feel from another despite being stuck in the confined space of a front seat.  

He could tell that you were digging your heels in; doing your best to avoid him and remove your brain from the peanut butter-thick tension that plagued the scene. It didn’t stop him from searching the side of your face for answers - for any indication that the metaphorical distance you’ve created between you two actually exists and isn’t just a figment of his chronic overthinking. 

The radio was tuned to some 80s throwback station, a Bob Seger song that you knew the melody of but certainly not the words to, which filled the uncomfortable silence. The age gap between you and your boyfriend was further cemented as he sang the song quietly as if he had written it himself. 

You’re sure you would have spiraled all the way down to the abyss located in the treacherous unknown of the Pacific Ocean if you were given the chance to. Anywhere would be better than here, you had thought. 

Bradley’s hand slipped to the heat to turn it on amidst the chilly fifty-degree fall air that had you shaking in the passenger seat. Your anger was so rampant and rage-induced that your body felt like it was on fire. Your annoyance has no place to go, as he didn’t even bother to lower the windows in the car this time. He had known that the routine of you two going out was thrown off, and trying to keep a small sliver of expectancy would do you both no good. 

Bradley could be so observant yet so self-absorbed at the same time, and it drove you absolutely nuts. 

And you started to spiral and the heat that was being blasted in your face crafted a tornado of grievances that you weren’t even aware you were holding against him. 

Bradley is a blanket stealer. He always gets the wrong kind of grapes for you at the grocery store. He can never tell the difference between Alexandra Cabot and Casey Novak no matter how many times you force him to watch Law and Order: SVU. He always gets an absurd amount of water on the bathroom floor when he showers. He never fills up the Brita filter after he uses it. He always places his shoes sideways on the rack near his front door; not quite crooked enough for you to say something about it but always slightly slanted enough for you to notice it. 

Most of all, he hurt your feelings tonight and he had yet to acknowledge that he was the cause of it. Yet here he is, trying to get in your good graces because the guilt of knowing that he had done something was chewing him up and spitting him out currently. 

So attuned to your needs but never to your feelings. Same old Bradley. 

His hand traveled to the bare skin of your knee; his large palm cupping the bone before moving it upward so his fingertips could trace the shallow gaps where your joints were relaxed. Your breath hitched in your throat and if it would have been acceptable to scream - ie; your boyfriend not currently driving you both across a narrow two-lanes-of-traffic bridge over the ocean - you would have. 

His touch burned you. Made your heart volcanic. Sent fiery tears streaming down your face. His touch had betrayed you. Made you small. Made you insignificant. Made you feel like he never cared. 

If you could’ve caught a glimpse at yourself you would know that you were beet red. You could feel yourself visibly shaking with anger and you knew Bradley could feel it too. You smacked his hand away as if you were smacking a blood-sucking mosquito off your body in the suffocating heat of June. 

Except this wasn’t a mosquito. This wasn’t the soft glow of a summer sunset with a pesky little bug slurping down your blood. This wasn’t a fond moment that you would laugh at later.

You’d been bruised; so deeply hurt. Made to feel so goddamn stupid for ever thinking that he loved you. That he respected you. Fuck him for making you feel the same way you do at your 9 to 5 every weekday. 

Bradley reached and turned the radio off. The deep exhale and the pink flush that crawled up his neck was his tell of truly being pissed off. You had only seen it happen a handful of times. Most of the time Maverick or Hangman served as memorable faces to cause the reaction. 

But this time, the time that extended your handful into two handfuls, was because of you. Part of you is prideful of that fact. Now he can feel what you’ve felt the entire night. 

“What the actual fuck is your problem?” he griped at you. He shifted in his seat and his left hand gripped the steering wheel significantly harder. “Been acting like a pissed-off toddler all night.” 

The desire to roll your eyes bated you with knowing it would satiate you in getting your point across. But the desire to do him one better, to see if you could irritate him more, took over. You know that nothing gets under Bradley’s skin more than someone taking the high road; someone one-upping him in his “noble and kind” act. 

“I’m not starting a screaming match with you in the car,” you deadpanned. You heard him huff beside you, still avoiding his presence with your eyes. 

“Would rather you fight with me than take an oath of silence.” He cracked his neck and stiffened his back against his seat. “More grown-up ways to go about telling me you’re mad, you know.” 

The anger ran up your spine and reared its head in your ears. “Hmm,” you sneered pensively, “More grown up than my pussy then, huh?” 

Bradley slammed on the breaks of the Bronco. His sudden change in speed caused you both to jerk forward. He thanked God that the road was dark and no one was directly behind him. His abrupt decision could have resulted in disaster. But even if someone would have rear-ended his prized possession, his biggest fear at the moment would have to be the fact that his suspicion was confirmed.

You had heard them and that’s why you were so royally pissed off. 

He simply swallowed and pushed his foot on the gas pedal, the car slowly starting to move forward. He turned the radio off completely and his raised brows to signify that he was deep in thought. 

How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now? 

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The scoff you let out rumbled in his ears; eardrums rubbed raw from how accusatory the pitch of your laughter sounded. “Does it fucking matter that I did?” Your voice sounded thick and the puff of air you blew out of your mouth told him that you were seconds away from angry tears. 

“You’re laughing, Bradshaw but what about that youngin’ you brought tonight? She even old enough to drink yet?” his friend and old squadron partner, Yankee, had laughed. 

Bradley had forgotten how loud-mouthed Yankee could be. Completely unafraid of asking the questions everyone was dying to know the answers to and unapologetically crass (even more so than Hangman, believe it or not). Call sign given to him by how goddamn opinionated he was about the MLB and how much of a ride-or-die fan of the New York Yankees he was. 

Yankee was one of those people who you didn’t tell your personal business to because he was bound to have some opinion about it; whether it was if he could tell that your flight suit was slightly stained or if you were making the right choice about proposing to your long-term partner. 

Come to think of it, Yankee was one of the friends Bradley had that he was sure he would never be caught dead hanging out with one-on-one. Something about the two never aligned. Bradley never found Yankee’s jokes to be funny and more often than not found his demeanor to be beyond annoying. But he can't help who his friends liked, and Yankee had never brought anything up against Bradley that made him want to beat him to a pulp, so he was found in the same hand-shaking and bar-hopping circle of friends with Yankee until the other pilot was moved to Corpus Christi. 

“Hey, Rooster’s girl is at least twenty-three. Old enough for a master’s, but can’t hold her liquor for shit,” Hangman declared, sipping the Budweiser he had been holding by its neck. 

You stuffed Bradley’s suit coat that was sitting over your lap on the middle console; desperate to have any part of him away from you. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt your tears fall into the dip of your collarbone.

The anger and sadness that bubbled inside you warmed your insides; turned your volcanic heart into lava. The heat from the vents of your boyfriend’s car blasted in your face and made you feel even sicker than you had previously. Your thighs stuck to the worn leather and itched due to your increased adrenaline. 

You fidgeted about in the seat. Bradley adjusted his posture, leaning his head on his fist that rested on the window sill on his left side. He wanted to drop the whole thing. He wanted to return back to your good tequila-shot-induced moods before the night turned to shit. 

He flipped the heat to a lower setting when he noticed your discomfort next to him. He haphazardly leaned over to close the vent on your side before he saw them; the tears streaming down your face and the pitiful pout adorning your lips. You looked so hurt. So broken. So done with him. Like maybe, just possibly, the love you had for him had finally given out. 

He figured no one was to blame but him. 

He tried his best to make you comfortable but the silence looming like a shadow from your side of the car sparked a wick of anxiety inside of him. His hands kept adjusting the temperature and checking your face as he turned the knob back and forth, the temperature going up and down. The air vents opened and closed as if they were playing some infantile game of peek-a-boo with you. 

“Jesus - fuck -, Bradley,” you hissed, “Can you quit it?”  The tears had turned from anger to sadness to annoyance and you wondered if it was possible for the primary purpose of tears to switch that quickly. 

Bradley let out a soft sigh before flicking the heat off completely and rolling down both windows. “Sorry.” The meekness on his face wrote regret for all that had taken place. 

“You don’t say,” Yankee joked, “Ole Rooster’s been scoping out the playground still, I see.” 

The group of men laugh, none of them in the know of the impending doom of the night about to take place. It always started like this with Yankee. One second, everyone would be laughing and having a good time. The next, he would say some “balls-to-the-wall” asshole-ish comment that even made Hangman grind his teeth in their offending nature. 

“I would say more ‘Babysitters Club’ and less ‘Sesame Street.’ Have to at least be in middle school now for Bradshaw,” Hangman fires back, and although the jokes being made about his taste in women and dating habits were being made fun of, nothing truly offensive had been said yet, so Bradley continued to laugh and nod his head with subtle “Fuck you”’s thrown in every now and again. 

Bradley had been in the Navy since he was twenty-one years old. He knows the way that Navy men talk. He knows the way that most Navy men think. “Swear like a sailor” is the common saying and the various time he’s spent on deployments or on carrier ships provided that it was true. He certainly isn’t blind to the nature of how these men viewed women from how they talked about them when there weren’t female ears around or when they didn’t have a warm body to go home to at night. 

And he’s not proud of it - knew that his mother and father would bury him alive for some of the things he’s said - but the guilt of his parents’ imminent disapproval had since been disbarred from his conscience. When it came down to it, no one gave a fuck who he had fucked the night before or what he had said about the women he was sleeping with. Not when he was miles away from home in an undisclosed location on a suicide mission with no one to go home to if he happened to make it back.

So many other people whom he had befriended felt the same way and Bradley had figured that this is why locker-room talk still exists in the military. Some of the things he heard he was sure could have been said at a random run-of-the-mill suburban high school in any part of the continental United States. All that was changed was the bass in the voices and the number of hairs on their chests. 

It’s hard to be polite when preserving your life is the action item at hand. 

“You know Bradshaw, I always knew you were smart,” the other pilot swishes around his scotch on the rocks in his hand, “They’re always so horny when they’re that young.” 

Laughter rang around the room and he joyously partook in it. “Well, I do get laid pretty frequently if you may ask,” he added before taking a sip of the beer he had in his hand. 

His gaze caught Bob’s eyes. Sweet, innocent Bob who thought the world of everyone. Sweet, innocent Bob who knew that Bradley was digging his own grave, but continued sipping his glass of red wine. The gawky metal frames that rimmed his friend’s eyes bore into his soul, almost magnifying the wrongfulness of what he was saying. 

Bradley had broken their eye contact, his arm coming up to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat and a shaky hand bringing the neck of his bottle up to his lips. He had known that Bob would never say anything, that he wasn’t one for confrontation or calling people out even when they deserved it. But that was the good thing about Bob. He always let people make their own mistakes and never really offered much to say about it afterward. 

“I knew it! You seemed looser than the last time I talked to you.” Bradley catches Bob’s eyes again, his friend’s eyebrows slightly raising in a scolding manner. “Now tell, she the tightest pussy you’ve ever had?” 

The atmosphere thickened as the side conversations had come to a screeching halt. He would be lying if he told himself that the lump in his throat was from the lack of water he had drank that night rather than the uneasiness of knowing he was in the wrong. 

And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should keep his mouth shut; that he owed you the small price of privacy, that you wouldn’t like the mechanics of your sex life being discussed with men who were probably making paper mache volcanoes for their middle school science fairs when you were born. He knew that Bob wasn’t giving him a warning look for no reason and that Mickey didn’t wander back into the venue for no reason at all. 

But despite his better judgment (or lack of coherent judgment at all), he opened his big, fat mouth. He had sped up the ends to his means without hesitation; without regard for your feelings. 

“Tightest thing I’ve ever put my dick in.” 

His friends nod their heads and laugh. Some of them chuckled to avoid the awkwardness and others in agreeance with what was being said. 

Bob scooted himself closer to Bradley and shook his head with a deep sigh.  “C’mon, Rooster.” A clammy hand had come to lay gently on Bradley’s shoulder.

He had pretended not to hear him. He knew the minute that he let Bob’s words register that he would drop to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. He hated peer pressure. He hated the way he was acting. He hated the way he was treating you behind your back. He hated the way his friends were laughing. 

He hated himself more for doing it because you deserved so much better. But clearly, he didn’t feel bad enough to stop. 

The sobs that wracked your chest shook you like an earthquake. The more you pondered on why he would say the things that he had said - why he would laugh and demean you behind your back - sent you into a frenzy. 

Had he always thought of you this way? Were you always talked about so grossly? So demeaningly? Were you really anything to him other than a warm vagina to pummel his dick in when he was horny? 

The questions remained unanswered as you tried to stifle your cries. You hated crying in front of people anyway, but crying in front of Bradley always made you feel awful. Tears always made him uncomfortable and your tears made him upset. Whenever the waterworks started from you, he drove himself mad trying to remedy your issue. You had used to think it was because he cared, but now you started to wonder if it was because he didn’t know how to tell you that he didn’t want to deal with it; that you were being a bother. 

Your hand is bitten raw from trying to hold in your pathetic cries. The alligator tears that ran down your face at a rapid speed and the shaking of your shoulders did little to mask the fact that you were sobbing. Years of being told that your emotions would hinder your credibility at work, months of pent-up frustration, hours of disrespect, minutes of unkindness, and seconds of insecurity create an atomic bomb on the merits of the lesson you had been told throughout your entire lifetime; there will never be enough room for your emotions. 

And you believed it. You took people for their word. You made narratives and internalized them from how people acted. You read between the lines and the margins of what you interpret carve doubt into your heart; carve the failure that you’re so deathly terrified of so close to your lifeline of needing to please everyone all the time. 

The trait is toxic - an unfavorable condition - your therapist would say but it had become such a compulsion, you’re sure you would die without it. Something about approval is so intimately invasive and the shower thoughts you conjured up while thinking about this never seemed to uncover the answer as to why. 

Why it matters. Why it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck would even care. (You, of course, but the world is so much larger than you are and your selfishness would be disappointing, you think.) 

You wish your boyfriend could read your mind and see the twenty-five cent bouncy ball-like thoughts hitting every crevice of your brain right now. You wish that your hurt feelings could be seen by him with x-ray vision or some fictional superhero-like ability. Most of all, you wished that he had known that the events that had taken place throughout the entire night were tearing you up right beside him. 

If he felt that way about you, felt like you were around just for your body and not for you, what did everyone else think? Was Natasha only friendly because she thought you were too immature to be left alone at gatherings? Did Rueben and Mickey actually give a shit about what you had to say when they asked about your work? Did Jake and Javy even know your name? 

Did your boyfriend even like you? 

The questions imploding like fireworks in your head made you cry harder, and you couldn’t help but let the sobs out now. Bradley looked over at you. His hand brushed your knee, his palm cupped it and his fingers spread out to rub soothing circles on the lower part of your thigh. 

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he begged, his voice quiet. Small. Unsure. All the things he had made you. “Please don’t cry.” 

The rubber band inside of you finally breached the capacity of tension it was able to withstand. The fact that you needed comfort more than anything and the person who usually supplies it for you with no bounds is the one who is violating that comfort made your head spin. 

“She’s got that young pussy,” Yankee continued. “Gotta fuck ‘em before they turn into moms. Not as tight anymore.” 

Bradley’s ears turned red upon hearing Yankee’s declaration. Knowing that you fucked up and realizing that you fucked up are two vastly different things and the realization hit when he heard Jake Seresin (of all fucking people) tsk and shake his head. 

“That’s fucked up, man. Have some respect.” Ever the Southern fucking gentleman. 

The sandy-haired pilot’s mouth gaped open before closing; the words loose in his psyche but ceasing to exist in real-time. He finally thought that he had a handle on what he wanted to say. Something noble. Something dignity preserving. Something along the lines of “What the hell?” and “Shut the fuck up.”, but either or never making its way out between his lips. 

Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes, he thought, and upon further internalized reflection, he realized that it posed itself as true. Jake wasn’t entirely wrong for saying that about him all that time ago. 

The clicking of heels on the ground announced Phoenix and his dashing girlfriend’s presence with the group of men and snapped Bradley out of his thoughts. Something in the way she was carrying herself, something about the way that her crossed arms over her chest blocked her usually sunny aura, told Bradley that something was wrong. 

He brought his lips down to her ear when he hugged her from behind and almost built up the courage to ask what was wrong. But he fell short when he was called away to do another round of shots with Rueben and Natasha. He had settled for a kiss to your temple instead before he bolted off. 

“Fuck you,” you manage to spit. 

Bradley raises his eyebrows. The curse word sends him into immediate fight or flight. “What did you just say to me?” 

You know that you’re teetering the line of too much. Toeing the line of immaturity. Testing if your boyfriend liked you enough to put up with your explosion of emotions. “I said fuck you.” The definitive tone in your voice that you attempt scares you with how much it resembles your mother’s. 

Bradley scoffs and squirms in his seat some more. His inability to sit still is his tell of guilt. “I told you it wasn’t like that.” 

“What the fuck else was it supposed to be then, Bradley?” Your head snaps to look at his side profile. 

The cream-colored polo shirt that you had bought him months ago was worn tonight with a different ending in a mind; one where he sped home and kissed your lips swollen and then had you withering beneath him as he fucked up into you on the wall of his foyer. Certainly not the narrative that was currently unfolding in front of him. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Now it’s your turn to laugh cruelly. “Well, what I didn’t want you to say was that I was the tightest thing you’ve ever stuck your dick in? That I’m insatiably horny? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?” You turn your body to face him completely, heart beating in your ears and chest starting to heave with the upset of Bradley’s attitude toward you. “How the hell is Jake Seresin defending me before you even thought to?” 

“Leave him out of this.” His face turns red and anger starts to bubble over inside him. Rooster always sweats whenever he gets flustered; so pissed off and angry that the heat inside of him has nowhere to go. The muggy threshold of the heat being flicked on minutes before pairs vexatiously with the aggravation that sits between the both of you. 

He rolls the windows in the car all the way down but remembers to roll yours down enough for the smallest gusts of wind to be let in. Even though you had made him angry and he knows that you’re completely justified in the case that’s been built against him, he still cares about you. 

He knows that you never like your window being all the way down unless the heat of the summer is unbearable and you were going on a beloved sunset drive with him; your shared playlist playing through his speakers and the top of the Bronco being taken off. 

The way that your hair dances in the wind remind him of when you’re carefree enough to lean your head backward outside of the car while driving down a backroad, the words of a Paramore song exiting your lungs with such clarity that he could question if Hayley Williams had written the song or you. 

But it’s not the heat of mid-June’s sunburn heating up his cheeks and your screams aren’t accompanied by the laughter of him poking your sides. Summer-salted air is replaced with a frigid fall breeze and your happy moods are burdened by your own frustrations. 

“Wish I could tell you the same about our sex life, but obviously too little too late.” 

His hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What the fuck do you think we talk about then? Huh?” Bradley’s pointed tone sends a slight sliver of fear down your spine at his annoyance. “Do you think we sit on those fucking carrier ships in the middle of the fucking ocean for eight months at a time and talk about what? Girl power and Title IX? How much we love AOC?” 

The tears dripping down your face continue to fall. 

“I’m not saying that you have to sacrifice your conversations with the “bros” about jet fuel and g-forces and whatever the fuck else you always seem to insist is so goddamn important, but my vagina is not a conversation topic to have over a fucking draft beer with your buddies.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes at your mention of the word “buddies.” If only you knew how he really felt about Yankee. 

“And I’m so fucking sorry that my lack of not wanting to be disrespected disrupted what you think is a party conversation starter. Would you like my apology half-assed like yours or sincere with a complimentary blowjob because that seems to be all you think I’m good for?” 

“I said I was sorry and I meant it!”  

“You said you were sorry because you want me to accept your apology, but what next, Bradley? Are you actually gonna fix it?” 

He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. “Don’t act like I won’t do anything you fucking ask of me,” his hand comes up to rub at his temples.“ I love you more than life itself and you know that.” 

“So why are you acting like you don’t then?” 

He starts driving down the stretch of road that leads to his home. The yellow glow of the street lights makes you want to ask him to take you back to your place. You can’t stand to be sitting next to him in his car's front seat, let alone sleeping in the same bed with him tonight. 

“Take it back,” he says dismissively. 

“Show me different and maybe I’ll consider.” He pulls the car into his garage and you throw the door open before he can come to a complete stop. 

“Hard to when every little thing that slightly offends you sends you into a goddamn spiral.” 

Your weakness. He’s got you there. 

“Fuck you, Rooster,” you say weakly, stomping away inside to his bedroom as fast as you can with the heels you have on. 

“Grow up,” you hear him say behind you, hot on your tail before turning around to head to the kitchen. 

You spend the next two hours separate from each other, toeing around the house petrified of seeing the other’s face. No fight you had gotten into with one another had ever been this bad in the four years you had been dating, and part of you wonders if this is how relationships begin to fade; how people start to realize that maybe their person wasn’t their person. 

But you think Bradley is it for you. You’ve always felt that way since coming to know him. Be with him. Have him in the same way he has you. You don’t think you can function without him no matter how much of an ass he’s being to you right now. And sure, you’re independent to a fault and yeah, you don’t always know what’s good for you, but you know one thing definitively, and that thing is that Bradley Bradshaw checks all your boxes despite driving you slightly insane at times. 

You look up at yourself in his bathroom mirror as you finally scooped yourself off of the floor of his bedroom and made the decision to scrub your makeup off (or what was left of it after your meltdown, really). The patch of stress acne near the side of your forehead from the new project you had been put on at work and the ball of anxiety over what to wear to the wedding shower tonight made itself known. You realized that you had run out of makeup remover and face wash at Bradley’s house a couple of days ago, and the regret of not bringing some or asking him to drop you off at your own apartment started to settle with the burden of your hurt feelings and the freakout your skin was bound to have come tomorrow morning. 

A sigh had left your mouth and Bradley’s bathroom cabinet opened as you decided to skip washing your face in favor of only brushing your teeth. But when you go to grab the lilac-handled toothbrush from its holder, you notice the two brand-new bottles of makeup remover and face wash that you certainly didn’t bring, and then you’re reminded of how sweet your boyfriend can be. How caring he is. 

The soft spot in your heart that he owns starts to warm again. 

After you manage to wash your face and brush your teeth, you run into the problem of only bringing a sleep shirt. Bradley keeps his house on sixty-five no matter the weather outside. He always claims that he runs hot despite some of the wind chill San Diego experiences at night during the fall and winter months.  And while you have clothes at Bradley’s, most of them fall into the business casual garb you wear to work or are borrowed (more like stolen, he likes to joke) and no matter how cold you may be, your pride has so much more precedence than it would allow you to give in. 

Bradley’s Chicago Bears hoodie sits folded in your designated drawer, but you bypass putting it on. The embarrassingly large t-shirt (albeit free t-shirt) that repped a random student organization from your undergrad institution would have to do tonight. 

You waltz out of Bradley’s bedroom quietly. Not only to go undetected, but to be polite in case he had already fallen asleep on his declared refuge of the couch. The soft sound of Breaking Bad playing told you that he was still awake. He can never fall asleep with the TV on; no matter how tired he is. 

“Baby?” Bradley calls out from the couch. 

Shit. Were you really that loud? 

Your feet move faster than your brain; something about Bradley is so magnetizing. You’ll follow him to the end of the Earth if you knew that he needed you. Your puffy-eyed, pantless form moves to stand in front of him. His form still wears the clothes he had worn tonight. The only thing different was the UVA throw blanket you had gotten him last month “just because” over his lap and his printed airplane-socked feet sticking out from underneath it. 

Your gaze looks towards the shoe rack near the front door and you chuckle to yourself as you see them exactly how you imagined them. Tucked away where he wouldn’t trip on them, but slightly askew. 

His hand comes up to grab yours that lies limply at your side. “C’mere,” he whispers, testing the waters to see how much damage he had done. 

You give his hand a small squeeze, the coldness of yours allowing you to feel every callous on his palms. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” 

He opens the blanket on his lap and guides you to straddle him. He closes the blanket and immediate warmth covers you. Bradley’s hands sit on your lower back above your tailbone, soothing circles being rubbed on the bone there, and his head coming to rest on top of yours. You breathe in his scent, your face snuggled into his neck. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he speaks and you exhale. You bite your lip, the tears welling up again and wetting his neck. 

“It’s okay,” you weep brokenly. “I’m sorry, too.”

He presses gentle kisses on the top of your hair. The sadness that fills the room; the culmination of utter sorrow and confirmation of your insecurities makes the room heavy and eats away at you. Bradley does his best to comfort you until your sobs quiet to hiccups. 

And as much as you love Bradley, as much as you want to be satisfied with his apology (or lack of a sincere one, thereof), you realize that sincerity was perhaps not one of his defining characteristics. But instead of calling him out, you so stupidly and cowardly accepted it and apologized right back.

He’s apologizing for the sake of saying sorry. For the sake of diminishing your anger. For the sake of being able to be truthful about never going to bed angry if someone asks. For the sake of doing so because if you accept, he’s still allowed to stay the same and he never has to change.

But you’re saying sorry for being a nuisance. For embarrassing him. For bruising his ego and for being accusatory that he never gave a damn about you. 

And what you don’t realize is that you should really be saying sorry to yourself, because while you’re boxing yourself up to make space for him, he’s not sorry about forcing you to do it. 

Boxes are heavier when they’re filled with resentment, you learn, and the weight becomes unbearable when sorrows are thrown out to sea with no lifesaver near in sight. 

Love is all about sacrifice and banged-up feelings; even if that means that the love of the man you would do anything for suffocates you as you lay curled into his side with a heat made by his chest and his soft snores in your ear. 

“Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind.” 

And for the first time in the four years you had spent together, you truly start to wonder if Bradley really does love you. The hot coffee on the nightstand when you wake up and the discovery of his thermostat being turned up to seventy degrees confuses you when you get up to head back to your apartment in the morning when you compare his treatment of you now to he had treated you the night before.

He loves me not. He loves me. 

He loves me not. 

(Year 5) 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

His mother used to tell him that women always knew. 

And she would say it over the sound of a cheaply made General Hospital episode that she had taped so they could watch it together during their evening “wind down time.” His pencil would be scratching away at a Calculus problem from the AP Calc booklet his teacher had passed out at school that day and the soft clink of his mother’s knitting needles would grace his ears. 

He would nod his head as he sat by his mother’s feet on the floor of their living room and wouldn’t say a word. The cocoon that the soft yellow glow of the lamp gave off wrapped him in a moment of security; a moment of comfort that he was never allowed very often. 

And he had never really thought anything of it at the time. He had figured it was just some chock-full wisdom that would blossom into a useful tool for his adult life; one where his mom wasn’t dying and he was married with maybe a few kids and a beautiful house with a backyard and a bay window. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as the female lead had discovered her husband cheating on her long before she had traveled home to catch him in the act. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as she would catch him trying to sneak a girl into his teenage bedroom at half past three in the morning. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as she comforted him when she had declared to an eighteen-year-old Bradley that she no longer wanted to continue with chemotherapy. She died not even two days later.

“Women always know,” he can hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head as he watches you tiptoe around him when you come home from work. 

The door closes with a soft click and your keys are grasped tightly in your hand to prevent them from jingling. The bags underneath your eyes beg the question of when the last time you had gotten a full eight hours of sleep was, but you both would rather not inquire out loud. 

The answer would shock both of your consciences. 

The tossing and turning you had done the night before was cruel. The anxieties of your day had breached unknown territory; the pit of your stomach hollow and your chest tight. Your mind was so frazzled with fear you couldn’t bear to stay still because the lack of movement gave way for your thoughts to be caught; for your fear and anxiousness to swallow you whole. 

Bradley would normally stir in his sleep the minute your eyes had popped open in the middle of the night, but instead, he had elected to turn over and cuddle his face more into his own pillow. The action tacked itself onto the mile-long list of things you were upset about - things that you found unfathomable that your brain scrambled together. 

And when you had finally gotten to sleep, your alarm clock blared beside you. Your heart had started to race and the monster of nerves you had successfully defeated for an hour and a half resurrected itself. 

When you had turned to face Bradley, you found him still fast asleep and that’s when you knew. 

You’re not stupid. You’re not oblivious. In fact, you’re always so painfully aware that it kills you sometimes. You notice how he’s been pulling away. You notice how he’s seemed more reserved and despondent than usual. You notice how he doesn’t kiss your forehead anymore or ask to join you in the shower when you’re both spending your mornings at home together on the weekends. 

Conversations at the dinner table are neither here nor there as most nights he can’t be damned to make it home to eat with you. For the first time in five years, you had run out of face wash and had to write a note to yourself on your phone to pick some more up from the store the next time you went shopping. Bradley had watched you type it out and his sagging shoulders wore disappointment on them. 

You knew. 

You knew he was both feet out of the door with your relationship; his hand still on the doorknob to close it but not having the guts to lock the door while he’s at it. 

You know. 

You know that you’re going to break up. You know that Bradley is the one who will be taking the initiative and doing it. You know that he’s been thinking about it for a while. The absent gasps whenever you do happen to catch dinner with him say so, and all you can think about is his mouth opening and closing like a goddamn goldfish as he searches for the words to bring it up. The thought makes the actions of the inevitable seem more bearable. 

But yet you cling to what little time you know you have left with him. 

How you know that you’ll never get to sleep beside him again. How you know that you’ll never get to snuggle into his UVA blanket. How you know that you’ll never visit the Hard Deck or the base or any spaces where Rooster Bradshaw exists freely. 

How you know that things will never be the same and that your sweet, sweet Bradley will soon become a sweet, sweet stranger. 

So you try to prolong it. 

You never linger in the same space as him for too long for fear of the dreadful topic being brought up. You bite your tongue a lot more than you usually do. You keep your stuff neat and tidy; praying for some miracle that he didn’t see your hairbrush on his bathroom counter and that it would buy you another day with him. 

You know it can’t last forever but the stupid, naive part of you thinks you can stretch the time to infinity and it’ll be some Groundhog Day-type plot. 

You had started planning your arrival home around his schedule months prior. You aimed for leaving the office when you knew he had already left base about an hour earlier. If Bradley was anything, it was predictable, and he would either be in the shower when you had made your way home or cooped up in the home office he had made of the spare bedroom. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him standing in front of you; hands drying the ceramic plates Penny and Mav had bought you as a housewarming gift whenever he bit the bullet and moved you both into his parents’ old house last summer. Gray running shorts are low on his hips and a New York Yankees long-sleeve looks damn near painted on his biceps. You swallow the lump in your throat that travels down to your stomach. 

Your brain can’t even begin to think of what to do or say but Bradley beats you to it. 

“Hi,” he speaks, breaking the ice of your anxiety that freezes you both over. He knows that you can feel that something is off. He knows that you’ve felt it for a long time. He also knows that he’s about to shatter you completely and he’s not sure if he can watch as he does it. 

“Hi,” your voice quietly sounds. Your hands start to shake and Bradley’s eyebrows upturn with sympathy as he drinks in your appearance. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places the plate down and steps towards you. “C’mere.” 

His arms stretch to accommodate you. His heart beats wildly as he approaches. He thinks you can sense it because you slam your ear against his chest. There’s no way you can’t feel the rise and fall and frenzied thumping coming from his pectoral. 

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” his heart begs, but his brain knows that either way, hurting you is inevitable. 

He wishes there was another way but he knows wishful thinking will only put you both in a landmine of resentment; a world of a loveless marriage and three kids who will eventually have to pack their bags for their respective weekends with you and him on opposite sides of town. He doesn’t want that for you. He doesn’t want that for him. He sure as hell doesn’t want that for them. So he pushes aside his selfish desire to keep you close and does what he always does. 

He decides to walk away. 

“Just get it over with,” you say weakly from his chest. He plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. His thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of both shoulders. Your stomach is cold and the rest of your body is left scorching. 

“What are you talking about?” his chin comes to rest on top of your head. His hold on you unintentionally shoves your face deeper into his chest. 

“Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.” 

“I can’t talk about it unless you tell me what you’re gettin’ at, babydoll.” 

“Don’t play stupid, Bradley,” you release yourself from his grip, “You’re going to break up with me. We both know it so please, just do it already.” 

The words that you say steer clear of the convoluted plan he had in mind. Breaking up is no easy task and the guilt of the thought even crossing his mind had been weighing on him for ages. It wasn’t like he sat down with himself and crunched the numbers of the housing market to see when the best time would be for you to move out or that he had a set itinerary of how the conversation was going to play out. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it today until you had left for work, and it seems to him that you had figured it out without having to mention it to you. 

Women always know. 

“Don’t say it like I’m just trying to throw you away.” You flinch at his words. He realizes that his tone had come off more aggressive than he intended it to be when he notices the slight watering in your eyes. 

“Isn’t that what a break up is?” you want to ask, but you’re so stunned you can’t get your vocal cords to carve out the shape of the letters, let alone thrust any sound out. 

He takes your hand and leads you to your shared bedroom. The white duvet and navy blue bordered throw pillows remind you of when he used to take the time to hold you before you fell asleep at night. The hardwood of the floors tell the secrets shared between the two of you as hushed and giggled whispers; pointless gossip and serious confessions alike. The framed pictures on the dresser show you and him in various moments of your five years together. 

Easter spent at your parents’ with your siblings and nieces and nephews this past spring. Thanksgiving with Mav, Penny, and Amelia three years prior. A selfie you forced him to take with you at Phoenix’s wedding last year. A candid shot taken by one of your friends of you two curled up on the beach; blissfully in love and lost in each other’s eyes at the start of your relationship. 

The photos and the room had seen so much of you two. Various deployments and promotions. A canvas of emotions and intimate moments. Laughter and tears. Petty fights and teenaged makeout sessions. So many things that had written the story of you and Bradley long before you had moved in and long after. The thoughts of the memories fill you with excitement. 

But the thought of him not feeling the same way - the fact that he’s bringing you to a room with the story of you both written exclusively in every crevice to end things - brings a waterfall of tears down your face. 

The story of creation and its impending graveyard. 

Another pang of anguish surges through you and the coldness in your stomach spreads to your feet. 

He sits down on the foot of the bed first. He looks up at you with worry written in his irises. Bradley can sense your discomfort; the sadness and panic bouncing off of your aura in waves of deep indigo blue - the color that he’s assigned depression. He doesn’t know why (and he thinks that if he were you, he would slap himself across the face) but he offers his hand to you. 

There’s no hesitation and his hand guides you to sit on his lap like how he always does when you’re upset and need comfort. 

You sit down and push your face into the side of his neck. The stinging sensation from the hot salt water tears leaking into a cut he had given himself from shaving that morning makes the nature of the situation all the more realistic. This is the last time he will hold you like this. This is the last time he will know you as well as he does. This is the last time he will ever have the chance to make you miserable. 

Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore. 

But the feeling of disappointment is just so intense this time. He’s sure it doesn’t even fall within the scope of what could be considered “hurt feelings.” He would classify this as torture, and he can’t help his own quiet sobs racking his chest as he holds your crying and shrunken-in form in his arms. 

“I don’t want to break up, Bradley,” you weep, “I just don’t want to.” 

He shakes his head and wipes his own eyes. “We need to.” 

There’s something so personal about failure. It’s not a stranger to you. It’s not a monster or fear or the Mucinex man that you try to boil it down to be. It’s something that you can’t obsessively try to avoid anymore because it’s right here in your face. 

Except this time, it takes the shape of Bradley’s red-rimmed eyes and gray hairs on the border of his hairline that you hadn’t noticed before. 

Bradley isn’t one for bragging. He can’t stand bragging, actually, and he wonders if that’s why he has such a hard time trusting his judgment. He considers that to be the reason why he’s always teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but he knows deep down that this time, he’s right. He’s so spot on and as much as it kills him, it would be more of a crime to deny it than to just admit that he’s right.

He knows it. You know it. He’s sure God does, too. 

 “No, you want to,” you stubbornly sniffle. 

Ever the most hard-headed person to exist, but a sweetheart when it comes down to it. He almost cracks a smile at your attitude, but then he runs into it like a wall of bricks. You’re breaking up. This is the last time he’ll ever get to see your bull-headedness in full effect. The thought makes him whimper and he prays that you didn’t hear the infliction of it in his voice.

“That’s not true, sweet girl,” he sighs, fingers tracing the seam of your work pants, “I can’t make you miserable anymore. We need to.”

“Who said I was miserable?” 

He pauses. He knows that the statement he’s about to make will send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He knows that it’ll make him feel that way because he’s being called out. 

“I don’t want to get married and you do. That’s miserable.”

Your ears burn more than they already had because he’s right. You’ve been waiting around for a stupid diamond on a stupid gold band; for reassurance that he wants you to be his as much as you love the idea of being his forever. 

Five years and you know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Five years and you compromise regularly about what to keep the thermostat on. Five years and nine weddings you had attended with him. Five years of loving each other and knowing one another in ways that only fiction writers can dream of having someone know them. Five years of feeling like you would die without him. 

Five years and he’s ready to throw it all away because he doesn’t think you both want the same things. Five years down the drain.  

You think being kicked in the face would hurt a hell of a lot less than this does. 

“Uh-uh. No,” you say. You paw at your eyes with your hand ferociously. “No! You don’t get to do that. You know that’s not fair!” You spring up from his lap like he was a fire that had just licked your skin with white-hot heat. 

He grabs at your wrist, his eyes pleading with you to not leave him. His touch burns you but you give in. “It’s not fair to keep doing this to you.” His arms envelop you once again and you feel like you can’t breathe. 

You push at his chest. “This isn’t fair.” Your arms try and pry Bradley’s arms off of you. “You can’t - I can’t just let you throw us away like this. It’s not fair!” 

Bradley swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes produce more tears the more he watches you struggle against him. He’s scared that if he lets you go that you’ll lose it completely. Part of him knows keeping you near is helping him hold it together too, but he tries to rationalize the overall shittiness of the entire situation by telling himself that he’s appealing to your needs - that you need him, but he also knows that he needs you. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Then why are you hurting me?” The question explodes in the air, It’s something that he thought he was prepared to hear from the pep talk he had given himself on the ride to work this morning, but it still stuns him.  

“I’m hurting you by keeping you with me.” 

You scoff and cry harder. The fight inside of you hasn’t ceased yet. Such a stubborn girl, he thinks. It’s one of the things he loves the most about you. 

“You’re hurting me now.” 

Bradley swallows his comment. His mind ping pongs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on how to tell you why he knows this is for the best. The truth is, he doesn’t know it. He just thinks it, and the worry of having to follow his instincts, to have to be guided by something so material and un-cemented, scares him to death. But he knows that you deserve the word and the world is something he knows that he’ll never be capable of giving anyone. 

“You deserve someone that will marry you.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “Someone who will make you so happy that you won’t even think of us anymore. Someone who can give you that house in La Jolla and a huge wedding and babies and a dog.” 

“Someone who won’t blow up in flames while they’re in the sky,” he almost adds, but he closes his mouth instead. The conversation was already heavy. There’s no need to tack on his death that is always in the cards. 

“I deserve you,” you say, tone dripping with determination and assurance. 

He’s full-on sobbing now. “You deserve so much better, baby. Why can’t you see it?” 

You chew on your lips so hard that they start to split. The salt of the blood in your mouth is vile but you would rather taste that than the tears that have been roaming down your face. 

“Why can’t you just be better then?” 

He feels like you stabbed him in the heart. He guesses that he deserves that. “I can’t be better if you deserve the world. I know I can’t give you that.” 

The room fills itself with hiccuped breaths. His heart cracks and yours disintegrates. Bradley moves himself to the headboard to support his back. If you weren’t so concerned with your world crashing down, you would have made a joke about how his age was catching up with him. But trying to force yourself to smile feels like a crime. 

Bradley has experienced loss. He’s experienced disappointment. He’s experienced heartbreak. He thought he was prepared for what he was choosing to do, but he never had thought of how he would feel when he was experiencing all of these things at once. 

His abs hurt from how hard he’s crying. The hair on the crown of your head is soaked from his tears but you don’t mind nor do you notice. The chest of his long sleeve is stained black from your own tears. You both cling to each other even though being close is what causes you to ache. 

The bright white of the linen duvet reflects cornflower blue in the moonlight. Your throat is dry from your heaving. His head hurts from his racing thoughts. Both of your eyes sting uncomfortably; you seeing the world as if you were underwater. Not only because of your uncontrollable sobbing but because the focus of your life - the love you so willingly gave that has illuminated your world for the past five years - has finally dimmed. 

The hours spent holding each other felt like seconds and you finally muster up the courage to say something; to put on a brave face and revel in one of your lasts with him. 

“Bradley?” you croak. He clears his throat and presses a timid kiss to the top of your head as if he’s scared that his lips are more of a weapon than a tool of comfort. 

“Yes, baby?” 

“Will we still be friends in a few weeks?” 

He sucks on his lips. He wants to say that you’ll always be friends. That no one that comes after you will ever hold a candle to you and what you both had. That you’re his beginning and end, but he can’t keep dragging you along with a false promise of giving you what you actually want. He can’t make himself want to be a husband even though he knows that it’s what he needs to be to keep you. Wanting you just isn’t enough anymore.  

The risk is contemplated, but he never wants to prey on you and your vulnerability. He settles for the safe option. 

“Depends on if you still wanna be, sweet girl.” 

You plant a soft kiss on the wet spot on his chest your tears have created. The answer is sweet but not what you want. You wish it would’ve broken his resolve; would’ve reversed your relationship ending. You know that he knows better than to do that. 

The silence sets in again before you speak up. 

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you still call me every night before I go to sleep so I can hear your voice?”

“I can for a little while, baby.”

His answer is the right thing to say, you know, but you can’t help the fact that the statement breaks your heart even more. “Why only a little bit?”

He sighs. You’re not making this easy for him. “Babe, you know why.” 

“Right,” you whisper, shifting in his lap to wrap your arms around his neck. You peer into his eyes. The hazel in them is dimmed. There’s no sparkle left. “M’sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, “Just think that maybe that won't be healthy if we do it for too long.” 

It kills him to say that, but he knows that he’s doing the right thing. It certainly doesn’t feel as such, and he would think that nearly twenty years of service in the Navy would help him separate the bad feelings from the nobility. 

Breaks up just don’t work like that, he figures. No amount of experience or preparation can concoct an easy way out where no one gets hurt. 

He gets lost in his thoughts before he hears your voice again. 

“Bradley?”

Broken. Timid. Inquisitive. A test to see if he still cares enough about you to answer. He knows how you are and that you’re reverting back to old patterns that you had lost during your time with him. He has to push aside his feelings of being slightly offended that you’ve put the wall back up so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done enough damage to last a lifetime. He just wishes that you didn’t think he could fall out of love with you this easily. 

“Hmm, baby?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“My best friend too,” he exhales, the pang in his chest valiant in letting him know that this is the end, “Always will be.” 

You pause and tailor your next statement carefully. Part of you takes it slow to prevent yourself from breaking down again but part of you takes your time to keep him near; to keep him from walking away from you. And you don’t want to do this to him. You don’t want to anger him or upset him and that’s the fucked up thing about it. 

He’s hurting you and you don’t want to hurt him back. 

“Yeah, but what happens when you date another girl and she’s your best friend instead of me?” The thought makes your skin crawl and you dig half moons into the skin of your hand with your thumb to prevent yourself from letting out a chest-wracking sob. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Bradley sighs. The thought of you moving on is selfish but he knows that it’s inevitable. He wishes that no one will ever get to know you the same ways that he’s gotten to, but shakes the thought as soon as he realizes how selfish it is - a declaration of love or the right answer. 

He does the latter. 

“You’ll find someone who’s an even better best friend than I am,” he sniffles. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying again. “Someone who doesn’t make you cry.”

Your breath hitches and it triggers more tears to stream down your face. He’s hurting, too. You never want to see him hurt like this, but then you realize that after today, you will never have to ever again. The thought makes your body ache; withdrawal symptoms before any withdrawal had actually begun. 

“You promise we’ll still talk?” you speak in a watery voice. 

“Yes, babydoll,” he wipes his eyes and sniffles some more, “ We’ll still talk.”

You start to play with his hands. Your finger runs across a faint scar on his index, the freckle on his pinky, the empty space where you wish a gold wedding band would be on his ring finger. The tips of your own fingers start to burn when you realize that his disinterest in ever wanting to wear one is why you’re breaking up. 

You push the thought to the side and continue on in the conversation. 

“About life stuff?”

He gives a soft chuckle, the one he usually gives you when he’s playing into your amusements. Part of him is never serious when he does it, but there’s a new wave of promise that he has to keep. 

“About anything you want.”

The crying dies down again. The energy in the room is constantly going up and down like the waves on the beach near the back of the house. 

“Bradley?” you interrupt the quietness again. The lack of sound makes you even more anxious than you already are. 

“Yes?” He curses himself as the statement leaves his mouth. He knows you’re picking apart his lack of use of a pet name; that you’re convincing yourself that you’re an inconvenience to him and that he never cared for you the way you wanted him to. 

Bradley almost tacks one on, but the pause between adding it and answering would have been too broad and you would have noticed and called him out on it. He decides against it. He also starts to wonder when he became so decisive all of a sudden. 

Turmoil does that to someone, he guesses. 

“My heart hurts so bad and I don’t know how I’ll fix it.”

The energy in the room spikes again. The tension you can feel radiating off of him like an unbearable heat makes your eyes water. Crying was something you did often but not something you enjoyed. You’re in for some long, painstakingly miserable months, you think. 

“Mine does too but we’ll do what we always do, right?” You shift in his lap and curl into him more. You know he’s right, but it doesn’t mean that what he’s saying is what you wanted to hear.  “We’ll figure it out.” 

“I - I don’t think I kn-know how to d-do that anymore.”

He moves his chin from the top of your head to actually look at you. He had been avoiding it for the fear that he would be too cowardly and would retreat back to keeping you in this miserable, hopeless search for a marriage that he was never planning on partaking in. He can’t go back. He can’t undo what he had just done. Even if he were to announce that he wanted you to stay, it being brought up in the first place will forever have torn an irreparable hole in the fabric of your relationship. 

Bradley’s hands cup your face and he smacks his lips on your forehead. He thumbs away the tears that had been endlessly streaming all night. He rubs soft circles back and forth on your cheekbones. The pressure you get in your cheeks from crying always gives you a massive headache, he knows. 

The fact that someone else will know that about you sends him into a spiral of guilt. A spiral of weakness. A spiral of wanting to undo what he had just done. 

But he doesn’t. 

Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing. 

And so he does. 

“Bullshit, baby. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure it out.” Truthful words, but not truthful feelings. He’s never been good at deciphering those. 

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?” 

The words get stuck in your throat. You never want to make him feel bad because you know how hard he is on himself. You’re not sure if saying what you want to say is even worth it but - from the way he’s holding your face, from the way you’ve gotten to know and love him, from the way that he will always be your sweet, sweet Bradley -  you determine that he needs to hear it. 

“You’re the kindest man that I know even though you stomped on my heart.”

He sends you a soft smile and delivers a soft kiss to your lips; the first one of the night despite being so close to him all evening. 

“I learned how to be because of you.” 

You don’t know how long you both stay like that - wrapped up in each other with waves of tears coming and going as they please. The soft whimpers leave your mouth and the sniffled breaths that leave his paint each corner of the bedroom with an ending. 

One where you don’t get the ring and the house and the babies. One where he doesn’t get the girl and the family and the happily ever after. One where you both don’t have a soulmate anymore. 

He knows that he shouldn’t say it. He knows that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. He knows that he’s not ready for you to leave and he says it hoping that maybe, he can take back what had happened; that maybe you can steer the conversation in talks of staying together and compromising and “working it out.” 

“I love you. I’ll always love you.” 

You look up at him brokenly. His heart stops beating when you open your mouth to speak. 

“But you’ll never love me enough to try.”  

Bradley closes his mouth and exhales deeply through his nose. The point you made is compelling and it stings to know that it’s completely truthful. He sits with you on his lap, subtly rocking you back and forth until the sky turns from the midnight blue of nightfall to the yellow-tinted wisteria of sunrise. 

Women always know. And he would be foolish to pretend like your gut feeling was wrong. 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

None of it matters if he doesn’t love you enough to be what you need.