#existing in the second chapter

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Man so I'm finally piecing together a bit more for the third chapter of my (not yet) prime bros fic and it amazes me at just how much of uncaring jerks Tails and Amy(epik appearance in the 3rd chapter!!) accidentally are in the first draft like gang have some sympathy for the poor fucker[Nine] instead of treating him like an annoying spectacle 💀💀

[mesopelagos]

tenna call me back

[sea-me-now]

go, my salesman

[fratboykate]

Yelena doesn’t pack.

She sits there, fists clenched on her thighs, jaw tight, every muscle in her body screaming at her to follow Kate and fix this before it spirals further out of control.

But she’s tired. God, she’s so fucking tired.

For once, she wants to be the one walked toward instead of always being the one doing the chasing.

But the minutes stretch. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The silence outside Kate’s office is oppressive, settling into Yelena’s bones like lead. No footsteps. No hesitation. No coming back.

And she knows...Kate’s not easing up.

That realization sends something sharp and dangerous slicing through her chest. Fine. If Kate wants to be stubborn, then Yelena can match her.

She heads to the door, grabs her keys out of the bowl, and heads out. She doesn’t rush. If Kate is listening, she wants her to hear every deliberate footstep, the soft click of the lock as she pulls the door closed behind her.

Let her know that Yelena isn’t bluffing.

She makes it as far as the car. Keys in hand, fingers curled around the driver’s side door handle. And then she just…stops.

Her pulse is a dull, steady thud in her ears. The weight of the night...the fight, the accusations, the sheer exhaustion of being caught in this cycle...presses in on her.

She should go. She said she was going. And Yelena isn’t the type to walk back on something once she’s put it out into the universe. She’s stubborn like that. Always has been.

But she's still here.

Kate is right here.

And maybe maybe this is the moment. The test.

If Yelena gets in the car and drives off, does Kate let her? Does she come outside, bang on the window, demand she come back inside? Does she call in ten minutes, or an hour, or tomorrow morning when she wakes up and realizes Yelena actually left?

Or does she do nothing?

That last thought sinks claws into Yelena’s chest. It sits there, heavy and festering, refusing to let her go.

She releases the car handle and pivots on her heel, marching back toward the garage elevator before she can talk herself out of it.

Inside, the lights in the hallway are dim. The office door is still wide open, her chair pushed back from the desk exactly how she left it. The fight sits in the air, thick and suffocating, but the house is quiet.

Uncomfortably so.

Yelena makes her way down the hall. There’s a sliver of light coming from the guest room at the end of it.

She hesitates, foot hovering over the carpet leading there, then she moves past it entirely. Instead, she veers toward the kids’ rooms. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. Some reassurance, maybe, something to anchor her in the mess of tonight.

She stops outside Alexia's door first, pressing her palm against the wood for a second before carefully pushing it open just enough to peek inside.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight in the corner. Alexia is curled on their side, one arm flung over the stuffed owl Kate bought her last Christmas. Yelena watches her chest rise and fall, slow and even.

She should’ve been here earlier. Should’ve said goodnight, should’ve been the one to tuck the kids in instead of leaving it to Kate again.

She shuts the door as quietly as possible and crosses the hall to the little one's room.

Maks is sprawled across the mattress in the most chaotic sleeping position imaginable, tangled in the sheets, one sock barely clinging to his foot. In the crib, Sonny is neatly tucked in, tiny hand curled under her cheek.

Yelena lingers in the doorway for a long time.

She loves them. Of course, she does. That was never up for debate. But it still stings, the way Kate threw it at her earlier, like Yelena being a good mother was somehow optional.

Like Kate thinks she’s failing.

Like she thinks she’s failing.

She swallows hard, backing out of the room.

When she reaches the guest bedroom, the door is cracked open. A lamp is still on inside, and Yelena can just make out the shape of Kate sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked up, fingers pressed to her forehead.

She doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open wider and steps inside.

Kate doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything.

Yelena exhales slowly, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t leave.”

Kate snorts, the sound dry, unimpressed.

“Want a medal?”

Yelena clenches her jaw.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

That makes Kate lift her head. Her eyes are red, tired, but sharp.

“Do what?”

“This. Fighting. This stupid back and forth. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Kate watches her carefully, searching for something. Then, with a quiet scoff, she shakes her head.

“That’s nice. Really. But you don’t get to say ‘I don’t want to fight’ like that fixes everything. You did hurt me. You keep doing it.”

“I know.” It’s the only honest thing Yelena can say. She shifts on her feet. “But you’re hurting me too.”

That seems to land. Kate’s jaw tightens, and she looks away.

Yelena takes a careful step forward.

“We can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to lose you.”

Kate laughs, but it’s hollow.

“You sure about that? Because every time shit gets hard, you disappear.”

Yelena shakes her head. “I don’t...”

“Yes, you do.” Kate cuts in sharply. “Physically. Emotionally. Take your pick.” She lifts her hands, then lets them fall limply onto her lap. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re fucking drowning? I do. Every single day. But I don’t get to check out. I don’t get to decide it’s too much and just…step back.”

“I don’t decide to do it.” Yelena’s voice is quiet now. “It’s not…it’s not something I want.”

“But it’s what happens,” Kate mutters, shaking her head.

Silence stretches between them.

Then, Kate exhales and leans forward, pressing her face into her hands for a moment before lifting her gaze again. Her voice is softer when she speaks next.

“What are we to you?”

"What?”

“Its a simple question,” Kate says, watching her. “If this...” she gestures vaguely between them “...is something you’re only holding onto because it’s familiar, or because leaving would be too hard, then we need to stop pretending.”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. Because wanting something and knowing how to make it work are two different things. She exhales, crossing the room until she’s close enough to kneel in front of Kate, resting her hands lightly against her knees. Kate doesn’t pull away.

“You and them are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you,” Yelena says, voice steady. “And I don’t want to stop trying.”

Kate studies her for a long, tense moment. Then, finally, she sighs.

“We have to try differently then,” she says. “Because whatever this is? It’s not working.”

"We'll figure it out. All we have to do is choose not to give up."

///

The next morning is quiet. Too quiet.

Yelena wakes to the sound of muffled voices. The house is awake without her. The kids are up. Kate is up. And Yelena is still in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like she’s an outsider in her own home.

She drags herself up, pulling on a sweatshirt over her sleep shirt as she pads barefoot toward the door. Their bedroom feels wrong when Kate doesn't sleep in it. Foreign. Without Kate in here, Yelena feels she’s intruding. The space between her and Kate has never felt this wide.

Hearing them out there...it feels like they're already moving on without her.

Yelena makes her way to the kitchen. Kate must have said something hilarious because she hears Alexia and Maks cackle. She turns a corner and, the second she steps inside, she knows she’s walked in on something.

Kate, who stands by the sink, tenses the moment her and Yelena make eye contact. A few feet away, Alexia sits at the table with Maks and Sonny. Sonny is in just her diaper, swinging her legs under her chair, oblivious to the tension that just thickened the air. Maks is staring down at his half-eaten cereal like it might give him an answer to whatever the hell just happened here. Alexia, however, is bristling.

“You should have woken me up,” Yelena says, voice rough with sleep.

Kate doesn't say anything.

Alexia glances up, eyes flicking between them, and suddenly, Yelena realizes what this looks like. Kate slept in the guest room. She wasn’t here when they woke up. She walked in late.

Like a stranger.

“Mama, are you living with Deda and Babu now?” Maks asks, tilting his head.

Yelena’s stomach twists. “What? No. Why would you...”

Yelena glares at Kate. Before she knows it's happening, she's crossing the kitchen and walking straight to Kate.

“What did you tell them?” Yelena asks barely above a whisper.

"The truth." Kate turns, leveling her with a stare. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend like nothing is happening? They’re not stupid.”

“They’re also kids.”

Kate scoffs, dropping a spoon into the sink with a clatter.

“Right. And what do you think is worse? Talking to them about it or letting them figure it out on their own while we keep playing house?”

“This isn’t something they should have to deal...”

“They already deal with it,” Kate snaps. “Every single time you put your work first. Every time you miss a recital or a game or a school meeting. Every time I have to make excuses for you...they already know. So maybe, just maybe, don’t act so fucking surprised.”

Alexia chair scrapes backwards and she storms off.

"Alex..." Yelena pleads after her daughter.

But she's already gone, storming down the hallway. Maks looks like he wants to follow, but he stays put, chewing his lip. Sonny, blissfully unaware, bangs her little hands on the high chair and gurgles.

Kate sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is exactly why I told you to fix your priorities.”

Yelena sets her jaw. “You told me? This isn’t just on me, Kate.”

“Really? Because I’m not the one who’s always gone.”

The words slam into her, harder than she’s willing to admit.

Before she can respond, Maks slides off his chair and follows after his big sister, leaving only Sonny at the table.

Kate watches them go, then turns back to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter like she’s holding herself together.

“I don’t want to fight in front of them,” Yelena mutters.

“Then don’t start shit at breakfast.”

Yelena's eyes flash. “Start shit? You told them I was going to stay with my parents.”

“That's what YOU said,” Kate hisses, stepping closer.

“I came back.”

“And you want me to give you points for that?”

“No. I want you to stop acting like I’m the only one responsible for all of this falling apart.”

Kate laughs, but it’s sharp, humorless.

“You’re really going to stand here and act like you’re not?”

“This isn’t fair...”

“What’s not fair is that I have to be the reliable one while you get to be at work. You get to show up when it’s convenient for you. You get to skip the hard parts. You get to waltz in late because you’re Yelena Belova, the brilliant scientist who’s too important and too busy to actually be here.”

“That’s not...” Yelena pauses. "Why did you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"Yelena Belova."

"That's your name."

"It hasn't been for A LONG time."

“Don’t change the subject,” Kate warns, voice dangerously quiet. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you don’t see it. You have no idea what it’s like to be the one who has to hold it all together.”

Yelena’s chest heaves. “And what do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

“Trying isn’t enough anymore.”

There it is. The final nail in the coffin.

Yelena shakes her head, throat burning. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

Kate doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze flickers, like she wants to take it back. But she doesn’t.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Kate says finally. “Not when nothing ever changes.”

A thick silence envelops the kitchen whole.

Yelena swallows around the knot in her throat. “So that’s it? You’re done?”

Kate exhales slowly, but there’s no satisfaction in it. No relief. Just exhaustion.

“I think I have to be.”

Yelena takes a step back, like she’s been hit. She doesn’t realize she’s shaking her head until Kate sighs and looks away.

“Yelena...”

“No,” Yelena breathes. “No, this isn’t...we aren’t...”She can’t finish it.

Because Kate isn’t stopping her. Kate isn’t walking it back. Kate isn’t saying 'I don’t mean it' or 'I just need space' or 'We’ll figure it out'.

She’s just standing there, watching Yelena unravel.

“When are you moving out?”

And that...That’s the moment it all falls apart.

[mx24]

the things that chase you in the dark in Chapter 4 are the Titan Spawn

[thecourtfinchster]

once I get out of editing hell and publish my Cerulean Chronicles fic about overcoming cycles of trauma and learning how to come to terms with healing, it is OVER for you hurt/comfort bitches

[anexistingexistence]

I need to stop semi-getting into every fandom I hear of as if I'm taste-testing different cheeses this is severely slowing down my fanfic production-

[stromuprisahat]

Demon in the Wood (Leigh Bardugo)

Two of the Grisha sat by the fire: a handsome man in blue and a woman in red robes with a haughty, refined air. ... The woman in red turned back to Mal and Alina, her dark eyes blazing. “We are not witches. We are practitioners of the Small Science. We keep this country and this kingdom safe.” ... The woman in red looked down at them. “If, by some small chance, one of you is Grisha, then that lucky child will go to a special school where Grisha learn to use their talents.” ... The woman in red slides her hand around my wrist. I feel a sudden rush of pure certainty wash over me. I stop struggling. A call rings through me. Something within me rises up to answer.

Shadow and Bone- Before & Chapter 11

“And you’re a living amplifier. Like Ivan’s bear.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like Ivan’s bear.” An unpleasant thought occurred to me. “But that means—” “That my bones or a few of my teeth would make another Grisha very powerful.” “Well, that’s completely creepy. Doesn’t that worry you a little bit?” “No,” he said simply.

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 5

[daisywords]

back towards the beginning of DaDBaB and I get to introduce the King (yay!) but idk if he is coming across as unsettling as I imagine idk the words aren't wording but someone tell me like are you picking up what I'm putting down?

[claitea]

just one of those nights again (thought about n so hard i started Physically feeling sad like theres a weight on my chest)

[etoilesombre]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw/OCs, (nobody named or important), Background Silver/Madi - Relationship Characters: Captain Flint | James McGraw, John Silver Additional Tags: Angst, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, Gangbang, Free Use, Sub Captain Flint, season 3-4 break, Heavy Alcohol Use, Drunk Sex, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Only One Bed, (kind of on a technicality though), (but it's plot relevant), Silver is the world's best quartermaster, Flint handles emotions by being a bastard Summary:

As they prepare for war, a mission forces Flint and Silver to spend the night in the colonies. Overwhelmed and frustrated by his feelings for Silver, Flint tries to get his needs met via other avenues. Silver interrupts. Drama ensues.

(First chapter is their time ashore, and all of the actual gangbang stuff. Second is the aftermath, and silverflint smut. Cathartic happy ending guaranteed.)

[asthedeathoflight]

chapter 4 is really just the wish fulfillment chapter for me which you'd think would mean that its cool and fun and good things happen in it. but you'd be wrong.

[squidyyy23]

second chapters - chapter 3

when mickey’s PO assigns him a job at the local library, he’s pleasantly surprised—not that he’d ever admit it. practically lived in the prison library, and what better way to start his new life than with a career he might actually enjoy. and when he meets the charming, clever, utterly fuckable, redheaded children’s librarian, well, shit just keeps getting better and better. mickey’s definitely not interested in anything serious right now, but what’s the harm in a little fun?  fuck, this job’s gonna be even better than he thought.

chapter: 3 / 17(?) rating: e (eventually) chapter word count: 6.7k total word count: 15.1k

and all the hugs and kisses to @gallawitchxx jumping in for some beta love! 🐝💕

📚 read chapter three on ao3 here 📚

[whumpitisthen]

New and soul shattering experience: rewriting a chapter in an entirely different way because you realise halfway through it is boring and not necessary and you hate it <3

[thispersonistired]

Street Racing AU (Landoscar)

a/n_ i set the stage, but my muse forsake me. I know nothing of cars so the technical shit is straight out of my arse. This is also incomplete.

TITLE: Drive

One Valentino Rossi once said, "Speed is something dangerous, but very exciting."

Oscar Piastri could feel his blood roaring through his veins, hear each bold thump of his heart. The cold prickled at the edges of his skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his breath against his mask, slapping against his cheeks. He looked around, dazed. The neon lights made him feel high on something. In some ways, to him, this was a high—high on tension, high on the expectation of the inevitable showdown, high on the feeling of the wheel beneath his fingers. The faces in the crowd blurred together. The only thing clear was the road ahead.

A megaphone blared, announcing that the race would begin soon. The crowd roared as the red light above him began to flicker.

When it turned green, Oscar flew.

It was all practiced, time and time again. Many would call it repetitive—how he knew exactly when to brake or by how much to turn the wheel at a corner. But to Oscar, it was a new experience every time, just close enough to the edge to gain an advantage. Taunting death, really, when he turned at the last second, skimming dangerously close to an abandoned storage block. He didn’t even register where his opponent was. He just knew they were at least a thousand miles behind him.

Oscar didn’t drive to win.

But he did anyway.

Because he was that good.

Before he knew it, the neon lights edged closer, and he was landing again, the high slowly petering out. Crossing the line for what must have been the millionth time, he slowed the car to a stop at a curb right where the crowd ended. His name was announced as the winner. A few familiar faces approached to congratulate him, but most of the crowd had already moved on, anticipation crackling in the air for the next lineup. Someone had challenged a veteran to a Duel. Of all things.

People were more excited to watch a rookie obliteration than Oscar’s 9999th win.

He offered his friends a lazy two-finger salute before sliding out of his car and jogging toward the crowd.

And that was when he saw it.

A very familiar McLaren 720S lined up on the track.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, glancing across the street, where a man in a baseball cap and a red flame nose mask stood—Mad Max. One of the few other main attraction drivers Oscar got along with. That was one of his cars. But before he could think too much about it, someone else stepped into his view.

A young man. Slightly shorter than Oscar.

Unassuming.

Dressed in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, his face completely hidden behind a bright fluoro yellow helmet. Not many drivers wore helmets in the Grid.

Someone behind Oscar yelled something profane that involved donkeys and the guy, the rookie, turned around and sent a middle finger in their general direction.

The helmet’s visor was up at that moment. Oscar caught the barest glimpse of sharp eyes, tinged green and blue by the neon lights, before the man turned away and walked toward his car.

His opponent? Lance Stroll. One of the few drivers who didn’t bother hiding their identity in the Grid.

Lance was reckless. That much, Oscar knew. And that recklessness made him a formidable driver—unafraid to take risks that could be vital to winning. If twenty one hospital visits and eighteen broken bones hadn’t scared him into changing his driving style, then tonight, he was going to give his all. Just to prove a point.

To a rookie stupid enough to challenge a Grid veteran to a Duel.

This could only be interesting.

The red light flickered.

Oscar barely blinked as Lance strolled to his Aston Martin DBS Superleggera amidst the cheers of the crowd, waiting for the green.

To Oscar, the wait felt like forever. A completely different experience from when he was the one in the car.

And when the light turned green—

He forgot to breathe.

The McLaren was fast. That much was obvious. It belonged to Mad Max, arguably the best driver in the Grid. But there was a reason Max preferred to use his homemade car—a beast of a machine, a scrap-metal monster resurrected by his own hands, dubbed The Red Bull by the Grid and Baby by the driver himself—rather than this particular modified McLaren.

People speculated that it wasn’t really a car for racing to him. More like a trophy, something he’d won off another driver in a Duel some time before Oscar had first joined the Grid.

But Oscar knew cars. Both his parents were country mechanics, and he’d only ever left the workshop to come to America for school. (He also grew up watching everything cars, but that just made him a nerd, so he didn’t advertise it.)

He knew something others didn’t.

This specific McLaren wasn’t just a car.

The 720S wasn't just about raw speed. It was a machine that demanded precision. At high speeds, its active aerodynamics created immense downforce, keeping it glued to the road, but that same force made it twitchy on uneven surfaces like a street road. A lesser driver would hesitate, let off the throttle too soon, and lose control. But in the hands of someone who understood its limits, who could read the balance of grip and speed like a second language, it became a weapon.

SImply, it was only as good as its driver. It didn’t have limits—except the ones its driver placed on it. It could make an underdog rise to the top or leave an overconfident rookie ten million miles behind. 

And in this scenario?

It obliterated the Aston Martin.

The car barely even lifted off the accelerator to take the first turn, and yet—somehow—it made it through perfectly. Beautifully.

Oscar waved road dust out of his vision just in time to see Lance take the turn three seconds too late—a lifetime in a race like this. He even clipped the curb on his way in. Probably fumbling from pure shock.

For half a second, the crowd fell silent.

Then the screams started.

Oscar's gaze snapped to the tapped street cam footage following the McLaren. The turns were suicidal. But not reckless. No, each one was taken too perfectly to be reckless. It was meticulous. Practiced. On roads this guy had never driven before today.

The final straightaway came up.

Oscar forced himself to look away, to watch the McLaren fly toward the finish.

The gap was insane.

With this much of a lead, the guy could get out of the car, push it, and still win.

But he didn’t. He kept driving, fast, faster—flying past the crowd, past Oscar, past everything.

Oscar glanced at Max.

He was smirking, eyes unfazed—like he’d already known exactly what would happen.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer shrieked, voice laced with shock. "Your winner—"

"Four."

The voice came hoarse through the megaphone. The winner. The rookie. His voice shook slightly.

Weird name.

But not the weirdest Oscar had heard in the Grid. Numbers had become almost as common as initials—like OP.

And before he even realized it, Oscar was moving.

He needed to talk to this guy. Now.

He pushed his way through the crowd and jogged toward the track, only to see the rookie already getting back into his car.

He hadn’t even collected his spoils from the Duel.

Oscar caught his eyes in the side-view mirror.

Brown met green-blue-gray—Oscar didn’t even know if it was the lights anymore—but it lingered for a moment.

Then the rookie looked away, stepped on the gas, and disappeared into the night.

Oscar stopped, bewildered.

Across the street, Max's eyes crinkled in amusement, probably laughing behind his mask.

And as Oscar was ushered off the track for Lance Stroll to crawl across the finish, he knew.

He was going to see Four again.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe next week.

But soon.

Because he'd seen that look in the mirror before.

On his own face. In his rearview mirrors when he crosses the finish.

There was a hunger. A need for more.

And Oscar was dying to know what it would be like to go up against him.

~~~~~~~~~

Four.

That was the number of times Lando Norris circled around his apartment block to calm his racing heart.

The night had been exhilarating.

A minute, maybe more, of pure, uninhibited speed. Nothing but the car and the road.

He still had to return the car to Max later. But maybe—just maybe—Max would invite him again. Maybe he could feel this high again. Forget everything again.

Tonight had been magical. But it was already slipping away. Lando parked the car where Max had told him to, then slipped inside.

It’s not like anyone would question him for being out late. He was a grown man!

But maybe, just maybe, he half-expected to walk in and see Daniel, hunched over an assignment that was due too soon, working late. Daniel would look up, ask where he’d been, ask if he was okay.

"You must be tired."

Daniel would smile. But there is no Daniel. Just cold air and an empty table.

Lando was used to it. He hated that.

He dragged himself to the bathtub, turned on the cold water, and forces himself to step into the chill without thinking. Daniel would have a fit if he went to bed sweaty.

He thought of the smells—burning rubber, asphalt, wet dirt, and somehow, rain. He remembered the crowds, masked for anonymity, because what they did was less than legal. Their cheers blending into the hum of the city. 

The feel of his feet on the pedals, hands on the wheel. Taking turns like they were enemies in his vision, the only direction forward as he conquered them one after the other.

Just like Daniel taught him to.

No. He would not think of Daniel.

He hadn’t thought of him when the lights turned green.

A pair of dark eyes flashed in his memory—the man who had approached him after his win. He’d watched him race right before him. He had to admit that he’d been blown away. Lando hadn’t wanted to be challenged by him. If he had done another race, especially against someone who drove like that, he was sure he’d never want to stop.

And while he loved not thinking about Daniel every waking hour, he had life to face. He had uni that he was almost failing, and visiting the older man in the hospital, and trying not to disappoint his father any more than he already had.

Lando was realistic. He knew he couldn’t run forever.

He’d learned that lesson a long time ago when he was seventeen and foolish, waking up in a hospital room because the drugs had almost taken him on a permanent trip—and the first thing he saw was his father’s disappointed face.

It wasn’t even the fact that he nearly died that ruined him. Just… that face.

And no matter how badly he wished he could, he knew he couldn’t drive away from his problems, no matter how fast he went.

Still, Lando fell asleep thinking of how much faster he could have gone.

How much faster he would go next time. Only if he could.

[infinitely-long-project]

Chapter 2: Tried and Two

Next Chapter

Three days. It's been three days since One has locked herself in her room. She hasn't been talking to anyone. Three has tried. So have Four and Six. She didn't even answer them.

She's only talked to me. And even then her answers were monosyllabic. I know that when I talked to her she was trying to make me feel better but something is very wrong with her. And I won't rest until I can fix that.

I just didn't know how.

...

The faint sound of someone humming can be heard from a distance. Sand crunches beneath my shoes as the waves of the ocean lightly and rhythmically crash against the coastline.

The Rectangle Retreat. Twelve's dojo, where composite and prime numbers alike can learn the way of the rectangle, figure themselves out, or just be there to meditate and let go of their worries.

Sure enough, I found her there, floating above her off-white mat, eyes shut and expression peaceful. She kept muttering things to herself. Then rearranging her blocks, having them separate, then regroup.

That was Twelve. Taking her time.

Not letting anything bother her.

"Three by Four... Four by-"

"Twelve."

Her eyes shot open with gaze fixed on me and her feet hit the ground, stumbling back a bit in surprise.

"Two! What brings you here?" She asked. I could hear a slight snicker in her question, like when you hear or see something incredulous and your immediate reaction is to laugh.

"I need to talk to you about something."

She was looking at me all worried as I took a seat on the mat beside her. I think she noticed how puffy my eyes were. I tried my best to be careful about where I put my feet. I didn't want to get the mat dirty, so I sat at the very edge and crossed my legs.

She did too, putting one knee up and placing her right hand on her mat, kind of rhythmically rubbing it against the natural rubber. I tried not to pay too much attention to it, but I think she caught on eventually, because while I was talking she just stopped and moved on to fidgeting with her hands.

"I don't know if you've heard," I started, "but One's locked herself in her room for the past few days. I've been trying to talk to her. So have Three, Four and Six. Nothing's working."

A knot began to form in my throat. "She keeps telling me not to worry, that it's just because she's tired, but I just know something is wrong. I can feel it! This isn't like her! I-"

I felt her put a hand on my shoulder. Just enough to snap me out of it.

"It'll be okay."

I turned to her with teary eyes and tried to respond, but something kept me silent. I couldn't think.

"...huh?"

"Things may be bad now, but things change. Constantly. What's stopping her situation from changing eventually?"

"...what if One can't handle it?"

She took a pause. A long, waited, taciturn pause. "...we'll be there."

She smiled bittersweetly, her hands still on my shoulder. It was sweaty. I think I could feel it shaking. But she was right.

No matter what. I'll try. And I'll be there.

And so will they.

"Now, let's try to calm down." She took her hand off me, quietly rubbing it on her knee. "Let's first try a breathing exercise. Then, I could try and give you some advice on how to deal with this," she offered, "does that sound good?"

"That sounds great." I sniffled.

"My tried-and-true method for these kinds of things is box breathing, but if you have any other suggestions, go ahead and tell me."

"Oh, no, go ahead, you're the expert!"

"Great! Then let's get started."