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chronic-ghost · 1 year

Text

Chapter 9 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11845

chapter summary: if you thought you knew the full story of natalie lorraine, you were myth-taken

chapter warnings/tags: non-consensual touching, implied sexual assault, emotionally abusive parents, drug/alcohol use, underaged drug/alcohol use, women existing in the male gaze, putting too much of myself into characters as per yooshg

a/n: Header comes from the “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses” by John William Waterhouse. Song for this chapter is Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac – watch me make a fic playlist after the fact lmao. Bear with me while I wax embarrassingly poetic about my favorite oc blorbo. Remember this does end well!!!

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There are many different types of myth but, essentially, they can be grouped into three: etiological myths, historical myths, psychological myths. Etiological myths can offer explanations for why the world is the way it is. Historical myths retell an event from the past but elevate it with greater meaning than the actual event (if it even happened). [Lastly] psychological myths present one with a journey from the known to the unknown which, according to both Jung and Campbell, represents a psychological need to balance the external world with one's internal consciousness of it. – Mythology, Joshua Mark

“in front of my mother and my sisters,

i pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

i act like it’s a sin–

i pretend that love is for women on a dark path.

but at night i dream of a love so heavy

it makes my spine throb–

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is

separating salt from water.”

— Salma Deera, “salt”

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

And like in all the great myths, birth is a painful, violent emergence.

Slowly, labored across years and many heartbeats, what remains is the inevitable conclusion of being fucked over, of being lazy and careless, of innocence taken too soon. Careless children grow up to be careless mothers, careless fathers.

The titans of the world leave to make their mark on history and, in doing so, mark their children in a way more powerful, more regretful than any legend could possibly make them out to be.

Medea is brutalized in legends and in verse for the most heinous a mother can commit.

Odysseys forgets what being a father means.

Oedipus Rex curses his children with an unforgivable sin by way of their mother, their grandmother, and that staggering failure is felt through to Antigone, a generation removed. Antigone dies. Haemon and Eurydice die too. Pain and grief are family heirlooms passed through pale fingers at the stroke of midnight.

But despite all that. Before all that.

Myths begin when the heroes are forced to make a choice, choose a direction in the way their lives end up. It might not always be obvious, and the gods might have things in store for them. But there is a choice and the fallen hero always chooses.

But they were all children once. You have to remember that. You have to believe that.

(Aetiologic)

I hate these socks, you think to yourself, they’re itchy and they hurt my toes. Every time you swing your legs over the edge of that leather couch, your legs too short to touch the ground, the toe of your shoe pinches you. You really, really want to take off your shoes, but Mom said you had to keep them on all day, especially in the office. In his office. You think your dress looks like one of your baby dolls and you don’t like it.

So you stop kicking, even though the sound of your heel against the leather made a funny noise. You can move too, and make the leather squeak, and that is pretty fun too. Grinning, you bounce like you aren’t supposed to on your bed back home, the cushions chirping – it sounds like they’re farting – you giggle, rocking back on your hands from left to right, squealing along with the leather as you made it –

“Enough!”

You freeze, tears immediately welling in your eyes, fear almost painful in your chest.

But he’s not talking to you. Your father is still in his office, with the door barely shut, and he’s talking to someone on the phone. Yelling, actually. He’s been in there since the little hand was on the fifteen and now it’s on the thirty. He told you to wait there while he called your mom. You tried to sit still, but it was boring and all the toys were back in the other room.

He never yelled at you, your dad, but he did yell at your mom.

When you talked to the other kids in your preschool class, their mommies and daddies lived in the same house together, slept in the same bed, talked nicely to each other. Yours didn’t.

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, LeAnne? I told you I have a meeting at four today and she could be here for three hours. I told you! I can’t have her here! You need to come pick up your daughter!”

Your foot kicks up and down. You didn’t like it when they talked about you like you weren’t there.

“Hey there.” A woman with blonde hair and big eyes sits down next to you. She was always around your dad, and always handled his papers and briefcase and sometimes his coffee. She is younger than your mom but way older than you are. You think she’s really, really pretty. None of her dresses look like baby doll dresses. “I’m sorry your dad is taking so long. Do you want something to eat, or drink?”

You shake your head. Your mom said not to talk to strangers, so you didn’t open your mouth.

“Are you bored? Do you wanna watch some TV?”

TVs were everywhere in your dad’s office building. Down near the elevators, and then more when you got out. It always seemed like people were watching a tv and the actors on the tv. Actors were people whose job it was to be on the tv or in the movies, your dad told you. He told you he knew a lot of famous actors, but when you told the kids in your class about it, they said they didn’t know any of those people.

“You’re just making things up!”

“You’re a liar!”

You really wanted your dad to introduce you to an actor, just to prove them wrong. You thought it was pretty cool how everyone was always watching them. Like they couldn’t look away.

You nod at the pretty lady. She smiles and picks up the skinny black tv remote on the table in front of the couch.

The tv in the corner of the room pops on. The size of it doesn’t take up the wall like some of the tvs in the office do, but it’s still bigger than the one you have at home.

The nice lady taps the button a few times, the channels changing, until she comes to the kids channel. It’s a little old for you – all of the shows at preschool are cartoons and this one has real people in it – but you want this woman to like you.

“Do you like this one? Friends in the Family? It’s so funny!”

She turns and leans back against the couch with you. You hear people laughing on the screen, even though you don’t see anyone. There’s a young girl, older than you but younger than this nice lady, and she has a boy with her on her parents’ couch. The boy leans in and kisses her cheek and the invisible people go ‘oooooh’.

“Ooooh!” You mimic and the nice woman laughs, grinning at you. Something warm and tight goes up your chest, and you pinch your lip with your teeth, toes curling in your stupid shoes. You liked making her laugh.

On the screen, a little girl – maybe the other girl’s sister – pushes through the kitchen door. You gasp in surprise. She looks like she could be in your preschool class. She’s all mad and she crosses her arms, pouting.

“Someone’s gonna get it!”

The invisible people laugh and the nice lady giggles so hard she leans forward and you’re giggling too, even though you don’t quite get it. That warm feeling reminds you of when you drink soda too fast, but it’s good.

You frown too, put your hands on your hips, parroting the little girl on tv, “someone’s gonna get it!”

Her pretty mouth opens in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh my God, that was so good! You sound just like her!” You giggle, your face hot. “Have you ever asked your dad about acting?”

You shake your head. You, an actor? On tv? No way!

“Well, you should! You could be really good!”

You don’t know what to say, you want to keep making the same faces that little girl is, when your dad’s door opens. The young woman next to you lurches forward and shuts off the tv. He comes out and you can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or if that’s just how he looks. You’re not around him enough to know. But he stands in front of you, thinking something.

“Judy, would you get us two juice boxes from the fridge downstairs?”

“Of course, Mr. Milken.”

The young woman leaves and you’re a little afraid. You don’t want him to yell at you for watching that show for older kids. You twist your little fingers.

“That was your mom on the phone. She’s going to be a little late.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Did you have fun today at my office? Did you like meeting all my friends?”

You nod, this time quicker. “Yes! I would like to meet an actor one day!”

At that, he smiles and you relax. People who are angry don’t smile.

“While we wait for your mom, do you wanna play paper football?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”

So the myth begins. All it takes is a single idea. A single want. A single desire. An innately human desire. We build myths and we tell stories and we fill them with the things we want to hear.

You’re turning fourteen next month. It’s circled on your calendar in your bedroom. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, but at least now you could start the emancipation process. If you wanted to. You laid awake at night, thinking about what you’d call yourself if you ever changed your name. Something vaguely French-sounding. European for sure. But they were just fantasies to get you through the day.

It’s early in the morning. You haven’t heard anything from Mom’s room in a while so you figure it’s just the two of you in the house again. You totter out of your room, blinking sleep from your eyes – it was a very late night on set last night and probably would be again, given how the production of this made-for-tv movie was going and especially with the extra homework you’ve been doing to make up for the time off you’ve taken – as you wander across the small, sun-streaked living room, and around the corner to the kitchen. You hear something from the fridge and just as you are about to ask your mom if she’s cooking (which is never a good idea), a man stands up. He’s older than you but younger than your mom and he has the last piece of your sourdough bread in his mouth. He smirks and you unconsciously tug down the hem of your sleep shorts.

This has been happening more and more lately. The way men, older men, look at you, it’s different now. Has been for a while, but now there’s more of them, their gazes sit on your bare skin longer, the light in their eyes changing, the lines around their mouths tightening. You don’t really know what it is they want, but it’s baffling to you that they think looking at you like that will convince you to give anything to them.

It's the way your mom’s new boyfriend is looking at you. Your cheeks heat up without your consent and you hate it.

He’s hungry and he’s scrounging around in the fridge and now he’s looking at you. Still hungry.

“Hey, you must be LeAnne’s daughter,” he says, taking the bread slice out of his mouth and propping his hairy arm on the top of the refrigerator door, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe as if deciding whether or not to make a sandwich out of you. Who likes this kind of shit? Oh, that’s right. Your mom.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she here?”

His eyes follow the backs of your thighs as you walk over to the coffee pot and take out week-old coffee grounds. They’ve turned blue, started to mold, but you dump them out into the trash with three good smacks.

“Uh, she’s still in bed. She said you could get to school on your own.”

Behind you, the fridge door slams shut and you curl your toes, begging yourself not to flinch. There’s something inside of you demanding you to not show weakness. Steadying your own hand, you dig into the jar holding the coffee grounds. It’s halfway empty, you make a note to pick up some later, the thought pressed up against the swell of panic that’s growing at the edge of your awareness.

“I’m Alan.” He leans up against the counter out of the corner of your eye. “I know we just met, but I could take you, to school . . . if you want.”

His thick middle has nothing to do with age, only poor health. Evident further by his off-yellow teeth and bad breath.

“I’m o-okay. Thank you.”

There’s three minutes left on the coffee timer. His gaze is like open palms on your skin. You hate it. He sidles up closer and your nails dig half-moon crescents into your skin. The lovely smell of coffee brewing is overwhelmed by his cheap cologne. He’s big. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the boys in your class, or any of the men on set. You’ve never really noticed the men on set, they’ve never been this close before, but you’re sure he’s bigger than all of them.

You’ve never felt quite so small.

“You were in that movie, right? ‘Those ain’t your average space-invaders’, that was you right?” You nod, the back of your throat drying out. He chuckles. “You were good. Really good. You were so pretty.”

“I was ten.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Ten outta ten.”

Your stomach clenches and it’s like he can tell. Alan reaches the two inches across the linoleum and gently strokes your forearm. A light, smelly panic sweat breaks out over your forehead, under your armpits.

You want him away from you, want him gone, to run back to your room, but where would that get you?

Roll over, play dead, show your under belly. You don’t know what else to do to make him go away.

“Well, if you see my mom,” you ease around him, your forearm sliding from his grasp just as his fingers tighten, making sure you don’t seem offended, “tell her I’ve got a ride to–,”

“Hey, wait, where ya going?”

You all but run back to your room, the coffee pot beeping behind you. You throw open your bedroom door and leap inside, locking it behind you. You don’t realize you’re panting until you feel light-headed, dizzy – you feel sticky all of a sudden and rush into your bathroom. Steam pours from the scalding hot water, the red handle all the way to the right, as you stand over it, watching it rush down the drain. With your lips pinched between your teeth, you run your hands under it and muffle a scream. It hurts. It burns but it’s like his touch is evaporating off your skin and there’s relief in that. It’s the first time you realize that the pain you give yourself is different from the pain that they give you.

Not all of them are like that.

Some of them are actually kind of okay.

You’re fifteen and dressed as a pumpkin for the Halloween party hosted by the studio, the suit baggy and oversized, and for once, your mom’s friends don’t stare at you. No one really has all night and it’s nice. You feel like you can ease into the wall and no one would notice. There’s a long black couch on the other side of a plant with glowing lights in the shape of ghosts wrapped around its trunk. You stepside around a few directors, one of your other actors, and head straight for the couch.

You don’t realize Jim, your mom’s current boyfriend is already there until you sit down and groan. He laughs from the opposite end and you jump.

He’s more her age, thankfully, and doesn’t really seem to notice if you’re at home or not. In fact, you can’t really remember another conversation with him that lasted longer than a few minutes.

“You liking the party?” He asks.

You shrug – never show your actual feelings. “It’s kinda late. I’ve got classes on Monday, so I’m hoping to make it an early night.”

He nods, slowly, distracted. There’s something about his eyes that isn’t right. Not in the way that he looks at you, but at everything, like he’s trying to look through a dense fog.

Your mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t entirely out of the ordinary for this sort of thing. She’d either show up and be the life of the party or show up so trashed she had to be escorted out of the building.

But it is odd for her to just leave one of her toys lying around.

“Do you know where my mom is?” You ask Jim and he shakes his head, as though it takes a considerable amount of effort just to hold himself upright. There’s definitely something wrong with him.

And then you see the smoke coming from his fingers and you finally realize that skunky smell is coming from him.

He sees your gaze fall. “You want a hit?” He asks, either not remembering your question or not wanting to answer.

You’d never tried it before, not really having time between shooting schedules and school and your mom wanting to take you out to meet new casting directors and writers. You sit there, staring and realize Jim is probably one of the only consistent people you see in your life, everyone else a revolving door of names and faces and elbows to rub. A tiredness breaks over you like the push of a wave and you sway, wanting nothing more than to be at home under the covers. You wish you’d brought your walkman, so you could have hid out on the soundstage until the party was over.

You’d grown skinny over the past year. Rewarded and praised for it by producers and studio execs, you saw that people listened to you more, looked you in the eye when you were beautiful, made more beautiful by the thinness of your cheeks, your narrow thighs. Your mother was convinced you were taking pills, but couldn’t find anything in the house. And yet, the real reason behind it all was sometimes you were just too tired to eat. Too tired to move. Happy to curl up wherever you found yourself and sleep until the next person needed something from you.

But this is what you wanted, after all. You asked for a life of movies and revolving doors and fake people and men staring at your ass. You are reminded of this all the time.

You nod at Jim, curiosity getting the better of you and wondering if other girls did this sort of thing in basements or with their friends or boyfriends. You portray a teenage girl on television, but sometimes you don’t feel like one at all.

He reaches out to you and you take it. You’d smoke a cigarette once, with a few of the kids from that one time you guest-starred on that sitcom, so you think this’ll be the same.

“What’s it going to feel like?” You ask, the white paper inches from your lips. Jim looked at you and his eyes sort of crinkled.

“It’s good. Real good. Like there’s a cloud between you and the rest of the world.”

That did sound nice.

You put your lips and inhale – it burns in a way you weren’t expecting – and you cough. Jim laughs in a way that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, that you’re silly.

“You’ll get it,” he says, “you’ll get it.”

You try again and remember that he held his breath before exhaling. You do the same, but the scratch makes your eyes water, your chest tighten, but you hold on, until you feel smoke cauterizing the back of your throat close and you cough again, less this time.

Jim laughs again and takes back the skunky cigarette. “Hey, look at that, your first joint and you handled it like a champ.”

He smokes more, losing interest in you, so he turns and watches the party. Your heart beats roughly in your chest, but that might be more of the nerves than anything else. You fidget on the couch, waiting for something to happen, but it never does.

“I think I need another h-hit. I don’t feel anything.”

Jim frowns at you, shaking his head. “Hell no. You took two giant puffs on your first go. I’m not babysitting you when you’re puking in the toilet with the spins.”

“The spins?”

“When you drink while you’re high. Can be a real bad mix.”

You blush, wondering if he saw you take sips from the flask in your purse or he just assumes you’re always drinking because you’re LeAnne’s daughter.

“Just sit back, relax, you’ll feel it. In a bit.”

So you try his approach, nonchalantly watching people dressed in devil costumes, in white vampire fangs and cloaks, little skimpy bunny outfits, as the party rages on. You watch, and slowly, the whole thing feels distant. Like you’re in the far back of a theater and everything in front of you is some sort of stage.

You find you like it in the back row, in the quiet and the darkness. It’s warm, sort of like you’re dizzy but you sway with the movement and you don’t get sick. You find that you are rolling your head back and forth and you giggle.

Jim smirks at you, that joint almost gone. “Yeah, there it is.”

You’d never been high like this before. Buzzed a little bit from the beer in your flask, but this was new. This was . . .

“It’s nice,” you smile widely to the ceiling. “Does it always feel this way?”

“Like I said, you can mix with alcohol and get really fucked up.” Jim shrugs. “And different strains do different things. This is gonna relax your brain, but there’s others that’ll give you a body high.”

Body, this thing you’re in that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“But a mental high from weed and a mental high from glue are like two totally different things.”

Your bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and you could just melt into the leather. But you turn your head, dropping it against the back of the couch.

“You can get high from glue?”

“You can get high from just about anything.”

“Oh.”

The needle-like feeling that pricks your heart every time you come to one of these parties is gone. The sloshy oozy feeling in your stomach when you go into public with your mother is gone. There is nothing left inside of you except weight and heat and air that comes in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You giggle again. What if this is how a pumpkin feels all the time?

“Will it always feel like this?”

He doesn’t understand your question, doesn’t care enough to think about it, so he answers the only way he can. “Nah, should only last for a few hours. Then you’re good. No hangover, which is a plus.”

“But I always want it to feel this way.”

He grins again and pulls out a small plastic baggy with some fuzzy brussel-sprout-looking vegetable inside.

“Got twenty bucks on you?”

You’re sixteen and you’ve just started in your first major motion picture. Offers are rolling in, you no longer have to seek them out. The brand new telephone for your brand new house is constantly ringing. You have to unplug it to sleep at night. But that usually makes your mother yell at you.

She wants to answer every call that comes through. As if this house was hers.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, grinding up the weed you bought off a sound-stage guy earlier today in your silver grinder, your headphones in to drown out the noises coming from the other side of the house as well as the ones in your head.

This boyfriend was not so nice and in a drunken stupor grabbed your ass in front of LeAnne. She raged and yelled and blamed you.

Get out, she told you. Leave. Get out. We don’t want you here. Leave.

This is my house, you old bitch.

Licking the paper gently, you finish rolling the joint and press pause on your walkman. Stevie Nicks pauses in her crooning, and is it over now, do you know how? pick up the pieces and go home, and you remind yourself to find a purply drape at the next flee market. Reaching to the end of the bed, you plug in your headphones to the hot pink tv and flip to the right station.

Henry had sent in a new tv for your birthday, and you had that promptly thrown out. You bought this with your first check from residuals.

It’s almost eleven. It’s about to start.

You light the joint, inhaling smoothly, as the credits for Twenty-Three and Fun start up.

The joint quivers at the end of your knee, your toes curling. It wasn’t produced by your father’s company, but it was all anyone talked about at school, in the gossip mags. You thought about buying Tiger Beat just for the pictures . . . of one specific cast member.

You bite your nail as the theme song plays and the credits roll through all the gorgeous, young actors smiling as they go about their perfectly average lives in the big city.

And then his name shows up and you inhale smoke quickly to stifle the thing expanding in your chest.

Dieter Bravo.

His smooth soft hair, dark sweet eyes. God, he is so cute.

Your hand clenches the sheets. You’ve never had a boyfriend, only been kissed once while at dance in between shooting schedules that you’d begged your mom to let you attend. It was bad, it tasted bad, his lips were rubbery and wet, and you didn’t feel anything.

Not like when you imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Twenty-Three and Fun is out of your demographic, but maybe you could convince someone to let you try out for the part of someone’s little sister who comes in for the weekend. You’d just love the chance to meet him. He makes you feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing you know what to do with, but you tingle all over with it.

You’re at the tail end of sixteen when the spiral starts.

When you don’t know where to put this loneliness that’s been dragging you down.

Men stare at you but not in the way you want. Girls your own age won’t look at you, and women glare at you while their husbands stare. And boys, God, boys your own age –

You wipe the tears from your eyes, the wind snarling through your hair, the heat of the summer night sinking into your skin like wet clay. You know you’re driving too fast, but you don’t care.

Every day you go to work and put on someone else’s skin. Their clothes. Their face. For a while, it’s been freeing, to pretend to have normal problems, a normal family, a normal life. Because you knew even if you had never chosen to go into your father’s industry – which was now just as much yours – you knew your life wasn’t ever going to be normal. Not in the way it mattered anyway.

But there is something there when you step in front of a camera. A feeling that doesn’t come from a dark place, from feelings of abandonment and loneliness – it comes from a place inside of you that still feels like you own, still is yours to hold and keep safe, despite everyone taking things from you without asking. Instead of taking, it gives. It builds. It grows, despite the salted earth of your soul.

You like becoming someone else for a while, thinking as they do. Dancing, laughing, eating, playing as someone other than yourself. You like to create. You crave it. You create life for someone else that doesn’t exist and you love it. It feels right, imagining something if not for you, for someone else. Someone who looks like you but isn’t you. It feels good to dream.

But lately.

Lately, this job is no longer an act of creation. It’s fake smiles and ad campaigns and commercials and it feels rotten. Hollow. Like you’re under the eyes of a thousand leering men instead of just one. It feels cheap. You feel cheap, for wanting it to be something more. This desire for life itself dies in your hands, choked out, aborted before it had the chance to breathe.

Your body, yourself, is being twisted, molded into something you don’t want it to become and the only time, the only time you feel as though you have even some slight control is when you have none at all. When you detach from your corporeal form, so high or drunk you can’t feel your fingers.

It began with the beer your mom’s boyfriends left in the fridge, then the pills in her medicine cabinet. Then the mini bottles of Crown Royal and Jim Beam in the mini-fridges at your dad’s office. No one ever seemed to care when you swiped the whole row into your backpack. Maybe others had done the exact same thing.

You didn’t know how or why these things made you feel better but they did. You didn’t care about the tears on your face, the hot flood of anger beating in your chest, and you didn’t care about the speed limit, not even when you saw the flashing red and blue lights.

But you started to care when they put you in lock up and then you definitely did when your father’s lawyer bailed you out.

You went home and threw up for six hours. No one came to check on you, no one came to find you when you yanked the phone cord out of the wall. You clutched the porcelain basin of the toilet for what felt like days. Years. You aged decades that night.

When you woke up, you showered, ate, and called back your father’s lawyer.

You had decided on a name, a new name to put on the emancipation papers.

You told the lawyer very clearly and seriously over the phone: “I want my name to be Natalie Lorraine.”

It was the emancipation that finally did it. The final chop from the parental vine. The day she kicked you out, you came home from school, in between shoots for a new film with Gerard Butler and in talks for something with Helen Miram, and you find your mother curled up on the kitchen table. At first, you legitimately thought she was dead; the top half of her body was crumpled against the wood, her feet tangled with the rungs of the chair. She faced away from you, her right hand curled around an empty crystal tumbler and a three-fourths empty bottle of Belvedere inches from her fingertips.

You stare, dumb-founded, your heart so slow you could hear it pound like a drum in your ears. And then she twitches.

And then she wails.

“How could you? How could you do this to me? I’m your mother. You owe me. You owe me you owe me you owe me.”

She heaves boneless to the floor, the glass and bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering like droplets of rain. You can’t move, transfixed, as your mother, hands split open, knees carving bloody trails across the tile, drags herself towards your feet, like a freshly dug-up corpse.

She’s muttering, spitting, snarling – she’s a starved, beaten beast, ready to make its last stand.

You were a mistake

You ruined me

You ruined your father for me

Her sentences are blurred, notched together, overlapping, and intertwining. The only thing you remember is the vitriol and hatred more palpable than her own breath.

Someone older, someone more separated from their pink, flushed girlhood would have the callouses to ease the burn, dull the cut. But at sixteen, you didn’t. At sixteen, with a burgeoning substance abuse problem and at the mercy of the first of many instances where adulthood begins to rob you of the small pleasures of life, you watch your mother crumble and it scares you.

In that moment you want nothing more than to be taken care of, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s asking too much but it clearly is. You want to be safe in a way that is primal, the animal fear of the dark and unknown. You’ve seen your mother drunk before but not this drunk, never heard the sounds she’s making — the wailing, the disappointment, the sorrow and rage. It scares you so badly you want to cry.

The gap between girlhood and womanhood is closed when you understand your mother is only human. Nothing less. And nothing more.

She’s still muttering hateful, horrible things as you take her to her feet and ease her onto the couch.

She’s silent when you throw a blanket over her.

She’s pale, shaking, green.

Go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you around me. Leave me alone.

Leave me.

Go away.

You leave her, not knowing if it's serious enough to call 911, if you can actually die from drinking too much, but that fear, that vice-grip around your chest, it’s squeezing your lungs so tightly, tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. But then it sinks. Sinks into your bones, your blood, your muscles. Watching your mother folded up like a broken doll, you experience fear like you’ve never felt before.

Blink and you’re in your room.

Blink and you’re under your bed, curled up, knees to your chin, and you’re crying. You can’t stop crying. It’s the only thing that seems to appease the fear, the sense that nothing is real and everything is going to turn out badly and it makes your stomach twist. You gag on your own spit and you shake and you tremble and you experience your first panic attack without anyone to tell you what’s going on. How to survive something like that. You grow up thinking this is how everyone lives and you’re just too pathetic to take it. You let that shame and embarrassment fester and grow because it has no way of stopping.

Your father is also served with the papers.

Two weeks later, the production for your upcoming movie was suddenly put on hold. The role with Helen Miriam went to someone else.

He never helped you get ahead in the industry, but he absolutely blocked you from it. He never called you again.

Someone, someone else, might have been hurt by the fact that your father cut you off without so much as a goodbye. But it’s not like you could miss what you never had.

You take the hint and enroll in UC Santa Barbara under your new name.

The myth of your maidenhood ended in much of the same way it began: at the behest of someone else and exiled as an afterthought.

You tried the whole sleep-around-to-fill-a-need thing for the freshmen year of college. It didn’t take. You liked sex but you liked the chase more. You liked the hunt, the thrill, the unconscious desire to touch, when the desire to do something first emerges in their heads. You like to watch the basic urge emerge in their darkened eyes before the other shoe drops. Drops and splatters coherent and rational thought like a bug on a windshield.

You liked sex, even if more often you had to get yourself off while your partner had fallen asleep, their needs met. But you liked being wanted more. The drugs helped bridge the gap and given that you had no idea how to make friends because you'd never had one your own age before, the puddles of bodies that dripped onto couches and floors at parties seemed to be as good a social circle as any. They all started to recognize you at parties, in lecture halls, at bars. They nodded, you nodded back, and you sat down.

No longer alone.

But not entirely wanted either.

It was enough though.

By your third year, you were known more for your party provisions (with your old contacts from the industry) than your ex-boyfriends.

You meet Heidi Morgan through one of your production management professors.

You’d gone in to speak with your professor, a man notorious for sleeping with his students, and believed you to be next in line (men were so much better at doing what you asked when they thought you’d sleep with them), so you were hoping that you could convince him that it was actually your lab partner who stole the paper from you, not the other way around, when you see him with someone else.

Blonde, small, feisty.

Heidi Morgan takes one look at the grotesque ogling in his eyes and promptly introduces herself.

In her own fire and take-no-shit attitude, you find kindred spirits.

She later asks you out for drinks, you think it’s been too long since you went down on a girl, and you completely misread the situation.

She clears things up and then asks you to read for a part. The whiplash makes your head spin, but given that she’s not calling you a giant slut, it’s probably good news.

She knows who you are. Suspected because you looked familiar and because she has friends in some truly weird places, she confirms her suspicions by the end of the day. So she gives you a call, you show up, flirt too much, and maybe end up with a job.

She gives you the script. It’s good.

Really good.

Why me? You ask her. You graduate in two weeks. You’re turning twenty-two in a few days. There’s nothing you’ve done in recent years to make her have this kind of faith in you. All digital memories of you reflect a knobby-kneed, round-cheeked little girl then that same little girl with tits and a smirk well beyond her years.

She didn’t think she might find her lead in a dingy auditorium, she says, but crazier things have happened. It’s not a guarantee, or a promise, just an offer. Try out, see what happens.

Crazier things have happened.

The rest is less myth and more old history.

(Historic)

The day you meet him is not unlike any other. Except in the little things. Your bra strap breaks when you go to put it on. Your belt loop gets caught in a door handle and nearly shucks your pants to the floor. You somehow get lost on the way to the studio even though you have your phone mapping the route. It takes you around and around and around until you get out and ask a very confused gas station attendant where the fuck the sound stage is.

It’s not momentous. Annoying, perhaps, so annoying that all these little things pester your brain like flies gorging on rotten fruit. You’re distracted, one eye always glancing over your shoulder. Trouble, trouble, trouble, your problems seem to whisper, you’re in trouble.

A PA comes to find you, saying Heidi specifically asked for your presence but she’s gone missing. He thinks he knows where to find her, if you’d come with him. You eye him up from the black leather couch you’re draped across, irritated at the day and at him for his shameless staring. You nod, and immediately he starts running his mouth about his own Hollywood dreams. He’s a writer, you know, maybe you’ve heard of some of his smaller indie work, it’s not very much, but folks who know say it's good so maybe he’ll be able to sell it if –

The door to the back of the lot opens and it’s like god snapped his fingers in your ear. It’s not momentous, or earth-shattering, but holy shit does it fuck you up.

He’s broad. Tall. Forearms, thick and veiny, stocky thumbs and tense fingers. His hair is just on the edge of being long, but combed back in some attempt to tame it, to fold it into submission. His right earlobe is puckered, pierced, but no earring. His beard and mustache are trimmed, clean shaven elsewhere. Despite how he’s built out adult male muscle from his days on Twenty-Three and Fun, he still has those boyish eyes, a dimple that would drive anyone up a wall, and eyelashes you’d pay a thousand dollars for. You knew this was coming but it still feels like a kick in the chest.

That kick burns when you realize something.

He’s fucking pissed. He’s beautiful, carved from your very dreams of what the most gorgeous man on earth would look like, but he’s fucking pissed.

Surprisingly, at you.

Well, that’s disappointing.

He comes at you with his claws drawn and you’ve never, ever been one to back down. You swipe back and hope you draw blood.

You discover other things about Dieter Bravo, the boy who you used to have a heart-stopping crush on when you didn’t know anything better. Fantasy will always be better than reality, and this isn’t exactly how you’d thought your first meeting would go.

And yet, you discover something else, something very, very curious. Something soft and impressionable, bruised purple and green. Something you want to lean on with your entire weight until he chokes. It’s ugly, but it’s amusing. Maybe this is how you hoped your first meeting would go, albeit with some tricky obstacles and a ticking clock.

You want to press and see what spills out.

Dieter Bravo cannot and does not look away from you.

The day you meet Dieter Bravo is also the day you meet The Sixers, the day you meet Marie. She’s small, mousy, but apparently a fucking rock star on the drums. You like the irony; quiet and unassuming until she bangs through your head with percussion. Where the rest of her bandmates are wide-eyed and eager and come with more drugs than a pharmacy, there’s something about Marie that you find so tenderly earnest you kind of wish you didn’t come dressed like you were going out to eat the fleshly hearts of men everywhere. You want to approach her on her level. You don’t want to scare her away. There’s something redemptive about a kind, sweet girl like Marie striking up a friendship with you.

If you could ever figure out how to start one.

“Excited for the filming to start?” You ask her after nearly everyone’s picked up their things and left after the reading. She glances at you, then over her shoulder, as if you were talking to someone else. You instantly feel insanely protective of her.

She blinks a few times before distractedly shaking her head. “No. I’m actually terrified.”

“About being in a movie?”

She cringes, as if it’s the most shameful thing in the world.

“Yeah. I love playing in front of crowds, but something about being on camera scares me.”

You make a note to find out the next time they’re playing live.

“It’s honestly not that bad. It feels a little weird, like some unblinking eye staring at you, but then it just kind of fades away.”

She bites her lip, tucking that short brown hair over her ear. “Have you done this before?”

You’re not exactly hiding your childhood movie star past, but you don’t really want it broadcasted.

“Here and there.”

The rest of her bandmates are chatting amongst themselves, perhaps not yet aware you’re trying to befriend one of them. You’re not quite sure how it’s going.

“If you ever want, we could talk and I could give you some pointers.”

Fuck, why did that sound like a line? It shouldn’t. You didn’t want it to. Where was the line between asking someone to be your friend and asking someone for a fuck?

If she notices your embarrassment, she doesn't show it. She grins brightly, unashamed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes, please. I’d love that!”

Normally, when giving someone your number, you’d grab their hand and write it in Sharpie, giving them a good wink. Now you tear off a corner of the call sheet and write down your number in shaking hands. It’s a small piece of paper, easily lost. That’s okay, if she does lose it. No need to freak out.

She’s grinning, smile expanding across that round face of hers as she takes your number when someone calls her name.

Roxie, the one with bright-red flaming hair and gorgeously thick eyebrows, takes a glance at the piece of paper in Marie’s fingers. One eyebrow arches, and she says nothing.

Roxie looks at you like she wants to devour you whole. You think you’ll let her.

You decide to ignore him.

Whatever his problem with you is, it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately. Maybe he’ll come around and if not, no skin off your nose. It’s none of your business what happens off camera, what he thinks about you as a person. All that matters is giving a good performance and you know you can do that.

You just sort of wish you had known more about the role before Heidi offered it. You really sort of wish you had known Dieter was going to be your co-star. That night, after approaching him in the parking lot, you had two glasses of wine to settle your trembling nerves, and you flipped through the script.

He was so calm and collected at the table read today. Cool, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world. Everyone knew him, everyone talked about him, either directly to you or in snatches of conversation.

Dieter Bravo – you could not ask for a better scene partner!

Dieter Bravo – he’s so, so nice. He always stops for fans!

Dieter Bravo – this shoot is going to be so much fun with him!

You’d never been particularly star-struck, but for the first time in your life, the idea of working with your co-star was daunting. When you were up against Gerard Butler, you’d been in the game for a while, knew the industry, showed up in the trades. Now, you felt like any other Santa Barbara graduate stumbling out in front of the camera for the first time. Where was that all-knowing smirk you had perfected at fifteen? God, had you always been so transparent?

You felt like you had to prove yourself at that table read. You know you were going a bit overboard, but they watched you, transfixed, and it empowered you. Mark Bronson, Marie, the rest of The Sixers, they watched you like Taylor had possessed your body and you instantly became a rockstar.

Only, he didn’t. He watched you and didn’t look away, but he looked so uninterested in your performance, the tears that filled your eyes were partially real.

And then he touched you and in that moment, you knew he was mocking you. Laughing at you, you fucking child. He was the legendary star here, not you, and to think you ever had a chance was laughable. The heat of disgust in his eyes hurt, more than you wanted to admit.

It was day one and he hated you.

Things escalate.

He caught you high on set and it felt like you were being scolded by your older brother. He didn’t get it. He never did. All that shit about how he knows what it’s like – bullshit. All fucking bullshit. He was somehow always in the corner of your eye, watching you, begging you to fuck up so he could expose you like the fraud you are.

And a pathetic fraud you are at that. He touches you and it’s like algae, hot and dense, spreading across your skin. You fight the feeling that strokes your cunt and you grit your teeth. Stop touching me, go away, stay back – please.

You’re twenty-two and still harboring that fucking crush you had when you were sixteen. It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. It’s so, so, so wrong.

You try to ignore him. Try to exorcize him from your every waking thought. It doesn’t take. You get drunk at the pool party and you want his eyes, anyone’s eyes, on you.

Marie is shy, you try to sober up around her, but you’re too far gone and you don’t want her to see you like this.

So you find Roxie. And Samuel. They give you something that makes your pupils dilate to the size of quarters and you feel like you’re made of cosmic dust. When they touch you, beauty and awe and the atoms of the universe bloom across your skin. You like kissing them, you decide. The water dripping off you from the pool feels like bad lovers and broken kingdoms up for sale.

You end up at his door. You don’t mean to. You genuinely forgot what room you were in.

Consciously, you know he’s married. Consciously, you know he hates you. But that doesn’t stop you from asking anyway.

“You could join us, you know.”

You want so badly to be his theatrical equal that it hurts, it burns hotter for a moment than your desire for him, and he just stares at you. Consciousness somewhere in a nearby galaxy, you can’t read the look on his face. And then it blurs, he closes the door, and the entire hallway grows thick, heavy leaves.

Disappointment is a physical object and it burrows into your chest. You think you can feel your ribs moving to make room.

Sam and Roxie fuck on your bed while you’re curled up on the futon. You don’t even change out of your suit. You kick them out as soon as they are done, not wanting their hungry gazes to turn to you.

This is always the worst part. When the emotions and memories that you’ve managed to pry off you as you coat yourself in a protective layer of LSD, finally come back. They wrap around you like a vice and you can feel the beginnings of a panic attack start in the tremble of your fingers. You stay there in the armchair, damp and cold and shivering and trying not to choke on your own throat, until the early hours of the morning. You think you could die like this but you don’t. You never actually do.

He doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. You sort of wish he would, just for a chance to . . . no, that’s fucked up and, if not legally, morally wrong. You can’t wish for anything when it comes to him.

It’s easier to hate him. To pretend like he was some over-involved, self-obsessed diva who stepped on your lines on purpose and flat-out refused to run scenes with you. It was easier as a whole for a while.

Marie started talking to you on her own now and that made you forget Dieter for a bit. The rest of the group was hesitant in their welcome, despite what had almost happened between you, Sam, and Roxie. But they all came around when you gave them the cleanest Molly they’d had in years.

It was like college all over again, but the faces were consistent this time. Five of them. You smoked in their van, fuzzy orange carpet fibers tickling your ear as you looked up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the roof.

“Why are you called The Sixers if there are five of you?” You ask suddenly.

There’s a pause and then a collective chuckle. You watch it like lightning spark between them.

Nick finally speaks up: “Because it sounds like the sex-ers.”

“Sixty-nine n’ feeling fine.”

You laugh with them this time and you feel your breath mix with theirs.

While meeting him wasn’t a particularly momentous occasion, the drive up to his AirBnB was. Maybe it was the lack of air this high up, but around every turn, your chest got a little tighter. The Sixers had shown you The Labyrinth with David Bowie last weekend (“how have you never seen that movie? Did you grow up under a rock?”) and you can’t help but think of the Goblin King coming to whisk you away. At the very least, the amount of rings they wore were the same.

You try desperately to not look at his white-knuckles around the steering wheel and fail tremendously.

The thing is, you don’t really want to fight with him. You don’t want to have to interact with him through this hazy, distant, drugged out wall, but that seems like the only way he’ll talk to you. He’s always scowling at you, like you’d done something wrong, and you hadn’t. Sure, you thought about it and fucked yourself on the biggest dildo you had about it, but you hadn’t actually done anything. You hadn’t even made a move on him, not even bat an eyelash. But it seems like you just breathe in his direction and that sets him off.

You still don’t understand why his past drug problem is now your problem too. In your absence from Hollywood, you’d somehow missed his ups-and-downs as he transitioned out of a teenage heartthrob into a fully adult hot mess. You’d certainly missed his marriage announcement until you googled it in the bathroom after lunch one day to see if what you’d heard the two techs talk about was true.

She’s so fucking hot.

Yeah, she was a model, right? Dude fucking scored big.

Fuck, she was a model. Even if she wasn’t, she certainly looked it, from all the red-carpet photos of the two of them. He looked at her with complete and total adoration.

Hollywood party boy settles down with recent marriage to cubist painter’s daughter

The headline was wordy but got the point across. He was off-limits.

You didn’t know how to make someone like you if you couldn’t offer them sex or drugs. What the fuck were you supposed to do with the sober and married Dieter Bravo?

And yet, there were times. Moments. Fragments. Bursts of light in a mirror, where you thought he looked too long. How his eyes flickered black when you talked about your bra, or your tits, or your ass. But that’s all they were – fleeting instances of your own insanity bleeding into reality. He would never look at you like that. He hated you.

It scared you, the way he expected you to act when you couldn’t hide behind being high, when you couldn’t flirt your way out of a particularly tense situation. He wanted you raw, exposed, your face revealed to the light you had spent years hiding from.

And then he did the darndest thing.

He was nice about it. In the kitchen, and then on the patio, he asked you questions about your start in the industry, what you’d like to do with your life, how you saw your career going. He cooked for you and made you laugh. He invoked the holy saint Sister Heidi as a bargaining chip and it was all the excuse you needed to drop the boxing gloves. You didn’t want to fight with him. You wanted to be his friend. You wanted him to like you.

Scratch that.

You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and, sure, it was stupid to finger-fuck yourself to him, on the same couch as him, but maybe you wanted to get a little caught. Okay, a lot caught because then he’d tell you to fuck off and he’d draw the line in the goddamn sand and, sure, it’d be embarrassing and, sure, it’d hurt like hell but you’d get over it. You’d nurse your heart but you’d get back on that fucking bike because you really, really wanted this movie to work – but –

He fucking doesn’t.

He doesn’t kiss you but he wants to. He looks at you like he wants to suck the marrow from your bones, drink the blood from your heart through your cunt.

Dieter Bravo wants to kiss you desperately, but because he is a good man, he doesn’t. And because you’re a shit person, you make it hard on him. You make it hurt because it hurts you and just for once, for a second, you want someone to understand how you feel. How you hurt. How you ache.

That house in New Mexico changed everything. For you. For him.

Friends didn’t make time with each other because they were trying to plug up the moans in their head. Friends didn’t keep busy to keep their hands off each other. You weren’t friends with him, but you did get along. You learned a lot about him. You’d never had a real friend before but you sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.

Instead of a myth, your relationship is built in handprints. Red blotches on cave walls, their original meaning lost to time, a dead language no one speaks any more. Sometimes the prints overlap, sometimes they don’t. There are no words spoken, but the feeling is there all the same.

You think, if you could just take your aching heart out of your body, you could actually be Dieter Bravo’s friend. He fills in holes you didn’t realize were empty. Chasms for art, for acting, for food that didn’t come in a can or delivered on your front door. He knows about wine, and whiskey, and needs help dressing himself. He never made you feel like your asks were too much, your need to connect too great. He took your hand and told you what you wanted was normal. He’s funny, patient, and loves Shirley MaClaine movies. He did her entire monologue from The Apartment one night after hours of begging and it brought you to tears. You had a scene partner in Dieter Bravo, you had someone to challenge you, to rethink scenes and pull back deeper and deeper character layers. He’d taken a course online about psychology to have a new perspective on analyzing characters and you thought it was fucking genius.

Marie filled certain relationship needs – a girl to talk about drama with, a fellow fan of live music, someone to make you look up to – but Dieter fulfilled more, if not all of them. Despite working in an artistic industry for years, you’d never once talked trade with someone and certainly not someone who knew it so well. You were awestruck by him.

Call it infatuation, call it being horny, but there is a connection, a red through line that connects you both. And for a while, that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

The mark of his blotchy handprints on your heart stop when you fuck some guy you barely know because Dieter hurt you.

When he won’t look at you while he’s pretending to fuck you, you feel self-conscious again, like he’s going to think you’re some inexperienced little nepo baby. But he does his duty and you do yours and you’ve never felt so empty.

Your handprint stays, while his blurs away.

(Psychologic)

After production ends, you exist in the margins. No more mythologizing. No more cave drawings.

And then Marie shows up.

She takes you to get your nails done like it's the most normal thing in the world. What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she know what you are?

You get smoothies and see some live music and she keeps you from spiraling. There is no possible way she knew about the lines of coke upstairs in your bedroom, but she takes you out into the light all the same.

You go out to shows with The Sixers. They love having a groupie who’s a Hollywood star. Marie seems embarrassed when they show-case you, but you find you don’t mind waving a bit on stage and introducing the band. You think you see a pair of deep brown eyes in the crowd occasionally but you know it’s not. You have to accept your fate. He might not like you and he doesn’t hate you, but he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Not friends, not lovers, but something else. Something almost.

You and the Sixers swim in the ocean off the Santa Barbara coast. You go to parties and you play the bongo drums in a treehouse in South Los Angeles. You bring the good drugs and everyone loves you.

You don’t want to go to the wrap party, but Marie insists. You think she likes being famous just for all the opportunities to get dressed up and do your make up. She told you once that you are the prettiest girl she’d ever seen without any motive behind it. She wasn’t trying to fuck you or fuck with your head. It was just the truth in her eyes and it made you nauseous.

You go to the wrap party because it’s something better to do than get high on shrooms for the fourth time this week and as a reward, Cooper shares his blunt with you in the car. You laugh easily and often and loudly and Cooper keeps you steady with a hand on your waist. You’re nervous, you want to drink more, but you already feel like you’re carrying too many cups and plates and the noise it’s going to make when you drop them all is going to be deafening.

He’s here. He’s here with his fucking gorgeous wife and you stand behind Cooper so you have something blocking your line of sight.

Just as you are about to order your first vodka soda of the night, Dieter rushes back into the house. The weed and coke in you switch the plugs in your brain and suddenly you are very, very angry.

But the Dieter you find is fragile, beaten down, vulnerable. He talks to you like he did in New Mexico and it dulls the edges around the hole in your chest. He looks at you like you’re his saving grace, his last hope.

Myths lie. They blur the truth to make a better story. They build up a man larger than life, they make goddesses out of women, and they sanctify, canonize love. They make you ache with the wanting of the fantasy of it, and that’s on purpose. Myths are the human experience on fire.

Kissing him, you feel on fucking fire.

Meeting him didn’t feel momentous. But fucking him certainly was.

The settlement of your mythology burns to the ground, flames licking the sky. He has crystalized in your veins and, in an instant, you’re hopelessly addicted.

With Dieter Bravo, you come to like sex. You come to love it actually. It’s an itch, a fluttering, warm feeling that makes you twitch and tense when his hands aren’t on you. There’s some part of you that knows the inherent danger of giving one man, much less this man, that much power over you, but fuck, you can’t help it.

You’re too young, too inexperienced in the world to know the difference between when a man wants you for sex and when a man loves you. In your mind, the two are the same and cannot be separated. You know what it feels like to be wanted to be fucked, but in your nativity you assume that’s how a man looks at you when he wants to love you — and this time you’d welcome it.

There isn’t much to say about New Orleans, except for three things:

One, you’ve successfully confused yourself into thinking this is what being in a relationship with him would be like.

Two, you’ve never felt safer and more wanted and more complete than you ever have when you take drugs with Dieter. (that primal animal fear is gone for the first time in what feels like years)

And three, you’re so fucking in love with him you’re sick with it.

In the sickness, you grow weak. You burn with fever. Your bones ache and your mind races. His touch is simultaneously a balm and a contagion.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

You love him unlike anything or anyone.

Marie is actually the only one who ventures a guess. Who catches you, wings pinned to the corkboard, and asks you point-blank, “are you fucking Dieter Bravo?”

Maybe she’s braver because it’s over text, permanent traces of your infidelity, but you stare at her message for hours. You think about it in the hotel shower after the plane lands in Los Angeles. You haven’t seen her in weeks and you’ve stopped returning her phone calls.

Your high falters at the idea that you might have (and probably did) lose a friend over him. But what did that matter, in the grand scheme of things, your sickness asks you, now that you have him?

Now that he’s the only thing that matters. Now that he is everything.

He goes back to his wife.

After everything. After what you did for him. After what you gave up. How you prostrated yourself for his love, for a moment of his time. He can’t see it, it’s eating you up. You think cancer has kinder teeth than his.

The foundations of the core of your being are rocked. It doesn’t feel real because he’s still in this hotel with you, the same hotel where you fucked in the bathroom, where you flirted with him for the cameras to sell the movie, where he begged you to stay with him, you’re gonna stay, right? you’re gonna be with me, after this? And maybe it isn’t real because he only lasts being apart from you for twelve, maybe fourteen hours. Maybe he’s sick too. Maybe he’s fucked just as much as you are.

In your dark, deep wretched heart, you hope he is. You hope he’d die without you. But you don’t know. You don’t know because he never says it.

This time, it’s real, he promises. This time, he’s never going back. This time he’s going to say he loves you, his kisses pledge to you.

This time he’s not going to leave you.

In the mornings after Chloe leaves and you kiss him E-tablets with your tongue and he fucks you in every way he knows how, he curls up next to you and you tell him. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t seem to hear you.

You tell him you love him, have always loved him. Dieter Bravo turned from an imaginary companion, to a friend you didn’t want, and now to a lover who makes you think you’re special. Something valuable, precious. Something that is worth keeping.

Until you’re not.

Myths serve to answer questions about our place in the natural order of things. To ease tension. To provide guidance.

Why does it rain?

Where do the seasons come from?

What is the sun, and why does it leave and return?

What is heartbreak?

What is grief? What is sorrow? How do we carry them with us?

How do we go on when the world is determined to break us?

When you’ve always had nothing, and now you still have nothing and no one – he doesn’t love you and he’s going back to his pregnant wife – you ask, what’s the fucking point?

Not even the myths can answer that one.

Later, when you wake up under the bright lights of a hospital room, your memory is cracked, broken into terracotta pieces on the ground. There are things missing from you.

You don’t remember calling Oliver, only that he was there and he was high out of his mind and he gave you whatever he had in his pockets. You don’t remember what you took, or if Oliver was kind to you when he watched you swallow pill after pill.

You don’t remember the shower, the ambulance ride, or being admitted.

You aren’t sure exactly what you’ve lost. But you feel the missing edges.

Dieter is missing from you.

If you close your eyes, still the movement of your body, block out the noises of the machines and the hospital around you, you think you remember hearing him say it.

You think he might have said it when he kissed your forehead, but it feels older than that. Like his words and his actions stem from two different memories but you’re so fucked up they blur together. You want to hold onto that new memory, as fabricated as it might be, for as long as you can.

But then sleep over takes you again and it flushes everything out. The next time you wake up, you don’t remember that he ever said, I love you.

When you wake up, you know he’s gone. You don’t know how you know, or why, but it feels like a piece of you has been torn away in a bloody chunk. Like someone had taken pliers to your fingernails and tore them off until blood splattered onto the floor.

Like someone put a knee to your shoulder and wrenched white teeth out of your mouth.

Until you are gummy and dripping.

You open your eyes not to Dieter, not Heidi, but Marie. Mousy, intelligent, thoughtful Marie curled up asleep in the chair next to you.

The sound of your crying wakes her up. Wordless, judgement-less, she crawls into bed with you, takes you into her arms, and lets you sob like the heart-broken mess you’ve become.

God, can you die from pain like this?

She strokes your forehead and tells you, no, you can’t. You might want to, but you can’t.

For the first time in your life, you’re not a myth.

You’re not a story of a little girl whose parents didn’t love her enough.

You are not the story of an actress whose star burned too bright and hot and the cosmos punished her for her hubris.

You’re not the story of a woman who fell in love too hard and too fast with drugs and a man much older than her and got shattered on the rocks.

The book has closed, the final chapter has come. There are no more stories to tell, nothing left to make fantastic.

You are a broken human body.

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

You were a child once. You have to remember that.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble 2016 #dieter bravo/f!reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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carecrowgames · 1 year

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Yazeba Readthrough #2

After some technical difficulties (hello twitter) i am continuing my aspirationally daily readthrough commentary on Yazeba’s Bed and Breakfast on here!

I am changing the format from readalong commentary to an end of day summary of my thoughts. Right now i am still going very granular though, allthough that might change over time.

Today I'm leaving the cover and the table of contents behind for actual text.

But first! Shout-outs to the welcoming sign to the bed and breakfast. It's absolutely overflowing with rules in different fonts, in a way that feels like such a perfect mixture of stubborn and caring. It immediately gives me an idea who yazeba and the residents might be. "No snitching" and "no unnecessary smalltalk" one after another realy paint the picture of someone who doesnt want to be bothered, but isn't gonna be an autocrat about chasing down missbehavior. This all ending with "room for everyone" realy warms my heart!

This reminds me to introduce a little game for this read through! Last time I listened to the official ost "running away again" by naked lake, but I want some variety. So I'm gonna add a new song to my read along Playlist once a day whenever the book reminds me of one.

Today that's gonna be one of my favorite mountain goat songs "colors in your cheeks" because it’s what i most closely connect to the emotion 'room for everyone' evokes. I have a bunch of others I want to add but I will wait to grow it organically, as I read the book - so in the end listening to the playlist can remind me of some key moments from the read through.

Enter “Go home Kid, Gertrude’s Arrival”. Immidiately the small narrative text evokes images of a point in click adventure in my mind. Playing Gertrude, clicking on Sal and getting the little animation of him awaking before the conversation pops up below.

The whole thing is the kind of opening that leaves me wanting to play these characters which is exactly what the game is gonna allow me to do. I love it!

Favorite parts: Gertrudes character becomes so well lined out: the facts that she ran away, that she doesnt like her birthday and that she chose her name on the fly. This sentence

I opened the door. And my name is, uhh…Gertrude.” She said, and over the course of the sentence, it became true.

is a standout to me. The phrase “and over the course of the sentence, it became true” builds such a specific genre space, i immidiately know the tone i am supposed to read the characters and the narration with.

Gertrudes reaction to potentially not getting a room, her getting something and knowing she's gonna become a resident are also incredibly emotionally resonant, while building a very effective fantasy. It all makes me realy want to see the story, and *be* in the story.

Enter the next page, which is. incredible. The small blurp on how Yazeba came to found the Bed & Breakfast is yet another amazing character pitch - and one that answers questions that have been brought up by the last text. That one had realy build up the mystery of who yazeba is .. and now we know, because does such a good job developing her relationship to the world and how it evolved to have space for the people and trouble of the bed & breakfast. “In her own cruel and spiteful way the witch made a friend” is such a beautiful and complex character summary. There's something about this I immediately deeply relate to and once again it builds up a fantasy that I want to inhabit.

We finish this read through on page 16 "Welcome to the Bed & Breakfast”

i love how the book reinforces a lot of the impressions narrative and pictures have sketched out so far in its own voice. The magical realism and genre expectations it establishes for the stories we can tell with it being wrapped up as “mysteries of the bed and breakfast” feels super clever because it makes narrative hooks that also establish storytelling modes.

In general another thing the book has been super good at so far is seeding questions for narrative exploration that I assume will be done by playing the chapters. But the buildup to them doesn’t only take place in the chapters or the playbooks, but the rule explanations and world outlining itself.

Example here: Gertrude is the only person the b&b does not have a room for. It might be an more fictional ground work for the genre, but it also lends itself to the basis of a deeper exploration into the b&bs nature, or yazeba and Gertrude as characters. It makes me wonder if the book will drop threads like this as something to be develop3d and explored by yourself in addition to the chapters, or something that will be developed through them (and maybe the shelves?)

I also feel like these small narrative facts also do a realy good job at building a kind if fun fact library in the readers head. Which assuming they are the only one who read the book in the playgroup gives them alot of ways of enticing and introducing people to the vibe of yazeba and its cast. Similar to how it can hook the reader into the narrative they can use them in conversation to give other players some narrative hooks to develop some expectations for stories they might want to tell or elements they would want to explore at the side of a chapter. It all propably also realy helps with choosing a character one wants to start out playing.

Speaking of giving players entryways into playing the game! I appreciate how the narrative text on this page feels like it also gives an example of what playing the game might look like, while giving a more lived view into the mundanity of the fantastical reality of the b&b.

This one also seeds amelie, another resident I'm super excited about (I happen to know they are a robot which the text hints at it!)

What an interesting narrative tension btw, for Gertrude who dislikes September the 15th for being her birthday, to now live a life that's always September 15th. I feel like that might be an early narrarive thread i would like to pull on - and would you look at that, one of the early chapters (chapter 1 actually) happens to be A Birthday for Gertrude (I had an inkling i saw a birthday among the early chapters so i jumped back to confirm). I had to physically stop myself from jumping ahead to find out if it's her first day in the b&b or another one, but for once I don't want to jump around in a ttrpg book.

And thats all i managed to get through today. We made it 5 more pages in, let’s see how many it’s gonna be tomorrow ~ I’m super excited to get to some more mechanical explanations but so far i am enjoying letting myself get introduced and teased by the wonderful narrative elements.

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you can find my other Yazeba readthrough posts under #zeebthrough!

Preorder the game on https://possumcreekgames.com/pages/yazebas-bed-breakfast

#zeebthrough #yazeba's bed & breakfast #possum creek games

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sparatus · 11 months

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also hiii back again can I ask 5, 8 and 9 for the fic writers asks pls?

hiiii when have i ever answered an ask in a timely manner <3

fic writer asks

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about [insert fic]? Answer it now!

ah hell that's hard actually. let's see, i suppose kinda one thing that a lot of questions would probably boil down to is...

so why are we so focused on the arterius clan?

and the answer is partially just that i'm extremely autistic about desolas and saren, but also... the entire canon yes-reapers timeline depends on desolas arterius being dead and what happened at shanxi. the events of m.e.:evolution set up saren's indoctrination and reason to go looking for the reapers after revelation (he'd recognize the reaper tech from the monolith and know it's connected to what killed his brother), harper's indoctrination and the foundation of cerberus, everything. and desolas has to be dead, or saren's not going to chase after the reapers, is he? if desolas lived, then the reapers don't need saren, or he and des were never indoctrinated in the first place, or he's simply emotionally stable enough to go "hm, that's fucked up. let me contact somebody instead of trying to handle this myself," because there's no dead brother he's grieving. everything hinges on des finding the arca monolith and dying brutally in the fallout.

so in a no-reapers au, if you take away the reapers, you take away the indoctrination and the monolith... and all that's left is jack harper.

so ultimately, when i'm joking about exdiff being a series about the arterius clan and shepard is there too i guess... i'm not really joking. ultimately, the core conflict of this series is that unresolved fight between des and harper. harper took what happened on shanxi and took it as justification for forming a terrorist organization that experiments on children, this is canon, this man is Not Handling His Trauma Well. but desolas? desolas is a general, he's spent an entire career training for war, and war fucked him up. so while harper dwelled on it and became bitter and has spent 26 years living in the past, desolas... moved on. went home. got married, had kids, handed off dealing with everything that was still trying to upset him after 314 to saren and retreated into his own safe little world that he carved out for himself. he's getting old, and he's tired, and he doesn't want to be the big, scary enemy general striking fear into everyone's hearts anymore.

but harper still wants him to be, and that's the big damn problem.

so yeah, this isn't shepard's story. canon really isn't, either. both exdiff and imho canon itself are the story of desolas arterius and jack harper, two titans clashing. in canon, one is dead, and the other is left unchecked to be awful and feel like he's won, but in exdiff, it's not over yet. and des is trying so hard to let it be over, to let other people handle it while he barricades the door and holds the devil at gunpoint. and the longer things go on, the worse things get, the more other people also start bringing up shanxi, other veterans, other people who actually have the power to try to drag him kicking and screaming back to that desert.

everything, whether even bioware themselves realizes it or not, ties back to shanxi, and the arterius clan are smack in the middle of it. and that's what exdiff's narrative is about, and that's why we keep coming back to the arteriuses.

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?

DIS BITCH

i have this song on several playlists but most notably desolas, the bad end playlist, and taeja <3 i'd probably most want to use it for taeja if i was to write it myself, specifically her time on omega shortly after leaving sur'kesh before she joins up with the resistance, when she's in a fog and just doing what she has to to survive despite her own religious upbringing and hallucinogenic drug use telling her that the gods are watching and she's been chosen to do something better than this

alternatively. literally this is the theme song for alex going into a necessary end. the whole galaxy is watching and he's going insane and everyone is just holding their breath waiting to see what's about to happen now that he knows the truth of his own existence. extremely sexy i want to get to this fic so badly it's not my fault that mltdog is vital background buildup

9. How do you find new fic to read?

honestly if it's not my friends' own writing i don't really seek out new fic, if i'm reading something not written by a friend or something i was looking at snippets from in the writing server and getting hype about then it's something that's been previously vetted and highly recommended by a trusted source (the lads in the group chat). otherwise i simply don't <3

#press conference #thetrashbagswasteland

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gulliesforever · 1 year

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you ever think about how jake moved to la for a job opportunity. and then spent his whole time at that job talking about amir to the point where his coworker had to ask who was obsessed with who and he still didnt get it. and then he moved back because he missed amir, he sat on a beach listening to a frickin shitty playlist amir made him. and then years later he follows amir across the country again, and ultimately stays with him. and then do you ever think about how they didn't talk for like 3 years but then amir facetimed him one day and despite how much jake 'hated' amir calling him he still started up a podcast network with him. do you ever think about how much jake loves amir and would follow him to the ends of the earth but will likely never reach that conclusion himself. and do you ever think about how-

GINGER AND CELERY I DID NOT GO TO BED AT 5:30AM THINKING ABOUT THEM AND WAKE UP AT 7:26AM STILL THINKING ABOUT THEM TO DEAL WITH THIS ASK!! EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY AND ALL THE LLY'S!!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!!!

no, but i litreally think about it all the time!!!! essay incoming because I'm very long winded!!!

Like you basically said.... Sick Day is, i think, the peak of Jake and Amir being extremely queercoded. not only is it an unironic queer drama plot where they both find unfulfilling love interests and then come back to each other (disregarding any intent of irl janda)... it also simply annihilates any doubt that jake doesn't CHOOSE to be with amir, which basically manufactures the crux of the complexity of their relationship and codepency.

And of course... Everyone asks, yknow, "why do you stay?" when it comes to Jake.

and you're right: he loves amir.

he loves him, of course he does, otherwise he wouldn't do these things for him. and on some level, he must know that. because he always comes back when he has the opportunity to leave. and i think road trip does a great job of conveying that jake loves amir and he knows it. but more than that, i think, actually the finale arc showcases another something that im not sure jake can really come to terms with. it's like, almost beyond love at all. its kinda just that... jake likes, needs, and wants what amir offers his life. and that's absolute destruction and discord and somebody's attention.

without amir, jake is just some failure of a writer at collegehumor who can't get dates, has no fulfilling prospects, and is so insecure he's not even sure who he wants to be. with him, he has a life where things happen, where he has the opportunity to be right and do things because amir is always wrong and getting into things. in other words, jake is a fucking loser. but that's... exactly what Amir is too, except he's has no concept of shame about it. and so jake NEEDS amir. because hes on this same wavelength as him, but he's more right and he's admired and that means he's WORTH something. that, to me, is incredibly interesting.

I think sick day showcases both sides of it - Jake loves amir, he genuinely admires his stupid songs and high voices and idiotic jokes as much as he can't say that - but he also NEEDS him because "he was obsessed with me" and therefore that must mean "im worthy of being obsessed OVER".

and what i find super intersting about that too, is like, as the series goes on, they tend to get a lot more violent with each other with LA being a point where jake was legit letting amir die and even praying for it. one might take this as like, he's being regressed (as especially after road trip) but to me, it almost makes it seem like they have fit these horrible roles that just keep escalating so much that in a sense they are confident they will never be able to leave each other. "i can wish amir death, it's not like he's actually going to die", lol, and "he already knows id choose him, so its not like it matters how mean i am". almost like a weird sense of stability in the most instable way. because it's just straight up toxic.

and so i think that informs my thoughts in terms of amir not seeing jake for "3 years" and then them starting a podcast together miraculously. its like. i think they both realized after roadtrip, finally, that they are not really leaving under any circumstance, and they've kind of come to peace with it (so amir leaving for 3 years is honestly not that weird because he's gonna come back anyways), and they speak this love language of foul-mouthed hatred and malice just because it's how they operate. that's why it feels so damn homely. its because now they both know they love each other, but they're playing their part because that's the only part they know how to play and it works. they dont have to say "i love you" to get that across. and that, to me, is incredibly romantic and fucking insane.

so yes, in a sense, I do think about how. i think about how all the damn time.

#jamir #gullieship #thoughts within thoughts #long post #siggestion box

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alfryco · 2 years

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Bamboo mahonia jasmine aloe vera papyrus :)

(thank you for the questions!! i'm just gonna add the ones that you sent in a second time ;3)

Bamboo: Do you change into a different outfit when you get home? Oh absolutely. As soon as I get home the work clothes come off and usually look tank top and gym short/pajama shorts come on.

Abelia: Do you have a particular piece of jewelry you always wear or can’t part with? I have a necklace that I wear everyday I leave my house that has some little charms on it from different things in my life. Like I have a ring from my mom and a Hobbit acorn pendant on there and I could never part with that necklace. It's always gotta be on me if I'm leaving the house longer than 30 minutes.

Mahonia: What place, thing, activity inspires you most and how do you express yourself when it does? I find inspiration in all kinds of things especially in like nature, but I would say it would have to be an activity that I find the most inspiring and it's usually video games or listening to music. If those two things can inspire me in the slightest I'll probably make a video edit for them or end up writing something in the universe of the game or music if it fits.

Camellia: What were you like when you were younger? Do you think you’ve changed a lot? I've definitely changed a lot from when I was younger. When I was younger I was a lot more carefree and hyper back then, like I still had my anxiety but we didn't know that's what it was yet. I would also be more focused on what people thought about me and being by myself at lunch time where as now that I'm older I could give less of a shit what they think of me and I actually prefer to eat lunch by myself now haha. I do wish I still had my energy from back then though. Wish I had taken more naps.

Jasmine: Do you have a movie or book you loved but will never watch/read again? Bookwise I don't think there's anything I wouldn't be unwilling to reread again and I think the one movie I probably couldn't rewatch even though I really loved it and it was an excellent work on cinema would have to be Come and See. That movie is just a lot emotionally and I don't think I'd be willing to watch it again.

Chamomile: What kind of things do you like receiving as gifts? I honestly like receiving anything that has some thought put into it and I usually lean towards things that can be useful and not just be set on a shelf to gather dust (minus books ofc). Like if you've obviously put effort and time into getting me something then I'm gonna love it and if you can't do that then make sure it's something I can use.

Aloe Vera: What’s something (mundane) you really want to experience in life? Retirement jk jk but really I would just love to have a job at a library or a bookstore. Just a job focusing on books in some way. I've tried 2 times to get a library position and both times I've struck out so I'll just keep trying for that type of job till I can't no more.

Papyrus: If you put your ‘on repeat’ playlist on shuffle, what’s the first song that comes up? what do you like about it / associate it with? So I don't really have an 'on repeat' playlist but I do have a 'Top 25' on my ipod and the first song that came up on shuffle was Montero by Lil Nas X. With that song I just love the beat and rhythm it has to it and also the whole imagery with the music video is awesome, just a spit in the face of what's usually deemed "socially acceptable" and I'm so here for it.

#boulangerlee #hey a question #thank u for the questions!! ur such a sweetie :3 #also let's just pretend you sent me the camellia ask and that I totally didn't get it mixed up with chamomile :)#by the time i realized that I had already answered it so now you get a bonus question!!

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lickthecowhappy · 9 months

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Playlist Analysis #9: Us - Chxrlotte

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#9. Us – Chxrlotte

This is a Crowley song.

Overview:

What do I even say about this song? If you haven’t heard it, go listen before you read any of this. I mean, this was written for this playlist. Not literally, of course. Chxrlotte didn’t know I was going to make this playlist. But she wrote it because of the last minutes of Good Omens season 2 episode 6. When I heard this song the first time, my day was ruined. I DO like pain, Chxrlotte.

I put it at #9 because I wanted it after #7. Pale Blue Eyes, but didn’t want two Crowley songs back to back (So #8. Two Men In Love was lovingly nestled betwixt them). This song is a post-kiss song. It’s beautiful. It’s devastating. It highlights the insecurities that cock of the walk Crowley works so hard to hide.

Just go share it with all your friends who don’t watch Good Omens because it’s really pretty.

Lyrics:

Angel, tell me why Was I imagining the love That I was sure was in your eyes? I told you "come with me" But you left me in the silence Where the nightingales should be

Crowley asked for the third time for Aziraphale to run away with him and, for the third time, Aziraphale said no. I want to believe that when Aziraphale turns to Crowley before boarding the elevator, he mouths some last message of hope, but I think it’s more likely that he leaves it all unsaid. Silent as it was when Crowley said “no nightingales.” Crowley has to live with that “I forgive you.”

Angel God it's painful To love you like I do

The love Crowley already has and the love Aziraphale has to learn, is a painful kind of love. It’s worth the work but it’s not easy and some days you will suffer for it. Crowley seems to constantly suffer for it. And we masochistic fans do love our sacred heartbreak, don’t we?

I just wanted you Can you look me in the eyes And tell me this is what you want to do Forever feels so long But if I'm not enough to love you I don't feel like I belong

Crowley’s favorite thing in the world is Aziraphale and it’s evidenced by how quickly he’s willing to take his man-shaped being and leave it. But Aziraphale knows that Crowley would miss the world. That they would never be at home anywhere else. Aziraphale doesn’t want to go back to heaven. He says so to the Metatron. Aziraphale doesn’t want to do this, but he does want to fight for what’s right and Crowley is too emotionally compromised to see the difference. Aziraphale effectively rejecting him by insisting they can’t just go off together makes Crowley feel inadequate and unlovable. He just heard Beelzebub say they found something more important than choosing sides, followed by Aziraphale appearing to choose anything but their side.

But how did I think you'd be able To ever love a fallen angel All I ever wanted was to be enough And I don't want you to forgive me I'm only happy when you're with me We could've left it all behind for good and run

Crowley saw Aziraphale do the right thing in Eden and secretly lived his life to the same standard. He’s generally self-actualized in that way; he knows what he’s about and how he wants to live. When Mrs. Sandwich says he’s a good lad, he doesn’t sneer or chide anymore, he says thank you. He says “not really” first but he’s no longer answering to Hell so the threat associated with being called nice or kind or good is no longer present. He doesn’t really care if people know he’s nice. He IS enough. But Aziraphale leaves him anyway because Crowley said no to Heaven. At least, that’s how he perceives it.

We could've been us We could've been us We could've been us

I’m finally at the point where this part no longer makes me want to throw up. It took a LOT of listens to get here. Please congratulate me on my bravery.

I can't bear to see the end An eternity I'd like to spend With the only one who ever cared

“And I would like to spend-hmmm…” Overcome with emotion looking into those pale blue eyes, he couldn’t even say it. How could he after everything Aziraphale just hit him with? Crowley has a complicated relationship with the Almighty, praying to her the way humans do in season 1. But a line like this makes you think he believes that even she never cared about him. Crowley refers to Aziraphale as his friend, his best friend, his only friend. Only Aziraphale ever cared for him and he still left.

We could've been us Felt like I was falling from above Maybe I was just falling in love Who am I to think I'd be enough We could've been us We could've been us

The feeling of falling, your guts squirming, twisting, lurching. Sounds a lot like feeling in love, especially when that love is unrequited. When you were so sure it was mutual and now you just feel like a fool. Angry because you allowed yourself to believe it was real or angry at the other person for not loving you back. Desperate for what could have been and feeling humiliated that you could never be enough to deserve it.

I refuse to speculate on how they’re coming back from this. I must trust in Neil.

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#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #brain rot #music analysis #i spent a normal amount of time on this #therapy for good omens 2 #good omens meta #chxrlotte #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce

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manikrege · 2 years

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People around me always leave and I'm learning to make peace with it.

You know my biggest fear?

It's not people leaving.

It's that part of me somehow knows.

Part of me knew it the last time I chatted with my best friend who told me "we'd never drift apart because we'll always figure it out."

She moved to another country after that, we promised to keep in touch, but she gave signals indicating she wanted to have a completely fresh start after being held up all her life in the shithole we grew up in. There was no explanation, no closure, neither of us ever reached out. And every now & then, I think of her but I know our roles in each other's lives ended long ago.

I had an instinct that my "farewell" was an actual farewell, like the foreboding you get when you see the veins in the petal of a flower growing greener in wake of its wilting. But when that hunch turned true, I felt betrayed & awkward ... initially. I've seen people do this. I've done it myself to someone else but we got back together after a few years and now I kinda know how they must've felt.

Sometimes humans walk away not because they hate you or love you less.

It might also be because we just focus so much on our own journeys, especially when moving cities, forgetting that we're not mutually exclusive cars traveling on roads but rather droplets of water up in the clouds, with the fingers of our molecules woven tightly more & more with every second we spend knowing each other.

So when we choose different directions out of nowhere, we stretch out other droplets that have become part of our stories, into painful positions. And sometimes, the cloud breaks into tears.

Understand this harsh reality - you cannot avoid displacing others when you're growing. And others cannot avoid hurting you when they grow (they may not even intend it).

Growth is painful for everyone involved.

You cannot just "leave" people, even if it is for good mental health reasons or because you've outgrown them (which is totally acceptable). Thing is, you are people. And people are you.

Every song I have on my playlist is connected to the place I first heard it (I don't know how I can remember them all but I do). And many times those places have been faces of people breaking into grins as they realise I'm liking the tastes they're introducing me to.

What am I supposed to do after these folks have left? Disassociate? Detach? Forget, forgive, move on? I wish it was that easy.

I listened as a special someone tell me recently over call that they don't like me the way they thought they would and I should look elsewhere. Like it's a job and I'm being fired. What is one exactly supposed to do when one hears that?

The worst part is, I knew it this time, too. As I stood in the lift with them weeks ago, giving them a farewell hug before they flew off for the holidays, my heart told me it would be the last time I get to be with them.

I wish I acted on it. I wish I hugged them a little longer and tighter. I wish I made them make some sort of a promise.

But you can't "make" people like you or stay around if they don't want to. And until recently, I used to feel so helpless, anxious and emotionally naked whenever it hit me that I cannot predict the time horizons of most of my relationships.

What these experiences have taught me is that building a relationship, romantic or platonic or professional, has very little to do with love or intensity. Because I know for sure that I loved and gave everything authentically in every relationship that was destroyed for some reason.

Love is an emotion. It comes and flows and goes. It can change, just as people do.

Relationships are an equation of comfort divided over phases of change. To organisms that are constantly changing, which is you and me, comfort can mean giving each other healthy space, trusting judgements, co-operating, being honest and reliable, making yourself available, supporting their dreams, knowing what they like and delivering more of it, being OK about each other's tastes & priorities getting re-arranged over the years, etc.

But at the end of the day, comfort means comfort only yes. And this comfort is also a variable - it changes unequally for different people. Some of us grow out of the zone, willingly or because life tells us we must, while it may have become home for the other half.

Some of us with commitment issues panic when we see that home taking shape so we take premature evasive methods, thinking that it'll be easier if things end before they settle down. But I've spent just a few hours with people and loved them so much, so this stupid idea of time spent together being equal to how close we're with someone completely knocks me out.

If people around us always seem to leave, maybe it's because we look at them as entries & exits? So in response, we either clamp up into ourselves or let bitterness take over.

The problem with seeing relationships as events with beginnings and endings is that it assumes that the characters in it will always stay the same.

Never happens! I will be a different person next year, and a completely different one in a decade by the power of compounding. You will be, too.

I've been with friends who've been four different people over the duration I've known them for. The only reason I think I stuck by is that maybe those changes have aligned with mine or what I think are good for both of us.

This doesn't happen all the time. Sometimes we change against the favour of those who we love. And so we grow apart. That's completely okay.

Maybe for just a moment, if we allow ourselves to just get hurt & grieve in the unfairness of how we're built rather than trying so hard to keep everything together, then maybe it'll hurt for a shorter time.

I am telling myself I met a version of someone when they were perfect for me at that point of time and vice versa. And we're no longer those people because so much has happened so fast. And even if we said so many hurtful things that day, maybe all we were trying to say is that we miss each other an awful lot and we're afraid of it meaning something.

I am learning to let myself get to know people without making up plans for them. I'm learning to build new friendships without feeling the burden of having to maintain them forever.

I am learning to normalize missing someone without feeling guilty about it. We can miss people who hurt us, too, because we miss the parts of them that helped us heal at that point.

It will hurt less once you understand that every person you've met and are about to meet, is a droplet swinging from cloud to cloud, pouring down on hills that hold caves within. You can be interlinked with so many people but are never bound or dependent on them. You'll be fine on your own when it's dawn. Your relationships will always be fluid and unpredictable, their only goal is to give you the chance to craft layer after layer in the caverns of your soul.

People will leave because people are not contracts. And even contracts fall apart.

So go ahead & listen to the songs they liked and let the tune make you feel whatever it is.

Cherish the memories you made. Learn from the mistakes. Rather than trying hard to move on and put things behind, collect the memories and find your strength in keeping them close.

Lastly, every time you feel you're getting more & more broken with every person who leaves, and fear that you will become completely incapable of loving by the time you meet someone actually worthy, just remember that many times, a string of broken seashells can be the most beautiful ornament from the beach.

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echobeachimagines · 2 years

Text

‘ just what i needed ’ || abed nadir

Word count: 1,511

Characters: Gender Neutral!Reader, Abed Nadir, Annie Edison, Jeff Winger, Troy Barnes, Shirley Bennett, Unnamed girl in magenta, Joey/White Abed/Wabed.

Warnings: profanity

A/N: Before we begin, I want to thank you in advance for reading. The title has nothing to do with the fic. It is just a random song title from my personal love songs playlist. Also, I know that this reader may not be just as relatable as many would like, but they are gender neutral. They say write what you know and I know emotionally overwhelmed but detached, haha. Also, if you could tell me if there is not enough space between the sections, that would be great. I am working on a chromebook, so it looks a little different on my end. In addition, I will be making edits if I find errors in this fic in the future. Onward and, as usual, constructive critique is welcomed as I am a masochist but not a human carpet. Thank you and I am sending you all love !!

---

Truthfully, you’d never been one to express how you felt to others. It applied to everyone. Family, friends, and romantic interests for sure. It wasn’t as if you felt nothing for these people; Quite the opposite, actually. You’d argue you felt more than you should. It was intimidating and made you feel as if you were intruding on their peace. It wasn’t their responsibility to take on your emotions; good or bad. Besides, your poker face was absolute garbage. It gave well enough away as it was.

This led you to where you were right now. Jaw clenched as Jeff gave the beautiful brunette in magenta advice on how to approach the object of your affections, Abed Nadir.

“I know that guy’s M.O and I think it’s better if you introduce yourself.”

Your heart all but dropped through the floor. The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head and you couldn’t help the daggers that shot in the poor girl’s direction. It wasn’t her fault. You, of course, understood the appeal. The tall, adorable, stoic film nerd with the puppy-dog eyes who looked amazing in mustard yellow. Well- looked amazing in any color, really- How could one not feel some sort of attraction toward him? And why did you have to be one of these people? You felt the frustration building as she sauntered over to the pool table. This wasn’t a rare occurrence, to be honest.

As if witnessing Jeff in all his... glory... wasn’t bad enough. Now you had to watch as yet another stunning woman shoots her shot with your crush? God, ‘crush’. It sounds so stupid just hearing it. So immature.

Needless to say, you were beginning to think that pool table was cursed.

“Are you alright, Y/N? If looks could kill-,” Annie begins before being cut off by White Abed- Wabed, as you’ve personally dubbed him- as he took a seat next to you.

“Man, why couldn’t I be brown Joey?” You couldn’t help the redirection of your glare toward the sweater-clad man. “His name is Abed, Jackass.” You spat before you could stop yourself. He put his arms up in mock surrender. Annie’s gaze turns back to you, wide-eyed.

You also happened to pull Jeff’s attention at your words, also a little wide-eyed, but seemingly out of entertainment than anything else. “Woah there, tiger. Retract the claws!” he says through a chuckle.

“Seriously, YN. Are you alright? Did something happen?” Annie asks yet again. You sneak a look at Abed, the girl seemingly vanished in the time you’d looked away. A wave of guilt begins to form. Jeff, oh so observant of others all of a sudden, takes notice of your glance in his direction. His face shifts through what looks like the stages of grief before a grin breaks out on his face. He couldn’t have possibly figured it out so quick, could he?

“No way!” he starts. You try to keep a neutral expression, but the blood rushes to your cheeks uninhibited. Oh, he’s going to have a field-day with this one.

“What? What is it?” Annie inquires, still not having caught on.

“NO WAY!” Jeff says again, his eyes not once leaving your face as you give up trying to pretend. You sigh.

Annie glances between the two of you, her voice raising in pitch slightly. “What is it?! What am I missing?!”

By this point, Abed is looking in the direction of the commotion, clearly curious.

Wabed decides it’s his moment to shine. “I think your friend here likes Mr. ‘Abed’ over there.” He says, giving a short nod in the direction of the pool table. Annie gasps, looking at you excitedly. You’ve managed to make direct eye contact with Abed, however. Having noticed Wabed’s attention on him, he begins to make his way over. Panic starts to spread through you and you can’t help but feel like he's heard everything the others are saying. You jump up before making a break for the door. Fuck this.

You hear Annie call after you as you speed walk your way toward the exit. You don’t look back and, since you don’t have any other classes that day, you decide to head home before things escalate any further.

As much as you dreaded it, you knew you couldn’t avoid Jeff and Annie forever... Or Abed for that matter. You also couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had slipped up. Annie had as good of a poker face as you did, Jeff could go either way, and Wabed sure as hell had no loyalty to you.

You had sent Annie a myriad of texts only to be met with silence and Jeff was never one to respond to your texts immediately anyway which was strange considering he was always on his phone. All you could do was stress over the situation as the night progressed. As you approached the study room, you could see the back of Jeff’s head. Pulling open the door, you could see everyone except Troy and Abed in their seats.

“Y/N!” Annie yelped as you walked in; You stopped in your tracks. Of course. Of fucking course. “You told, didn’t you.” You deadpanned. She looked like a dear in the headlights.

Jeff craned his neck around to see you, a smirk taking over his face.

“She didn’t even last five minutes- OW!” He was cut off by Annie hitting his arm. “It wasn’t like that and you know it! You have to believe me, Y/N-” She argued- pleaded, really.

Shirley, bless her oblivious heart, interjected.

“Ooooh, told who what?” She lilted as she clutched the top of her purse, a smile on her face at the prospect of new gossip. You contemplated skipping this study session, maybe hiding near the fire exits.

Your luck, however, must have just run out as you heard the chatter of Troy. You turned around, now face to face with Abed as he opened the door to the study room. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“Hi,” You said, just above a whisper. A small smile tugged at the sides of his mouth as he echoed you. He turned his head to look at Troy, giving a short nod. Troy raised his eyebrows briefly, looking at you with a knowing grin before walking over to his seat. So he knows too, then. Great.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Abed asked. You looked behind you, seeing Annie and Troy watching with anticipation, Jeff with mild intrigue. You couldn’t help the shaky sigh that escaped you as you nodded. “Um, Yeah- Yeah, sure. Let’s go.” You attempted to sound somewhat confident as you both made your way out of the study room.

There was a silence between you as you walked aimlessly through the hall. Although normally comfortable, this one seemed tension filled; At least on your end as you considered denying what you know he’s already heard. You decided to throw caution to the wind. Besides, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him. “So, Annie told you then.” You uttered as you clutched the strap of your bag with both hands, finally looking in his direction. He nodded before stopping. You stopped just a few steps after before turning around to face him.

“Look,” You readied yourself for the rejection by trying to beat him to it, as analyzing his face had yet to yield any information. “, You don’t have to reciprocate, and I am sorry if it makes you uncomfortable-” You are interrupted.

“I like you too, Y/N.” He stated curtly. You don’t think you heard him correctly, asking for him to repeat himself. “I’ve liked you for a while.” He clarifies.

“And Troy knew?” You ask, your head tilting as you processed what you were hearing. Your confusion softens into a flutter in your chest. He nods before responding.

“I told him last month. And then he accidentally told Annie.” Suddenly it made sense. You sigh, “So that’s why she told you then?” You ask rhetorically, chuckling as you decided to forgive her... This time. You realize that the ball in now in your court; Your golden opportunity has presented itself and, although your nerves were still in overdrive, made your move.

“Would you maybe... want to hang out? Not just as friends, of course.” You ask, shakily as you stood awaiting his response. He smiles slightly, nodding. “How about this weekend?” He prompts. You can’t help the smile that takes over your face, a blush likely present as well, but you didn’t want to think about it.

“That sounds great!” You enthuse as you let out the breath you had been holding since you asked.

“Cool... Cool, cool, cool,” He says. It is silent for a moment before he extends his arm in the direction of the study room. “After you.” Abed adds before you both begin to make your way back to the study room.

Now you’d just have to deal with telling everyone else, though you figured you’d cross that bridge when you got to it.

---

#community imagines #abed nadir imagines #community #abed nadir #abed nadir imagine #gender neutral reader #abed nadir x gn!reader #abed nadir x reader

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skelelephant · 3 years

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Hello!! I listened to your Jared Hopworth playlist the other day and really loved it! Was wondering if you share your thoughts on why you picked some songs/how they relate to him. Basically I just want to know how you see him lol Thanks for your time!!

Anon I am holding your hands in my own so earnestly as I say this but THANK YOU for this ask and thank you for enjoying my playlist!!!

You sent this ages ago and I was very excited about it! And then school and life immediately sapped all the energy from my body, BUT—

I am always so very down to talk about my boy he holds a very special place in my heart. Also you said some songs but I’m just. I’m just gonna break down the entire playlist cause now I have an excuse

But I’ll put it under the cut bc I’m going to talk a lot ✨

(also cw for some brief discussions of emotional abuse and general Flesh-related stuff below)

ANYWAY. Onto the brainrot:

1. Dirty Town - Mother Mother

So this one is up first ‘cause it’s a song about being dissatisfied with where you live, wanting to leave and go somewhere else, etc etc. I saw that kind of dissatisfaction in Jared a lot through his statement in MAG 131, where he talks about not doing well in school or really seeing a future for himself, as well as Sebastian’s comment in MAG 17 about Jared thinking Sebastian leaving him there was “something of a betrayal.” (Though I know this song is more small town/country and Chiswick seems like a pretty bustling area lmao so the vibes aren’t exact)

2. Be Nice To Me - The Front Bottoms

So this song is perhaps The Jared Song Ever. It’s just *chefs kiss* perfect. Like the accidental (or purposeful) destruction of self to fit a narrative assigned to you so that you inevitably become a self-fulfilling prophecy?? How that behaviour ends up destroying good relationships and pushing people away but you’re in too deep to really reverse course??? It makes me think about Jared and Sebastian’s friendship breaking down as they grow apart and change as people but still aren’t able to fully rid themselves of like. That childish fondness you still have for your old friends. (You’re gonna find I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about Sebastian Adekoya also)

3. Angel Eyes and Basketball by Foot Ox

Once again I am thinking about Jared becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy of anger and acting out and not being able to stop it.

[ID: a screenshot of lyrics that read “I am calling all of my friend to pull me out from this hole, But they’re so caught up in their own shit, And I’m so caught up in my own shit. End ID.]

This bit in particular reminds me of how Jared said he went through friends pretty fast, and how Sebastian was probably his only true long-lasting friend. But even Sebastian couldn’t stay and try to help him forever.

4. Father - The Front Bottoms

I have a lot of thoughts about Jared’s parents honestly, particularly his dad, most of which are me projecting. I won’t get into too much of that mess however I do think about the bit from MAG 131 where Jared says “But they were scared, and that felt good, even back then. It felt right. My Dad was proud of it too. He was a short man, bully, and watching me loom over people really made him happy.” And I think about Jared simultaneously having a strained relationship with his father while also doing everything he could to make him proud, even if that meant being just as much of a bully as him.

5. Days - The Drums

We’re circling back around to his relationship with Sebastian with this one. I think as dismissive as Jared is when addressing Sebastian in his statement during 131, Jared had kind of grown to depend on him for a lot, emotionally speaking. Kind of the break when you’re talking about someone’s only real friend growing up. The song itself is pretty upbeat so I’m reaching a little, (and I’ll reach pretty far ngl) but I do think about Jared feeling like he’s finally lost the only person that actually cared about him when Sebastian leaves for uni, so now he’s got to go it alone and abandon that childhood friendship.

6. Brave as a Noun - AJJ

Ngl I think about “And God knows I could make amends, But I’ve got an angry heart”, in relation to Jared realizing he’s tearing apart the one good friendship he ever while simultaneously not knowing how to Not Do That so often. I firmly believe that Jared and Sebastian actually legitimately cared about each other, but Jared was heading in a direction Sebastian couldn’t save him from and it ended up destroying their friendship.

[ID: a screenshot of lyrics that read “I could go off the deep end, I could kill all my best friends, I could follow stylish trends, And God knows I could make amends, But I've got an angry heart, Filled with cancers and poppy tarts, If this is how you folks make art it's fucking depressing. End ID.]

7. Bullfighter Jacket - Miniature Tigers

Surprise surprise I am talking to you about Jared and Sebastian’s friendship once again with this one. This ones a bit of a “I’m reaching/it’s really just one lyric” sort of song but I think the vibe is good for them.

[ID: a screenshot of lyrics that read “Now nothing seems to stay the same, I’m terrified to lose you, but more afraid to change (Oh!) End ID.]

This bit in particular makes me think about like. Jared in the process of realizing that the way he’s turned out is driving away his best friend, but he doesn’t have any sort of identity outside of being a general menace. This is all he’s got, and he’s sticking with it, but he also doesn’t want to lose Sebastian. So this turns into him seeking Sebastian out to be a menace to him directly cause it’s the only way he knows how to connect with people anymore.

8. What Can I Do If the Fire Goes Out? - Gang of Youths

This song is part of my agenda to get more people to listen to the rest of this album besides Achilles Come Down (ironically also on this playlist but we’ll get to that later.) Anyway stream Go Farther In Lightness. But REALLY this song is about abandonment, and Jared is just. Rife with abandonment issues. We know this, we love him, maybe go to therapy king <3

Anyway struggling to maintain connections but ultimately losing them or questioning whether or not you really needed them in the first place really fits in well with him I think.

9. Garden Song - Phoebe Bridgers

Ohhhh the passage of time and dwelling on old wounds that are healed over but not forgotten, just made peace with. Plus it’s about gardens and growth and if you’ve read any of my other long winded “I’m very emotional about Jared rn” posts you’ll know I have BIG feelings about Jared’s domain being a garden. I’ll spare you that whole emotional rollercoaster here but personally I think Jared can have,,,, a little healing. Not that I’m projecting very hard onto this monster man or anything but I think the implications of him “growing” things in the end speaks for itself.

10. Misery Fell - Tally Hall

This song is in here for Sebastian! Honestly I’ve fleshed out Sebastian’s character a lot purely based on my own unhinged headcanoning, so this one especially might seem like a reach since it’s mostly based on my own interpretation of a character we only get a single statement from. But I think this song’s story about a town with a unique relationship with books and knowledge and an outside force that changes that relationship very suddenly fits well for him.

11. Bad Habits - FIDLAR

This one is really just what it says on the tin, it’s a song about bad habits and why someone might engage in them, how they can provide comfort despite their unhealthiness and prove themselves to be really hard to break. And it’s got that extra flavour of being scared/uncertain about your future that I think informs a lot of Jared’s character. Plus I think I could see Jared liking this song in-fiction truthfully.

12. I Wanna Get Better - Bleachers

Okay so this song in particular is entirely my very specific interpretation of Jared’s character that is,,, mostly projection. Look, I know what canon says but We’re Not Looking At Canon right now. And in my heart of hearts I think Jared did have the capacity to heal and get better, and because I think writing him off as something purely evil and inhuman does a disservice to the character. So this song is mostly *recognition of self through the other* from one former big angry teenager (me) to another (fictional) former big angry teenager.

13. Trouble - Cage The Elephant

This one is also mostly vibes based but it’s got a weariness to it that I associate a lot with s5 Jared. Like if we think about it— Jared is in his forties or thereabouts by the time MAG171 rolls around. There was a lot of violence and acting out and physicality to most of his earlier appearances that aren’t really reflected in 171. He does threaten to try and get a “few good hits in” when Jon shows up to smite him, but think about how quickly he lets go of that?? I’ve mentioned this in other posts but I genuinely don’t think that earlier seasons Jared would’ve backed down in that situation, even if he knew he’d lose, which just goes to show how much he’s changed by the time s5 rolls around.

14. Skeleton Appreciation Day - Will Wood and the Tapeworms

This one just feels very Fleshcore honestly, both with the focus being on bones and also the theme of body image/intimacy issues. Like I love the butcher aesthetic believe me, (just look at my main TMA oc lmao) but sometimes I think people forget the other areas and fears that the Flesh extends to. But that’s a whole other post honestly I could talk about how reductive the fandom gets with the Flesh just as much as I could talk about how reductive they are with Jared LMAO

15. Body - Mother Mother

Listen. I am not immune to The Flesh Song Ever. I’m just SAYING if the shoe fits HHEHDHFHF

But rlly a lot of the notes from the last song apply here too. One day I’ll write a rambling post about the Flesh itself..... one day

16. Real Men - Mitski

This song was given to me by a mutual (hi Calvin if you’re reading this) and OH the toxic masculinity hurting inward as much as it does outward and how that reflects in Jared’s character is just.... so fitting. Like I think on the surface level most people get that Jared’s character is informed a lot by toxic masculinity and how it’s taught and learned and ultimately rewarded and encouraged. Jared learns from his father that it’s good to be strong and mean, good to put others beneath you. He’s rewarded for being like that to the point where when that strength stops serving him he doesn’t really have any other place in the world, which ultimately makes him a perfect candidate for the Boneturner’s Tale.

17. Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths

Ik for a few weeks there this was everyone’s blorbo from my shows song (and rightly so, it fucks, once again listen to the whole album I am BEGGING—) but I think it fits Jared well bc of the self-destructive tendencies and hopelessness on display here. Jared said it himself in MAG131, he couldn’t see a future for himself, he was just acting out bc that’s all he had left. The one person who he thought actually cared about him (in his eyes) betrayed him and left him behind too. And I like this song bc it’s being sung from the perspective of someone trying to prevent Achilles from jumping. Makes me think about how Sebastian very well could have done his best to keep Jared on a good path, keep their friendship together, but ultimately there comes a time where the strain is too much, and you have to let a person go.

18. Just Take My Wallet - Jack Stauber’s Micropop

This is. The MAG17 song. This Is It. Jared’s mom is another character I think a lot about, but that shouldn’t be surprising at this point if you’ve actually made it this far into this post. I think she was as much a victim of Jared’s father’s “bullying” as Jared was, and based on Jared’s recollection of her I don’t think she took a very active role in making sure Jared was protected from that. But I think people forget that she was one of— if not the first people we know Jared tested his powers on. And I think often about how she saw what this book was doing to her son and the monster it was turning him into and she STILL somehow managed to get it away from him to return it to the library. She ultimately tried to protect her kid from what the Boneturner’s Tale was doing to him. Also this bit??? This bit at the end??????

[ID: screenshot of lyrics that read “What's the softest way to say, You took away my friend, my buddy? What's the kindest way to say, You took away my friend? What's the kindest way to say, You took away my friend, my buddy? What's the kindest way to say, The end?” End ID.]

Is this Jared talking about Sebastian leaving him? Is this Sebastian in the years that follow Jared’s disappearance wrestling with the guilt of bringing the Boneturner’s Tale to him and hating it for taking his friend away before they could even attempt to reconcile their friendship? Either way I’m distraught!

19. I Guess It Could Be Looked at as an Escape, or as a Chance to Start Over - Flatsound

So this song doesn’t have any words, but from title and vibes alone I thought it followed song 18 really well. Because if you think about what the Boneturner’s Take offered Jared it *could* be looked at as an escape or a chance to start over. It was the lifeline he needed to escape what he was certain would be a bitter and miserable existence, though of course it didn’t come without cost, so the melancholic and lonely sound of the song itself reflects that really well.

20. Banks - Lincoln

Another song given to me by a mutual! (Hi Hope :3c)

This is a more recent edition and I forgot to actually arrange it in the playlist BUT REGARDLESS this one circles back around to Jared and Sebastian bc I think way too much about the two of them before MAG17. This is once again a lot of wishful thinking a projection that maybe Jared and Sebastian could have worked things out. Theres an AU in my head where they actually manage to talk and sort things out when Sebastian comes back from university

[ID: a screenshot of lyrics that read: I want the catharsis of knowing, something bad’s about to happen, but also knowing that I can’t do anything about it, because your new house just don’t shine, quite like the one you grew up in used to, I wanna come and visit, I wanna see this through, but, I never will because you’re just not what I need, and I am just not what you want, though you’re in everyone I meet and. End ID.]

Also this verse??? I’ll take close friends who drifted apart but still care very deeply for each other on some level for $100

ANYWAY. THATS IT

Once again I am shaking your hand if you’ve read this entire rambling thing, and THANK U AGAIN ANON for giving my an opportunity to talk about how much I care about Jared Hopworth.

#THIS TOOK ME AGES IM SORRY #I HAVENT HAD THE BRAIN SPACE TO FINISH THIS #BUT HERE U GO ANON TY FOR THE ASK #tma #the magnus archives #jared hopworth #praying to god this posts right cause i dont usually post from desktop hdfhfhf #my favourite chords

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mercy-burning · 3 years

Text

Losing You Twice / 1: If I Hated You

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, and it turns out Y/N isn’t the only one struggling with the breakup. Category: Smut (18+), Angst Content Warnings: Language, drinking/getting drunk, penetrative/unprotected sex (If I missed anything, please let me know!) Word Count: 5,538

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

“My bedtime is the darkest, that’s when I’m brokenhearted. The nighttime is the hardest. It’d be easy, if I hated you.” —FLETCHER, If I Hated You

FEBRUARY 13th

It was Valentine's Day weekend, which sucked this time around. Every year for the past three years Y/N looked forward to Valentine's Day, but that was when she actually had someone to spend it with.

Well, someone she actually cared about, anyway... Whether or not Spencer actually knew it, she did really care about him. She was just stupid and didn't say it when he needed to hear it the most.

And now Valentine's Day was on Saturday and Y/N was still without him. Not alone, but still without the man who'd spent the significant holiday with her for the past three years. Memories of their dates and 'afterparties' flooded through her mind as she got ready for work like a montage, a cheesy love-song playlist she'd found on Spotify acting as the soundtrack.

Eventually she sighed and turned it off, opting for something more loud and obnoxious, and therefore not tainted by Spencer's memory. She applied what was left of her makeup and added a pair of earrings before turning the music off altogether and shoving her phone in her bag alongside her keys and other necessities.

Even though she wasn't emotionally prepared for all the cheesy Valentine's things she'd see and hear and experience throughout the weekend, it was still kind of nice to see that things in the bank never changed during the holidays— Everything in her life was so severely different at the moment, that if Marjorie had somehow decided to throw out all her elaborate decorations for each holiday, no matter how small, Y/N would have thought the world was truly ending.

Speaking of, she was met with Marjorie's brighter-than-the-sun smile almost immediately once she set her things in the breakroom.

"How's my little macaron this morning?" she chirped, Y/N chuckling slightly at the nickname— She brought macarons from the bakery down the street on her first birthday she spent at the bank, and ever since then, the older woman had adorned her with the namesake.

"She's alright, Marj... Better now that she's seen you..."

"That boy still on your mind, hon?"

Obviously Marjorie's intentions were good, but Y/N couldn't stand to think about the situation at all, least of all at work... So, setting her jacket on the rack, turned away so that her coworker wouldn't see the visible discomfort on her face, Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and cleared her throat. "So, what are your plans with Geno tomorrow night? Anything special?"

There was a brief pause before Marjorie cleared her throat as well. "Nothing short of our usual dinner plans, my dear. He's been so caught up with work at the Mill lately, I think we're just going to spend the night relaxing."

"Hm," Y/N said shortly, finally turning around and giving her the best smile she could. "Maybe I should take a page from your book and stay in..."

"You weren't going to?"

"No... Britt's been nagging me about getting out there so we're going out tomorrow night. We both haven't been single in a long time, so... Should be fun."

Marjorie didn't look convinced. Either way, she nodded with a smile and walked over to Y/N with something glittery and bright red in her hand— A cheap beaded necklace to clip her nametag onto. She draped it over Y/N's neck and patted her shoulders. "Well, I want you to have fun. And remember that you still have to come to work on Monday. Whatever shenanigans you get into should be reserved for Saturday night only so you can rest properly on Sunday, got it?"

Y/N laughed, thankful for the playful tone in Marjorie's voice. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh, I joke, I joke," the older woman said with a bright laugh, turning to walk out of the break room. "A little..."

The smile on Y/N's face only really lasted until after Marjorie was out of sight, then she went into her bag and clipped her nametag onto the red beaded necklace with a sigh.

Was she excited to have a good night out with Britt? Of course. Hell, had it been literally any other day of the year, she would have been practically bouncing off the walls with excitement at the idea of going out to a bar, letting men hit on her until she finally let one of them take her back to his place for the night.

But it just felt like it was too soon.

Either way, she was glad that she'd get to see Britt again, after she'd been on vacation for Christmas and New Year's to see her family and only got back a few weeks ago. She'd seen her on Facetime of course, and they met up once for coffee right after Britt got back from her trip, but a well-needed night out and quality time getting ready together was something that had been missing from their friendship for almost a year.

Y/N knew Britt would most likely spend her time trying to hook them up with end-of-the-night dates, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad...

Even still, sleeping alone the night before was probably one of the worst spells of loneliness she'd ever had. It was normal to be sad spending the first Valentine's Day in years away from a significant other, but knowing how things ended between them—bitter and stained with words left unsaid—this time was just... cold.

And that was putting it lightly.

Y/N laid in bed that night, her eyes wide open and staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that adorned the ceiling. They used to give her comfort, but now they just reminded her of all the nights she'd spend with Spencer, listening to him tell stories about the constellations. They were some of the most peaceful memories she had.

And now those, too—those stars that had grounded her pretty much all her life and reminded her of the better days—were tainted by her inability to properly communicate.

She almost thought about taking them down.

But if she was really going to get over him this time, for good, then she'd have to learn to make new memories with the stars. Even if it was painful. Even if replacing those memories and writing new ones over them absolutely tore her soul to pieces.

And, as if that pain wasn't enough, that night Y/N dreamt of him, making love to her amongst the stars in every galaxy, only to wake up the next morning cold and alone.

FEBRUARY 14th

She promptly decided that she hated his guts.

It was Valentine's Day, Y/N was respectfully buzzed, and courtesy of two beers and four shots of tequila, she'd just deleted Spencer's number from her phone.

"I'm done," she said, waving a hand at Britt and shoving her phone in her purse. "He doesn't deserve my wallowing."

"Yeah!"

Britt was significantly the more drunk of the two, resulting in a fit of giggles after gaining some stares from the people around them at her sudden outburst.

Y/N smiled, finishing off another shot and shaking her head. "We need more!"

"More shots!" Britt hurried off to grab them, leaving her friend behind with a half-drunken smile that also only felt half-genuine.

Sure, she decided she hated Spencer's guts, but her heart didn't exactly agree well with that sentiment. Even after deleting his number from her phone, after downing all that alcohol, her heart still ached.

Y/N knew deep down that getting over him was going to take some time. A lot of time... But maybe one night of distraction would help.

So the shots kept coming, and by the end of the night, Y/N was just about at her limit.

Which was near black-out drunk. And when you're that drunk you tend to make decisions you wouldn't soberly condone.

Britt got into a cab, and she begged Y/N to come with her, but she assured her friend that she had someone to come pick her up. Eventually the cab driver got tired of their inability to decide, and when Y/N told him to go, he did, leaving her alone on the side of the street at 1am.

Unfortunately, it was incredibly cold, and she didn't really have anyone to come pick her up. And that's where the bad decisions started.

Y/N pulled her phone out, a long sigh escaping her as she dialed the number by heart.

Would he even pick up? He hadn't answered any of her calls or texts before, so why would it have been any different now? Not to mention it was Valentine's Day Weekend. With her luck, he was probably in bed with someone else. Someone who wasn't her. As she listened to the dial tone repeating in her ear, images of him wrapped up with somebody else—sleeping in the bed she'd slept in many times before—clouded her drunken brain and made her more angry than anything.

Her gut twisted, and she almost hung up.

But then the low buzz of the dial tone abruptly stopped and in its place came his voice.

"Y/N?"

Her name on his lips, even through the phone, was grounding, the anger in her system melting away and revealing a coat of drunken relief.

"Spencer! You answered!"

"Yeah... Are you— Is everything okay?"

"Pff, yeah, 'm-fine. Just really fucking cold."

"You're not outside, are you?"

"Duh, I'm outside... I wouldn't be cold in-side... Besides, I didn't call t'alk bout the weather, I need you t'come pick me up."

There was a brief pause, and for a moment Y/N didn't think he was going to say anything she wanted to hear. She swayed on the sidewalk, shivering and praying that he would throw her a bone, even if she'd regret it all in the morning.

"Where are you?" he said finally, and despite herself, she smiled.

FEBRUARY 15th

Spencer couldn't believe he was picking her up at near two in the morning.

Honestly, he'd initially thought about ignoring her call again, but remembering the day it was and taking note of the time, he figured she was most likely in some type of inebriated trouble.

His instincts were right, of course, but he wished that he could have been wrong. He wished she'd only been calling to drunkenly ramble on about how she missed him or maybe how he was stupid and she never wanted to see his face ever again, because that was normal. At least then he could have hung up after she was done and never thought about it again— it was a normal step in any relationship that helped move things along. They could have gotten on with their lives and it would have all been over.

But of course it was never that simple.

Y/N was never that simple.

He pictured her on the street near some bar, alone and cold and drunk, and of course he would have been the only one she could call to rescue her. After all, he'd been pretty much the only thing she'd ever known to make her feel safe.

Still, he wished he was capable of only giving her a ride home and then leaving.

But again, it was never that simple.

It was easy getting her into the car— that wasn't what he was worried about. Rather, it was the fated moment where she'd ask him to stay after he finally got her tucked safely into bed that worried him. Because it was bad enough that it was Y/N... It was her in all her alluring glory, and he'd never been able to deny her anything no matter how badly he tried or wanted to.

Now add on the fact that she was drunk, and most likely sad on their first Valentine's Day apart, and it was a recipe for disaster.

Even if she'd broken his heart, Spencer still cared about her.

Which is why he inevitably agreed to stay, at least until she fell asleep.

He knew her well enough to know all the ways she'd try to get him under the covers with her, so it was a familiar amusement that settled in his being when he was finally able to get on top of the covers with her underneath. But as he entertained her silly little questions with the right answers until she fell asleep, Spencer noticed something else accompanying that amusement.

Guilt.

And then anger for feeling guilty about her sadness— sadness that could have been avoided had she just gotten over whatever was holding her back and either returned his "I love you" or told him she wasn't feeling the same way just yet.

All she had to do was talk.

He had a right to feel upset about Y/N holding back when he'd been nothing but patient, spending almost every year of their relationship trying to make her see that she had nothing to be afraid of. He'd given her every chance to talk about what she was feeling, whether it was happy or not, and every time she pushed it all away in favor of sex.

That wasn't what he wanted in a relationship, so he ended it. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

So why was he feeling so fucking guilty?

He blamed his good nature and innate need to please people, to make them feel good and happy. But he also blamed Y/N and her adorable drunken sleeping face.

He watched as she slept, willing himself not to forget the way she hurt him. She'd completely stolen his heart and shattered it at the same time, and if he was being honest, she still held some of the pieces. But he couldn't get them back, not if he didn't want to risk shattering her own heart in the process.

It felt like they were tied together by some strong, invisible force that wouldn't break unless both of them broke right along with it.

So... maybe he could afford to leave those pieces of his heart with her. He'd have to if they were going to get out of this alive. Not unscathed, sure, but alive nonetheless.

Once he was sure she was deep in sleep, Spencer quietly and carefully got off the bed and navigated through her apartment, getting her a glass of water and leaving it on the table next to her bed. And because he couldn't help it, he cleaned up some of the clothes that were scattered around her floor, depositing them into the hamper and straightening out a few more things that were out of place.

He looked over at her sleeping figure one more time, sighed, and then left, keeping her bedroom door open just a crack.

***

Spencer knew he shouldn't have stayed longer.

Despite his better judgement, he'd plopped himself down on her couch after making sure she was sound asleep, hoping to catch his breath and sort through what he was feeling before he got behind the wheel. But of course, it was 2am and he was exhausted, and he couldn't stop himself from closing his eyes and drifting off.

And now he was sitting up, looking around the apartment through the lens of morning.

Though the curtains were sheer, they didn't provide much light, but enough of it showed him just how familiar the space was. Y/N hadn't moved anything around. The same art was on the same walls, the potted ivy plant on her mantle sat un-watered and withering, and every book and record and DVD on her shelves was in the exact same spot as they'd all been the last time he was there in December.

Meanwhile, after the breakup he'd re-arranged everything. He was so sure that they were through for good this time around that he wanted a clean slate. Not that he wanted to rid himself of her memory completely, but if he was going to move on from the hold she'd had on him, he had to do something...

And yet, he ended up at her apartment the morning after Valentine's Day all the same.

He heard the shower running faintly a couple rooms away. You didn't have to pass the couch to get there, so maybe she hadn't seen him sleeping and he could get away cleanly.

Spencer scrambled off the couch, thankful that he hadn't removed his jacket or his shoes and that he could just sprint towards the door without having to find any of his belongings.

But as luck would have it, the second he took a step, the shower turned off. He had to get out of there quickly, but if he did then she'd definitely know he'd stayed overnight. But if he went quietly, he wouldn't have enough time before she caught him.

Maybe I could hide...

He shook the thought with a roll of his eyes, settling on the clearest course of action, which was to make as quick of a getaway as he could. He'd try to be quiet as well, though the creaky door was going to be nearly impossible to get through without a sound.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her voice.

"You didn't think you could spend the night and then leave without saying goodbye, did 'ja?"

The pure amusement in her tone made his stomach churn, and it wasn't unpleasant in the slightest.

Spencer turned and smiled softly, avoiding looking at her completely. "Sorry. Didn't want to bother you."

"You're never a bother."

That sentiment held less amusement and more sincerity, which was what guided his eyes to meet the woman who said the words.

His stomach twisted again when he saw her, exactly like he knew she'd be— wrapped in nothing but a thin towel with near-dripping hair cascading down her back. Her legs were bare and exposed, the towel not only thin but short, which meant that her chest was also practically spilling out of it. Despite the obvious and inevitable hungover look in her eye, there was also a good splash of that mischief that'd always been there— the kind that spelled out trouble.

He needed to get out of there.

"Well, um... I'm glad I got you home safe," he said, clearing his throat. "I should... I should go."

"You sure you don't wanna stay for breakfast?"

Spencer could have sworn she was teasing him, dangling her body in front of him like a meal they both knew he wouldn't be able to resist. But then she added, "I've got everything I need for your favorite omelet," and he exhaled with a small smile, exhausted with his own mind for convincing him that she was out to pull him back in.

Still, he declined. "No, I... I shouldn't. But, uh, thank you..."

"You sure?"

This time when he looked up at her, she was closer. She was gently striding forward to meet him, and he half thought about backing up towards the door until he realized he was already there.

"I—I'm sure. Really."

"But you drove around all night just to take me home when I was drunk, the least I can do is feed you..."

"Eh, it's alright. It's... Nothing I haven't done before."

She stopped then, her eyes briefly dropping to the floor. It was like her whole demeanor changed—just for a second—from the prowess she'd always been, to what seemed to be a woman filled with sadness and regret. It didn't last long though, just enough for Spencer to notice it before she looked back up at him with that wicked gleam in her eye and a remark right at the tip of her tongue.

"Still. I feel bad, making you do all that for me... Especially now."

He wasn't sure what to make of this... It seemed like she was sincere, but she was also alluring, calling to him like a siren leading him to his ultimate demise. And while he'd come to know that as merely a part of her nature, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that she was doing it on purpose.

She was in a skimpy towel, after all, and she definitely knew how to use that to her advantage.

It didn't help that he didn't have the courage to leave. Everything inside of him right then longed to drop that towel and indulge himself once more. Putting aside all the heartache and the differences they shared, all he felt in that moment was the need to touch her— to get lost in her and never be found again.

She was his fatal flaw, and it was painfully obvious.

Spencer knew he shouldn't have stayed longer...

He was over to her in just three strides, throwing off his jacket and tossing it aside before cradling her face with his hands and bringing their lips together for the first time since Christmas Eve.

The small whine in her throat signaled that she hadn't expected it, but welcomed it all the same. The moment she lifted her arms to wrap around his neck, the towel fell to the floor, and there was no going back.

"What about breakfast?" Y/N breathed out once they pulled away for air.

Spencer contemplated, studying her face, seeing the way her eyes sparkled, and decided on the two words that sealed his fate.

"Screw breakfast."

Their lips were melded together almost as soon as the words left his mouth. And it wasn't long before every other part of their bodies were melded together as well.

Y/N helped him take the rest of his clothes off as they danced around the entryway and the living room. Everything was open, no walls separating the living room from the kitchen, so to compensate for the lack of breakfast they'd be eating, they migrated to the kitchen counter once Spencer had off everything but his boxers.

He trapped her against the cool marble of the countertop, her back hitting it solid and sending a shiver up her spine. Meanwhile his hands roamed her body, unsure of where to be other than on her at all times, whether it be her waist, her stomach, her arms, her breasts, or her ass. He wanted to feel all of her, and quite frankly she wanted the same.

She even told him so, in her own way, by bringing one of her legs up and wrapping it around his waist, pulling him closer to her as she wove her fingers through his hair and tasted his tongue with her own.

The action elicited a groan from his mouth, low and desperate. Spencer settled his hands on her waist and gripped it tight, silently telling her what to do.

So she jumped up and he helped guide her swiftly onto the counter. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, and he found himself grinding into her hips, urgent to feel every part of her. And thankfully she was feeling rather desperate herself, because she rolled her hips up into him in return, breaking their mouths apart just briefly to speak.

"Fuck me..."

There was so much he wanted to say to her in that moment— how badly he was feeling about keeping her entertained while he was slowly deteriorating inside from her emotional detachment and rejection, how much she frustrated him, and more prominently, how she was so goddamn impatient and that he was getting there...

But all that he could manage was a broken, desperate whisper of her name.

It was all he'd ever known.

All that frustration... All that anger, heartache, passion, and time apart combined beautifully into those few syllables that made up her name and tore him apart from the inside out.

And his hands were just as destructive.

Spencer deftly dropped his boxers to the ground and pushed forward, almost losing all sense of self the moment the head of his dick finally made contact with her cunt. He made his way inside of her and then used both of his hands to grip her waist and bring her closer, their mouths connecting harshly as they found one another once again.

His grip was bruising— not possessive in any way, but desperate, like he had to cling to her for dear life or he wouldn't live to see another day. He held himself inside her, sighing and whimpering into her mouth as she clenched around him. It was so familiar, so comfortable and exhilarating that he almost didn't even want to move. He thought about staying there, still inside her forever.

But as always, Y/N was insatiable.

She wrapped all her limbs around him and held on, rolling her hips and seeking friction in any way possible when she briefly tore her lips away from his.

"I need you, baby, please..."

Even as his heart started to rumble in his chest, well aware of the fact that she still probably didn't love him the way he loved her, Spencer gave her everything. He pulled out and snapped his hips forward again, setting a strong, steady pace that had Y/N's eyes rolling back, and the payoff of hearing her sigh out his name was more than enough to keep him going.

Her nails dug deliciously into his shoulders, the faint sting adding something reminiscent of gasoline to a fire. The flames grew taller and brighter the more he fucked her, and with each gradual increase of volume and intensity, it was a wonder the whole kitchen around them hadn't literally burst into flames.

That's how they always were.

Together like this, so lost in the high of each others' bodies, it was easy to forget the things that made their relationship so hard. It was easy to let all the negativity slip away into the throes of pent-up, well-needed sex. The high they gave each other was merely that— A high...

A distraction.

And while that's exactly what Y/N needed, what she preferred in most cases, it's what Spencer recognized as completely unhealthy, despite his coming back to it every time.

It's also why he dreaded the moment ending. Because once they came down from the high, all that's left would be sadness, regret... Guilt... Their fire burned hot, brightly and wildly, but in the aftermath would lay only a thick layer of deadly smoke between them— hard to navigate, and nearly impossible to breathe in without suffocating.

So they simply burned and burned and burned...

Spencer gripped her so tight he was sure to leave her with bruising. And in turn Y/N dragged her nails down his back and dug them into his ass, her palm laying firmly over the muscles that aided in fucking her into the marbled surface. She whined out curses and moans, and he cried out broken whispers of her name, pet names, and curses alike.

Even once she'd come, he kept going, willing himself to hold on as long as he could. She whined into his ear at the overstimulation. And rather than keeping her legs wrapped around his body, she decided to spread them wide, perching her heels up on the counter as far as she could go and anchoring her fingers through his hair.

And though she might not have had enough orgasms in her to keep up with him, she welcomed it all the same—She welcomed the burn just as much as he did.

Even still, no fire can burn forever.

All concept of time was lost by the time Spencer finally collapsed forward, completely spent and barely standing on weak legs after coming twice. Y/N held onto him tightly to keep him upwards, lightly massaging his scalp with gentle fingers and closing her eyes as she focused on his breathing— the way it fanned over the skin of her bare shoulder and how it sounded, perfectly in time with hers...

It was the most peaceful she'd been in a long time.

She felt him pull out of her, the both of them groaning at the feeling, and a little at the mess it would make.

Spencer gently peeled his body off of hers, sniffing once and avoiding her eyes. "Sorry... You just got out of the shower..."

"It's fine," Y/N breathed. She begged him silently to look her in the eye, but he remained still... Most likely thinking. She could practically see the cogs turning in his brain.

So, in an effort to lighten the mood a bit, she added with a breathy laugh, "Besides... It's nothing I haven't done before."

The callback to his words—and memories of all the times they'd found themselves in this position before—got Spencer to laugh a little, but he still wouldn't meet her eyes.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I'll... I'll grab the wipes?"

"Oh. Sure," Y/N returned with a thankful smile. It was hopeful, too, though the moment he was out of eyesight, it turned rather sad.

She'd known that behavior before, seen that hesitation in his movements and that sound in his voice.

It was guilt.

Regret.

Probably a bit of self-hatred, too.

When he returned, a pile of her clothes in hand and the bag of wipes on top, she took them from him with a kind smile and cleaned herself up while he put his clothes back on.

The silence was more uncomfortable than anything either of them had ever experienced.

So much so, that Y/N couldn't even muster up the courage to ask him to stay for breakfast— and she always did after one of their post-break hookups.

Maybe this time really was different.

Spencer was just at the door again when she stopped him.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was so small, he almost didn't hear it. "For bringing me home..."

But he paused, turned, and finally looked her in the eye.

He almost sunk to his knees right there...

Seeing her, arms crossed like she was trying to keep warm, as her head hung low and she looked up at him through sad, hooded eyelids...

It reminded him of the woman he fell in love with.

But in his peripheral, he saw the towel on the floor and was reminded of the woman who'd shattered his heart.

Spencer cleared his throat. Once upon a time he might have returned her thanks with, Anytime, but... Honestly he wasn't sure there could ever be another time. For his sanity, he'd have to avoid 'anytime' at all costs.

So, he settled on, "You're welcome."

He was glad to see her return his kind smile with one of her own, even if it was tainted with sadness, and a small wave goodbye.

Maybe this time it would stick.

Even still, as he closed the door behind him and made his way to the parking lot, for some reason it didn't quite feel like goodbye.

And some of that deadly smoke that settled in his lungs as he drove further and further away from her apartment was inclined to agree.

***

Neither of them could sleep that night.

While Spencer stared out the window of the jet, a little annoyed to be called out on a case so late but at least thankful for the distraction, Y/N laid in bed, staring at the stars on her ceiling.

The same constellation caught their eye.

Columba.

The Dove.

She hadn't even meant to arrange the stars like that, but one night after a date, they were laying in her bed and Spencer pointed out that the cluster of plastic stars right in the corner of the ceiling looked like Columba.

Y/N fondly remembered Spencer telling her about how it was originally named to represent Noah's dove, which searched for dry land during the great biblical flood and returned carrying an olive branch to make news of its recession— of peace at last.

The memory made her smile. It tugged at her heart and made her dreams of him even more vivid.

All the same, Spencer noticed the constellation outside the jet window and remembered that same night. The smile on her face as he told her the story, the feel of her fingers gliding softly over the bare skin of his forearm...

It was the first night since he'd met her that he thought it.

I love her...

He almost told her then, too, but he was afraid it was too soon. So he refrained.

Looking back, Spencer was starting to regret that— Maybe without that extra time together, breaking up would have been easier. But instead, he gave her more time. He gave himself more time to fall deeper in love with her, and in the end it still wasn't enough.

Now they were both looking at the same constellation, one made of plastic and the other of gas, wondering if their flood would ever recede.

And in the event that it did... Who would be the dove, and what would be their olive branch?

“You know I dream about getting back together in the future, I could focus on you. But if I leave right now, I hope that you don’t find someone that touches you the way that I do...”

***

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