#i feel like a fool in retrospect for not checking it out sooner

[ravixen]

happy early bday aeris! for the prompt game, 2 and woozi?

"it's you, it's always been you."

➔ drabble game vii || request || bestfriend!au

➔ warnings: none || 400 words ➔ notes: not really angst ; thank you for the well wishes!! i wish i could've had more time to work on these drabbles and get them out sooner. i knew i was busy but wanted to make the effort anyway :( hope you like this!

In retrospect, April Fools Day was arguably the worst day to confess to your crush, but to be fair, life-changing epiphanies rarely care about time and place. And that's what Jihoon had at 3am on a Friday night, so late that it could be considered morning: the life-changing epiphany that he's in love with his best friend.

He's not sure what made him come to the conclusion, but it was strong enough for him to roll out of bed and text you a quick hey, i think i like you, too. can we talk tmr? before he could forget. He supposes, again in retrospect, that you were justified in avoiding him all day, but it certainly didn't feel good in the moment. He kept checking his phone every few minutes, and Soonyoung went as far as pocketing the device until Jihoon explained what was going on.

"Are you stupid?" Soonyoung deadpanned, uncharacteristically serious for once. "Go see them in person!"

And that was the push he needed to drive to your place, a small bouquet of your favorite flowers clutched in his sweaty palms. A few petals shook to the floor as he rang the doorbell and waited for your footsteps in the foyer.

It's you, it's always been you, he wanted to say. Sorry I'm a few months late. The words died on his throat when a different man opened your door, greeting Jihoon with a warm smile.

"Hey there! I haven't seen you in forever," he said. Jihoon recognized him as your co-worker. "Y/N and I are just getting ready to go out; they're in the bathroom. Did you need something?"

In retrospect, Jihoon should've considered this possibility. In retrospect, he should've known that you wouldn't wait on him forever...and who would spill about their love life to the person who broke their heart?

"Oh...nothing," Jihoon said, pasting on a smile that he hoped your new partner wouldn't see through. He pushed the bouquet forward. "This was on sale and I thought it'd look nice in their kitchen."

"Thanks, man, they'll love this! Do you know these are their favorites?"

He did. In retrospect, Jihoon should've left then. Instead, he stalled for a few minutes, long enough for you to come to the door and meet his gaze. The silence and your stricken expression was enough for him to know that he was too late.

[its0046rightnow]

no. 1

I have not been on tumblr in years, but returning here to write what will essentially be diary entries feels appropriately melodramatic.

Almost a year ago I got with somebody for the first time. Not just a first time "getting with" - I had never so much as kissed anyone before that (I can't remember if he knows that). At first I was so naively happy. I thought he was cool. As much as it pains me to admit it, I genuinely did like him. And I thought he liked me.

As such, we fooled around a few more times before officially going all the way. It was at that point that everything went downhill, though it should have been much sooner. The sex was bad. Even though I convinced myself in the moment that it was worth going through with (and doing once more...), it was just so bad. Objectively. I was definitely not any good for him, but honestly it was horrific for me. I have a high pain tolerance and do not cry, but I cried just a little then. I don't think he noticed, or if he did, he pretended not to. It hurt in a way that I later learned is not normal. In retrospect I've come to believe those women on tiktok that proclaim that your body tries to reject a partner that isn't good for you; mine certainly did then.

The physical pain was one thing, but you can just lay there and take that. Without exaggeration I can say that that night was the start of the lowest I have ever felt mentally (if not the lowest, certainly the lowest I have been made to feel by another person). He had been so polite in asking if every little thing was alright, and then out of nowhere (that's how it felt) there was a hand gripping my neck and then slapping me. I was in shock. I didn't say anything or try to move because it was such a shock to my system (you could say... a slap in the face... :P). When it was over he told me to go to the bathroom and I had to stay in there for ages, both to collect myself and because I thought I was bleeding out. It looked like a crime scene. I came back, he fell asleep turned away from me, and I have never felt more lonely. Tried to go at it again the next morning and had to stop because my body couldn't take it. He would never fully walk me out of his place and that always pissed me off. Went home on the bus and felt numb. Felt numb for the rest of the day until he messaged with an unfunny joke about how there were bloodstains. The numbness was gone and I wanted to throw up. A month of painfully dry messages sent once a day (and then once every 2 days, then every few), and I did it again. God knows why. I think I believed that it would be better, having gotten the first time out of the way. It wasn't.

I saw him less than 48 hours later at an event, and the first thing he said to me was that he forgot I was coming. I would shoot myself in the foot before saying that to another person. "I do not listen to what you say because you are insignificant to me, and I am going to announce that so you know you are insignificant to me." The hell.

I guess in a way he got what he wanted: he has a fetish and I checked the right boxes, apparently. I was able to figure out that he did on my own, but recently I've been told that his fetish is apparently infamous. Since my hypothesis was proved there, I feel that I can also say he watches too much (any) porn: the out-of-the-blue choking and slapping and general disregard for my wellbeing make me think that at a very essential level he sees women only as objects, and ones for his pleasure at that. I really picked a winner.

In conclusion, this experience is the biggest shame and embarrassment of my life (according to google they are two different things but both apply). I am so horrified that that man can say he's been with me. I hate that it took me a few whole months to be able to decisively say that I never want to touch that man again. I hate that I still think about it to this day. I hate that all the dates I have since went on have gone so poorly that I cannot say from personal experience that not all men are like that. And I know logically that they're not. But the experience has sort of made me asexual.

Will maybe post again on another night where I am overthinking this (lots of nights). Part of me doesn't want anyone to ever read this. Part of me is somehow hoping that he'll read this (I don't think he has tumblr) and realize why I can't respect him (I don't think he has the maturity to self-reflect like that). I have moved on obviously but would still like for it to become a very distant memory. <3

[hisredhysteria]

Handling a Break-up

I HOPE EVERYONE HAD A HAPPY NEW YEAR! And that your year is a good one! I'm starting it off by posting something slightly sad so I hope that's okay 😭

Swindler

She seems like she's handling it well on the outside when she gives you a quiet "oh.. I see.." followed by a gentle smile

On the inside she feels like she's dying though

She's very hard on herself about it and there's several questions that cycle through her head such as why? Was there anything she could have done to prevent this? Do you hate her now?

She'll agree to stay friends with you, even if it hurts

She listens to a lot of sad music and has become a little quieter than usual

She takes a while to answer your texts now too

She takes longer showers just to replay every moment you two had together where she could have possibly messed up

She holds onto one of your old shirts when she's feeling lonely and eventually she buries it in the back of her closet because she knows it's not healthy to miss you so much

She doesn't really cry and will hold back tears if she feels them coming on

Brawler

You can't break up with him, he's the best and you're not gonna find anyone who can fight quite as well as him-

He's very surprised by it and least expected you'd ever want to leave him

At first he still invites you to go out places and is confused why you're refusing to go out like you usually did with him

He'll also call or text to ask you about dinner, only to get frustrated and sad that you don't respond anymore

He doesn't cry about it though, he moves on eventually. Even if it's slow and takes him time to process

However he'll forget that you broke up with him a lot and try to talk to you when he sees something cool, only to notice you're not around anymore

Overall he's still pretty sad because it feels like he lost a close friend and he hates that feeling of something being missing

To cope with all the extra time he has now, he'll spend it talking Hoodlums ear off instead or seeking out other dangerous foes-

Maybe he does cry to Hoodlum

Doctor

She scoffs in your face-

You're breaking up with her? Don't you realize just about anyone would bend over backwards for a woman like her?

She deems you a fool

She also declares that she's breaking up with you instead because no one else will ever decide what's best for her, especially not a fool

She seems to move on fairly quickly, using other people to her advantage now that she's no longer tied to you

She goes out of her way to try and make you jealous though, it's almost a game to her

She'll text you something provocative only to say "oops wrong person dear, sorry~" while she smirks behind the phone

She never cries about it, but her pride has taken a plummet ever since so she tries not to think about it and snaps at anyone who does bring it up or asks about you

In retrospect, she's more moody in general since you've left her, one might even say she does miss you

Hacker

He's got wide eyes as you tell him you're breaking up with him

He takes a deep breath in and out with closed eyes before responding

He was very confused and couldn't tell why you wanted to leave him, nor did he ever think you would

He's quiet and doesn't ask questions, he just simply tells you to get out and leave him be

If he didn't leave his room much before, he definitely doesn't now

He tries to forget his feelings through work. Sometimes he's so invested in his hacking that he totally forgets you're gone and he'll try to shoot you a text only to remember that you're not his anymore

Don't ask to stay friends either, he refuses to do it because he knows it'll just hurt more and he wants all ties to be cut

Because he loved you when you left and you left on good terms, he doesn't cause any sort of chaos your way, even though he definitely could

He'll check up on you every once in a while...just to make sure that you're at least okay.

Hoodlum

He's got low self-esteem so he couldn't say that he didn't see it coming sooner or later

That doesn't make it any less heartbreaking to him though

Like Brawler, he often forgets that you're no longer around and will accidentally try to text you or address you like you're next to him, only to get really sad when you're not there

Everything reminds him of you too, it's like a curse

He can't even walk by certain food shops because the scent will just make him think of you

He's not a full blown cryer, but he does notice tears forming in the corners of his eyes when he thinks of you sometimes

He'll turn to drugs or alcohol to deal with his feelings too, drinking nearly everyday or partaking in dangerous activities because he feels his life has lost value anyways

Courier

His face is still as stone cold as ever when you break the news to him

He can't say he blames you either, being in love with someone who's a bit callous and busy all the time sounds like a chore in it of itself

Asks you to at least pay or compensate him for the time he's wasted on you

He doesn't admit to himself that it hurts, and that it hurts pretty badly too

He won't even realize that he's running himself into the ground with his work just to forget you exist

Nonetheless, you're always at the back of his mind

Coming home to no one feels lonely, especially when he'd gotten so used to greeting you and looking forward to seeing you

He'll just sit on the couch and stare at nothing for a while, lost in thought

He begins to smoke more as a coping mechanism too

He doesn't cry...but he wishes he could because he knows his denial isn't solving anything

(I personally headcanon that he'd have a short emotional outburst when you leave too, like slapping something off the counter before glaring at it and cursing-)

Cutthroat

May Lord have mercy on your soul because this isn't going to end well and breaking up with him might as well be a nightmare

When you tell him you're breaking up with him he's confused and brushes it off as you just having a bad day, why would his angel suddenly leave him?

He's in for a rude awakening when you stop responding to him and cut all contact though

Or maybe you're the one in for a rude awakening when he busts down your window to ask you why you wouldn't open the door when he knocked

If you try to explain to him that you no longer want to see him he's got the look of a lost puppy and reaches in for a hug as he sings "I don't believe you~!"

It seems he sees this as joke

Of course when you push him away he's more puzzled and begins to get frustrated

"Hm..? What was that for? Didn't you say you loved me too? My angel would never lie to me~"

There's no getting rid of him no matter how hard you try and his obsession grows worse the more you try to push him away

Even if you think things have finally gotten quiet, it's only because he's stalking you from afar and plans to confront you again sooner or later

Your best bet is moving to another country and hoping the red halo above your head isn't visible from that far

Pluto is also a safe bet if you can make it there

[jade4813]

A Lie, Told Often Enough, Chapter 18

Author Notes: Inspired by @fallinginloveinaflash‘s AU prompt. All credit for the idea goes entirely to her.

Title: A Lie, Told Often Enough

Rating: NC-17

Synopsis: Iris just landed her dream job at a PR firm and her first assignment is reforming the bad boy image of celebrity artist Barry Allen. He’s overly cocky and well-known for being a playboy, but Iris has never met a challenge she couldn’t handle.

Chapters: 18/20

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

“I really want to commend you on your performance lately,” Mason praised her, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been doing a great job of toeing the line between feigning strength and heartbreak. Maybe you should have gone into acting.”

Iris forced a laugh, knowing it was the expected response. She speared her fingers into her hair until she realized that the gesture might betray her nervousness. Fisting her hands in her lap, she cleared her throat. “So what’s next?”

“Well, I think the time has come to shift the narrative. You’ve done a great job of getting fan sympathy without casting Barry in a bad light. But that’s a delicate balancing act, and we can’t keep it up forever. If we want to continue selling the image of Barry as a romantic lead, then we need to show him being romantic again. But I can’t show him on the dating scene if the world thinks you’re heartbroken at home.”

Her heart sank, but she tried not to let her smile fall. She even attempted a joke. “Okay, so I assume that means you want me to start dating again. If only for the cameras. Who’s my next victim?”

Mason chuckled. “I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s someone I have in mind. Aspiring actor. Pretty new to the scene. Don’t worry that I’m foisting a nightmare off on you. He’s good looking. Charming. No heavy lifting on this one. No image rehab needed. Just one or maybe two public dates. Get photographed having fun together, let people speculate, spread some rumors. Let people realize you’re over Barry. And you’re in the clear.”

“And this guy you have in mind. He’s agreed to this?”

“He has. In fact, he’s excited about it. When you think about it, it’s a no lose situation for him. And it might give us an indication of whether your fans are in for the long haul or if you’ll have your life back sooner than you think. If your newfound fame is based off genuine interest in you and not just your supposed relationship with Barry, Eddie should benefit from being seen dating you. If it was just about Barry, you and your heartache will remain the story, Eddie will be a footnote in it, and we’ll use this date to tie him romantically with someone else. We’ll say the two of you didn’t hit it off but you introduced him to…whoever it is we put him with next. Sound good?”

Not really. It sounded awful. But she could hardly say as much without inviting questions she didn’t want to answer. So instead, she lied, “Sounds perfect. So when do you want me to put on this little performance?”

Mason grinned. “How about tonight?”

DOES BARRY ALLEN HAVE A NEW GIRLFRIEND?

BARRY ALLEN’S WILD AND SEXY NIGHTS OUT

BARRY ALLEN DATING RUMORS

THE TRUTH ABOUT BARRY ALLEN’S LIFE POST-IRIS

HAS BARRY ALLEN MOVED ON FROM IRIS?

BARRY ALLEN LOVES – A LIST OF ALL WOMEN HE’S DATED

BARRY ALLEN ‘IN A GOOD PLACE’ POST-IRIS

BARRY ALLEN RUMORED TO BE LOOKING FOR TRUE LOVE

WHAT WENT WRONG BETWEEN BARRY ALLEN AND IRIS WEST?

Iris grimaced and slammed her laptop shut. It had been stupid of her to run a search on Barry’s name – particularly since she’d hardly needed to go out of her way to find out how he was doing. The headlines about him followed her. To the grocery store checkout line. Her morning news feed. Even random people on the street had been emboldened to ask her questions she didn’t know how to answer. Why did she and Barry break up? She wished she knew.

But even though it felt like she was inviting death by a thousand cuts, Iris couldn’t resist the urge to look for news on Barry. To seek a glimpse into his world, find out how he was doing. She told herself she just wanted to know that he was okay, and she couldn’t ask Mason or Linda without raising some questions. The truth was, part of her wondered if she wasn’t just a masochist. Every word she read about Barry broke her heart, but she couldn’t resist.

And so, every day, she broke her own heart. Over and over and over again. Her laptop was closed, but she could still picture the headlines. Barry Allen looking for true love. Barry Allen, rumored to be linked romantically with someone new. Barry Allen, happy in life and love with Iris West out of the picture.

It was all she could do to resist the urge to throw her laptop out the window. Instead, she breathed out a long breath as she looked around at all the boxes piled up in her new apartment. She didn’t fool herself into thinking she could stay off the radar of press and paparazzi forever. She just prayed her location stayed secret for a few weeks more. Long enough for her to lick her wounds in private. Get over her heartbreak.

Oh, who was she kidding? Her heart wouldn’t be healed in a few weeks. She wondered if it would be healed in a few years. But at least in time, she might learn how to pretend.

There was a knock on the door, and Iris sighed and slipped into her heels. Speaking of pretending. It was time to put on a show.

“So, what’s the verdict? Have you picked a favorite?”

Iris turned at the question whispered into her ear and threw her date a smile. “Not yet,” she replied before turning her attention back to the sculpture in front of her. “This one is…um…interesting?”

Eddie Thawne chuckled and followed her gaze. “Yeah, it’s…hm.” He tilted his head to the side and considered the chunk of welded nuts and bolts. “I understand there are some beautiful paintings in the next room. Want to check them out?”

“Sure,” she agreed, fighting back her flinch when he put his hand on her lower back to guide her across the room. In the past two hours, Iris had found Eddie Thawne to be everything Mason had promised. He was handsome. Charming. Adept at selling the fiction that this date wasn’t just a PR stunt. But he simply wasn’t the man she wanted. She’d feel guilty about that if she thought he wanted to be that man. Or if she had the slightest impression she was the woman he wanted.

They paused in front of a painting and Eddie threw her another of his warm smiles. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, asking if she would like a glass of champagne from the nearby bar. Playing his part perfectly. Iris nodded and felt him leave her side. As she turned to watch his progress across the room, she saw two figures enter the room.

Barry Allen. With Patty Spivot on his arm.

For just a second, Iris felt her composure crack. Her mask slipped. Her smile crumbled. For just a second, anyone who looked would see that she was broken. Then she forced a smile – just in time for Barry to look her way. She caught his eye and reminded herself to breathe.

In retrospect, she had been stupid not to have suspected this was part of the plan. Iris had to be seen with someone new. It made sense for Barry to be, as well. It was the only way to ensure that the press would focus on new relationships, rather than supposed heartbreak. And, of course, putting the two of them at the same event would establish that they could be in the same room without incident. That there was no animosity between them. That they had moved on.

It made sense. It was the perfect plan. And Iris hated it. She hated the plan. She hated herself for agreeing to it - to any of it. She hated Mason. But mostly, at that moment, she hated Barry. She hated that he could look so handsome in his tuxedo when she was falling apart inside. She hated that just seeing him made her bleed from invisible wounds, but that didn’t stop her from loving him. She hated him for breaking her heart. And she hated him because he didn’t know – or perhaps he didn’t care.

Barry stumbled to a halt, his eyes locked on hers. Then he grinned, that smile that had stolen her heart, and looked at her with questioning eyes. Taking that as an unspoken invitation, Iris wrinkled the silky fabric of her deep purple dress in her fists and stepped forward.

Time to put on a show.

“Hey, Iris,” Barry breathed the minute she drew near. He felt Patty stiffen next to him, saw her throw him a quick look out of the corner of his eye. She shifted closer, her presence a silent reminder of the part he was supposed to play. In return, he wrapped his arm around her waist, his own silent reassurance that he hadn’t forgotten. Even as he told his supposed ex-fiancée, “You look beautiful tonight.”

“You’re looking good, too,” she replied, the sound of her voice washing over him like a long-forgotten memory.  He ached to hold her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she continued warmly, “Patty! It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Patty took the hand she offered and replied in a friendly tone, “It’s nice to meet you, as well. I’ve heard so much about you. That’s a lovely dress.”

The two of them engaged in small talk as a stranger with blond hair and blue eyes approached, a glass of champagne in each hand. Barry understood it was all for show, but when Iris introduced him as her date, he had to tighten his hold around Patty’s waist to keep his hands from shaking. The four of them stood there for several minutes, engaging in friendly conversation. Ensuring that the press had plenty of opportunity see that there was no bad blood between them.

Barry would have stayed there with Iris forever, his entire body aching to have her so close, but he could see the moment that she decided they’d talked for long enough. Wrapping her hand around Eddie’s arm, she leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Then she murmured, “We should go. But it was good to see you, Barry,” and turned to leave, Eddie’s arm wrapped around her waist.

Barry knew it was all for show. He knew Iris wasn’t dating Eddie. Didn’t care about Eddie. But it didn’t stop him from hating the other man, just a little bit.

“Iris, wait,” he blurted, stepping forward before he even realized the words had left his mouth.

She froze in her tracks and then turned slowly. Her eyes warned him not to speak as she said softly, “It’s okay, Barry. I want you to be happy. Just…be happy, okay?” Then, without giving him a chance to speak, she walked away.

That night, Iris lay in bed, trying to ignore the tears that trickled into her hair as she stared up at the ceiling. In one hand, she toyed with an engagement ring, tilting it left and right to glimmer in the moonlight. She should have left it at Barry’s when she left, but she’d told herself that she didn’t want to risk something happening to it in his absence. One never knew when someone might break in and steal a family heirloom.

But that, too, was a lie. She had just wanted to hold on to a piece of him. Wasn’t that how she hurt herself, time and time again? Wanting to hold on to a piece of Barry?

With a disgusted grunt, Iris jumped out of bed. She didn’t bother to change clothes. Instead, she slipped on her sneakers, grabbed her purse, and raced out the door, the ring clutched in her fist. Maybe she couldn’t fix her heartbreak. Maybe she couldn’t keep herself from looking up stories about Barry every day. But she could stop hurting herself with this. And perhaps, with luck, the rest would follow.

The recording studio was quiet, but there was a light on when she raced up the sidewalk. Her heart skipped a beat as she stepped inside, it occurring to her only belatedly that Barry might be inside. But when she crept to the control booth, she saw that the studio was empty. However, she saw an open package of Twizzlers next to the chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Cisco.

She didn’t see him around, but she crept forward silently. With trembling fingers, she placed the engagement ring on top of the Twizzlers. Then she pulled Barry’s apartment key out of her purse and placed it next to the ring.

She turned to leave, but her attention was caught by the empty recording booth. She knew she should leave, but she couldn’t move. There were so many memories in that booth. It was where they had shared their first real kiss. She remembered the warmth of his body against hers as they made love.

The memories hurt, and she wanted to push them away. But she also knew that music was cathartic. Barry always said he put a lot of himself in his songs. She wasn’t much of a singer, but maybe she could give it a try. Pour her own heartache into a song.

Maybe it would help her let him go.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, she crossed to the recording booth. She checked the light to ensure the system wasn’t recording, and then she stepped further into the room. Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath. Then she opened them and stepped towards the stool in the center of the room. Where Barry had held her. Where he’d loved her. And she started to sing, her voice tentative and low.

“Was there something more I could have done? Or was I not meant to be the one? Where’s the life I thought we would share? And should I care?”

It was a song one of her college roommates used to play. When she was younger, Iris had thought the lyrics were sad. But she’d never felt them. Not until now. Her voice grew stronger as she slid onto the stool, her hand stroking the smooth wood finish.

“And will someone else get more of you? Will she go to sleep more sure of you?” Her voice broke, but she clutched the edge of the stool and forced herself to continue. “Will she wake up knowing you’re still there? And why should I care?”

She wanted to push away the memories of Barry, to deny their time together had ever existed. But she had to face it, if she wanted to say goodbye. To pour her pain into her song. But it was too much, staring at the place where Barry had once held her. So she closed her eyes, letting out a tiny sob when the first tear trickled down her cheek. Then, after a long moment, she continued.

“There’s always one to t-turn and walk away. And one who just w-wants to stay.”

Her entire body started to shake, and Iris wrapped her arms around her stomach, leaning forward as though she could physically hold herself together. Her breath was coming out in ragged gasps, making it hard for her to sing. She forced herself to remember how it felt to hold him in her arms. And she forced herself to remember how much it hurt when he let her go.

“But who s-said that l-love is always f-fair? And w-why sh-should I c-care?”

She broke off with a loud sob, and she bowed her head as she wept. Her fingers dug into her arms as she held herself. Iris knew she could stop this. She didn’t have to torture herself this way. But she’d tried to hide her pain for so long. She hid it from her dad. From Mason. From Linda. From Barry. As much as it hurt to embrace the pain, to allow herself to cry, she has been suffocating under the weight of the sorrow she had tried too long to deny.

She was sobbing so hard that she could barely get out the words.

“Sh-should I l-l-leave y-you alone i-in the d-d-dark? H-hol-holding m-my b-broken h-h-h-”

Through her sobs and gasps for air, she heard a soft sound and ducked her chin, embarrassed that Cisco might have returned and caught her like this. Pressing her palms against her eyes, she tried to get a hold of herself, but it was no use. She couldn’t hold back her sobs, so she dropped her hands. “S-sorry Ci-Cisco. I-” she began. Then she opened her eyes.

It wasn’t Cisco in the room with her.

It was Barry.

[sing-to-me-muse]

Title: Flowers In Neon Rating: G Word count: 1,215 Author’s Note: Just a little something I wrote up for a challenge but I ended up liking it despite it’s simplicity. Please consider also checking it out in one of the other platforms and leaving a comment! Hope you enjoy!

ALSO ON: AO3 | WATTPAD

Everything about her was a lie. From the color of her eyes to the texture of her lips, to her very heart. She knew that. She knew it as she kissed her and as she lied in her lap talking about her day. But she couldn't help it. She fell for those lies every day.

When her best friend had been diagnosed with Hanahaki disease, Carol hadn't known what to do. A genius in the modern world of cyborgs and A.I. and yet she was stunted, unable to do anything to stop the flowers taking root in Ursula's lungs. The first scientist to create fully functional cyborg eyes, and she was defeated by petals and stems. She later considered that to be her life's greatest failure.

She was ashamed to admit that she hadn't been by Ursula's side as she had withered away. In retrospect, had she done so, she probably could have prevented her current situation. Instead, she had done her own share of wasting away, slaving over her files, flipping through the hologram simulations in her lab, running test after test to find a way to remove the flowers safely, with no consequences. All the while, Ursula's desperate words as she was taken on the ambulance had been echoing in her mind: I don't want to forget, Carol. Death is better than forgetting her.

At first she had tried to find the ‘her’. She had visited Ursula at the hospital and begged her to tell her so she could help her. But Ursula, with her piercing grey eyes that were now tired and her pretty, short brown and forest green hair that had grown too long and wrong, had looked at her forlornly and had weakly shook her head. Her bed had been filled with white and red rose petals that she had coughed up. Carol couldn't stand to look at the red petals. They had looked too much like blood.

And still, No, Ursula had said. You can't do anything about her. Let it be. Let me be.

Carol couldn't have that. She could not let her friend die, and of unrequited love no less. If she couldn't do anything about the ungrateful woman whom her friend was dying for, she would do what she knew best: use science to make the impossible possible.

There had been many roadblocks. She had ran tests on different procedures to safely remove the flowers but that was to no avail. The surgeons could remove them safely already but the flowers were mystical, beyond scientific rules and Carol's comprehension and Ursula's memories would be gone and Carol couldn't bare to do that to her. After two dozen failed simulations, she had given up on those procedures.

The idea had come to her as she had been gazing at the city from her roof one night. The skyscraper she had been living in was one of the tallest buildings of New San Francisco. It overlooked most of the city that was alight during the night with holographic, colorful ads, neon signs and bright names of corporations strapped across towers. Trains and autocars had been whizzing through elevated bridges and the faint sound of the trains passing below her building had been the only thing that grounded her through the haze of her grief. She had remembered a time when the sound that helped her was the sea. It had been by the sea that she had gotten her first revolutionary idea in the field of cybernetics that made her career. And it was over trains that she figured out how to save Ursula.

It had taken her two months. Two months, three more scientists and lots of resources to build a new body for Ursula, fully functional, fully mechanical, where her brain could be transferred to, her memories of this mystery woman intact.

I really hope she's worth it, you absolute idiot, Carol had whispered to a sleeping Ursula on a quiet night while clutching her now skeletal hand.

It had been very risky. Ursula's body had been deteriorating by the day, making the procedure more difficult. The procedure itself had never been attempted before. The only files Carol had managed to pull up on it were a bunch of very hypothetical research papers, some really old movies like Robocop, and a lot of science fiction novels. But the tests came out successful and the simulations came out successful and she had to try. The only problem had been Ursula herself.

Please, Ursula, consider it. Whoever she is, she's not worth dying over. Please just let me help you.

Carol! Why won't you leave well enough alone?

A sharp inhale. Red petals that looked like blood had filled her vision again.

Because it's not well enough. I can't leave it alone. Not with you on the line.

“You know, I'm really glad you convinced me after all,” Ursula said as she hugged Carol from behind. Her body was smooth but not cold, her synthetic skin tissue coated with heat stabilizers underneath, making the skin feel real and fooling anyone that wasn't Carol.

See, Ursula had eventually agreed, and soon after she had woken up, while she had been recovering and adjusting to her new body, she had finally admitted who she had been in love with.

It's you, you oblivious dork. You're the one I was in love with.

Carol had been… shocked. At first at the mere fact that Ursula loved her of all people, and then at the fact that, fuck, she loved her back.

Carol smiled and twisted her body to hug Ursula back. She gave her a quick peck as well. The microsensors under her lips would transfer the feeling to her. Truly, Ursula's body was one of her best and proudest creations. And they both got to enjoy it every day.

“I'm glad too,” Carol whispered and touched her forehead gently to Ursula's. “I'm just sorry I didn't realize sooner. You could still have your body if I had.”

Ursula looked at her with a soft, fond smile, and it looked just like it did when she was still healthy, before her diagnosis. Her eyes were the same beautiful thunderstorm grey too. Carol almost couldn't tell the difference from before. Ursula kissed her forehead and didn't pull away until Carol relaxed in her arms with a sigh.

“I should have told you earlier. It's on both of us. But you saved me, sweetheart. I'm still here, I still love you and I remember exactly who you are.”

Carol raised an eyebrow and smiled teasingly.

“Oh? And who am I?”

Ursula chuckled and pushed a strand of her hair away from her eyes. “You,” she began and gave her a kiss, “are a stubborn little shit. But dammit you're my stubborn little shit.”

Carol couldn't help herself. With a huge grin on her face, she kissed those lips again, longer, more passionately, and she savored every moment and every butterfly the kiss made her feel. Because yes, everything about Ursula's new body was a lie. Synthetic material, bioware processors, transmitters, metal and plastic, no real organic matter, save for her brain. But Ursula was still there in all her might, unchanged in essence and alive. And Carol could ask for nothing more.

[j-k-notrowling]

Untitled

Hi there! Spoilers up front: this is a gratuitously long-winded “thank you,” not an Ask (also I’m 31 and don’t know how to Social Media so apologies if this is the wrong page/tab/link/widget).

--(oh actually it’s a blog post now because of course I can’t send an “Ask” this stupidly long see? wasn’t kidding about that Social Media thing...)--

I started writing my first book in the Fall of 2016. Before that I’d only written songs. One day I got an idea which didn’t fit within the usual rhymes or rhythms. I tried and tried, but kept on hitting a wall. In addition, I was fed up with the whole “business” of music—the fragile egos, the politics of being in a band, all that. One morning I sat down at my HP desktop computer (again...31) and opened up a blank Word document. I stared at it with murderous intent for a long time, but nothing happened. So I grabbed the nearest book off the shelf (Crash by J.G. Ballard), opened it, and began to type out the first paragraph, copying the sentences line by line. I wanted to see what it felt like — my clumsy fingers pecking at the keyboard, observing how the words fell into place with a musical cadence and tempo almost prophetic, as though the ink were destined to dry in this exact form upon the page, the machinery of its tumultuous birth and impeccable design skillfully concealed. I paused and looked out the window. There was a squirrel on the deck, I remember. And then I saw it. Not outside but inside my own head, behind my eyelids. The song, the one I’d been struggling to write, I saw that it could be a story. I saw it had a clear beginning, middle, and end. I saw a world of characters opening doors to other worlds, other stories, other characters. This was life-changing shit. Suddenly I was a little boy at my first baseball game, drinking my first ice-cold Coke, surrounded by old men chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and muttering dirty words I’d never heard before about the [EXPLETIVES DELETED] on the opposing team. I’d discovered a fire fueled by the psychic anarchy of its own discovery, a Moebius-strip of dramatic invention, a repository for all the pop-cultural turds floating around inside the cracked porcelain toilet bowl of my skull. I wrote prose every night after work. I never thought about what I was doing. I never once stopped to check word counts or page counts. I never thought about sticking to an outline, making sure my story adhered to a specific plot structure, none of that. I wrote like a man in love. Delirious, overheated teenage love. Wear-my-ill-fitting-letterman’s-jacket love (is this also A Thing™️ in Canada?). Stupid stupid stupid love, naive and hormonal and precious and retrospectively mortifying. I’d turn off the world, turn on the music, sit back and watch the words sashay straight into my lap. It took 2-3 months before the ruthless scourge known as Self Doubt farted in my private elevator. Am I doing this right? How many words are in a book, anyway? How many pages? How long is this going to take? Is this an effective way to impress women and/or get laid? Am I writing a novel or a novella? The fuck is “flash fiction”? Are you allowed to write actual books in Microsoft Word? Does it matter that my free trial version of Microsoft Word expires in 30 days? They’re bluffing, right? And so on. I compared my own writing with that of authors I admired; subsequently, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. I watched 40+ hours of “Kitchen Nightmares” reruns (it’s. the. same. fucking. formula. every. single. episode.) and nursed my shame with bowl after bowl of strawberry ice cream. To think — I’d TOLD people about this fool’s errand, and sooner or later I’d have to show them precisely how awful a writer I was... I turned to the Internet for advice. At first, it seemed like a godsend. There was such a litany of knowledge, so many pro-tips and life hacks and proven formulas for success. This was how I stumbled across your channel. I found other channels which offered more straightforward “DO IT LIKE THIS YOU FUCKING IDIOT” instructions, but I still enjoyed yours the most. I lol-ed at your jokes. I remember a few videos where you spoke highly about All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, which remains among the most achingly beautiful books I’ve ever read. Also you’re Canadian, and you guys just generally Human better than we (Americans) Human. ...and here my troubles began. See, the more I tried to adhere to word count goals, the more I tried to properly organize the scenes on my Scrivener™️ virtual cork board, the less I enjoyed the actual process of writing. So I tried other things, based upon other writers’ suggestions: cut the adverbs, write in the morning, write at night, write during your lunch break, write an outline, stick to the outline, write x amount of pages per day, write x number of hours per day, spend x amount of hours drafting and x amount of hours editing, etc. But nothing I tried made me feel confident in my writing. I started actively hating it, to be honest. I dreaded the cursor and the infinite white void. Then I would watch more writing videos and feel guilty about my lack of ambition, my inability to accomplish simple tasks. It’s only a few thousand words, dude — just get in there and do it. Eventually I would. I’d grumble and feel miserable and stay locked in my little writing dungeon all night, ignoring my friends’ texts and phone calls, and the next day I’d hate everything I wrote, trash it, and start over. Then, when I had no more writing left to hate, I started hating myself. The words in my head turned malignant, putrefied into spongy, black tumors. I’d spend all day at work consumed by thoughts and ideas and goals! goals! goals! for my book, then I’d come home and stare at a blinking cursor and wonder why I was such a worthless failure. I couldn’t write the way these other writers did, no matter what I tried. But I still wanted to write. Needed to, in that yearning, terrible way I suspect you understand. I don’t know why The Internet subconsciously invites us to flay ourselves before total strangers, but it does. So I will. Shit got Dark™️, Shaelin. I gained 50 pounds, started living like a hoarder, stopped hanging out with my friends, stopped leaving the house altogether. I kept the curtains closed so my neighbors wouldn’t see the piles of empty take-out boxes stacked up on the kitchen table. I traded the pleasures and contradictions and beguiling enigmas of women for the 24-hour neon distraction of cheap porno. My cat Maggie, basically the only friend I had during this time, got cancer. I watched her suffer and waste away because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting her to sleep and coming home alone to an empty, filthy house. Eventually she died and I hated myself even more for not being able to save her. I wore the same pair of pants for six months. I’d go to work and sit at my desk all day and do absolutely nothing (I was the accounting manager at a small company, technically my own “boss,” so I got away with this for a shocking, frankly heroic amount of time). Then I simply stopped going to work. And I kept torturing myself with those stupid goals and word counts, never happy with the end result, resigned to feel like a failure every day. I remember watching your “Spill the Tea” video back when it was initially posted. Watching it now is eerie, because you describe exactly what I was going through, what I was feeling. Like, to the “T” (see what I did there? #WordPlay #LitPuns101). I’d never experienced anxiety/depression before, so I didn’t really understand what was happening to me. Not that it mattered, because by that point the damage was done. I couldn’t recognize and isolate the real problem. I’d given up. Even though you said a lot of things in that video I desperately, desperately needed to hear, I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen to you, because you were one of Them™️. Your eyes were bright and your voice sounded friendly and encouraging, but your name wasn’t McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. You were just a kid. What could you possibly know that I didn’t? In January of this year I called a local psychiatric hospital and told them I was planning to kill myself. I never harbored any true intentions of doing that, but I figured they’d offer me a nice three-week vacation in a padded cell. Considering the circumstances, it honestly seemed like a relief. I ended up quitting my job, selling my house, and moving back in with my parents 300 miles away. I started seeing a therapist once a week (still do, for the record). So far I’ve lost 30 pounds of the 50 pound surplus I acquired. I kept watching your videos, even though I was no longer in the market for writing advice (#JustHereForTheSnark). You kept me lol-ing through some bad days and weeks and months. I’d listen to you talk about problems with the writing community and nod my head like an old woman in church (#ShaelinSermons™️ #SheTeachesANDShePreaches), but I still hadn’t made the connection with my own issues. I swore off writing completely, went back to playing music. Cover songs in coffee shops and family restaurants. It was fun for awhile. I genuinely felt happier. But my story was still an old pebble poking around in my shoe...calling out, issuing playground taunts, drawing hairy cartoon dicks on my forehead while I slept. About a month ago I stared down another blank page, my first since experiencing that fun-sized nervous breakdown earlier this year. I closed my eyes and heard your voice in my head. “You can do whatever you want.” I had no goals, no arbitrary quotas to meet. I wrote a few lines, stopped, fixed a couple things I wasn’t satisfied with, and then went on with my day. I thought about what I’d written, sure, but I didn’t worry or spend the whole day stressing out. The next morning I read over what I’d done, and I didn’t hate it. I thought it was actually pretty good, funny and off-kilter and a little/lotta fucked up. So I sat down and wrote some more. Took some things out, re-worded stuff, dressed up the bones in silver and pearls. Addition and subtraction. Before I knew it, I’d finished a whole page. Then another. And then the hair on the back of my neck stood up, because I remembered: This is how it felt at the beginning. Back when I was young and love-struck and writing only to catch those moments of pure levitation, that devilish tickle, that rush of blood propelled by my own wild heart. It’s been a rough road, but I finally found what I’d lost. I figured out how to write again and enjoy it. And ultimately, the best writing advice I received didn’t come from McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. It came from a young woman in another country with a camera and a nose ring and a big tapestry and bigger dreams which run parallel to my own. So thank you. Thank you for taking time out of your busy life and braving the Steaming Pile™️ that is The Internet to offer words of empathy and encouragement to complete strangers. Thank you for the wisdom you share. Thank you for being who you are. Know that tonight the stars shine brighter as a result. They do for me, at least. (Also I’m sincerely sorry about the absurd length of this “Ask” wherein no actual questions were posed and nothing substantial was communicated beyond a simple yet torturously delayed “thank you” kthxbye #longlivethenewtapestry 

—Justin)

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

At least they shouldn't be. 

We're all supposed to be individuals in this life. We're not born alone and we may not die alone, but it's up to us to solely carry the burden of everything in between. It's the prophecy of Newton's third law: the vitality of our peregrination is dependent on our varying movements working to interact with whatever and whomever we deem to be worthy to endure the path with us. The universe might place people on the trail, but it's up to us to act if we want them beside us and we have to make a good decision instantaneously because the intertwinement will inevitably mutate the rest of your life, luring you into surrendering total control and permitting foreign access to the bloodiest of your lacerated wounds that are throbbing to be mended by the careful and tender hand of another. You're under the guise of so many promises, some of which you've told wholeheartedly to ensure precious diligence... 

Diligence that's never guaranteed. 

Whether developed by nurture or influenced by nature, most people are reckless. They've come to possess an appetite for destruction that proves insatiable, intentions be damned. They can promise whatever the hell they want, regardless if they intend on fulfilling it, and the fucked up thing is it becomes genuine the moment you believe it. Even I was fooled by it this morning. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I didn't know any better because I didn't know them, but there's something about their chaotic decade long pattern of promises of change and inevitable subsequent failure that strike as familiar to me as the back of the hand holding the rapidly disintegrating flame my eyes fixate on. It's all I heard for fifteen fucking years. It's amazing how many times the same shit can be recycled into something new. Perhaps if people put as much work into doing something useful instead of bullshitting the people they love, some actual, physical, change could happen. Shit, maybe global warming could be stopped, maybe it already could've stopped. I sure know that, if not for the product of my polluted environment, I wouldn't have taken up this filthy little habit. I don't know what's more unfathomable: the amount of money I could've saved by not being a disgusting smoker who gets side-eyed by every conscious passerby or the number of cigarette butts I've trashed Oakland and San Francisco's streets with in the last three years for them to trample over... just like my dad trampled all of his promises of sobriety and extinguished the bright light of the progress he had; the six years that kept validity in my mom's unshakeable faith that this time was it. The thorn that had been wedged in our lives was removed and the cut it'd sliced within me could start to heal so that it no longer hurt to see the way that they'd absolutely bloom around each other, so that I too could open myself up to the fresh air of their prosperous spring where the threats of crack and Corcoran were history, my dad was here to stay and we were all going be a family again...

But I've always been fooled. 

Because, at the time, it wasn't bullshit. It was pure, unbridled, optimism crafted from a wait that only love could endure, the culmination of understanding why she stayed after so many years of watching her painstakingly build from the wreckage he'd left us in when she could've listened to me and left it so we could've started anew on our own. Despite all material odds that I thought proved me right, their persistence finally broke through my stubborn teenage skull to show that all I've wanted was to be proven wrong...and I was. I've always been, in countless contradictory ways. I was right to think he'd tarnish it, yet I was wrong to count on it. I was right to think she should've separated from him, but I was dead wrong for wishing it...

I was wrong to leave that night and right to come back. 

No matter what our egos are deluded by, we're all sinners and saints simultaneously. Our consciousness of change is the grey wedged between the permanent black and white of immortality and virtue. People aren't starkly either and rarely can they be. We're all victims of circumstance and criminals for continuing it, yet that can only be realized in retrospect. The present is a lawless arena where proven patterns and common sense are off the table to gamble the chance that this time will be different because this time is different. Last night being heaven doesn't void tonight being hell and vice versa. As shitty as Lyd's method of communication came off, texting provided them with a luxury and a curse. They had time to think. Unfortunately, S is now thinking backward, trying to return to the safety of last night where the truth was bright and everything seemed so right and he knows he can't be back there. I've seen this desire to be put out of nostalgic misery taint the vibrance of so many eyes; green, grey, and now S' too. It's one that'll always break my heart to look at because I understand it. 

When I look in a mirror long enough, I catch it swimming in my own blues.

So despite his plea, the only benignant remedy I can give him is, “Yes. Quit second-guessing yourself. You know what you need to do and the sooner you do it, the sooner the pain can at least start to cease. Everything has come to an end eventually, no matter how wonderful or terrible it might’ve been, and it’s clear that this relationship is begging for it’s merciful out. All you have to do is let it happen.” 

The words coming out of my mouth feel almost as good as the cigarette that I manage another drag from. It's been a long time since I've been able to verbally combat the nastiness of nostalgia and rally for a situation that can be changed positively. It's been a long time since I've felt this satisfied. I didn't count on cracking a smile now but it's been a weird fucking day. The things that normally don't line up did, the things that should've lined up didn't and, as frustrating as the pendulum swing has been, I've come to respect the equilibrium. His embrace of my suggestion of drastic change isn't happening as immediately as I'd hoped, but his stillness is okay. The longer my words sit, the more I realize that "letting it happen" isn't as easy as it was to say it, but at least it's being taken into consideration. 

While he continues to ponder, my focus eventually drifts away from the momentary standstill of his dilemma and...back to the buzzings of my own. The worries that I'd blown off earlier rage back to the docket, like checking the time so I can check the MUNI route or the Owl Cars if by the scary chance it's after midnight, and trying to figure out if there's time for me to swing by a 7/11...

And check if Ray texted me back...

But I can't. I can't leave him here without knowing what the fuck he's going to do which, the longer my antsy ass waits, the more I realize is not going to be as concrete as I thought. The definite "You're right J, thank you so much for making me realize something that's been right in front of my face for ten years!" is not what I'm going to hear. Maybe eventually, but not when there's ten fucking years to give up, not when there's a friendship that could still be there. He's spent so long building up this idea of her, surely it can't be knocked down like that...even though that selfish prick part of me wishes he would. I don't want to sit here all fucking night, man. I can't. I have to get home, I have to get to school tomorrow, I have to see if she texted me back...

I have to know if I've lost her. 

The optimistic rational part of my head tries to relieve me; I wasn't that explicit. It's not like she can read minds--- Except for she. fucking. can. Or rather, she'd adept at reading me and all of my stupid fucking mistakes. Again, she's that smart and I'm that dumb... 

So what the hell does she even want to do with me anyway? 

On most of every level, we're total opposites and if she took two seconds to catch our reflection, she'd know how fucking weird we look next to each other. I swear, she's so polished it's almost stereotypical. There's never a stray blonde strand on her black shirts, even though she's always letting her gorgeous hair cascade down her shoulders and back. Seriously, her hair defies the vortex that can be San Francisco's wind and always falls into the right place, but even when she doesn't deem it suit it's gone with a graceful flick of her fingers, whereas I have to obnoxiously throw a hand through mine and then waste a vain amount of time staring at myself trying to fix it until I give up and walk around looking worse than I did before. I'd love to know the science behind the way every article of clothing she wears looks so meticulously thought out. Each piece mixes together so cohesively regardless of differing patterns, colors, or fabrics and they all look tailored to fit her specifically. I'm just talking about casual clothes too, she's also the only student I've seen so far who looks more put together and professional than some of the teachers with her ironed collared blouses and a gold watch delicately adorning her wrist. Meanwhile, I come in looking like a total curmudgeon in whatever shirt is clean, the same jeans I wore yesterday, and any weathered jacket that was in reach. The things we do have in common are school and not eating at school, but even then I'm nowhere near par. Her manners are impeccable. It's her thinking swiftly enough to open the door for me, because, chivalrous tradition be damned, gentlemen are always first. She waits for me to get my food before she touches hers and even coaxes me into having the first taste of her "chips" while I wait, as well as after I've already scarfed down my lunch since she doesn't act like a starving child and takes her time to eat properly. Her most exemplary moment comes during the times where I'm so spent that all I can do is slouch against the booth and zone out while looking out the window and when I finally snap out of it I never see her checking her phone. Whether it be rain or shine her eyes follow mine, watching the cars breezing through Bayshore until she realizes that my lazy gaze has broken. She never tries to snap me out of it, she only gives me a warm smile that somehow tells me that she understands and, no matter how far gone I am, I always find myself returning one to her. It's never forced either, it just falls into place... 

She's given me everything wonderful, yet I can offer her nothing but trouble.

While I'm sure she's roamed here during the daytime, she'd never set foot in this dark and desolate park at this hour. She'd never be caught dead smoking this cigarette, not without spitting out her Doublemint or ridding herself of the stench by spritzing a healthy dose of perfume that's probably so expensive I'd have to sell an eight ball or two to be able to afford it. I'm surprised she hasn't prodded me to quit yet and I almost wish she would. It's such a disgusting and selfish habit to carry around in the world. There's nothing beneficial about walking around and penetrating the fresh air with this stick of toxicity. Who the fuck am I to think I'm worthy? I'm certainly not. So begs the question again...what the fuck does she want with me? What is it in me that saw so fit to acquaint herself with on that February morning and keeps her coming around after two months? She says we're friends, but why doesn't it feel like it? Friendship is supposed to be seamless and, don't get me wrong, I enjoy being around her and I enjoy that she considers us that but...it doesn't make sense. 

Maybe she wants something more... 

Ha. As if. Jesus fuck...where do I get this silly shit? Is the sleep deprivation finally breaking me? It is. The fact that she's already fallen victim to my mind's twisting of our delightful connection into this desire for something more is beyond fucked up as it is but to consider that she could reciprocate is straight-up delusional. S' theory on Shakespeare not writing any of his works made more sense, at least he had a substance to blame for his insanity. A world where Ray has feelings for me doesn't exist. If us being mere friends into our twenties is laughable, a shooting star would definitely steer clear of that wish. 

But it's not that easy. I mean I know it's certain but I can't speak for her either. I evidently don't possess her telepathy and can't confirm every thought running through her head. Who the hell am I to say we won't be friends in our twenties? I wasn't planning on us being friends for two days, much less two months, and two years isn't that unfathomable of a concept. I should be comforted by that, but I'm not. 

Because S didn't plan on being here tonight either. He didn't plan on coming to this park tonight and breaking the news that he did to me because he didn't plan on receiving it, he didn't plan on having to continue the pattern because he never planned for there to be a pattern to begin with... 

 He never planned on her breaking his heart.

I can't blame him. Carrying the load alone gets tiring and lonely, another hand offering to tend to you is like the gates of heaven opening up. Why deny it? We all need someone to love, right? It's so fucking pure and innocuous. Ray's so pure and innocuous, just like how Lyd was when S first met her because they were teenagers and didn't know any fucking better until it was too late. Shit, he even admitted that meeting so young stunted his abilities and I absolutely fucking believe him since he's still harboring over his eighth-grade crush at twenty-four. If by a miracle I can even make it to twenty, there's absolutely nothing about how I am or how my life is right now that I want to be lingering around like that rotten stench. Even though it might be a briefly pretty one like a dandelion, anything to sprout in my dour spring is a weed that needs to be ripped out by the root so that it doesn't spread into that uncontrollable mutation of a littered garden blooming with dangerous thorns. It'd only be a matter of time before I contaminate and sicken her... 

And I'm not going to let it happen. 

With my left hand reaching up to my lips, I take what's left of the Parliament and tuck it into my palm as tightly as I can, crushing and sizzling out the tiny but ferocious flame of those thoughts...those beautiful, terrifying, wistful, delusional, and bittersweet wishes, hopes, and dreams before they can burn me any further. The wince it provokes is only a physical twitch because this doesn't even hurt, it's nothing like what I'm sparing myself from. I could do it again and again and again if I wanted to and I'd be okay because I'm playing with a fire I can burn out whenever I want and, right now, the power's all mine. The small circle searing into my skin activates that familiar rush through the rest of my hand and throws me into my fucking senses. Ray doesn't feel that way about me, but if by some fucked up chance that she does, then it's too bad because the best fucking thing I'll ever be able to do for her is to deny her and spare her from this shit. She doesn't want it, I don't want it, and we're better off without it. We always will be. 

After a second, the initial sting relaxes into more of that nice steady and soothing throb and I allow myself a moment to revel in the sensation. It's so intense that a shiver drives down my spine as I inhale the cold, clean, air of the element I should've never left. Tucking my arm underneath the rail, a crooked smile slithers when my fingers unravel and that useless nub of ash rolls away from me and onto the wet grass below.

The burden of love can't destroy me if I destroy it first. 

The same can't be said for the man in front of me, the vision of whom shakes me into a sudden embarrassing awareness of my surroundings. Fuck, I hope S didn't see me do that... I don't think he did. He's still tip-toeing the around the obvious and, at this point, I have to shake my head. 

C'mon man...you've got it easier than some. Her intentions are clear and she's not dead in the fucking desert. You've been through this before and you know that this is for the best, you know that the future's brighter beyond this, you know I'm right...

Maybe I should reiterate that to him again, but I already feel like a broken record. He gets it, he's just trying to avoid it, and there's nothing I can do to cure that. The only thing I can do at this point is to light another cigarette and hope that eventually he'll do something while the ball's still in his court. A buzzer-beater slam dunk might be out of the question, but a simple point would suffice for now. It's after the flame meets the fresh end of the Parliament stuck in my lip where he breaks his cycle and starts coming closer to the bench, my eye narrowing as I notice what I think are tears and...shit... I know I didn't bring him to tears, it's the situation and it's a tough pill to swallow, but it still tugs on my guilt for not giving him the answer he wanted. He's ashamed of it, he doesn't let me see his face for long as he buries it in his hands, and I don't let my stare linger any longer. The action is enough to spell out that there's nothing else he wants me to do, there's nothing else I can do now but leave him to process this in private. He's been stripped of enough tonight, the least I can do is respect the dignity he has left.

“I’m really gonna be alone for the rest of my life, J....” He admits and, while I know that for him it's merely an exaggeration driven from his sorrow, it resonates with me enough to whisper...

“I am too.”