#it's a good benchmark for me to know that I have survived to the next week from the previous!!

[generic-sonic-fan]

I get jumpscared by your every-Wednesday reblog of my Omega post and all the interactions that come with it. It always makes me happy but it's accompanied by surprise: Might jump out of my skin, but like, cheerily while clanking my heels together?

Congratulations, you have been deemed an essential part of Destroy Eggman Wednesday. Please do not resist.

[askbensolo]

I am a fight just like you. I’m a good bit older than you but was super hot when I was younger. Like every emotion just came out as anger. Still does really but I have a better grip now. I did a lot of internal work on it. Therapy helped.

My wife is a freeze like Fannie. We make it work. We balance each other out.

Hitting things is not recommended :P

...Huh. Fight, flight, or...freeze.

So...she isn't just ignoring me? It's more like...she's perceiving me as a threat, and her survival instinct is telling her not to make a move until the threat passes?

I guess...I kind of know how that feels. When I was younger, I used to get really bad anxiety attacks. Everything was scary and made me fear death, and my muscles would all seize up, and I couldn’t formulate thoughts, and I'd just sit there crying and useless, drunk on oxygen and shaking like a glitched-up droid...

I mean, I used to get angry back then, too. Flipping tables and stuff. Yelling at my parents. And, I still get anxious now...like how thinking about being married, y'know, put me on the floor for a li'l bit. (Hey, uh, how is that, by the way…?)

But...after Snoke tried to take me over, and I realized the astronomical degree to which he screwed me up...the things he did to me, physically and mentally and emotionally and psychologically and through the Force...how he took advantage of my fear and encouraged it constantly in order to keep me under his disgusting gnarly thumb…how he broke me down and brainwashed me and made me think my life was over if I left him and brought me to the point of nearly ending it myself, lightyears from home, with a handful of candy-colored tubes and the worst haircut of my life…

I changed.

Yeah, I still get scared...but you best believe that when I do, I'll frickin' fight for my life. Because I'll be damned if I ever let anyone put me in a corner again. I'm nobody's dog and I'll never be. I refuse to let myself get hurt, or let anyone hurt me. If you freak me out, I will come at you, biting and hissing and clawing, and I will draw blood.

And if there’s no one else for me to be mad at? Well, kriff. Fear is weakness, and I can’t stand to be weak. I’ll tear into my own flesh and eat myself alive, turning myself inside out, exposing my nerves to the open air, becoming my own chrysalis, feasting madly on my own mangled tissue in the hopes of recycling myself into someone, or something, stronger—

Er...sorry. Poet brain took over.

...You know? I think I'm maybe starting to see why she gets scared of me sometimes. I can…uh. Get a little crazy.

Still...I don’t understand why she wouldn't just talk to me. I mean, I would much prefer her yelling back at me and calling me names, to the black-hole terror of her silence...but, um...maybe I'm not a good benchmark for normal responses to stress, and I shouldn't use myself as a standard to measure her against.

And...uh...maybe I shouldn't hit stuff, yeah.

…Okay. Next time Fan and I talk...my first priority is gonna be making sure she knows that she's safe, and I'm not a threat. And...I'll try to remember she's not a threat to me, either.

[woodpengu]

Personal Story: feel free to skip. But I wonder if anyone can relate to having a parent that expressed their trauma as love projected onto their children in a way that disregarded what was most important to said child. Read on if you're curious. Might be triggering for those who've suffered passive (or active) neglect.

My mother romanticized the gift-giving aspect of Christmas to unhealthy degrees. Don't ask why - her trauma isn't my story to tell nor her mind mine to comprehend. She just wouldn't accept anyone being okay with not receiving anything. "No" was not in her vocabulary (we'll save the lesson in consent and boundaries for another day).

My last year speaking or interacting with her directly, she had grown to keeping her eyes peeled all year round for gifts to bestow at Christmas. My sister and I were the number one priority even though both of us had told her "One is enough if you must give us a thing at all". And there was something far more important to me that happened every year between one Christmas and the next: my birthday.

I value this day above other special occasions as a benchmark of survival. I lasted another year. I held fast for another circle of the Earth. I gave myself 365 days more of opportunities for good memories and reasons to keep going. Living another year is much more important. Things aren't necessary for the occasion, but I would like acknowledgment. I'd like to think a parent would find their child that they love being alive and well is more important to them than a holiday that's been turned into a capitalist-driven drain on sanity, safety, and good manners.

But this last time, she forgot my birthday. Until a couple days ahead of it, my mother had been collecting gifts for a holiday that wouldn't happen for another four months that I didn't want a pile of things I'd throw out, donate, or shelve (she tended to get me things she wanted for herself just in case I didn't care for them or couldn't use them... nothing was ever just for me). She told me herself that she forgot what the date was, and pulled something random out of the pile, avoiding the "big important gifts" she didn't want me to have until Christmas.

This is a woman who prides herself on her wrapping skills and being covert with surprises and gifts. She made no effort with it. "Here, have a pretty ramen bowl with this cool gimmick that traditional ramen bowls don't have." It was, in fact, a pretty bowl... that I did not in any way hint at wanting, needing, or yearning for in any capacity. I had two ramen bowls at the time that I loved and was very happy with and did not want another, nor did I have the space for one, which I informed her of when she asked. Unwrapped. No ceremony. Just handed over with an apology about forgetting and "I'll take you somewhere to make up for it". Which she did...

She took me to a place she wanted to go to... while the air was thick with smoke from the wildfires. If you have or know someone with PTSD or CPTSD, activates lizard brain (survival mode) at the drop of a hat, and the one thing we can lose resistance to is the smell of smoke (which for animals turns on the flight response and is how they know to get the heck out of dodge). Of course, I'd explained this to her. CPTSD was the reason for being in therapy, and why COVID hit me harder than most - I was isolated with my worst and most constant abusers who were keyed up and agitated more than usual by circumstances (another story). But... to her, I was throwing a tantrum and being ungrateful.

All she had to do was acknowledge the important part: I was alive and still trying to live. If all she gave me was a hug and a "thank you for being here", that would have been the most meaningful gift and the best birthday of my life. But... she made it about her, her efforts, her compromises, her gifting ability... My day was about her. That's like a relative going to a wedding and giving the bride hell for not putting [relative] on a pedestal. Integrity, please.

Point being... [takes a moment to heave a big ol sigh] (part two of my gifting rambles, here) If a person is important to you, then make the effort to acknowledge what's important to them. It's not about you "being a good friend/relative/companion" in the "I give gifts because I love you" sense. It's about showing real love through acknowledgment of their truths.

[fulltransmetalgenderist]

Hi! Will you stop taking T before you reach a point where you cannot be perceived as a butch lesbian anymore or is that not something that would be a problem for you ? Because when I think about it my dyke ass would be mortified to look just like your average grown straight man. And even when comparing it to my attraction to women (which doesn’t really include straight women anymore) I would understand them all not being into me because I’d look too much like what they aren’t into, so there’s a balance here to find. But maybe that’s not the case for you?

i’m going to assume that this is asked in good faith, so let’s engage - because I feel like this is some rich queer theory to dive into

first off: it’s not just transmasc lesbians that struggle with the straight man dysphoria (yes, anon, that’s what you’re describing, dysphoria: an unhappiness with society and one’s perceived place within it). i’m sure you can imagine that tma lesbians must particularly struggle with this - and perhaps a way to ease that dysphoria a little for the trans dykes in your life is to refrain from admitting your disgust at the idea of looking like a huge percentage of the world’s population. and instead remember that straight men have the capacity to love and uplift women just as lesbians have the capacity to hurt the women in their lives. perhaps it would be easier to then recognize straight men as potential collaborators in the fight for women’s liberation.

And it’s not the end of the world to be mistaken for a straight guy. no one can take my dyke card away, I know who I am and where I’m coming from. And hey, I think I would rather be mistaken for a random straight man than be mistaken for Ellen, and I would rather be mistaken for a random cis guy than Buck Angel. Every identity group has their annoying fucks no one can stand.

So to address your question anon - will I stop taking hormones? the answer is I don’t know! So much of the anti trans rhetoric right now revolves around the “irreversible” changes of HRT and the “regret” that may follow. I worry that we, as trans queers, have taken some of that propaganda to heart; I sense this fear amongst other trans people that our future selves may rue and lament the ways we build our bodies today. What if I want to detransition later and hate myself for what i’ve done/become? And I’m all for being cautious and making sure you truly want something before diving head first - but I want trans people to extend grace towards themselves, to practice loving ourselves in the here and now and not worry what a future version of ourselves may want. Regret is an unavoidable emotion in life, it’s okay to feel regret, I know that if I end up one day regretting taking testosterone I will survive.

So for now I have no plans on stopping testosterone. I don’t have any benchmarks I want to hit before I know it’s time to stop or anything. I’m just going to keep taking T for as long as it feels good to do so. That may be for as long as I live, that may be until next month - I have no idea. I know that no matter what, I am a working class queer latino butch anarchist. I am very secure in that identity and I don’t need anyone to validate it for me—i’m living it every day.

and as far as attracting other lesbians - i’m mainly t4t so it’s not much of a problem, other trans people get it, and we’re all horny for each other. and there’s definitely no shortage of queer cis women who are into me (albeit a little fetishistically). really who i’m struggling with is the femboys! let me take care of you and buy you cute lingerie PLEASE I swear i’m butch enough 😫

[that-gay-jedi]

I know they already can't even meet the bar of understanding usable hours but I wish the healthcare system, my work, insurance, and the government understood that even my usable hours aren't quite as usable as a nondisabled person's tbh.

Like if we set a benchmark of a healthy person at their physical and mental best performing a task as 100, with 110 being slightly too much effort, 125 being dangerously overexerting yourself and 150 being Icarus just felt the wax re-melt, then me performing the same task at my best is never above like 90-95 bc there's a portion of my focus is that is distracted for as long as I'm in pain (which barring a miracle is gonna be the rest of my life) and a portion of my patience and endurance my brain will always have to spend on coping, and a portion of physical energy my body will always have to spend on surviving the adverse conditions chronic illness creates, and there's literally no amount of motivation, treatment, good work habits nor anything else on this earth that's ever going to change that because I'm not holding anything back, I'm giving everything I have and everything I have is 90% of what that guy over at the next desk has.

And like, from the way the people who are my contacts from these systems talk to me I know the immediate response is "So overdo it slightly and get that 100 from where a healthy person would get 110" but that only works for a day. If I try to give the equivalent of 110 daily then the 90 I can offer at my best goes down to like 65 by day 3 and it's only downhill from there. Even if I put my work before literally everything to the point that I'd be proud to be found dead in my office chair if it meant taking one more call, you'd only be able to get at maximum maybe 2-3 weeks out of me before I had truly and absolutely nothing left to give anyone, including myself, ever again.

In effect, my employer simply cannot extract the same amount of value-for-labour out of me as from other people because my laundry list of medical problems already extracted some. In perpetuity. No stick, no carrot, no gun to my head, no amount of biopsychosocial clear cutting or strip mining is ever going to change that. Can't take what isn't there.

I've long since accepted what I can and cannot do (what other choice do I have? I can't hate myself into being magically cured, and frankly I wouldn't if I could. I refuse to hate myself for anyone or anything ever again), but the work mindset the people I have to interact with from these systems subscribe to is incapable of accepting anything gracefully. What do you mean you're not going to get better? Sounds like you're just not doing everything you possibly can (surely there has to be some rabbit you can pull out of a hat if we just make you desperate enough). What do you mean you can't give 110% every day? What do you mean there are consequences?

To try to get everything out of me when I don't even have all of it is a form of magical thinking, it's blood from a stone, and yet these motherfuckers are so completely convinced. If capitalism is a church, they're the preacher who tells you the reason you still need your mobility aid(s) is that you're not praying hard enough. Reality isn't real to them, greed and toxic positivity are all they understand.

And I don't fucking know how to get through to these people who unfortunately, through an interconnected series of bureaucracies and policies, hold my future in their hands. I don't know how to make them understand it when they're so determined not to.

[furryprovocateur]

my cup cumeth over

what is there to say about kinship's bond, one of my favorite defend chapters in the series? it was absolute agony to do this chapter because while you don't HAVE to kill eubans, you absolutely want to because a. he drops a knight crest b. boss kill experience c. the chapter ends the second he dies d. the chapter turn requirement is the max amount of turns spent defending, so basically as long as you kill him before turn 10 enemy phase, you'll be saving at least one turn, if not multiple. the problem is that he's basically in the asshole of the chapter, being surrounded by forest squares and being in the very corner of the map whereas you start near nearly the opposite side. still, getting to him isn't hard if you overextend with marcus/any other non-isadora paladin you might have by this point and just haul ass with a javelin, hand axe, and iron axe equipped at various points. if anything, the hardest part is surviving with everyone up to that point.

LMAO JK did you think i was serious? the hardest part is the dicerolling for killing eubans because i cannot tell you how many times i got to the end only to see "sain is attacking eubans. he has a 70%-80% hit rate and he only has to hit once and is doubling. OOPS he missed both hits" or even better the classic "both hits missed on the enemy phase and now you can't kill him because the forest square he attacked you from is preventing a 1RKO LOL haha". i swear to god it's not even HHM or the ranked run that's making my blood fucking boil, it's the fucking probability always swinging against me in the most fucking improbable circumstances. i had like 2 80%s miss then a 30% to kill hit me. i just. i know it gets exhausting to see me complain about RNG in this game but holy fucking CUNT FUCK does it incense me. like i cannot overstate how mad it makes me because i'm literally not making any mistakes and still losing because of it. i'm trying so so so hard not to mald harder but whatever.

heath got a level and change and got good stats. the plan is to use the shit out of him next chapter by prepping him with a barrier and letting him go to town on as many of the magic units that he can. iirc he's not gonna be doubling but if i give him the short spear, he might be 1HKOing until he either can 1HKO with the javelin or double. isadora meanwhile did 2 things for me this chapter: she used a nearly broken iron sword to kill an annoying mage and then she hauled ass to the secret shop to buy a bunch of shit with the silver card (another physic, two torch staves, two barriers, and a 5 use chest key (i'm going to need this for BBD and NOF i imagine)). the best part about buying a bunch of shit with the silver card is that it doesn't cost any money due to how the game calculates funds, so even if i am overbuying, i'm just making my liquid gold solid.

last thing to note: we're in red alert territory because my collective lord levels are only at 46 right now and FFO is right around the corner. i need to average getting 2 level in living legend and genesis. i THINK this is fairly doable considering there's two berserker bosses next turn and i think i can at least get lyn to kill one of them, ideally eliwood would be able to tank out the other one. the biggest problem is living legend has a short turn count so i have to be quick, but i also need to make sure i'm hitting the experience benchmark. i'll burn turns if i HAVE to, but i want to avoid that at all costs. at the same time, i absolutely refuse to do lloyd's FFO, so the conflicting desires there are gonna come to a head soon.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Light's out, follow the noise

서로의 눈치만 보지만 네 속마음 들킨걸 아는걸 Don’t you agree Don’t you agree 감정을 속이려 하는 너 시간 없어 넌 just wasting time Don't you agree Don't you agree

Who needs to go to sleep, when I got you next to me?

All night I'll riot with you

I know you got my back and you know I got you

So come on, come on, come on

Let's get physical

Lights out, follow the noise

Baby keep on dancing like you ain't got a choice|YOU DON'T|[you will]

So come on, come on, come on

Let's get physical

Adrenaline keeps on rushing in

Love the simulation we're dreaming|SLEEPING|[waking] in

Don't you agree?

Don't you agree?

I don't wanna live another life

Cuz this one's pretty nice

Living it up

Who needs to go to sleep|DREAM|[wake up], when I got you next to me?

Dua Lipa ft Hwasa — Physical

The hike from Ares One.

You've watched it. Everything was recorded. I think you can get it in full immersion, now, and fly around like a hummingbird. I'll add what I can.

The route was planned. We all went together - the CEV and Ares One itself had enough automation to go home alone in the event of crew loss. Whatever we'd find at the artifact, it needed the human element.

We carried rifles. They made us heavier and slower and probably less safe. I think the argument about the rifles can be left for another time. What's important is -

It turned out well. Look at me. Look at us! You're talking to a ninety-year-old man. A ninety-year-old who's never been sharper. I'm miles ahead of every cognitive benchmark.

What's happened to me is good. What's happened to all of us is good. When we crested that rise and made visual contact with the artifact I don't think any one of us dared dream that it would end this well.

We went to Mars at the cutting edge of human civilization. And it wasn't our weapons that won the day.

We were right. That makes me so happy. To this day.

It was our ship. Our training. Our camaraderie. Our belief that if we just reached out to the universe, not to grasp for profit or security but with an open hand, we would be elevated.

Ghost Fragment: Human 3

[I am the first Speaker to never dream.

At least, I think that's true. In the days following the Collapse, any Speakers who survived were scattered to the wind, traveling with groups of refugees across the ruined wasteland that Earth became. Aside from the man who taught me, I've never met another Speaker in my life. For all I know, I'm the last one alive.

Before the Collapse, Speakers were chosen for their ability to hear the Traveler through detailed, lucid dreams. Since the dreams have stopped, there are other signs. Ghosts follow us. When we do dream, we see a strange and blinding white light. We are prone to headaches.

My mentor couldn't teach me how to interpret dreams, so he taught me in hypotheticals. I had to imagine what the dreams might be like. I had to speculate why the Traveler might come back to us and when. Like all Speakers, I memorized the four tenets: The Traveler is good. The Traveler is sentient. The Traveler will save us. The Traveler will leave us.

Sometimes I worry the Traveler has already left us.

My mentor died of a wasting sickness two years ago, and I've tried to live as his replacement. But where he was a living memory of when the Traveler was awake, I have only his memories, secondhand, imperfectly understood. I can't give answers. I can't make the Traveler speak.

Or, at least, I couldn't.

For weeks, I have worked in secret on a project, gathering scrap metal and old, broken things left over from the time before. I've cobbled it together, tinkered with the mix of strange and half-understood technology, tried to calibrate it to my needs.

A long time ago, long before the Collapse, astrophysicists recorded sounds from the planets in our solar system and turned them into music. They translated plasma waves and radio emissions into eerie, musical rumbles, roars, whistles, and hisses. The Traveler makes sounds, too. Speakers have listened to its music for many years, in the form of dreams.

Carefully, lovingly, I build a mask. An amplifier.

No one knows about it but me. I won't get their hopes up, even though mine are sky high as I put the finishing touches on it. It's not beautiful like our old technology was. It is scuffed and bent and rusted, like everything we own now. But if I'm right, if I can do this, it will do beautiful things.

I can't bear to fail. I have failed at everything else so far.

When I'm finished, I wear the mask. Pieces of it, not sanded down, are rough and sharp against my face, but I dream for the first time in my life.

|| I have cried out unheard for so long that my voice is raw. ||]

Constellations: Singing

[ishouldfindarealjob]

Everything that is wrong with the furniture industry.

Today, I need to complain a little bit about the "state of design" from where I stand in our carpentry business. I can't even call myself a carpenter —I'm just an administrative worker at this point, running a carpentry shop that specializes in custom-made furniture.

A few years ago, things were different. Back then, we worked directly with customers who came to us with their ideas, specific needs, and personal preferences. We collaborated closely with them to bring their visions to life. Each piece of furniture reflected the customer's personality, and it was amazing.

These days, most of our projects come through interior designers. It’s a broader trend: more people are opting for furniture from big retailers like IKEA. They’re lured in by the convenience, affordability, and wide veriety of styles that appeal to the masses.

I get why people go for mass-produced furniture, but it's made a mess for businesses like ours. Sure, interior designers come to us because they know the value of high-quality furniture that big-box stores can't offer. They appreciate the attention to detail, the good materials we use, and the ability to customize pieces to fit a client's space and, importantly, the designer's style.

This shift towards working with interior designers was supposed to be a game-changer for us. It should have allowed us to focus on our strength—crafting beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces—while the designers handled the broader project aspects, from concept to final styling. In theory, this relationship should benefit everyone: designers get unique pieces that elevate their projects, we get to showcase our craftsmanship, and the clients receive furniture truly tailored to their needs and tastes.

But the reality is frustrating. The expectation that we can match the prices of mass-produced furniture is unrealistic and unsustainable.

Let me tell you about the first big issue I face in the furniture industry, the "IKEA effect." IKEA has turned the market upside down with its cheap, ready-to-assemble furniture. But while everyone loves the low prices, it's a nightmare for businesses like mine. Most of IKEA’s stuff is made from low-density materials that can feel as flimsy as cardboard. Pieces break all the time, showing just how fragile their products are. Their mass production method is all about automation, with a limited range of designs and sizes. This efficiency keeps their costs super low, setting a benchmark that’s impossible for custom furniture makers to match.

In stark contrast, our materials are dense, high-quality, and built to last. Every project we take on is unique, tailored to our customers' specific needs and desires. This level of customization means we can't automate our processes. Everything is handcrafted. But human hands have their limits. This slow, labor-intensive process is the heart of our craftsmanship, but it comes with a higher price tag.

The "IKEA effect" has conditioned customers to expect the same low prices from us as they get at big-box stores. This unrealistic expectation puts us in a tough spot. To attract and keep customers, we’re often forced to lower our prices to unsustainable levels. It’s turned our business into more of a hobby than a real business. We struggle to invest in new machinery, pay our skilled workers decent wages, or even keep our current operations running. The financial strain is huge, to the point where closing our doors sometimes seems like the only option. This situation threatens the survival of traditional, high-quality carpentry businesses like ours in a market increasingly dominated by mass-produced, low-cost furniture.

The second major headache we face in the carpentry business is dealing with interior designers. Every year, our technical universities spit out a never-ending stream of new graduates who think they’re the next big thing in design. They flaunt this image of creative genius, with artsy black-and-white portraits on Instagram. But let's be real—their work usually doesn't live up to the hype. Instead of coming up with innovative designs, a lot of these designers are just copying popular Pinterest posts. Every project looks the same: same colors, shapes, lamps, sofas, and carpets.

It's not just about individual studios failing to develop a unique style. Same trends everywhere, with designers all following the same damn playbook. This cut-and-paste approach kills creativity and innovation, leaving us with a bunch of monotonous interiors. What's worse is that many of these designers don’t even bother to supervise the renovation process. They make these super-realistic visualizations and technical plans, but they’re often full of technical mistakes because young designers have zero hands-on experience on-site and they are not willing to gain any.

Interior designers are supposed to help their customers extract their personal style and make sure it is aesthetically pleasing, but many of them have turned into nothing more than copycats, churning out designs that lack individuality and longevity. Take the white rustic kitchen with a farmhouse sink, for example. About ten years ago, it was the hottest thing on Pinterest. Now, it’s considered outdated, and design experts on YouTube are advising against it. The same fate is going to hit the current trendy designs that are being shoved down our throats. The more you push some trend down people throats, the sooner it becomes ridiculousy outdated

This whole rapid trend cycling thing with furniture, it's not like clothes, where you can just swap out a shirt or pants when styles change because how long can, even a good tshirt last? Furniture is a big investment. The good stuff, especially the wood or wood-based furniture we make, is supposed to last decades. And let's not forget, wood's slowly becoming harder and harder to get. But no, everyone feels the need to ditch their perfectly good furniture every few years just because it looks a bit out of style.

Seriously, people need to start personalizing their spaces more. When you fill your home with stuff that really means something to you, it doesn't get old as quickly. It's unique, it's you. When our clients put their own spin on things, the design feels timeless instead of just another passing fad. It's about keeping our craftsmanship intact and moving towards a more sustainable and meaningful way to design our living spaces.

Wood, is becoming increasingly precious. At this point it feels it`s almost as valuable as gold. Despite this, the fast-paced nature of design trends pressures homeowners to replace their furniture every few years, simply because it feels outdated.

Another thing that furts me is that some companies steal iconic designs and act like they invented them. There is plenty online stores with literally THOUSANDS of pieces. I decided to randomly check one of them, Beliani, mostly because i see their ads on Youtube all the time, and they are annoyng. So, I checked out their website once and saw a chair that looked exactly like Pierre Jeanneret's famous design from the 1950s. But do they mention Pierre? Nope. They just slap random name on it and pretend it's their original creation. It makes me wonder how many of their other pieces are just rip-offs of classic designs. It's like they're using art history books as their product catalogs, which is not just unethical but also kills any real creativity.

It's like if someone was selling a print of a Picasso painting, claiming it's their own unique and innovative work without ever mentioning Picasso. It's ridiculous.

And where are all the design students who should be calling out this crap? Or the chemistry students who could be inventing new materials? It feels like we're stuck in a rut, not just with furniture but with everything. We desperately need new materials, especially since wood is becoming so rare and expensive. Should we be looking at synthetics? And where are all the design students who should be calling out this crap?

A friend of mine told me, he wants to start selling a certain wall decor but feels like he can't because a top designer in our town is already selling something similar and calling it original. But this "original" design has been all over Instagram and Pinterest for at least five years now. How is this guy considered the best and most creative when he's clearly just copying? And if my friend copied it back, would that be fair game? Could our hometown top, real deal designer really get mad?

This endless cycle of copying is killing true innovation. We're stuck in this loop of imitation, and it's suffocating real creativity. We need to start valuing originality and pushing for new ideas and materials. That's the only way we're going to move forward and stop this endless cycle of knock-offs.

And I get it, not every project needs to be some mind-blowing, revolutionary thing. Furniture should look good and be functional, plain and simple. But when designers start acting like they're some kind of gurus and hype their work as groundbreaking, we expect something amazing. And then, all we get are Pinterest trends over and over and over... and OVER AGAIN.

Sure, places like IKEA or those online stores are super convenient and cheap. But there's a big downside. Most of their stuff is made from crappy materials and meant to be thrown away after a few years. And when trends change, these pieces just end up in the landfill, adding to the waste problem.

We need to change our mindset and focus on sustainability. Whether it's clothes, electronics, or furniture, we should aim to buy and create things that last. High-quality, durable products might cost more upfront, but they’re worth it in the long run and are better for the environment. Investing in pieces that stand the test of time, both in quality and design, is just smarter and more responsible.

In furniture design, this means appreciating the craftsmanship and heart that goes into unique, custom pieces. It means supporting businesses that use quality materials and sustainable practices. By doing this, we can break away from the throwaway culture and move towards a future where beauty, functionality, and environmental responsibility all coexist.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

In reverse

Pairing: Sky x fairy!reader

Warnings: angst

Shaking her head in frustration, Y/N grimaces as Sky turns away from her.

“When did you decide I’m an enemy?” Her voice carries the heaviness settled in her heart. Has he forgotten all they’ve once had? 

“When you chose to side with Riven”, Sky remarks sharply. Looking back at her, his blue eyes narrow. “When you helped them arrest Saul”, he raises his voice slightly. 

Swallowing thickly, she lifts her chin up. She did what she believed was right. At the time, she thought Sky’s father was the good guy. Y/N was protecting Sky, it’s what she always did. 

She won’t apologize for it.

“Riven is blood. I can’t turn a blind eye when he’s involved, you know that.” She tries, but when Sky’s dry chuckle sounds, she presses her lips in a thin line. He’s provoking her now, trying to start a fight, one that would crown no true victor. 

“You betrayed me”, he growls out as he moves in on her. Rage filled, Sky pushes her into the wall, enough to make her feel the impact but not strongly enough to harm her. 

“Now what?” She huffs. “Now that you’ve proven you’re physically capable of hurting me, a weakling fairy? Did it bring you pleasure?” She pushes against his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

His hands are at the sides of her head, pressed into the walls.His gaze flickers to her lips as if her words finally made him realize he’s being too aggressive, yet he doesn’t move. 

Licking her lips, she releases a gentle sigh. “Most people go from strangers, to friends to lovers”, a meek smile dances upon her lips. “How did we manage to go about things in reverse?”

“Don’t”, he states reservedly. While his mouth speaks of anger, his eyes speak of heartbreak. 

Searching for any remains of what they once were, Y/N places her hands on his cheeks. She waited for him to fight her touch, but to her surprise, Sky leans into her right palm and closes his eyes.

“Why?” She asks, voice so quiet it’s more of a whisper.

Inhaling sharply, his beautiful eyes open and set on hers. “Because I need to hate you to survive.”

“Don’t”, she’s the one to ask it of him now. His voice, his resignation, the emotion in his eyes, it’s all too much and too easy to fall for and she cannot have hope for something that’s been destroyed, something she’s mourning still. 

“Why?” He breathes out.

“Because you’re with Bloom and I’ve just barely accepted the pain it causes me. I’m trying to move on”, she explains. “I”, she pauses as his lips part. “I can’t forget us as easily as you did.”

Shaking his head, he bites his lower lip. Sniffling, he steps back and her hands fall to her sides. 

“You think I forgot us?” He lets out a shaky breath. “I wish I could forget”, his broken smile appears and her heart stutters inside her chest. “Bloom is a star, but you were always the sun.”

Blinking fast, Y/N didn’t know how to react to his sudden confession. It’s all she wanted for months, but wishing for something is much different to actually having a wish come true.

“Do you still”, she pauses, unsure fully speaking it out loud would be wise. No matter what his response is, it’s undeniable they’re on different sides of an ongoing war. There’s not much to expect other than pain and bloodshed. 

Then again, is that not a benchmark of every epic love?

Nodding faintly, Sky wordlessly answers the unfinished question. 

Managing a smile, she nods too. She wishes she didn’t love him still, but she does. It’s a harsh reality she’s faced with every single day, but he’s got her heart in the palm of his hands, always. 

“Stay out of our way”, Sky warns her. “Next time we meet, I can’t guarantee I will be able to walk away.” 

There is nothing but pain in his gruff voice. He’s barely holding on, taking a step back. And then another.

“I mean it, Y/N.”

Smirking despite the tears flooding her eyes, Y/N nods. “I know you do, but know that I can’t.”

“Even if it kills us both?” He frowns, cocking his head to the side.

Shrugging, she bites the inside of her cheek as her unshed tears blur her vision of the man she’s loved for so long. 

“We’re both doing what we think is right”, she reminds him. He doesn’t know the true motives she and Riven have or of the way she’s likely to win this war and protect all her friends as an insider, but she cannot tell him. It’s too dangerous to share such delicate information, even with Sky. 

One day he’ll understand.

Taking one last look, she blinks away a tear. “Until we meet again.”

Part 2

[beautifulletdownfics]

Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

+

MY MASTERLIST.

+

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but ��� I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

+

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

+

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

+

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

+

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

+

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?” you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

+

My inbox is here

[natromanxoff]

How prog were Queen?

By Dave Everley

On 9 January, 1971, Kevin Ayers and Genesis played a show together at the Ewell Technical College near Epsom in Surrey. Ayers was 18 months out of Soft Machine, and making a name for himself as a psychedelically-inclined art-folk rake. Genesis had released their second album, Trespass, a few months earlier, and were carving out a place in the vanguard of the burgeoning progressive rock movement.

There was a third band propping up the bill that night, a bunch of transplanted Londoners calling themselves Queen. In contrast to the wilfully artful approach of the headliners, their music was more straightforward: a heavy, if ornate blend of Led Zeppelin’s earthiness and the flights of fancy of Yes.

Not everyone in the small crowd watching them was impressed, but they caught the attention of one person. After the show, Genesis frontman Peter Gabriel pulled Queen’s blond-bombshell drummer Roger Taylor to one side. Gabriel’s band were about to dismiss their own drummer, John Mayhew, and were looking for a replacement. Was Taylor interested in joining Genesis? The reply was instant: thanks but no thanks. Taylor was utterly dedicated to Queen – there were gigs to play, places to go, and many musical adventures to embark on.

Had Taylor accepted the offer, the course of music – and specifically prog – would have been very different. Genesis would have flourished with Gabriel upfront, though whether they would have survived and prospered as they did without a Phil Collins to step into the breach after their talismanic singer’s departure was another matter.

The knock-on effect on Queen would have been greater. Taylor was an essential part of their carefully balanced four-way chemistry; a chemistry that would go on to throw up some of the most ambitious and game-changing music ever recorded. While Queen weren’t a capital ‘P’ prog band, they were infused with the spirit of the movement, combining its forward-looking values with its absolute disregard for the existing rules. Taking their cues from the likes of Yes, Genesis, Van der Graaf Generator and even Pink Floyd, their flamboyantly cavalier approach would go on to inspire such modern masters as Dream Theater, Queensrÿche and Muse. And, in Bohemian Rhapsody, they ensured that one of the biggest-selling singles in history was, at heart, a prog song. Forget the luxuriant moustaches and sawn-off mike-stands that would come to define them: if the prog ethos meant avoiding the expected, then Queen were definitely a prog band.

“Diversity was probably their greatest asset,” says former Dream Theater drummer and confirmed Queen devotee Mike Portnoy. “From song to song, they could be so different. You could have something that was folk followed by something that was rockabilly followed by something that was metal. And that’s one of the biggest things about prog, having that open-mindedness.”

Queen’s schooling in prog came early on. Brian May’s very first band, 1984, played a 4am slot supporting Pink Floyd at the Christmas On Earth Continued all-nighter in 1967. A year later, his next outfit, Smile – also featuring Roger Taylor – played with Floyd again, this time at London’s Imperial College. By the time of their gig opening for Kevin Ayers, Smile had changed their name to Queen and recruited Freddie Mercury. Collectively, they admired Yes, Van der Graaf Generator and especially Genesis. “Foxtrot is a prog rock classic,” Roger Taylor later wrote in the sleevenotes to Genesis box set 1970-1975. “Arrangements were highly complex in these early days, setting a benchmark for the style of the times.”

When it came to finding someone to produce their debut album, Queen’s first choice was John Anthony, who had worked with both Genesis and Van der Graaf. With Anthony and co-producer Roy Thomas Baker behind the desk, the eponymous album trod heavily in Led Zeppelin’s footsteps. But there was another, altogether more visionary band straining to spread their wings: My Fairy King was a filigreed slice of flamboyant rock’n’roll, while Liar metamorphosised through several different time changes and timings.

Those wings were fully unfurled on the follow-up, 1974’s Queen II. The title was the most prosaic thing about the record: the music inside was as fevered and baroque as rock gets, informed equally by Zeppelin, Yes and crazed Victorian artist Richard Dadd, whose 1864 painting The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke inspired one of the album’s most prog-leaning tracks. It may have been rooted in the heavy rock of the times, but its cavalier approach and sheer sense of scale pegged Queen as a defiantly progressive proposition.

“Queen weren’t like Yes, who had a dualistic role of guitar and keyboards, where both shared the terrain,” says Yes guitarist Steve Howe, supported by Queen at Kingston Poly in early 1971. “Brian had the terrain to himself. The remarkable thing was that he was the front and the back man. It required him to come up with more than guitar solos… He had to come up with a semi-thematic approach to play the guitar. And what he did was keep colouring.”

Queen’s prog inclinations would be deeply woven into the fabric of their early albums, from the audacious multi-part theatrics of Queen II’s March Of The Black Queen to the schizophrenic attack of the two-part Lap Of The Gods from 1974’s Sheer Heart Attack. Even in their more commercial moments, they marched to the beat of their own drum. What other band would have dared serve up something so unusual as Killer Queen?

“It was their diversity,” says Mike Portnoy, who first heard Queen as an eight-year-old in the mid-70s and covered many Queen songs while in Dream Theater. “Their albums took the prototype that The Beatles laid down with the White Album, where you had four different artists bringing in very different styles. Every song was so diverse. You get to A Night At The Opera, and you had this giant multi-layered epic like Bohemian Rhapsody next to something like Seaside Rendezvous or Love Of My Life.”

A Night At The Opera was Queen’s grand artistic statement and their most unashamedly prog album. Pitched around the epic twin tentpoles of The Prophet’s Song and Bohemian Rhapsody, it married their far-reaching vision to a distinctly British barminess. Taken on its own, the eight-minute The Prophets Song, with its incredible ornate a cappella middle section, would be enough to grant Queen access to the Prog Hall Of Fame. But even that sits in the inescapable shadow of Bohemian Rhapsody. Time and success might have lessened its impact, but that song remains the most dazzlingly unique piece of music ever to sell five million copies.

“There are epic things that come along every so often,” says Steve Howe. “There’s Sgt Pepper, there’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. And there’s Bohemian Rhapsody. I don’t know when I first heard it, but once it was there, it was such a formidable thing. You’re thinking: ‘How many tracks did they need to do those vocals? How did they write it? Who invented it? It really was astounding.”

Bohemian Rhapsody encapsulated one of the key things that gave Queen such a distinct identity. Like The Beatles and Beach Boys before them, they used the studio as an instrument – not least when it came to their vocals. And Bohemian Rhapsody raised the bar about as high as it could go.

“They sang each of those parts and triple-stacked them,” says Mike Portnoy. “You heard all three of their voices singing in all three vocal ranges. That’s what made the depth of their music so complex. It wasn’t the instrumentation, it was the vocals. That’s unusual for prog music. When I think of my favourite prog music, it’s always the musicianship that draws me. But with Queen, it was the vocals. It was so deep.”

For all its success, A Night At The Opera would be Queen’s grand kiss-off to their prog roots. Later albums streamlined their sound into a more conventional format. Much like Genesis, the 80s found them swapping experimentalism for chart rock.

It wasn’t until the end of their career as an active band that Queen would again sound so adventurous. During 1989 and 1990, the band began work on their penultimate album, Innuendo, in London and Montreux. In the summer of 1990, Yes guitarist Steve Howe paid a flying visit to the Swiss city, where a chance encounter with a former guitar tech found him being invited to Queen’s studio to hear the album as a work-in-progress.

“Inside, there’s Freddie, Brian and Roger all sitting together. They go: ‘Let’s play you the album,’” says Howe. “Of course, I’m hearing it for the first time: I Can’t Live Without You, I’m Going Slightly Mad. And they saved Innuendo itself until last. They played it and I was fucking blown away.”

If that was surprising, then what happened next was utterly out-of-the-blue. The members of Queen asked if Howe wanted to play on the title track. The Yes man politely suggested they’d lost their minds. It took the combined weight of Mercury, May and Taylor to persuade him.

“They all chimed in: ‘We want some crazy Spanish guitar flying around over the top. Improvise!’” recalls Howe. “I started noodling around on the guitar, and it was pretty tough. After a couple of hours, I thought: ‘I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.’ I had to learn a bit of the structure, work out the chordal roots were, where you had to fall if you did a mad run in the distance; you have to know where you’re going. But it got towards evening, and we’d doodled and I’d noodled, and it turned out to be really good fun. We have this beautiful dinner, we go back to the studio and have a listen. And they go: ‘That’s great. That’s what we wanted.”

Released as a single in January 1991, Innuendo gave Queen their third Number One single. Like Bohemian Rhapsody 25 years before it, it was as unlikely as hit singles get: a six-and-a-half minute musical jigsaw, complete with flamenco runs, classically-inclined orchestral overloads and maverick 5/4 timing. Queensrÿche covered the song on 2007’s Take Cover album, while you can hear its echo in Radiohead’s Paranoid Android and Muse’s more elaborate sci-fi epics.

“In the world of rock, Queen stands out as a good example of the clash between guitar and piano in songwriting,” Muse’s Matt Bellamy has said. “I think that’s where you stumble across those more unusual arrangements and chord structures.”

Today, Queen have left a bi-polar legacy. They’re arguably best known for their pop hits – Radio Gaga, I Want To Break Free and of course, Bohemian Rhapsody, that ultimate prog Trojan Horse. But their spirit of adventure remains unmatched by all but the boldest of their peers.

“There was no rulebook for Queen,” says Mike Portnoy. “They broke most of the rules that existed, and then they wrote a new set.”

[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

After this weekend there is only six more weeks of school.

They finally started spacing out the benchmarks so that we would not have 3 back-to-back 4 hour tests for those poor kiddos. So next week we'll have 2 benchmark tests and then a third test the week after.

=+=

I finally started working on my resume today after work. My computer is an absolute piece of crap and if you barely touch the touchpad the cursor goes to another part of the document.

If you're not conscious of it the entire time your text will appear everywhere. It's a 10-year old Lenovo and weighs at least eight pounds. Sometimes it boots up and sometimes it doesn't but every other laptop I have ever had has started coming apart around where the power cord is supposed to be plugged in. The plastic just starts separating and after awhile it will no longer charge.

The principal has gone out of her way to be nice to me this week and it turned out I definitely was not the only one who was completely offended by the superintendent's remarks about how the only teachers and classes that mattered were the ones who taught to the STAAR test.

We were already working on a skeleton crew of teachers and now at the end of this year there are six more that are leaving.

I honestly don't really care whether I get this job or not, even though it will mean a ton more money. I started thinking today all the things I will have to move if I get it: all my books, all my professional development materials, my refrigerator and all my supplies.

But you never know. God's will be done and I will be happy either way because I have a job.

At 10 tonight my test score will be posted and I'm trying to decide if I want to stay up or just access it when I wake up tomorrow morning. I tried really hard, I took my time and I studied for months for this test so I really do hope that I pass it, even though it won't mean any more money or respect or anything good other than the experience of having the knowledge.

=+=

One good thing that happened today is that I had some girls come in and eat lunch with me and it wasn't the usual Bunch that always come in. One girl is a struggling student and an English language learner, another girl is a good student but does not speak much English at all, and the third girl is very smart but doesn't go to school sometimes because she has seizures. There are usually two or three other girls that are kind of bossy that show up but for whatever reason they were not there today( if students get rewarded for good behavior they get to come into my room on Fridays and eat lunch with me and watch YouTube).

I asked the girls what they wanted to watch and they said crafting so we started looking up crafting videos and we stumbled onto this one with a lady and her two daughters and I think she called herself Mama Cray Cray or something and she just kept screaming crafting with Mommy during a hurricane!!

I laughed more during that 10-minute video that I have all week. I put the captions on Spanish subtitles and we all just laughed ourselves silly and it was the best bonding moment. 💙💚💕 it made April Fool's Day a lot better.

I hate April Fool's Day and I have hated it my entire life.

On the Whiteboard I drew a court jester and put this is a no fool zone

In 9th period one of the kids asked why I hated April Fool's Day so and I just blurted out

BECAUSE I HAVE AUTISM.

Since I found this out three years ago I've only told two students and so it was kind of unlike me to do that. But I have one girl in there who looks and acts exactly like Luna Lovegood and I'm pretty sure she is somewhat autistic. She came up to me and asked me "Is it bad to have autism?"

I assured her it wasn't and told her it was just rough for me because I had gone my entire life not understanding why I was different from other people and I did not get diagnosed until I was in my forties.

Anyway here is to surviving another week.

I am so glad it is Friday.

[the-toasted-teacake]

Carlando made my brain too noisy. I’m not sure what my point was.

On the eve of DTS, all the talk about how exactly Drive to Survive will create a rivalry from Carlos and Lando’s friendship got me thinking.

So… I actually don’t think it’s that ‘out there’ for Netflix to portray their relationship as a rivalry. (*winces* Don’t shoot me!) They do have a fiercely competitive rivalry, both on and off track. It’s not a nasty, bitter kind of rivalry–they don’t hate each other, sabotage each other, or wish each other ill. It’s healthy and respectful, and the desire to beat each other drives both of them to be better–but the rivalry is definitely there. It’s an integral part of the relationship, just like their supportive friendship and genuine affection for each other 🧡.

But I think that healthy rivalry gives Netflix more than enough ammo to build an exaggerated tale of animosity between teammates. Because who needs nuance when you can have mElOdRaMa? (I’m speculating. Who knows, DTS might offer a fair portrayal of their relationship--but based on Carlos and Lando’s reactions and the style of previous series, I’m assuming Netflix have been, er, liberal with the creative license.)

We know Netflix is prone to using radio messages, video footage, and interview quotes out of context–cutting the footage relating to one situation as if it relates to a totally separate incident. They mould the content to fit their narrative.

But where will they drum up the footage to craft their tale of rivalry and betrayal? My guesses:

Carlos’ bad luck at the start of the season → Carlos had a run of really bad luck early in the season, and most of it was totally out of his hands (good article here). While I don’t think he truly blamed the team for his misfortune, he was obviously massively frustrated at the time. Things just kept going wrong. Every time his luck seemed to have turned, at the next race he had another disaster. Tensions run high, and I’m sure his frustrations were reflected in comments and interviews. I can imagine how DTS could easily spin that frustration into a storyline about ‘Carlos feeling that McLaren were favouring Lando’.

Focusing on the tense moments as teammates, at the expense of all the cooperative ones → Lando and Carlos have a genuine friendship and a cooperative teammate relationship: *George voice* FACT. But it's true that your teammate is your biggest rival and performance benchmark, and that will inevitably create some tense moments. Lando has said himself there were times where they “hated” each other. I don’t for a second believe that they ever actually hated each other, but there were obviously moments where they were frustrated or angry–because of bad luck, because of dissatisfaction with their own performance on the day, because a car upgrade they received/didn’t receive benefitted the other and it felt unfair–and perhaps in those moments they resented each other. Made some comments out of frustration or defensiveness. It hurts when you’re beaten by your teammate, even if you’re happy for them too.

Emphasising the moments they actually were annoyed with each other → Lando and Carlos are close friends, but let’s face it–all relationships have their moments! No matter how strong your relationship with someone, sometimes they drive you mad. You get grumpy with each other and overreact to little stuff. Carlos has said that Lando is in a foul mood sometimes and not up for joking–it doesn’t mean anything deep, but it sure makes for dramatic footage if you catch it on camera and spin it just right 🙃 (I dread to think what storyline Netflix could make up about my sister and I–we’re really close and rarely properly argue, but sometimes she makes me 😤)  

Overplaying or misrepresenting their banter, maybe → Carlos and Lando are sometimes kind of savage to each other! 😅 They clearly enjoy winding each other up, having a little dig at each other. I don’t think there’s much edge to it. It’s all in good fun and just part of their friendship, but take it out of context and cut it the right way and it could easily look like animosity.

And, of course, interviews at opportune moments, full of leading questions to draw out every bit of drama and elicit spicy soundbites → If Netflix interviews people when they’re riled up and tensions are high, it’s easy to get the response they want–we’ve often seen the controversial comments made during the post-race interviews in the media pen. People say all sorts in the heat of the moment! Also, ask someone ‘how angry they were’ at a situation, and their response will be different from if you asked them ‘how they felt’ about it.

So that was a really long way of saying: I love Carlos and Lando’s relationship. (Shocker, I know.) As teammates they built a strong bond and cooperative environment to push McLaren forward, always respecting each other along the way. As friends they’ve shared a lot of laughs; supported and encouraged each other through the doubts; been each other’s biggest fan; just got each other’s little idiosyncrasies; and shown all of that affection in the face of a sport that still believes teammates need to hate each other to succeed. They want to beat each other on track more than anything, but they also seem to enjoy each other. Sometimes they probably irritated the hell out of each other too. But I think they found each other at the right time, in the right place, and were exactly what the other needed. Watching them together makes me smile.

So when Netflix inevitably hones in on the rivalry angle, I don’t think it’ll be a total fabrication–just a massive exaggeration of one part of their relationship. That said, I will be angry if DTS really, truly tries to suggest they hated each other or ever lost that respect.

I’m looking forward to watching DTS, and I’m glad we get a whole episode focused on Lando and Carlos, but I’ll watch it all with a very healthy dose of scepticism. And: they’ll never stop me shipping it 😁

So there you have it. My long-winded speculative analysis of the relationship between two blokes I’ve never met and its portrayal in a documentary I’ve yet to watch. What could possibly go wrong? 😬

(I may have forgotten to mention that I haven’t even watched DTS 1 & 2 yet. I’ll get round to it eventually, I swear…)

[streamacademe]

Bonus post: Thesis writing.

This post will be a combination of tips and tricks I have received from numerous sources, with the majority coming from Shinton Consulting and STREAM IDC staff. 

The big T

If you’re anything like me, just the word ‘thesis’ can instill a sense of dread in me. However, the best way to deal with a phobia is to face it head on, so let’s do just that, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. 

What a thesis is and what to expect...

Writing a thesis could take anywhere between four weeks to a whole year, and sometimes even longer! The worst thing you can do is compare your progress to that of others; setting a benchmark is one thing, but beating yourself into a panicked pulp because you haven’t written as many chapters as a fellow PhD/EngD won’t do you any good. The best thing you can do is have regular discussions with your supervisors on how long your thesis will take and plan accordingly. 🕖

Your thesis has to be fit for purpose (that is to pass), which means that it has to:

Satisfy the expectations of your institution and industry sponsor (if applicable).

How did you solve the problem that was proposed to you?

Contain material which presents a unified body of work that could reasonably be achieved on the basis of three years’ postgraduate study and research.

Show you have done the work and impress your examiners.

Allow your examiners to confirm that the thesis is an original work, which makes a significant contribution to the field, including material worthy of publication.

Research your examiners and quote them where possible, especially if they’re relevant to your field.

Show adequate knowledge of the field of study and relevant literature. 

Make sure you read all of the key papers in your field. 

What were the gaps in knowledge?

The ‘references’ section is very important as this sets the scene and examiners will read this. BUT, don’t have too many references. 

Demonstrate critical judgement with regard to both the candidate’s work and that of other scholars in the same general field.

Compare approaches and conclusions of others.

Note potential conflicts of interest.

Why did you use this method/approach?

Is your interpretation the only possible explanation?

Be presented in a clear, consistent, concise, and accessible format. 

Make your examiners lives easier. 

Make your viva as pleasant as can be!

Basically, you need to know why your project was important, be able to explain the key work that has already been done in the area and how it relates to your research aim. You should then be able to explain what you have done during your research and how this contributes to your field. 

Note: Keep checking university regulations! Each university should have their own code of practice for supervisors and research students, which will look something like this. 

Picture: A short summary of the above. Source: Tumblr.

Planning and writing

I’m not going to lie to you, it is not going to be easy. I have only just embarked on the journey myself and am already overwhelmed. However, with the right preparation, coping mechanisms in place, and a tremendous amount of self-discipline, we will get through. ☕

Getting started

You need to practice writing. That’s as simple as advice gets. 

You need to practice reading other PhD/EngD theses, mainly to understand what to expect, and to experience what being the audience for a thesis is like. 

Create a thesis plan... 

To start the mammoth task that is thesis writing, it needs to be fully understood and broken down into manageable chunks.

Make a plan (perhaps based on the table of contents of another thesis) of all the sections and chapters in the thesis.

Then break these into sections and keep breaking it down until you are almost at the paragraph level.

Now you can start writing!

Where to start the actual writing?

Start with the most comfortable chapter, such as a previously published paper, a set of results that are straightforward and can be easily explained, methodology/methods, etc. 

Create a storyboard for your thesis and write as if you are telling that story.

If you’re not sure what comes next, refer to previous theses and back to your plan and storyboard. 

Be ready to amend the plan for future chapters as each is completed and you become more aware of what the thesis must contain.

Remember: THINKING IS HARD, WRITING IS EASIER. 💭

Organisation

Develop and maintain a logical filing system.

Improve your back up technique; if it’s not saved in 3+ locations, it is not safely backed up.

Back up every day.

Never overwrite previous documents, just make many versions. It’s not worth the risk of losing a valuable piece of work from a copy and paste error.

Copy any key parts from your lab/note/field books as these can get lost/damaged.

Keep a file/folder of thoughts, references, etc. that you are not including in your thesis; these may be useful to refer back to for ideas and information.

Effective writing

Establish a routine, don’t be distracted, take breaks.

Set clear and realistic goals for each week/day. 

A GANTT chart is very good for this; use it to keep on track and measure progress.

You just gotta start. The hardest part is the beginning.

Don’t stall on details, walk away for a short break to clear your mind.

Get formatting correct from the start (check your code of practice/regulations).

Be consistent with references.

Seek help from the experts - supervisors, postdocs, online sources/training programmes etc.

Create SMART objectives for your writing process:

Specific - e.g. “I will complete chapter 3/collate all diagrams” rather than “I will make good progress”.

Measurable - e.g. “I will write 4 pages today” not “I will try to write as much as I can”.

Achievable - e.g. “I will complete the first draft for my supervisor” not “I will get it perfect before he/she sees it”.

Realistic - e.g. “I will complete the introduction today” not “I will complete a chapter a week”.

Time - it can be useful to set yourself deadlines e.g. tell your supervisor you will hand in a draft on a certain day - that way you are sure to have it done.

Finally, find a balance between being tough with yourself whilst protecting your well-being the best you can. I wrote a post a little while ago that covers managing your mental health during a PhD. Read it here. 

GIF: Anna Kendrick dishing out some top advice. Source: Tumblr.

A few more tips

Supervisor management

Establish what you want to cover in each meeting.

Keep a record of the outcomes and actions from those meetings.

Make your supervisors lives easy; they’re very busy humans.

They are unlikely to judge work unless it is presented completely (i.e. fully written with tables, figures, etc.).

Give them a neat, complete version of a chapter at a time (proof-read thoroughly and spell-checked).

It is in your supervisors interest for you to complete in good time; they are experts and will offer a lot of support.

To summarise, a good thesis:

Has an appreciation of what came before.

Focuses on the interesting and important.

Is well reasoned.

Will change the way people think.

Will teach your supervisors something. 

Has publishable results.

Is logical in presentation, analysis, and arguments.

Is well illustrated with tables, figures, graphs, summary flow charts etc.

It is worth spending a lot of time on these. 

Is written without grammatical and spelling errors.

Has an appreciation of what comes next.

I hope that the above was helpful! There are many resources out there, so get exploring if you need more advice!

I’ll soon be writing a post on how to survive your viva! So, watch this space. ✨

Photo: Make this your phone/desktop/laptop/everything background when you’re writing, I know I will! Source: Tumblr.

[notalwaysthevillian]

My Whirlpool of a Life

Ships: Kaminari/OC

Word Count: ~2.7k

I will not be doing a tag list for this fic.

Masterlist

Chapter 8: Time for a Rescue

The four of us were able to hit our targets with ease, since most of them were still groggy from being flesh balls.

“That was so gross.” I said as we headed to the ante room. “I know we might work with these people eventually, but if I can avoid him I’ll be that much happier.”

“You weren’t the one who was manhandled.” Kirishima shivered. “I never want to go through that again.”

“Shut up! Let’s just get back.”

Walking faster, I matched Bakugo’s pace. We walked in silence for a second before he broke.

“What?”

I didn’t look at him. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?”

“That it was too dry.” I saw him tense up out of the corner of my eye. “You wanted me to come with you because you knew I’d have trouble. If I stayed with the others I would’ve been taken out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbled, but it was half-hearted.

Nodding, I slowed to walk with Kami again, but not before whispering a quick “thanks”. There was a quiet grunt as a response, which I figured was the best I was going to get out of Bakugo.

“What was that about?” Kami asked as he claimed my hand.

“Nothing.”

He gave me a look. “You talked to Bakugo without him yelling or exploding something. How did you survive?”

“SHUT UP!”

The speaker crackled to life again. “Our total is at 82.”

Kami squeezed my hand. “Do you think our classmates have passed already?”

“I hope so. Todoroki probably did already, I saw his ice wall earlier.”

I could see explosions and dust flying around at the far end of the arena.

“Wow, everyone is going crazy.”

“Hey, look!” Kaminari pointed. I saw Midoriya, Uraraka, and Sero walking up to the ante room too. “Aw, yeah! Class A represent!”

Uraraka grinned. “You know it! Our class is amazing! We did it!”

“Class 1-A!” Kirishima started chanting, and most of the rest of us joined in.

“I’m glad you passed!” I threw my arms around Uraraka. “What happened to everyone else? I thought you were staying together?”

“Remember that boy that was super nice when we first got here? He has a quirk that lets him break up the ground! We all got separated!”

“I’m lucky I stuck with these guys then.” I gestured to Kirishima and Kaminari on either side of me. “The air is too dry in here, and we weren’t close enough to the water area for me to borrow any. I was pretty much useless.”

“Hey, that’s not true!” Kiri protested. “You helped Kaminari get us out of there.”

“Bug did most of the work.”

Kaminari kissed my cheek. “That time, but I’m sure you’re gonna be the one taking the lead in the future. We’ll just stick closer to the water next time.”

We headed into the ante room, spotting Todoroki, Shoji, Tsu, Jirou, and Yaoyorozu hovering around. Yaoyorozu looked relieved as we all walked in, munching on some dumplings.

“Oh hey! What a relief. I was starting to get worried.”

“No need to worry about us, Yao-Momo!” Kaminari led me over to them. “What’s up? When did you guys pass?”

“Yeah, have you guys been here for long?”

Shoji shook his head. “We just finished as well. Todoroki beat us here.”

“Honestly I was kind of shocked Bakugo wasn’t here already.” Jirou said as she joined us. “But I get it now. It’s because Kaminari was with him.”

“Come on! Why am I getting dragged today?!”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “If anyone was the weak link on that team it was me today. I probably should’ve gone for the water zone.”

“You would’ve been taken out before you got there.” Bakugo huffed, rolling his shoulders back. “Doesn’t matter anyway, we passed.”

“You don’t think that was it, do you?” Yaoyorozu finished off another dumpling. “It seems awfully easy to just outlast people. There’s more to being a hero than that.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna be the hero that saves people. My sidekicks can deal with cleaning up.”

Bakugo walked off toward the food, Kirishima on his heels.

“He actually seems less grouchy today.” I said, earning looks from everyone else. “He won’t admit it but if he hadn’t told me to stay with him, I would’ve probably been tagged out. He pretty much saved me today.”

Kaminari slung his arm around my shoulders. “When did he tell you that?”

“Before, when Shindo was being overly nice.”

“Overly nice?”

“Did you think he was that nice?” Everyone nodded at me. “Bakugo was right, the look in his eye didn’t match what he was saying. His vibes were all off.”

“You can’t always judge someone on vibes alone.” Shoji manifested another arm, grabbing some food from the table.

“I know, but we weren’t wrong.”

“Hey,” Uraraka walked up with a key. “Tsu told me they want us to put the targets back on the shelf. You need help taking them off?”

“I’ve got it.” Kaminari took the key and unlocked the one on my back, his fingers brushing against my hip.

“Hey! Watch your hands.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m just undoing your targe - OW!”

Jirou’s earphone jack recoiled back to her ear and she winked.

Once my targets were off, Kaminari handed me the key. “Now you do me.”

“Phrasing, Bug.” I giggled, quickly taking his targets off.

He pecked me on the forehead. “I know what I said.”

“Gross.”

Laughing at Jirou’s reaction, I grabbed our targets and headed over to put them away, leaving Kami to be told off by her.

“Your boyfriend is cute.” A girl in a Shiketsu uniform was leaning against the wall. She gave me a smile, but it felt more crazy than sweet. “Not as cute as the green-haired boy over there though.”

“Thanks?” I placed the targets on the shelf, before putting the key back on its hook. “What’s your na - oh.”

As I turned back around, she was gone.

“Weird.”

The boy from before, Yoarashi, waved and walked over. “I heard that Class A had someone join after the sports festival. I didn’t see you there, so I have to assume…”

“Yep! That’s me.” I pointed to myself with both thumbs, before laughing. “Guess my boyfriend’s dorkiness is rubbing off on me.”

“When you spend a lot of time with people, you adopt their mannerisms!” He laughed a hearty laugh. “I was curious as to what your quirk is.”

“You have to tell me yours first.”

“That is only fair!” When he spoke, it was loud. “My quirk is Whirlwind. It allows me to control air currents.”

The air around us picked up speed, blowing my hair back.

“Cool!” I activated my quirk, drawing the water out of my belt. “Mine is…I guess Whirlpool? I can control water! If it’s not too dry out I can pull the water from the air, or if there’s water nearby I can use it.”

“A powerful quirk! Your parents must be proud!”

I knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, but I could feel the water whip around my legs as the memories started to come back again. “I’m sure they would be if they were still around.”

He bowed, his head touching the ground again. “My apologies!”

Everyone started looking at us. I threw my hands up, waving them. “It’s okay, really.”

An alarm went off, rescuing me from this conversation. I knew he meant well, but I really didn’t want to continue.

“The last students pass! Every slot is now filled! One hundred students will advance! The end is finally here! Wah-hoo!”

“That’s the most excited I’ve heard that guy all day.” Kami said as he came over and pulled me back towards our classmates.

“Our whole class passed! I’m so excited!” Uraraka cheered, jumping up and down.

I cheered with her. “We did it!!”

It took about 15 minutes for everyone to regather. I felt a little bad for the people who had to withdraw, but that was the nature of the test I guess.

“For the hundred of you who passed the first test, please turn your attention toward the screen.”

I looked up, seeing live footage of the test arena. It was quiet for a moment before explosions rocked the arena, causing multiple collapses in different areas.

“There’s only one more round to the exam. Your goal is simple: undertake rescue exercises and save the bystanders who are trapped in these disaster sites.”

“Rescue exercises?” I bounced on my toes, feeling the smile spread across my face. “This is what I was trained for!”

“Use this time to show us how you will carry out successful rescue procedures once you receive your provisional licenses.Treat this as though it was the real thing.”

The screen shifted, showing the people we had to rescue. There were some elderly, and some young.

“That’s so dangerous! Why are they here?”

“Little kids are prone to ignoring their parents and running toward heroes.” I pointed out, remembering what the Pussycats had taught me. “The elderly are often caught in the crossfire, due to the fact that they usually can’t move as fast.”

“…We’ll be judging on how well you keep them safe as you go about your mission. Oh, by the way, we’ll be scoring you on a point system. If you have more points than the benchmark at the time the exercise comes to an end, then you pass the exam. We’ll start in ten minutes. Take care of any necessary preparations now.”

I turned around only to find that all of my classmates had decided to talk to each other instead. “Okay, so I guess I’m the one making a plan.”

“Guess so.”

Turning around, I found Shindo standing there. “Look, I know you caught on to my nice act earlier too. But it’s a rescue mission, and we’re going to have to work together.”

“Agreed.” I gave him a nod. “I did a lot of rescue work with the Pussycats growing up. My quirk is well suited to search and rescue, especially if there are any broken bones.”

“Well I doubt that’ll be an issue, but good to know. We can get a first aid station set up straight away. Can you get your class to help with the search portion?”

“I’ll talk to them.”

He walked away without another word. I headed back to my classmates, seeing Mineta and Kami yelling at Midoriya about something.

I caught the word “naked” as I got closer, and crossed my arms over my chest. “Kaminari.”

He froze, a hand immediately going to the back of his neck. “Dew Drop!”

“What’s going on?”

“N-nothing! We’re just talking to Midoriya!”

I glanced at Mineta, activating my quirk and locking him against the wall with a wave. “Mineta.”

“Midoriya saw a girl naked!”

I dropped the water. “That’s what you guys are worried about right now? We’re supposed to be planning for a rescue mission!”

“We get people, we get out. It’s easy.” Mineta waved a hand in the air. “This is juicier.”

He walked off, leaving a nervous Kaminari by my side. “Are you mad?”

“You’re a teenage boy, I’m not mad.” I rolled my eyes. “But can we focus on rescue? I’m actually good at this, I can get us to pass. I - I want to make up for not helping as much in the first round.”

“Nami, you did what you could.” Kaminari pulled me into his arms, nuzzling the top of my head. “You can’t be the superstar every time. Unless you’re Bakugo.”

I giggled into his shirt, relaxing as his familiar supercharged scent surrounded me. “You’re right.”

A bell rang, making the two of us jump.

“Shit, I was supposed to -”

“Villains have performed a large-scale terrorist attack slanning all of Insert City Name Here. Since most buildings have collapsed, there are many injured.”

The walls around us broke apart and opened up, just like the start of our test.

“Due to heavily damaged roads, the first responders have unfortunately been delayed for the time being.”

“What is with these rooms?”

“Until emergency services arrive, the heroes in the area will lead the rescue efforts. Your task is to save as many people as you can and help the injured. And with that…BEGIN!”

“You three! With me!” Bakugo yelled before taking off.

I shook my head, staying with our classmates. Kaminari looked torn.

“Bug, go with him, it’s fine.”

He took off, splitting from our group.

Iida headed for the collapsed buildings, leading our little pack. “Let’s start by heading toward the closest urban area.”

Taking a deep breath, I threw up a water wall in front of them, making my classmates stop and turn back to me.

“Look. I’m the only one here trained in rescue.” I said before anyone could protest. “Let me give you some pointers?”

“Bestow your knowledge on us!” Iida stopped running, giving me his full attention.

“We will need to split up, that isn’t even a question. We go where we will be the most useful. For me and Tsu, that means the water terrain. Anyone else think they’ll be the best there?”

Todoroki raised his hand, and Hagakure’s glove went up.

I nodded. “Okay. Those of you who will do better in the urban area can stay here. Make sure you move people slowly until you can determine their injuries. Some you might not want to move at all, if they’re that injured. Yao-Momo, I’d recommend you stay here.”

“Got it.”

“And stay alert. Usually when there’s an earthquake, there’s aftershocks. There could be falling debris, or more explosions even. Keep sharp. Water team, follow me.”

The four of us split off, heading toward the river and the lake.

“Guys! Over there!”

A few people were clinging to rocks in the water. One boy looked terrified. “Help! I can’t swim!”

“Tsu, could you get him? I'd probably terrify him.” I activated my quirk, the water pulling the other people toward shore, keeping them elevated.

“We might need to warm them up. We should get firewood.” Todoroki said.

“On it!” Hagakure ran off in another direction.

Tsu swam out, putting the boy on her back and coming back to shore.

“Everything is going to be alright. We’re here to help you in any way we can.” I explained as we gathered them up. “Our friends went looking for firewood so we can get you guys warm. Is anyone injured?”

A few hands went up.

“Those of you uninjured, if you could separate from those that are injured. Tsu is going to talk to you and see what you remember.” I leaned over to her. “Do you know how to tell if someone has a concussion?”

“Ribbit. Yes.”

“Good. Look for those. There’s a chance someone has one and doesn’t know.”

She split off, and I headed toward the injured group. There weren’t too many people, only a small group of three.

“Who’s hurt the worst? Any broken bones? Does it hurt to breathe?” I asked, gently washing off what I hoped was fake blood with my quirk.

One of them raised a hand. “Breathing isn’t easy right now.”

“We’re going to get you to the first aid station right now. Are the other two of you okay to walk?”

They nodded.

“Tsu!” She looked up at me. “I’m taking them to the first aid station. I’ll be back once they’re secure!”

“Ribbit!”

I moved water around the person having trouble breathing, floating him in a pool of water as we moved. “We’ll get you all help. What are your names?”

“You’re very good at this, young lady.” One woman said, after they’d all given me names.

I blushed. “Just doing my job. I learned from the Wild, Wild Pussycats.”

“Then they’re excellent teachers.”

We reached the first aid station just as Midoriya came running up with a kid. I got them all settled with the other class, nodding at Shindo, who gave me a nod back. He gestured to someone else, who ran up and helped me out with the one who was having trouble breathing.

“Potentially cracked ribs.” I whispered.

We got them settled in the area and things seemed to be going well.

BOOM!

[jokertrap-ran]

(未定事件簿) EVENT! 「消失的黄金」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: The Lost Gold Translations (Xia Yan Chapter 3-02: Mountain Plains)

“Anyway, I'll always be how you like me to be in front you. Yes, that’s how it should always be.”

*Tears of Themis Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *(y/n) is your name when in direct referral; otherwise referred to as MC.

Location: Mountain Plains

According to Dong Hechuan's account of the matter, the gold that had not been recovered back then was most likely to be hidden in a deep pool on the Island.

It had been hidden by the second-in-command at that time, and he only knew the approximate location of where it had been buried.

He had been in prison all these years, studying the riddles left behind by the second-in-command, eventually narrowing it down to two possible places. He had already checked one of the locations before and the other one was most likely where we're headed to now.

MC: Do you think what Dong Hechuan told you was true?

Xia Yan: Would I have deliberately let him go if I thought he was?

That's right, we weren't escorting him to the Treasure Trove, but rather, watching him on the Tracking App and following him from there.

After Xia Yan had interrogated Dong Hechuan, we settled at the same place to rest and have our dinner.

As soon as it got completely dark out, we both feigned tiredness and turned in for bed. Dong Hechuan thought it as an opportunity to escape and get himself out of trouble, none the wiser about the fact that we had let him purposely let him go.

Xia Yan: He said that the thing that had failed to have been recovered back then was gold; a blatantly obvious lie.

Xia Yan: He knew that we found the riddle of the "Book of the Dead", so he said that the Treasure was buried in the Temple of the Underworld at the peak of the western Mountains...

MC: Atop the Mountains? I'm afraid he forgot that he had a diving suit inside his bag.

MC: And he thought that he found a chance to escape after being scared by you...

MC: So, that means that he'll either be heading to meet-up with his Accomplices to seek help, or to hurry to the burial site to retrieve the Treasure to avoid long nights fraught with dreams.

And as for seeking revenge or harming others, he can't afford to think about any of that now with his current situation.

Xia Yan: He should have just gone directly for the Treasure and not to his companions. 

Xia Yan: Remember how we found a special-use cellphone in his backpack?

Xia Yan: That phone can only be used to dial one number, which probably belongs to his partner.

Xia Yan: They're just a phone call away if he really needs them. So, he must be heading to the Treasure Trove now.

MC: But for someone to give him a cellphone like that... His partner should be none other than...

▷Choice: Wang Xian

MC: (Wang Xian is his partner, right?)

MC: (He was the one who brought him to this Island, so it's not odd for them to be secretly contacting each other.)

MC: (No, but wait; opening up a secret communication channel is not something that any ordinary person is capable of,)

▷Choice: Tian Yu

MC: His partner is most probably Tian Yu.

MC: No ordinary person would be able to bypass the security check and bring a communication device to the Island, not to mention something with it's own dedicated communication channel.

MC: After benchmarking it, we know that such a feat can only be accomplished by another Senior Organizer.

MC: Why do you think Dong Hechuan didn't check if he was being tracked this time?

Xia Yan: He thought that he had made a successful escape, so he didn't think of the possibility at all.

MC: I thought that someone who could survive an internal conflict within a group of robbers would be smarter than that, but it looks like...

Xia Yan: Whether a person is able to use their own wisdom to solve problems is dependent on their current situation and the environment they're in.

Xia Yan: One can only survive on their physical instincts when placed under many extreme conditions.

Xia Yan: Take the group of robbers back then for example. If either the fish dies or the net splits; if someone initiated a fight if life and death, I'm afraid no one would have survived to tell the tale.

Xia Yan: When Dong Hechuan was faced up with me, he was at an extreme disadvantage of power. And I'd have the upper hand over him, even if he was harboring any twisted thoughts.

MC: Yes, yes; The Great Detective is all powerful, all tactics are useless in the face of absolute power.

He didn't look at all happy to be praised by me. On the contrary, he looked rather sad.

Xia Yan: Sorry, I left you alone in the woods for so long.

MC: It wasn't that long. I know that your mission must absolutely be kept a secret, so of course I'll stay away.

Xia Yan: No, that's not...that's not exactly it; I...

MC: Huh?

Xia Yan: Forget it. Even if I did tell you, you'd only blame me for my overprotectiveness. 

Xia Yan: Anyway, I'll always be how you like me to be in front you. Yes, that’s how it should always be.

MC: Xia Yan, what nonsense are you spouting now?

The way I like him...?

Xia Yan: I was just casually saying so...didn't you say you wanted to pretend to be my lover just this morning? But I don't see you...

MC: What I did is called a sacrifice for the greater good.

MC: Stop fooling around and see where Dong Hechuan's at already!

Xia Yan: R-Right, sure...

He zoomed in on the Tracking APP's scale and we both saw that Dong Hechuan was stationed in a cave not far ahead.

Xia Yan: A Cave... If it's also a place with an underwater area, then there's most probably an underground river running through it.

MC: Let's hurry and catch up to him. All we have to do is to retrieve the stolen goods and this time's mission will be perfectly wrapped up!

We stepped up our pace, but what awaited us when we arrived at the place was something quite different from what we had expected.

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