#trying to come back from art block yayyyyy

[fairmerthefarmer]

I’ve been thinking about the Magicians Nephew, right now specifically Polly Plummer and in an attempt to get back into doing art outside of work.

I’ve been thinking of what she’d maybe look like in the book and then as she ages (except it turns out I have such a hard time visualizing the passage of time in decades I was not alive in)

most of the references I looked at for clothes was anywhere from 1900-1940s. Maybe some late Victorian in her younger dresses? Not sure. Mostly Edwardian.

I like to think of her definitely going to school, and then becoming a journalist. She’s super sharp and level headed in the Magicians Nephew, and also has an interest in writing.

Also she definitely wore pants.

More rambling stuff under the cut if you’re specifically like me and fixated on Narnia for most of your life

Ok so c.s. Lewis isn’t very well known for his like, accuracy/timelines making sense. (The beavers somehow had potatoes and other vegetables despite it being a 100 year winter).

The magicians nephew takes place in somewhere between 1900-1910, cause that’s his childhood. And then LWW takes place in the 1940s, so like at the oldest Digory and Polly would be in their 50s by then, but also Digory is an old eccentric professor with white hair?

(I could be wrong and maybe that does work timeline wise, and I suppose in different eras, 50s is a lot older. My brain just doesn’t compute that at ALL. At the very least the movie version of the professor DOESNT look like he’s only in his 50s with how they made him look.)

I am also not a clothing expert at all, but it’s cool looking up fashion from different eras. I slightly interpret Polly as having a rich family because her first thought seeing digory is “oh he’s dirty”. I think it’s a thing that richer Edwardian children were usually dressed in light colours which wrapping my head around is tough, cause like, are their play clothes also white?

[panda-noosh]

Action!{P3}{Lance x YouTuber!Reader}{AU}

Words: 5493

   Summary: Being a YouTube guru is hard enough without the added stress of living with Lance McClain, the man who insists on bombarding into every YouTube video you try to film. His viewers love him, and so do you.

   Pairing: Lance x YouTuber!Reader

   Notes: p1 – p2 - p4 - p5 - p6 - p7 ; this part is ANGSTY YAYYYYY

   As evening settled upon you, the air began to get crisper. The usually warm weather of California was beginning to leak away, leaving only the breeze which pelted at your legs and your bare arms, making you crave the feel of a jacket around your shoulders.

    Usually, you would have been sprinting home in weather like this. You wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Lance with a good movie being ignored in the background as you and him fought for more quilt, or more pop corn, or played stupid games of 20 questions, even though the two of you already knew every little thing about one another.

   Usually that would be the case.

   But now you found yourself approaching the small block of apartments you and Lance lived in, and you couldn't bring yourself to enter. The apartment key felt heavy in your jeans pocket and the idea of speaking to Lance after the incident last night and the awkwardness of this morning was enough to make you take a seat on the run-down wall just outside the building.

   The cold showed no mercy, but you didn't care. Neither did your feelings, or the heavy weight on your chest as you looked down at your hands. You played with your fingers, trying your hardest to get the feeling back in them but it was no use. And you didn't care. You just wanted to wollow in your self-pity for a little while longer before you were due to talk to Lance again.

   You knew he was home. One glance at the top window of the complex told you that much – he was home, no doubt waiting for you to walk in the door with that usual smile on your face. You weren't sure if you could muster one up at this moment. Not right now. Not with the lingering thoughts left to spiral in your brain.

    You inhale deeply in an attempt to get your mind out of the gutter. Everything Emma had said had to have been false. Lance had been your best friend for three years – he couldn't have faked that for that long. He couldn't have pretended to love your YouTube channel for three years without even a single clue pointing towards the idea of him disliking your job.

   The door behind you opened suddenly, and you savoured the moment of warmth which came from the open door. It made you shiver, and before you could properly bask in the feeling of comfortable warmth, an arm was swinging over your shoulders, hauling a scarf to cover your neck.

   You look up, startled, but the worried feeling melts away whenever your eyes meet Lance's. He's smiling a big grin, one you're all too familiar with, and holding a flask of a hot beverage in his hand which he gently sets on the graffitied wall beside you before hauling himself up onto it.

   You shift slightly, giving him more room but his hand shoots out and grabs yours before you can move much further, making you freeze in your position and gaze down at his nimble fingers warped through yours. They always did fit so perfectly.

   “How was your day out?” Lance asks, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the need for this conversation to not be awkward, not be filled with unnecessary tension.

   You exhale through your nose, lifting your eyes to look out at the passing pedestrians on the street. Teenagers shuffling home from late-night practice, mothers fumbling with cold children, people hobbling out of taxi's.

    “Good,” you reply. “Samuel's getting his last surgery done in a few weeks, and Emma's opening up for the recent art exhibit down in LA.”

   Lance nods slowly. “They're doing well for themselves.”

   “Mm. I have talented friends.”

   That feels like the end of it. It feels like that's as far as you can drag out the conversation without bringing up yesterday, or this morning, or how you hadn't slept beside Lance the night before. There was nothing left to say – nothing but the truth.

   And you wanted so desperately to just ask him. Just make him tell you the truth of whether or not he supported your job, but the words don't form in your brain because it seems like such a stupid question. He had been supporting your job for the past three years. The real question to ask was why now? Why had he become so reluctant with the idea of being on camera now? What had changed?

   You got together.

   But that couldn't have been it, either. Lance wasn't like this. He wouldn't have confessed to you if he was embarrassed to be in a relationship with you.

    You feel the brink of a headache bubbling at your skull, making you wince. You want to go inside now, but you don't move off the wall.

    “We should talk, I think.” Lance's voice comes out strained now, as if he'd finally given up on trying to push past the topic.

   You swallow thickly. “I overreacted.”

   “I don't think you did,” he replies, turning to look at you. You keep your head locked on the passers-by on the street, not wanting to meet his eyes just yet. “I think you had every right to feel paranoid for the way I acted.”

   “You don't have to show yourself in my videos, Lance,” you say. “I should respect your decision to stay out of them if that's what you want.”

   Lance purses his lips and you feel his eyes tracing over the side of your face, intaking every detail he can as his thumb brushes lazily over your numb knuckles. “You're too nice to me sometimes. I honestly don't understand how you put up with me for so long.”

   You smile lightly. “It wasn't easy.”

   “But you're glad you did it, right?”

   You finally turn to look at him, eyes trailing over his face before meeting his own. The dim light of the evening makes his features seem paler than they usually are, his tanned skin disappearing into paleness as the coldness nips at the flesh. Despite the scarf he had bundled around his neck, there is no stopping the chattering of his teeth or the way his nose is lit up red or the way his eyes water due to the wind blowing in them.

   You want to kiss him. With everything in you, you want to lean forward and press your lips to his and share the warmth of his body with yourself, but you don't move forward. All you do is smile lightly, nodding your head to the sound of the ice cream truck whizzing past.

    Lance smiles back at you, and it's soft and calming and it makes your heartbeat pick up in a way you would never understand.

    “Let's not keep fighting,” Lance says, finally. “I don't like it when we fight. The bed was cold last night.”

   You scoff. “Sorry about that. My electric blanket was on, so I was fine.”

   “Hey!” Lance shoves your shoulder with his own, making an eruption of laughter burst from the two of you. “Listen, though. If you want to vlog, you can. I don't mind. I know that that's a big part of your-”   “Oh my God, is that Y/N L/N?”

   Your eyes widen at the sound of your name echoing from the other side of the street. Butterflies merge into your stomach as you notice the group of uniformed girls squealing and jumping up and down, waving hecticly at you as they wait for the traffic to die down so they can eventually run towards you.

   Lance pulls his hand away immediately, leaving your palm feeling cold and desolate. You look down at your lap, catching a glimpse of the way Lance roughly shoves his hands into his pockets, and you can't help but feel the knot in your heart pulling even tighter – he's not embarrassed. It was a reflex.

   You hollow out your cheeks and look up at the group of girls, forcing a smile on your face as you make yourself wave at them with your now-free-hand.

    “I'll leave you to it, then,” you barely hear Lance mutter before he's hopping off the wall and exiting back into the apartment building. Just like that, his apology falls flat. Just like that, every bit of self-comforting that you had done suddenly goes down the drain as Emma's words echo in your head and the realisation that maybe,  just maybe, she was telling the truth hits you like a ton of bricks.

    “Y/N-ah!”

   You hear Lance stampeding down the hallway towards your filming room and immediately you take a break from applying your concealer, gaze turning towards the door before he's even opened it.

   He bombards through the wooden door, holding up two pairs of jeans, three shirts and a jacket, all bundled up into one mesh of fabric so tight that you can barely tell what item of clothing is which.

    “Oh good, you're awake,” Lance says upon meeting your gaze. He steps further into the room and slams the clothes on your desk, knocking your mirror to the left. “What clothes should I wear for the staff party tonight?”

   You raise your brow, looking up at him in confusion. “Staff party?”

   He pulls his lips into a line, looking down at you as if you had three heads. “Don't tell me you forgot. I've been talking about this for weeks now, Y/N.”

   You stay silent for a moment, only exaggerating your confusion that much more.

   Lance groans, rolling his eyes. “You're so lucky you keep me grounded. But the staff party! The one that Mrs Leech was organising for all the trainee pilots? I'm finally getting my license!”

    “Oh!” you exclaim. “That staff party!”

   “You still have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?”

   You bite down on your lip to hide your smile, but Lance picks up on it. He rolls his eyes once again, opting for flicking your forehead as a form of punishment for your short attention span which had cost you plenty of conversations before in the past.

   Lance settles down beside your desk on his knees, stifling through the clothing options. “I have no idea what you're going to wear, so I don't know if we're gonna be matching or not, but this is what I have so far-”

   You stutter, shooting forward at the words he just spoke. “Excuse me?”

   He looks up at you. “Mm. You're going as my date, you idiot. You'd know that if you weren't so bad at paying attention.”

   “But I have videos to film today!” you protest. “And I don't know anybody from your work. I'll literally be glued at your hip all day.”

    “All night,” Lance corrects. “And maybe that won't be such a bad thing. You'll make me look like I have my nerves under control.”

   “Don't act like you won't be off your head drunk by the hour.”

   Lance sticks his tongue out at you, making a small laugh bubble up from your throat. It was nice when you two could be like this – playful with each other, not caring about the world for a little while. All day your anxieties had been eating away at you, but in this moment, they all seem mildly stupid. They all seem overexaggerated, because Lance was showing affection and he was being the boyfriend he had always promised he would be.

   He didn't seem the slightest bit embarrassed.

   It's these thoughts that calm you down enough to help Lance pick out an outfit. These thoughts that calm you down enough that you eventually agree to going to this party with him.

   Perhaps meeting the people Lance worked with wouldn't be such a bad thing. You had heard so many good things about Bad Billy and Frank from IT, but it had never dawned on you that you had never actually met them in person. Maybe it was time.

    Your outfit was simple, just like Lance had instructed. There was going to be nothing formal about this ceremony, though an attempt at looking nice was appreciated.

   You had pulled on a loose fitting black button-up shirt along with a pair of jeans of your own – one of the few pairs you owned that didn't have rips in the knees that you played off to be pre-ripped. You put on your fanciest pair of gold-buckled, black shoes and headed out the door with Lance.

    The academy wasn't anything you hadn't seen before. A large, white building that was always too overly-lit, planes littering the back of it with the front doors open 24/7. You had dropped Lance off at this very location multiple times before, watched him on his first day of training as he leaped through the open doors and was immediately met with a triumph of cheers from the elder men who were waiting for him at the door.

   And now here he was, taller and broader and more muscular with a hell of a lot more experience than what he had when he first joined. Today was the first day of him being a genuine pilot, and you couldn't help but smile up at him as he leads you through the doors and into the ceremony hall.

   The hall, for the first time in forever, had been dimmed down, only lit up by a handful of torches which line the concrete walls. Circular tables had been set out for everybody attending, candles placed upon them with menus already opened, ready for anybody to read as soon as they sat down.

   For such a 'non-formal' event, they sure did clean up well for it.

   “God, I can smell the sweat on myself already,” Lance whispers to you as you walk through the doors.

   “Just calm down,” you whisper back. “These people aren't strangers to you, okay? They're your friends.”

   “But what if they suddenly decide that I'm not worth it?” Lance asks, and you frown in reply, looking up at him. “Like, what if they go to hand me my certificate and they realise that hiring me is all a big mistake? I'm young. I still have a lot to learn-”

   “The older pilots still have a lot to learn,” you assure, tugging on his arm which you have looped your own through. “They'll go to their graves with a lot to learn, babe. You'll pick things up as you work. That's how this kind of thing goes.”     Lance hollows out his cheeks, using his free hand to dab at his forehead which is glistening with a thin layer of nervous sweats. You smile lightly despite him not being able to see you, resting your head on his arm for only a moment before a skinny, ginger haired man is jumping his way over to the pair of you, laughing a high pitched laugh.

   The mans moustache is pooled with sweat, though you have to admit that, for an elder, he has kept himself looking decent for his age. He must be in his late-40's, early 50's, but the aura he gives off makes him seem nothing short of Lance and your own age.

   “Lancey Lance!” the ginger exclaims. “We were waiting for you, so we were! Big man Lance! Man of the night! Knight in shining armour! The one, the only-”

   “Hey, Coran,” Lance chuckles nervously, slipping his arm out of yours to give Coran a hug. “The place looks nice. You cleaned it up well!”

   Coran nods, smiling at his own work as Lance and him pull away from each other. “Yes well, this is what happens when you're a genius like myself.” You fight back the urge to laugh, instead opting to trail your eyes over the scenery in an attempt to distract yourself. “And who is this pretty lady you have on your arm, huh? I didn't know you were getting some, Lance. Have you even been through sex-ed class yet?”

   Your eyes pop open, a blush attacking your cheeks. Lance stumbles over his own words for a moment, shooting his eyes down to look at you in panic before clicking back to Coran's.

   “This is Y/N. My room mate.”

   “Oh, Y/N!” Coran exclaims, and you swear he has not used his inside-voice once during this entire conversation. “I've heard of you. Congratulations on reaching two million – two million subsides? Substitutes? What is it you got?”

   You bite down on your lip. “Um, subscribers, sir. And thank you. I appreciate it.”

   “How does that whole YouTube thing work, anyway?” Coran continues. You can feel Lance awkwardly shifting at the side of you, messing with his fingers as if praying the conversation will end so you and him can go back to being the cute, normal couple he so craved for you to be.

   But Coran is too invested in the conversation at hand, and before long the older man has wrapped an arm around your shoulders and is leading you and Lance through the crowd whilst jittering away about your unusual job.

   “Do you have to get up early to do it?”

   “It's usually based off of my schedule, but I prefer to get everything done in the morning, so I guess so.” A lie. You just didn't want to make yourself out to sound lazy.

   Coran hums. “And how do you get paid? Because from what I read, your net worth is pretty high.”

   “Coran!” Lance exclaims. “You can't just talk about her net worth whilst she's-”

   “I think it was around 3 million,” Coran continues, ignoring Lance's pleading voice behind him. “I don't understand why, though. Do you not just put make up on for a living?”

   You open your mouth to reply, but Lance doesn't allow you to. In seconds, Lance's arm is looped through yours, yanking you out of Coran's grip and dragging you away from him, waving his goodbyes without a second glance sent behind him.

    He's fuming. His breathing is coming out in warm, ragged breaths and his grip is tight on the jacket you have pulled over yourself, his footsteps heavy as he tries to fight through the crowd as quick as possible.

    Why he was getting so worked up, you didn't know. Net worth and how you made your money were common questions asked by almost every interviewer you had ever sat in front of, and Lance never seemed bothered by such a topic before.

    Although, the words Coran had uttered just before Lance had dragged you away had not gone unnoticed. Do you not just put make up on for a living?

   Ouch.

   But you were used to it. Those were the comments that were expected whenever you sat in front of a camera and showed people how to apply make up. Those were the comments you skimmed through on a daily basis.

   “Lance, please slow down,” you call after him, stumbling over your boots as he continues to plow through the crowd in an attempt to get to your designated table. “Please, Lance, come on! The night's only just started and you haven't even introduced me to any of your friends yet. Where's Frank from IT? I want to see him.”

    “I'm hungry,” Lance grunts, his voice barely audible over the music playing above you. “Let's just eat.”

   You don't ask any more questions. You don't see how you can; not with him in this state. This state of pure anger – pure anger which is radiating off of him in waves you had never seen before. Your mouth is screwed shut as Lance finally reaches the table you two were told to sit at, pulls out a chair and slumps down.

   Despite claiming he was hungry, he makes no attempt to look at the menu. Instead, he sinks further into his seat, leans his head on the palm of his hand and stays silent. His lips are pulled into a pout, eyes sharply darting around the room, glaring at anybody and everybody he can see. Women dressed up in fancy attire shuffle away from him, clearly turned off by the way he seems so frustrated in this moment.

   You don't know what to do. It was so uncommon for Lance to act like this, so uncommon for such small matters to bother him. You had never had to deal with him in this state, because he never got put in this state in the first place.

   You look at him for a little bit longer before you pick up the menu, looking through the dishes they had provided. What you expected – greasy things. Burgers, hot dogs, chips, fish fingers, chicken nuggets. What pilots ate around here. It was the type of food Lance always claimed he had to eat during lunch, and he never seemed bothered by it.

   You decided to order a burger and chips. The waiter walked away without Lance's order, due to Lance simply grunting in response to him asking him what he wanted.

   You lean back in your chair hesitantly, keeping your gaze on Lance. “People are dancing.”

   Lance looks towards the dance floor for a single moment, shrugs and slumps further down in his seat.

   You press your fingers into the arm rest, fighting off the urge to completely explode. Three days of this and you were done. Three days of him having these random mood swings – acting like you were his world for one second before completely going off on you and every other little thing the next. Things had been so perfect for nearly three months – what was happening now?

   You inhale deeply. “Maybe we should go and dance whilst we wait for food.”

   “I'd rather save my energy for the walk onto the stage,” he replies.

   You grit your teeth. Yelling at him won't do either of you any favours, and you wanted to at least find out what was wrong before you went off on one. There had to be something beneath the surface that was making him act this way. Nobodies personality changed this much in the space of three days.

   “Okay,” you say. “Well, what do you wanna do until the ceremony starts? You didn't order anything to eat, so you have all the freedom in the-”

   “I just wanna sit!” he barks, taking you by surprise.

   You felt your heart contract at the volume of his voice. Heads whipped around to look at the two of you in confusion, and you felt time physically slow down. People's eyes widened, because it was Lance yelling and Lance McClain never yelled. People were whispering to each other, wondering what it was that could possibly have set him off.

   You were sure you could have melted away in embarrassment then and there, but you kept yourself firm. You stood your ground. You pulled your shoulders back and kept your gaze firm on Lance, ignoring the whispering individuals around you.

    This was about you and Lance, and that was all.

   “You know, if you think Coran's comments bothered me, you're wrong,” you say. “I'm used to people asking about that kind of stuff. You know I am. There's – There's no need to get so protective over such a little thing, okay? I'm fine.”

   Lance barely moves. Simply stares up at the stage with his cheek still pressed into his palm. He looked so dead right now, so upset and it makes your heartbeat falter.

   You try again, this time reaching over and placing a hand on his knee. “Lance, please don't be like this. You were so happy about being here earlier on. Don't let something so simple ruin your big night.”

   Lance closes his eyes slowly, intaking a deep breath. He shifts suddenly, lifting his head off of his palm as he bounces your hand off of his knee. You pull away hesitantly, watching the way he bites the inside of his cheek before he speaks – a sure sign that what he is about to say isn't going to be anything welcoming.

    “You really shouldn't be so lenient with me,” he mumbles, so low you're sure you heard him wrong. You raise your brow, leaning forward in curiosity.

   “What?”

   “Me, Y/N,” he says sharply. “You shouldn't be so lenient with me. As in, you shouldn't put up with my shit any more. I just – You need to hate me.”

   You blank, completely frozen with confusion for a moment. You were no longer certain what way the conversation was headed – why had he brought that up like it meant nothing? Why was he suddenly being so vague?

   “I don't understand,” you say, shaking your head. “What are you talking about? I thought it was Coran that was pissing you off.”

   “Coran only made me realise some stuff,” Lance mumbles. “I did something bad, Y/N, and I didn't mean to but I did it any way because I – I was being selfish. I've been so hostile these past few days because I don't want you to associate me with your fanbase after – after what I did.”

   His voice is shaking, and your hands are trembling and the confusion is pulling at your chest so tightly that you nearly cave in and double over with the feeling of it.

   “What did you do?” you ask.

   Lance purses his lips, looking up at the stage now. “I don't wanna lose you, Y/N. I really don't. But you don't – After what I did, you don't deserve someone like me, and I've been trying to distance myself from you and the whole YouTube thing, but it's not working out the way I was hoping.”

   “Hoping? Distancing yourself? Lance, I don't even know what you're saying right now! What could you have possibly done that was so bad that you have to push me away?”

   Lance shakes his head again, and you don't believe your eyes when he begins to rise up from his seat, every intention to leave you stranded at this god damn table.

   You reach up, snatching his hand in your own, feeling the coldness of his palm for the last time before he tugs out of your grip and stuffs his hands in his blazer pocket.

   “You'll understand soon. You won't even want me around whenever you find out.”

   You blink back tears which are rapidly building to the surface. “You're scaring me.”

   “I'm sorry. I thought I could have this last night with you, but Coran was talking about your YouTube and I just feel so guilty. I wanted you to see me succeed for the last time before you left me, but-”

   You stand up sharply. “Lance, I'm not going to leave you! I don't even know why you're doing this!”

   Lance shakes his head again, a movement that seems to be his defence mechanism at this point. “Just – You can go home if you want. I've gotta go.”

   And before you can even ask a single question more, Lance is stumbling away from you, walking towards the exit on the far side of the room.

   The first tear falls.

   You pull your hood on over your head as you walk through the rain that California had sprung upon you. It was a rare sight to see, though you weren't surprised to see it. The coldness which had been plaguing your usually warm home-state had been a sure sign that the weather was finally beginning to realise that it was, indeed, the middle of October.

   Nonetheless, you make no attempt to head back to your apartment, instead opting for ducking inside of a nearby coffee shop.

   Nothing had been right after Lance left the ceremony. You had felt too weak to walk home by yourself, your knees wobbling with the emotion – meaning you had to sit and eat on your own, listen to the speaker call out Lance's name for his license, only to realise that Lancey Lance, the guest of honour, had fled the scene completely.

    You were forced to retrieve his licence for him, an honour which was a one-time thing for him, destroyed by whatever paranoid circle his head had looped him in.

   Because, truth was, you were terrified. Terrified of your home-life, terrified of your relationship, terrified of your friendship. You were terrified of what was to happen to Lance, because he hadn't come home last night.

   He must have stayed at Pidge's, or Keith's or maybe even Coran's – you didn't know. All you knew was that you had stumbled into your apartment, too late to form sentences, to see it completely bare. Lance really had abandoned you, and the reason for doing so was still unknown to you.

    The coffee shop provided a comforting warmth to you as you ordered your coffee and sat down at the far table, right beside a window. You hoped to get some editing done – anything to get Lance off your mind – but the tension in your shoulders and the constant feeling of wanting to burst into tears wasn't leaving you alone today. The left-over alcohol that you had downed at the ceremony was also still buzzing at your veins, leaving behind the unseizing need to jump around. You put all of your nervous energy into tapping at the coffee cup in your hand, staring out at the rain which was beginning to batter against the pavement.

    Your phone went off suddenly, signalling a new message. Almost immediately your mind zoned to Lance – besides, he was the one person who texted you constantly throughout the day; mini updates on how work was going, or a simple selfie of him in his work uniform, or a question asking how your day was going. He was who you were used to seeing pop up on your phone all the time.

   It wasn't exactly disappointment you felt whenever you saw Samuel's name flicking upon your phone screen instead, but you certainly felt your heart churn.

    Samuel: i'll hang him up by his balls, I swear to god.

   Samuel: have you seen this yet? call me. {attachment}.

    You raise a brow at nothingness, not hesitating to click on the attachment. You weren't expecting it to be anything bad, but as soon as the headline snapped out at you, you felt like screaming. You felt like hurling your coffee cup across the shop and screaming at the top of your lungs because no, this can't be right. This has to be fake. He wouldn't do this. Not for any amount of money. Not for any amount of publicity.

   The headline bounced out at you in big, bold letters along with a picture of Lance looking friendly with a man, arms wrapped around each other and big, cheesy grins plastered on their faces.

    The headline read: LANCE MCCLAIN SPILLS ALL ABOUT HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH FAMOUS YOUTUBER Y/N L/N! IS ALL REALLY PERFECT IN PARADISE?

    Your breathing turns ragged, hands bundling within the fabric of your jeans. You try to control yourself. You try to calm yourself down, but there's no amount of reality that you can grasp onto in this moment that will keep the tears from streaming down you face, a feeling of utter betrayal settling in your stomach because he had really done it. He had done the one thing that he promised never to do; he was using your relationship for the money.

   He had accepted your feelings, kissed you, led you on for months. Was the money really his only intention? Had this interview been planned since the LA event you had confessed at?

    God, the thoughts were too harsh. The thoughts were battering at the front of your skull, making the tears slip ten times faster. People looked at you in confusion, some in pity. This young girl sitting alone in a coffee shop, sobbing her heart out over a boy. A boy who she saw her life unfolding with. A boy who she thought would never leave her side, because that was what he had said. He had told you on numerous occasions that I'll always be your best friend! or I'll never leave you!

   And now this.

    You dialled Samuels number quickly, pulling the phone to your ear, wanting to hear him tell you that it was a lie, that the attachment was a prank and that everything Lance had told you over the past few months had been truth.

    But the words which slip past Samuel's lips go against everything you want to believe.

   Because upon hearing your sobs, your friend can only say, “Oh, sweetie.”