#which it hasn’t done since….last time i deliberately logged out probably

[psqqa]

tumblr’s up to some fun new shenanigans i see

[otp-armada]

A Time Capsule

I’ve been lurking across several fandoms spanning a decade now, since my days of reading “Bones” fanfics on fanfiction.net. Before any inkling of Ao3’s existence. Maybe longer, my memory is murky at times.

I’ve never made a splash in any fandom, so to speak. I’ve always been content to stand shrouded in anonymity, residing on the edges of fandom, never an active participant. Perfectly at peace to never have a voice. Never brave enough to want to be heard. It has only been in the last few years that I discovered Tumblr and felt comfortable enough in taking advantage of its anon feature to interact mostly with The 100/Bellarke crowd, “conversing” with one user in particular. In the instances I chose to speak, there was safety in knowing my words never had an identity attached. A safety that lent itself to sending anon asks a fairly common activity until I wrote one recently sharing a remnant of my “The 100” viewing experience. The warm response from the users who read it left me smiling for the rest of the day. Their reply took a direction I didn’t expect. They encouraged me to take credit for my words under my username, which of course, I didn’t have, not being a Tumblr user.

I was flattered by the response, bolstering me to continue the line of conversation with another ask and was met with reiterated sentiments.

In the wise words of one of those awesome people,

“I was the ultimate lurker for a long, long time. I had a Tumblr account for four years before I ever made a single post, and even then I had to be talked into it. And you know what? When I finally starting “talking,” it was so freeing! Even if no one else was listening, even if I was speaking into the void, I was no longer dependent on anyone else to share my thoughts and opinions. I could do that myself.”

I took the compliment but waived the advice. Tumblr is made of communities built upon sharing and I have always been unto myself an island. It goes against my shy, introverted nature to take part in a community. I have no business pretending I have a place there. None at all.

And yet, despite my misgivings, the idea wouldn’t leave me as I believed it would. I started to genuinely ponder the merits of creating a blog.

There are strong reasons to support the affirmative.

First, the utilitarian benefits. In the absence of a blog, I turned to alternative methods of archiving appealing posts. If by some miracle, the item count of my browser reading list hasn’t yet ascended to the thousands mark, it most assuredly rests in the hundreds. My camera roll queue has indubitably reached the thousands count, currently sitting pretty at 3,300. I shudder to think of the sheer number of my bookmarks. One hundred and eighty notes on my phone. The final frontier has been broken, at last, habitually inundating my laptop with screenshots. Long has it been overdue to clean house.

Second, I find writing to be a herculean undertaking I enjoy in the moments it doesn’t drive me to the brink. A slow-going process, but when I’m able to appreciate the fruits of my labor, marvel at the polished product, I often feel quite proud. Writing is a skill I’ve lost touch with over years of disuse but found incrementally returning while expressing my opinions via Tumblr asks. Like any skill, it can be honed with time and practice. Transferring my streams of consciousness onto written medium challenges me to think critically, ask myself if my POV genuinely holds true or falls apart, requiring further reflection. If nothing else, it’s a good way to process thoughts and emotions. I find it easier than and therefore preferable to oral communication. I am a perpetual editor, always amending my statements which can’t really be done as effectively in speech.

Third, if there was ever a time to join the Tumblr fandom I’ve found a home in for the last three years, why not in time for the show’s last ride? The night I signed up for Tumblr coincided the first day of “The 100” cast and crew filming their 100th and poetically final episode. Around the same space of time, we got a release date and the nostalgic goodbyes of a few cast members rolled in. I know when Bellarke crosses the last threshold, I’d want it plastered all over my dash and I’d be able to make it happen.

But where there are pros, the cons inevitably follow.

Do I really need a further distraction from my responsibilities, spending additional hours and expending more energy I should not spare online? The too easy potential for more hours behind a screen when prone to headaches and horrid habits of not regulating my eating and sleeping schedules? The answer is a clear and resounding “No.” Would maintaining a blog be harmful to my mental and emotional health? Remaining anonymous has historically done a fine job of insulating me from general rebuke, which has mitigated the risk of reproach at least. No corner of the internet can be designated as a safe space. I knew I would in all likelihood have to work diligently to curate and be responsible for my experience, leading me to doubt how the effort could possibly be worth it. How could it be worth feeling exposed, self-conscious? Constantly second-guessing myself, debating whether or not my thoughts are best kept within the privacy of my mind to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes? Combating the periodic skepticism that my thoughts possess value worth writing?

There was always the lingering possibility I was overthinking the decision to my detriment, as is my norm. After all, it seemed silly and dramatic to regard one obscure little blog in a sea of hundreds of millions of social media users as momentous. But I know myself better than that. It is a really fucking big deal for me.

I vacillated between both sides of the argument for days before deciding not to follow through with the venture.

And then one night, a single stray observation ran through my mind. One observation became another, became another and before I knew it, I had formed the grounds for an entire meta post. It didn’t end there. More ideas filtered through. I expanded on those ideas. More traction gained. Another meta formed. More jumping off previous points. Before long, I had mentally written the foundations for four metas. And I was so excited and proud of forming these connections to this puzzle without even trying that I wanted to share it. I sat down to write them in my trusty Notes, outlining, trying to jot the main points down before they fizzled away from memory. I saw how long-winded these spiels had gotten sans the full writeup, subsequently rationalizing…well, not blowing up someone’s inbox is just good manners, isn’t it? And terribly inefficient to boot. More to the point, it seemed a disservice to myself to censor my rumination to fit the small confines of a Tumblr ask box.

The part of me that wanted to push forward envisioned what the future of my blogging efforts may look like. That part knows that this blog is for me and only me. What makes me laugh, what makes me cry. Smile. Rage. Flail. Think. Whatever the hell I want. I get to say what I want, however, I want. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking. It’s also exciting, thrilling, and yes, freeing. The notion of carving out a tiny space for me to fill to the endless brim with whatever brings me joy makes me…really damn happy. It’s not an easy feat to accept and harder to retain. I should be ok, so long as I never forget that I get to be in control of what happens here. It’s within my right to block anyone I don’t want to engage or associate with. It’s my full right to not care what anyone else has to say if I don’t want to. Block out anything negative I don’t want to endure with only a few clicks. If I decide I want to walk away, permanently or otherwise, for any reason, it’s within my right to do that too. It’s comforting.

There was a time when I “knew” I would never sign up for an Ao3 account until one of my favorite authors withdrew the majority of her stories from public consumption. I “knew” I was never going to post commentary until I did. I “knew” my username would never be seen by anyone aside from me, never to be affiliated with my commentary until it was.

I did. Each and every time I thought I would never, I did. I broke my own barriers with patience and some courage. Maybe the most intimidating aspect of something new is simply the beginning. I said earlier that I’ve been an island for nearly as long as I can remember. It’s still true, I don’t expect overnight results. It’s probably going to be true for a long time. Perhaps forever. But maybe it’s all the more reason why I should take this step toward peeking out of my self-imposed shell. Do what scares you, or whatever it is they say.

I wish I could say it was enough to reverse my earlier verdict.

Nope, I had to agonize some more.

What can I say? Fear is a damn powerful inhibitor.

Lo and behold, as if the universe took pity on me, I got the chance to communicate directly with the same awesome lady whom I quoted above and she kindly offered some more merciful wisdom to a truly maddeningly indecisive individual:

“When you create a blog, you are STILL anonymous. You have a username, yes, but it doesn’t lead back to you unless you want it to. You still have your personal privacy. Tumblr isn’t Facebook. If you want to disclose personal information, you can, but you certainly don’t have to.

And second, your blog is for you, not for anyone else. It’s for you to express your own opinions. Or create gifs or other visuals. Or just repost what other people create. You can be on every day, or just once a week. It’s also a great way to save stuff you might want to look at again. And then… and then… when brilliance suddenly hits you, you have somewhere to let it hang out! 😁”

It was much I had already considered, but it helped immeasurably to have my reasoning reaffirmed from an external source I respect. I logged into Tumblr for the first time the very same night.

After much deliberation, an uncharacteristic burst of bravery and a grueling four hours I owe to technological ineptitude, I have, tentatively and cautiously, opted to give this Tumblr thing a go.

With luck, a day will never arrive when I dust this preamble off for a much-needed pep talk. Instead, it is my hope that one day, this memo-to-me will stand as proof that I don’t always need to be afraid of the unknown. Not all endeavors have to be as frightening as they may appear. And if I can apply this attitude to all else suppressing my personal growth, I might just be peachy someday.

Bearing this in mind…

…here we go.

[veridium]

heartbreak warfare

WELCOME TO MORE QUEER PAIN 

Hope ya’ll are ready for some shit. Because I brought the shit. Heaping dose, because I have had a wonderful day and feel all mushy. Enjoy!

part one // last episode

-- The man was a no-good blond bastard with too much wool in his wardrobe and clumsy taste in flowers. White carnations represent pure love, and he had the audacity to come around with a fist of them. He should have crawled up the stairs on his knees if he wanted to present pure love. Yelling at him made Olivia feel close to the goddess Medusa in levels of vindicated fury, though she was inconvenienced by the lack of hair snakes.

Despite her almighty and supernatural ire, Ellinor granting him entry is something she disagrees with but ultimately respects: her best friend is tired, and deserves to feel loved, and maybe the one silver lining is that there isn’t much else Cullen Rutherfudger can mess up more. Maybe if they get it together she won’t have to peel her up off the floor next weekend. Damn, had their standards for a good Saturday crashed down below sea level.

But, she will be keeping a close eye on him. A very close, and scathing, eye. To be fair, the man shows up and tows the line when he has fucked up; which is more than she can say for who she once thought of as a potential suitor as Sunday passes with no word. Potential suitor. Ugh, that kind of working only happens when you’ve paid attention to someone who’s a rhetorical romantic. Too much attention.

Monday comes, and is mundane. She keeps a low profile, and attends classes with little fuss; her Professor asks how she is doing because of her silence in class discussion, and she gives an excuse about getting over a head cold. Yeah, right. Besides lecture and a short shift at the gym, she goes back home to continue being reclusive. She does not cross paths with Ellinor much, though she fields the almost hourly texts asking her how she is, where she is, and if she needs anything. Ellinor is doing that innocent thing all friends do when they find themselves luckier in personal exploits than their loved ones: sympathy that is all-too-easily swallowed as pity when you’ve been kicked down one-too-many times.

Tuesday also comes and goes. Classes and a midterm exam, one she completes with confidence; cold war history is interesting enough. It helped that she had someone, for a brief time, to rant about it and dissect things. During the free response portion she uses a word Cassandra did during one of their debates: “pejorative.” How the hell she knew that word was whatever.

Then, Wednesday. Even though it’s only been a few days, when she wakes up to Ellinor’s voice it feels like it’s been a century since the last time she’s heard it.

“Liv, release the hostage oreos.” Oh, great. Long time no see, and she’s come into her room just to attack her for her life choices.

Olivia growls and hides away, bastard red velvet oreos in her clutches. “Bite me.”

“Liv. Come on,” Ellinor’s standing by her bed, hands on her hips like a fed up soccer mom trying to get her kid up for school. “You haven’t been responding to my texts and you don’t answer the door. I worried you ate yourself into a coma. I keep hearing the Scientist on repeat through your door. I think I can play the piano part off of just memory alone.”

“Good, maybe Cullen would enjoy another concert.”

“Olivia!”

She gives in and rolls over, tossing the oreos to her without looking. “Fine! Have at ‘em.” Ellinor misses and they fall onto the floor with a sharp, plastic crack. The worst part though is the thought that comes immediately after they crash: Cassandra would have caught it.

She groans again and tosses her comforter over her head. “What time is it? My alarm hasn’t gone off.”

“I caught it as it went off, bitch,” Ellinor grumbles. The sound of her picking up the oreos and tossing them to the table. She cares. I shouldn’t be so mean. She cares.

“Oh. Hm.”

“Seriously, are you alright? You haven’t dropped off the radar with me since that time you shaved half your eyebrows off at the Homecoming after party, remember?”

Oh, Jesus. How could she forget. “Mm. I’m fine. I’ve just been swamped with homework.”

“You? Olivia Sinclair, swamped by homework?” Ellinor’s voice veers farther away, towards the door. “Shit, the rapture must be upon us.”

“Give me a break, please. What are you doing up so early anyway? You don’t have class until…” that was a silly question. There could only be one reason she would be up and about like this. A week ago, it would have been the promise of coffee by Olivia. Now, it’s the promise of someone else’s coffee. Blond roast. Bleh.

“...Uh,” Ellinor chuckles nervously, “Nothing. I’m just hanging out. If you’d rather be left alone, I can go back to--”

“Don’t lay an egg, Ellinor.” Olivia gripes, stretching her toes. “You can say you’re up for him. I’m not a widow. Have fun, whatever it is you heteros do at the crack of dawn besides milking cows and...I don’t know, watching TLC or something.”

Silence. Ellinor sighs, and opens the door. “Okay, Olivia.” Dammit, she feels bad. Ellinor shouldn’t be feeling bad. She deserves to be happy, and she deserves a best friend who would support her being happy. Olivia flips over to lay face down and continue loathing herself. Every bone in her body wants to snarl and hide from everything good and cheery. Soon, Cassandra won’t be the only one steering clear of her, if she keeps this up.

Just outside her shut door, she hears a deeper voice. A deeper, calmer voice. Then Ellinor’s more opinionated tone. She says something bossy -- sounding like ‘I’m gonna kill your roommate for this, I hope you know.’ A sigh immediately responds. Typical. Cullen better have prepared himself to be with a woman who didn’t pull any punches, who could fight her own fights...and sometimes, fights that belong to her friends who have grown too tired of it all.

All she can do is wonder what it’ll take to feel okay again. It is one thing to say you’re hard to love, and make people miserable. It’s another to have someone confirm it so unapologetically.

--

Wednesday is as repetitive in the first half as Monday was: the same lectures, and then eventually a couple hours in the TA office waiting for nothing and no one to show up for assistance while she grades Blackboard responses to the week’s study question.

She’s in the thick of it when an email notification pops up on her laptop. Her women’s history 305 Professor, saying they’re switching texts for next week’s discussions. They’re going to study Heloise, a 11th century French nun and scholar. Great, fantastic, except none of their texts are about her. The Professor kindly asks they search for the suggested reading online or in the library. Olivia would be completely okay with digging up the text online if her laptop hadn’t just been salvaged from a virus stemming for the last time she did so.

Besides, the library was a reliable source. Why not do something she’s good at, and dig?

With a half hour left in her office hours she takes the liberty to stroll down to the main campus library. The book in particular is old so it should be in the stocks. When she goes to a computer and checks the catalog, she finds one copy is still available; her class’s rush to obtain it free hasn’t nosed her out completely just yet.

The Dewey decimal number takes her to a shelf on the fourth floor, but after 20 minutes of searching she uncovers nothing. No book, no Heloise. Defeated, she stands alone in the aisle and looks around one last time. It should be here, there’s no reason it shouldn’t. It said so in the database.

Climbing down to the main floor, she takes the issue up with the work study student manning the checkout desk.

“I’m sorry,” she says after looking it up on her own computer, “it’s been incorrectly logged. It happens.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“We have a couple satellite locations in town where our reserves are loaned long-term; sometimes their books are kept under our organized log when it’s with them.”

“So...so it is here. In town, right?”

“Oh, yeah, it should be. It’s just at one of our outsourced places.”

She asks if she can check them out still, and to her relief, the answer is yes. The kind woman writes down the address and name of the place for her, so that she can find it for herself once and for all. Handing it to her with a nice-enough smile, she sees her off.

Olivia makes it through the metal detectors before checking the piece of paper with pencil writing.

‘203 Northeast Lillian Way.’ Why is that so familiar? Shit. No, no, no, no. She rips her phone out and starts scrolling feverishly with her thumb through the old and taboo messages between her and she-who-still-shall-not-be-named. Lo and behold, it’s the worst possible outcome: the Church library. Of course, they would demand premium on books about a French Nun. How poetic.

She stands outside the library for a few minutes and deliberates her choices. With any luck, Cassandra is elsewhere -- it’s mid-afternoon, she probably has practice, or volunteer hours, or class. She tries, but she can’t remember for sure what her Tues/Thurs routine is. It’s been that long, or it’s been that hard to have her in her life. Regardless, she needs the book, and if she can get a hold of it she can make a photocopy and give it back with no harm done. It takes her a while, but she convinces herself to make a break for it: pulling out her keys from her bag and heading straight for the blue parking lot where her trusty car is awaiting.

All the same, she can’t help but curse her luck.

--

The drive to the Church would make her emotional if she had any emotions left to give. Days of alternating between crying, eating junk food, denial, and good ol’-fashioned anger have jaded her. At this point, she would dare the fates that be to make her days. The point between her pulling into the parking lot, turning her car off, and walking inside is all a surreal blur. Once she would have rather walked on a chain-link fence edge barefoot than set foot in a House of God, and now it’s twice in one month’s time.

Walking down the center aisle of the hall isn’t the same without Cassandra there to burst open a door on the other side. The stained glass isn’t as colorful, and the bread bowls aren’t as interesting. Still, thankfully, she finds herself left alone like before: no one to pretend they care about her soul, or ask if she’s been saved. The whole place feels like a ghost town, actually -- an odd thing for 4:30 in the afternoon on a weekday. But who is she to judge? The Pope?

A right, then a left, then up stairs. She logs it all in her head. There’s so much more room in the hallway with just her. Too much room. Eventually, she finds the double-doors. One cocked open, with a wooden stopper wedged underneath it. She hesitates to show herself: she’s not as modest as she was when she first came around, black high-waisted shorts with tights on under, with a black short-sleeve v-neck tucked in. Heels, because, of course -- and they clank on the wood floor.

But she does go in. Brave enough, finally, after a couple breaths: and she’s vindicated for doing so. No one’s in. No school kids hiding out, no Missionary interns studying away. No Cassandra, either, skulking or pacing with a book in her hands contemplating the secrets of the universe. Fabulous, she can pull out the paper in her pocket with the decimal system number, find the damn book, and be out like a thief in the night. The mischievous fates have been thwarted, so it seems. If she ignores the sinking feeling in her stomach and feet, being back where Cassandra first surprised, she can be on with her day.

Coming towards the standalone shelves rowed together, she studies the note she made for herself. The first shelf is way too early in the alphabet, so she comes around to the middle and peeks down the first section. Nothing and no one, and still in the C’s-E’s. She needs J.

Then, the sound of paper rubbing against itself. Like a page being turned. She freezes, takes a breath, and approaches the corner of the second aisle.

God, please, no, anyone but--but it’s her.

Her shoes are hitting the ground too hard for her presence to be a secret, and she knows well enough. She stops, and a heel grades against the wood grain. Cassandra -- dressed in black leggings and a sweatshirt, over-sized, and the most casual she’s ever seen her styled -- is sitting cross-legged on the floor. Up against the stacks, with several books piled around her. One open in her hands, kept in her lap. At the noise of Olivia’s footfalls she looks up. Not expecting her, clearly, her eyes go wide and she jerks up to her feet in the blink of an eye. Agile enough to do so without stumbling all over herself, but not confident enough to stand all tall and proud. Not like she did in the gallery.

Olivia steps back, and she can feel her face sour. She crinkles the paper in her hand, and it bends beneath a fist. She doesn’t respond, only glares with steeled hopelessness.

Cassandra closes the book in her hands. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I came for a book.” Iced, and disdainful.

Her face strains a bit, and she adjusts. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she rolls her bottom lip and holds her ground. “That is all.” It’s crushing her slowly, the priorities: yell at her, say sorry again, cry, beg. Too many needs and too many wants. She takes a page out of Cassandra’s metaphorical book and holds it all in under a guise of self-sufficient introversion. 

“I...okay. D-do you need--”

“No. I know how to work a library.”

“...Alright.” She accepts it, and nods. Olivia sucks on her teeth. They both try to get on with whatever it is they were up to before they were aware of each other’s presence: Cassandra, sitting back down on the ground, and Olivia investigating the far end of the shelf. She tracks down the J’s, but there’s no book in sight. Again. First, twice, and thrice she checks the row where it should be. A couple minutes have passed, and she’s left standing there with no reward to her risk.

She lets out a sigh through puckered lips.

“What are you looking for?” Cassandra’s voice, clear and calm.

She keeps her eyes on the shelf, clinging to the paper. “I don’t need your help.”

“Um…” she treads lightly, very lightly, “some of the shelves are disorganized, because of the students.”

Fan-fucking-tastic. She’ll never find this damn book, she’ll never do her homework, she’ll just drop out and call it good.

“I’m…” she starts, but stops when Cassandra suddenly shows up next to her, having risen to her feet without so much as a sound. She takes hold of the paper that is in a death grip in Olivia’s hands, one which she releases against her better judgement.

She raises a brow. “Hm.”

“It’s--it’s a book with copies of letters from--”

“Heloise and Abelard. I know this anthology, I had it for...um, hm. You won’t find it here, though.”

Olivia slouches, and frustration escapes her. “What? Again?!”

“No,” Cassandra shakes her head, and then turns around, “it’s over here.” Without a word, she walks away, with the presumption that Olivia will come along. An audacious presumption; if she had not come all the way across town to track down the damn thing she would have laughed and said ‘fat chance.’ Beggars can’t be choosers.

They go to the back corner, where there are rows of tall volume books that look like dictionaries. The shelf above them is where Cassandra slants onto her toes and searches. Olivia does her best to keep her eyes preoccupied elsewhere -- anywhere else, but her -- and waits patiently. Finally she falls back, pulling a book out that’s rather small and thin. But it’s weirdly pink, like the catalog image.

“Here,” she breaths, pivoting back to her and holding it out.

Olivia stares at the outstretched book, brow pressing low as she bites back more bitterness on her mind. She takes it, gripping onto the opposite diagonal corner to Cassandra’s grip.

“T-Thanks.” She spits out, holding it to her stomach. “Do you know if I have to….to do anything special to check it out from here? Or do I just take it to the main library?”

“You just take it there…” Cassandra confirms, reaching across her own stomach and clasping onto her elbow.

“Okay.” Olivia keeps her eyes to the ground, and her responses curt. “Thanks again. I’ll be going now.”

“Olivia, I’m sorry.” The words cut through the air like a chef’s knife. Eager, and quick, like it’s the last word she’ll ever get in edgewise. Olivia has turned to the side by the time she hears it, and she stops cold. The book to her belly now feels like armor she can’t live without. She can’t bare to look at her, at whatever face she’s making. It’ll be too sincere, too heartfelt.

“I really don’t want to hear it.”

“I know you don’t, but you deserve to.”

“You thought I deserved to hear a great deal of things.”

“I...I know. And…”

“What?”

“And it was unfair of me. I shouldn’t have cornered you, when you were already feeling uncomfortable. It wasn’t right.”

Olivia sucks in her gut; the words she is saying are too poignant to face with a chin tucked in shame. She looks, only to feel punished for it: Cassandra is frowning, and not the way she does by default. It is a sad one. It makes Olivia’s heart skip, and plummet at the same time.

“Y-you know, Cassandra,” she replies, her voice brittle as her throat gets thicker with tears she thought she had long run out of, “I...I just wish I knew what your secret was.”

Cassandra blinks a few times, beautiful black eyelashes fluttering. “My secret?”

“Yeah. Your secret. The one behind how you always look so undaunted and...and un-phased,” she closes her eyes to hold back tears, and cradles the book in both hands against her. “You know, Cullen talks to Ellinor, and Ellinor talks to me. I hear about how you are minding your own business, going about your day, while I cry myself to sleep or eat my body weight in Taco Bell. Every time. It hurts, but I tell myself, ‘oh, she’s just coping in her own way, she has to be as messed up as I am about this, just as torn up, just as…” she takes a shallow breath, but it does little to assuage her. “‘She has to be just as inexplicably messed up as I am.’ But even when I worried you didn’t care, or that you were indifferent, never did I think you would walk into the room and rip my heart out the way you did.”

Cassandra had become more and more engrossed in a painful kind of way, the more she talked. It wasn’t hard to understand -- it was probably the most brutally candid Olivia had ever been in her presence. Bearing her most cringe-worthy sides of her survival, for reasons she could not articulate half as well.

“So…” she sharply sniffled, “I just want to know what the secret is. What you do, what you...you tell yourself, that makes you so magically put-together. Maybe it’s the same shit you take that convinces you that I’m the one tormenting you when I…” she closes her eyes again, but a stray, small tear runs down the outside corner of her eye. That is enough for her. “You know, whatever. I’m...I’m not gonna…” she started to walk back, verbally and physically, expecting nothing else but her own shame.

A few steps, and then, the second twist of the knife.

“Liv, please.” Once again, she asks, and once again, Olivia stops. This time, her back is to her.

“I…” Cassandra takes a moment, collecting her breath by the sounds of it. “Cullen knows me, but he doesn’t know...me. He sees me coming and going, but he doesn’t know what happens while I’m getting by. If he did, he’d tell Ellinor--or, probably you, more like--that from the moment you first spoke to me I haven’t been able to get your voice out of my head. I’ve never been good with sentimentality, much as I appreciate it. But when I’m...when I’m around you it feels like I don’t have to worry. If anything’s been a secret, it’s been that.”

The sensation of hugging her in this room is still fresh. The way her arms wrapped around her waist, the way her breath felt against her neck. The briefness of it, and wishing it could last. But nothing lasts. Head high as much as she could pretend, she swallows stiff and keeps her eyes on the door for just a beat longer. Then, she faces her again. And Cassandra, she...her red eyes, her slightly red, tired eyes. It’s horrible.

“If you were so crazy about me, then why didn’t you kiss me? I was all yours, I was--”

“Because I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“...You…”

Cassandra sighs tersely, rubbing the side of her face. Exasperated. “I didn’t want the first time I ever kissed you to be during a fight about you being slut-shamed and me invading your privacy, alright? Is that...is that so much to ask? That if I was going to...to let myself be with a woman, a woman like you, that that kind of thing would be a little more special?!”

“I would have agreed, if you would have just talked to me! About anything!” Olivia shifted, now head-on with her. “You said you knew what you wanted, Cassandra, but that’s just it. You knew. I may have had my hopes and...and you may have been right about me having more of a clue than I admitted, but a clue is not consent. It isn’t a consensus. When you rejected me, I felt like an ass! Like I had taken advantage of you in some way.”

“Something you would have known wasn’t the case if you would have just stayed and listened to me! I was trying to tell you!”

“Trying?!”

“Yes! Or have you forgotten how hard it was to say out loud to the first girl you ever liked that you had feelings for her, and you were terrified she’d walk out?!”

“I did--!” She begins to hiss back, but stops. Forgiveness was an easier visitor when it came to certain suffering. She couldn’t swing the gavel when it came to that: it was like breaking ten different rules of queer code. Ugh, dammit. “Intimidated or not, we’re adults. This isn’t a recess, or homeroom, it’s...it’s life. I don’t get it, you’re always so...just...mature, with everything else but this.”

Cassandra half-nodded, and folded her arms. “The heart of man is a labyrinth, whose windings are very difficult to be discovered.”

Olivia delayed her retort, a bit off-guard. “...Um...yeah, that is...one way of putting it.”

Cassandra’s sweetly sore, peering down at the ground. “It’s an excerpt, from one of Heloise’s letters to Abelard. It’s...it’s after one where he implores her to revoke their union for the sake of God, but she refuses.”

Who even is this woman? Some thesaurus of mankind’s broken desires, reincarnated into one toned, statuesque, androgynous body? Is she even real?

“Yeah, well...Abelard was an elitist asshole who wasn’t worth it. And you’re still pompous, I take it.”

She smirks again, but not as sadly, as her eyes meet hers again. “Maybe so, on both counts. However, he still encouraged her in her work, and her learning.”

“Yes, as a means to punish her for behavior he deemed carnal even though he was a complicit beneficiary of if, not to mention--”

“Behavior he was punished for as well, rather grotesquely, if I can recall.”

Olivia’s hold on the book loosens, and she looks down at it, before back at her. “He...yeah. I mean, it was just a little...castration. It be like that sometimes.” They stare once again, and she clamps down on her tongue. They’re both fighting back something, some kind of expression, though Olivia denies the hope that Cassandra wishes to smile as she does. That is, until they both cough up a chuckle. The first in a long time; she can hardly remember the last occasion. That hurts.

After a moment, she gathers her wits. She slides the book into her shoulder back, and gets back to the unsavory topic.

“We’ve made a mess, haven’t we.” She can’t help but smile. Cassandra could run her heart through the mud and gravel, and then say something clever, and that’d be all it takes. She’d smile.

“I’m afraid so. They must think we’re devising to kill each other,” Cassandra says, coming forward. There’s no need of explanation as to who she’s referring to. In a flash, images of a very worried Ellinor and slightly scared Cullen come to mind.

“You would deserve it.”

A wry smirk. “Oh, would I?”

“Yes, you were a dick.”

“And you were an insensitive snob.”

Olivia chokes back another laugh. “Compared to the company you keep, Cassandra, I’m a down-home piece of apple pie.”

Cassandra scoffs. “Leliana? Ugh, God,” she grins, “she only pulls that act when she’s trying to pull something. She was being an ass, but, she was just...trying to protect me. I’m sure she’ll appear out of nowhere and explain herself, so, be prepared.”

“Oh, wonderful, I crave her company,” she mocks, eyes rolling gently as she looks back towards the door. “Why doesn’t she just show up now? I’m eager for more mortifying company.”

“She knew I wanted to be left alone. She does listen, you know.”

“...Oh. Well, damn.” That was a nice thing. Boundaries, huh, who knew. She can sympathize -- Olivia also has a friend who left her alone after one too many acidic quips. Oh, Ellinor. Though she wants to, she can’t crucify the woman for wanting to put up a fight for her friend. “Look, I know it makes me an asshole every time, but, I really should be going this time around. I have things to do tonight, and I really just needed to get this….this book.” She says it, but she hates it.

She hates it even more when Cassandra frowns, and blinks her eyes away. “I understand, no, it’s alright. You can’t just stay in every room I find you in.”

“No, I can’t, hah.” But I wish I could.

“Hey, Olivia?” she says one last time. Her full name. It’s nice, without all the malice.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes brighten a little. Bravery. “I...I hope that you’ll be happy. Whatever that means for you. You deserve it.”

It’s a stab to the side, clean and direct through her ribs and into her gut. Her voice saying ‘I think you knew what I wanted,’ rings loud and clear in her mind again. Wanted. Not want, wanted. And now this. Oh no, Cassandra, please, please don’t tell me you’ve really let go.

“...Thank you, Cassandra. I...I wish the same for you.” I wish it, and I wish it’d happen with me. Be with me. Ask me to stay. This time I’ll stay, I promise. Just ask it.

“Thanks. Um, drive safe, okay?” More of those polite, detached manners. Again. No, no, no.

“Yeah, um,” Olivia swallows, “I will. See you around, maybe?”

“Yeah. I think so.” A smile. She’s smiling. Oh God, she really has accepted it. That they aren’t meant for each other. Like Heloise and Abelard: Olivia as Heloise, ranting and raving in her letters about having been consumed by amorous affection. And then there’s Abelard, pointing her away towards higher callings, wishing her the best. Fuck Abelard, and fuck this.

Olivia tries her hardest to hide it, and she manages a wide grin and wave before leaving. She makes it out the hallway, down the side aisle of the Church pews, out the door, and into her car.

Slamming the car door behind her, she sinks into her compact leather seat and bangs her head against the headrest. Cassandra is letting her go. She did at the gallery, technically, but now it hurts in a different way. A way she feels no enraged pride in, no vanity. No need for spiteful indifference. She wants to take it all back, this time.

The one thing she couldn’t say, and perhaps will always regret, is that Cassandra was right. She is right. And now, she’s giving Olivia what she wants, what she clamors for, all the time. She’s giving it rather than trying to change her. So this is what respect feels like from someone who wants to love you.

The book stays in her lap as she drives home. When she stops at every red light, she clutches where Cassandra held it. If it were all a movie, this would be where she’d drive off into the sunset after her coming-of-age tale, leaving the reckless love behind. But she wants to do anything but that.

How long will it be until she finally stops? The answer is now.

She brakes hard and pulls into a street parking spot -- one of the luckiest moments of her life. Digging in her bag on the passenger’s seat, she finds her phone. Thumbing and thumbing, until she finds her name and the message thread she could never make herself delete.

--You know what’d make me happy? Because I have a couple ideas on the subject. The first is Friday night, at 11. Stay awake, or miss out.