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⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. seven

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

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⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: After three wild, blissfully chaotic weeks with Ellie and the Fireflies, you return to start your own tour, still reeling from the rush. But something’s different now. You saw it, that fleeting moment of truth, the one that cracked everything wide open. No matter how tightly she held you, how fiercely she kissed you, a piece of her was slipping away. And love—no matter how loud, no matter how pure—can’t quiet everything forever. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 13,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: angst, some fluff to...balance, suggestive, very sensitive topics, pet names, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, fighting, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains references to drug use, adicction and abstinence. If you're sensitive to any of this topics, please read with caution or consider skipping. I aim to handle it with thoughtfulness and respect.

ELLIE WILLIAMS PUNCHES PAPARAZZO OUTSIDE SEATTLE NIGHTCLUB — VIDEO GOES VIRAL, FANS DIVIDED

April 18, 2025 | Seattle, WA

⚠️ This article’s taking a more serious tone than our usual headlines — and for good reason.

Fireflies’ frontwoman and rock powerhouse Ellie Williams was caught on camera throwing a punch — and we do mean a real, no-holds-barred right hook — at a paparazzo outside trendy celeb club The District Lounge in Seattle last night.

The altercation went down just past 1 a.m., as Williams was leaving the venue with her bandmates and partner, chart-topping pop sensation Y/N after what looked like a celebratory post-concert night out. According to several eyewitnesses, the vibe was “super sweet, lots of handholding and smiles” — that is, until everything flipped.

In footage that’s now everywhere online, paparazzis are shouting questions at the couple. Nothing unusual at first, until one of them lobs this one:

“Ellie! You cool with dating someone who buys their awards?”

👀 In the video, Ellie visibly tenses up. A tense exchange follows. Voices are raised. Then, without warning, Ellie lunges and lands a clean punch right to the guy’s face. Blood. Chaos. Screaming. Flashes.

Security, bandmates, and Y/N immediately intervened to pull Ellie back, while her team rushed to calm things down.

At first, reactions online were mixed. Some fans were stunned at Ellie’s reaction. Others defended her.

But just a few hours later, everything changed — because a second video surfaced, with clear, unedited audio of what the paparazzi actually said.

And… yikes.

In the new clip, the pap doesn’t just question Y/N’s success — he launches into a disgusting tirade of misogynistic, objectifying, and homophobic comments. He makes suggestive comments about her appearance, and implies that her success is due to sexual favors, not talent. Just as we thought he was done, he ends it calling Ellie a homophobic slur.

“Cute little popstar riding high on all those industry favors... Flash a little skin, make the right people happy...” “What a shame. All that effort to make you every guy’s wet dream, and you’d rather be some d***’s lapdog.”

The moment that slur hits, the internet flips.

And #TeamEllie began trending within minutes.

Public Reaction:

@: “not ellie doing what security should’ve done 💅”

@: “I watched that video with my jaw on the FLOOR. protect y/n at all costs.”

@: “if u say ‘violence is never the answer’ after hearing that clip, you’re part of the problem”

@: “ellie williams punched a homophobe in the face and walked back into the club holding her girl’s hand. that’s my roman empire.”

Even some fellow celebs took to their stories and comments sections, labeling the pap’s behavior “disgusting,” “predatory,” and “absolutely deserving of backlash.”

What We Know:

• Neither Ellie nor Y/N has released a public statement.

• The paparazzi has not been identified, but sources say his agency is reviewing the incident.

• No official charges have been filed.

While TMZ does not condone violence of any kind, especially in heated public spaces where things can escalate fast, we also believe it’s critical to state this plainly:

We do not condone homophobia, misogyny, or hate speech — not from fans, not from press. What was said to Y/N in that moment was unacceptable, dehumanizing, and crosses far beyond the line of standard paparazzi antics.

Celebrities are not immune to human emotion. And when you push someone to their limit —especially by targeting their identity or their partner— there can be consequences.

We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops.

But what do YOU think? Drop your opinions below! ⬇️

────────────

❤️ 22.5M — 💬 892.9K

The jet hums softly beneath you, that kind of low, omnipresent vibration that feels less like noise and more like a lullaby. Thirty thousand feet in the air, everything feels a little less real. A little safer. Like you’ve floated out of your real life and landed in a quieter, more luxurious version of it.

The scent of citrus and something faintly botanical wafts from a sleek little diffuser perched discreetly near the minibar. It’s probably eucalyptus harvested at midnight under a full moon or something equally stupid. You can’t decide if it smells relaxing, rich, or just ridiculous.

You’re tucked by the window, blanketed in something cream-colored and cashmere-soft, your fuzzy socks peeking out from under the edge of your seat like the world's coziest fashion statement. Outside, the sky stretches out like a watercolored daydream—petal pinks melting into pale amber, the slow golden creep of a sunrise bleeding across the clouds.

But inside, the vibe is decidedly less serene.

Across the aisle, Jesse and Dina are arguing over how best to saber a champagne bottle using a butter knife and, apparently, sheer force of will.

“No, no, angle it towards the ceiling like this,” he insists, adjusting his stance like a fencing champion. “It’s all in the wrist. Champagne knows when you’re confident.”

“It also knows when you’re an idiot,” Dina mutters, rubbing her temple, still wearing smudged eyeliner and an oversized hoodie that reaches her knees. “This is how rich people die. Decapitated in a jet.”

And in the middle of it all: Ellie is somehow both the most composed and the most ridiculous person in the place.

She’s curled up beside you, a warm, sleepy weight pressed along your side. Hood pulled low over her face like a sleep mask, one leg draped lazily over yours, a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms cradled in her lap. She’s working her way through them with the unhurried satisfaction of someone who’s conquered the world and now just wants sugar.

She only picks the blue ones, of course—Ellie never eats the others. Something about the taste. Or the vibe. She’s never explained it, and you’ve never asked.

There’s a faint line of your lip gloss still smudged on the corner of her mouth from earlier. She hasn’t noticed. And you’re not going to tell her.

“They’re gonna kill themselves,” you murmur, tucking a strand of her messy mullet back under the edge of her hood.

Ellie doesn’t even open her eyes. Her voice is thick with sleep, slurred slightly, curling around the words like smoke. “Let ‘em. Natural selection.”

You blink down at her, grinning.“You say that now, but when we plummet to our deaths because he put a hole in the ceiling with a $1000 bottle of Dom—”

“I had sex three times last night,” she cuts in, matter-of-fact, like she’s announcing the weather. “With you. The most gorgeous woman on Earth. I’ve lived a full life. Let the plane crash. I die a legend.”

You choke on a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

She shifts slightly, head nudging closer to your collarbone, hoodie slipping to reveal a sliver of her temple. “You didn’t think I was disgusting when I—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” you warn, slapping your hand softly but surely over her mouth mid-thought.

And she just licks your palm.

You yelp, yanking your hand back like she’s electrocuted you, wiping it exaggeratedly on the blanket. She’s grinning now, all mischief and molars, the corner of her mouth sticky with M&M shell dust.

“Oh, now you’re disgusted?” she teases. “You were singing a different tune last night. In B major, specifically.”

From across the aisle, Jesse groans like he’s being personally victimized.

“Jesus Christ. Can you two not be horny for five consecutive minutes?”

“Yeah. Some of us are just trying to open a champagne and disassociate like God intended.” Dina adds dryly. “Not listen to the live audiobook of Fifty Shades of Gay.”

You press your nose into Ellie’s hair to hide your grin. She smells like cheap hotel shampoo and your vanilla body lotion—the one she fake-gagged at when you first let her use it, then promptly stole.

“Wow,” Ellie sighs into your shoulder. “Is this what oppression feels like? Deeply homophobic.”

Then, quieter, like she’s already halfway back to sleep: “I’m so tired. Why do I even talk?”

You kiss the top of her head, slow and lingering, your fingers trailing through her hair. She melts into your side with a little hum, drawing slow circles on your thigh with the pad of her finger.

Then Jesse speaks, a rare note of sincerity slipping in beneath the banter. “Wait—so this really is your last stop, huh?”

You glance down at Ellie, who doesn’t lift her head. She just tucks herself tighter into your side, as if she could physically stop time that way.

You nod. “Yeah. Rachel’s sending a jet tomorrow morning. LA stuff. Obligations. Capitalism.”

There’s a quiet beat. Not awkward, just... still. Like everyone’s aware something is ending.

“Damn,” Jesse says. “Everything’s gonna be way less fun without you.”

Dina nods, more solemn than usual. “We’ll miss you. And not just because Ellie turns into a sulky feral cat when you’re gone.”

“I do not—” Ellie mumbles, not even bothering to lift her head.

Your phone buzzes, cutting through the moment, and you squint at the screen. Rachel.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hey, Rach.”

“Hey there, my little sunshine!” she says, entirely too awake for someone who’s probably had three espressos and fifty emails already. “Just reminding you—your jet’s wheels-up at nine sharp. Your makeup artist has already texted me twice threatening to quit if you show up looking even one percent post-tour hungover.”

You glance down at Ellie, who’s giving you the most pitiful don’t go expression a human face has ever made.

“I know. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, good. Because your girlfriend may look harmless to you, but I know she’s plotting how to trap you in a guitar case and sneak you into the next city.”

"She’s surprisingly strong when she wants something,” you whisper, then louder: “Ellie, are you going to kidnap me?”

“Mmmmno,” she murmurs into your chest. “Just… light hostage vibes.”

Rachel sighs. “Tell her I’m not above slapping her with a custody agreement.”

You laugh, just when Rachel adds, softer now:

“By the way... I saw the full video. From last night. At the club.”

You go still. So does Ellie.

“What that fucker said to you? Completely disgusting. I don’t care how famous you are, you didn't deserve that, darling. And Ellie—what she did—I get it. I really do. I’m glad it came out.”

You glance down. She's just looking at you, her face soft in that way that makes your chest feel like it's made of melted marshmallow.

“I’m glad it came out too,” you say quietly.

“And legally, I’m supposed to say we don’t condone violence,” Rachel adds. “But emotionally? If that guy wanted to insult someone’s girlfriend and walk away unpunched, he should’ve picked literally anyone else.”

You grin. “Love you too, Rach.”

“Be ready at nine. And if Ellie tries to hijack the jet, I will sue.”

You hang up just as the champagne finally gives in to Jesse’s abuse and pops open with a triumphant bang. Foam sprays in a glorious arc over the floor.

“CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMOSEXUALS!” he crows, waving the bottle like he’s just conquered France. Champagne rains down. The carpet will never be the same.

He pours it in four flutes, sloshing liquid everywhere. “To tragic long-distance lesbians!”

Ellie doesn’t even flinch.

“May your FaceTimes be horny and your WiFi strong!” Dina adds, raising her glass.

You run a hand through her hair, slow and soothing, fingers tracing little arcs at her scalp until her eyes flutter shut again. Her legs are still flung over yours.

Jesse and Dina go back to arguing over whether champagne counts as hydration, the light outside the windows shifting from gold to ivory, and your heart tugs a little tighter with every second you get closer to destination.

Because this is it. The last city. The last show. And after that—separate schedules. Separate beds. Separate time zones.

But for now, there’s warmth in your lap, fingers tracing little hearts on your thigh, and Ellie’s voice, sleepy and full of love, murmuring, “You better text me every five seconds when you leave or I’ll write a diss track about you.”

You smile, lean down, kiss her temple.

And wonder how the hell you’re supposed to say goodbye to all of this.

You were still floating.

Wrapped in a soft white robe, toes curling into plush carpet, skin warm from the shower. You’d been riding that same hazy high since the second your body sank into Ellie’s that morning. Since her sleep-heavy whispers in the jet, her fingers sneaking under your hoodie like she couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second.

Everything felt gilded.

Even the sky over Chicago had looked touched by something holy—petal-pink sky streaked with gold, the first light of sunrise slicing through clouds like God had a soft spot for lesbians in love.

You laughed at everything, let Ellie feed you strawberries from the minibar, see you try on three different outfits for soundcheck even though you weren’t performing. She watched you the whole time like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she still couldn’t believe she got to keep you.

And you swore she looked younger when she smiled. Softer.

Safe.

You watched her do eyeliner in the bathroom mirror with the door cracked open, singing under her breath. When she noticed you watching, she winked. Bit her lip. Said something low and so filthy it made you drop your lip gloss and hit the floor.

You loved her like a lunatic.

So when the tour bus pulled up to the venue, and her fingers laced through yours like second nature, when she pressed her mouth to the inside of your wrist and whispered, “You’re mine forever” it felt like a promise.

It felt like a future you could touch.

These three weeks with them—Ellie, Jesse, Dina, the whole chaotic whirlwind of the Fireflies—had felt like a dream. As if you’d slipped out of your own life and landed in someone else’s movie. Every moment larger than life, every night louder, brighter than the last.

The kind of fantasy you never think you’ll get to live. Laughter on tour buses, tequila-fueled karaoke, whispered secrets in hotel bathtubs, kisses stolen between soundcheck and stage lights. It didn’t feel real, not exactly—but it felt right.

It made sense in your bones.

Love had never been this wild or this sweet or this completely yours. You never thought it could be like this, hadn’t even dare to imagine it. Too consuming to be anything but real, burning too bright to be ordinary.

But even the brightest dreams have to end.

And you woke up from this one when you stepped backstage.

You hadn’t been gone for more than a minute. Just a quick trip to the bathroom to touch up your lipgloss, glance in the mirror and remind yourself who you are. You could still hear her voice echoing in your ears, her laughter against your skin. You were thinking about what you’d say when the set was over, how you’d pull her into the dressing room and kiss her until she forgot the world.

Until you stepped back inside and saw it.

Saw Ellie hunched over the scratched-up dressing room table, her hair falling into her face, the curve of her shoulders tense and focused.

She didn’t see you.

Her fingers moved fast—too fast—rolling a crumpled dollar bill with the kind of precision that only comes from repetition.

A credit card lay beside a neat, unforgiving line of white powder. It caught the light like something sacred.

Or damning.

Your chest locked so tight it hurt to breathe.

But it wasn’t shock. That was the thing.

Because you’d seen this before and chose to forget.

You told yourself it wasn’t real. Told yourself she was just tired, just wired, just celebrating. You buried it deep beneath the way she danced with you under the lights, the way she kissed you. You let the fantasy carry you through the night.

But now it’s here.

Right in front of you again.

In the cold light of the dressing room, with the crowd screaming just beyond the concrete walls and the countdown to showtime ticking louder with every passing second—and there’s no forgetting this time.

You take a step back. No one notices.

The crew moves around her like it’s normal. Like they've seen it more times that they could count.

Jesse’s crouched over a pedalboard, fingers moving with too much precision, like if he keeps his hands busy enough, he won’t have to feel anything. His jaw is locked, tight enough to ache. Shoulders pulled into a straight line that screams tension, restraint.

Dina’s by the far wall, arms crossed so hard it looks painful. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, staring at a spot above Ellie’s head like she’s afraid of what’ll happen if she actually looks at her. Like if she looks, she might scream.

But they don’t stop her.

Because they never do.

And that—that’s what finally breaks something open inside you. Not the act. Not the sound of Ellie sniffing hard, or the way she wiped her nose like she was brushing off crumbs. Not the way she smirked after like she was invincible.

No.

It was the ease.

The casual rhythm of it. Like brushing her teeth or tuning her guitar. Like muscle memory.

The crack comes from across the room—“Three minutes!”—sharp and sudden, like a gunshot through glass.

Ellie straightens, fast she could. Licks her thumb. Swipes it beneath her nose with a practiced flick, then drags the edge of her hand across it, clearing the residue. She exhales through her nose, sharp and fast. Not even subtle.

Then she turns, sees you—and smiles.

Doesn’t see the way your body’s gone rigid. Doesn’t register the silence stretching thin in the air between you. Doesn’t know what you walked in on. What you saw. What you can’t unsee.

To her, nothing’s changed.

She crosses the room fast, too fast. Movements jerky and precise all at once. Her pupils are blown wide and her jaw ticks as she swallows, hard. The skin beneath her cheekbones is flushed, feverish. She’s jittery, bouncing on the balls of her feet even as she moves toward you like gravity doesn’t quite apply.

And then she’s in front of you—pressing up close, sliding an arm around your waist like it’s nothing. Like you’re still her girl. Her anchor. Her steady place. Her fingers hook into the belt loop of your jeans like they’ve done a hundred times before.

You don’t melt into the touch. You don’t lean in like you always do.

You feel weightless instead of held. Like a balloon someone let go of.

Her voice comes soft, lazy against your neck, low and sweet like nothing's wrong.

“I love when you watch me, babe,” she murmurs, grin curling against your skin. “But you’re staring.”

You should say something. You should pull away.

Should tell her this isn’t okay. That you’re not okay.

Ask her If this is just because of the show. If it's just a thing she sometimes does but doesn't impact on her life.

Or if she actually needs it.

But your voice is gone.

So you smile, slow and hollow, and whisper.

“Guess I just can’t help it.”

She pecks the corner of your mouth, quick and careless, already halfway gone.

You watch her sling her guitar over her shoulder, crack her knuckles, bounce on her heels like she’s itching for a fight.

“One minute!”

The lights dim. The crowd roars. A swell of sound like thunder. Dina brushes past you, eyes on the stage. Jesse lingers just a beat longer, nodding once—solemn, steady, like he’s trying to ground you with the gesture alone.

But you don’t move. You just look at them.

And then it happens—in a flash, in the space of a single breath.

They see it.

Your expression. Your eyes. The way you’re not cheering them, not giving Ellie a good luck kiss, not reaching for your phone or your heart. The way your body has gone still in a room full of motion.

Jesse’s mouth tightens. Dina freezes mid-step, like she’s been caught in a spotlight. And there, in the half-second where they both turn to face you fully, it clicks:

You saw it.

Their eyes flick to each other—worried, grim, like a silent conversation just passed between them. Then, without a word, they turn and head toward the stage.

And Ellie—blissfully unaware of the silent collapse behind her—glances back just before the lights explode to life.

She flashes that grin, that signature wink. All teeth, all swagger, all smoldering charisma.

All fallout waiting to happen.

And then shes gone.

The moment she steps into the lights, the crowd erupts—one deafening, all-consuming roar that shakes the walls and vibrates through the floor. It climbs up your legs and punches into your chest like a second heartbeat.

But you're left behind, stuck in the wreckage, the echo of her still clinging to your skin like static. Your heart is unraveling in silence—thread by thread, stitch by delicate stitch—until it’s not a heart anymore, just a tangle of raw nerve endings and everything you were too afraid to feel until now.

The taste of her kiss still lingers, seared into your mouth like a brand—sweet, cruel, permanent. You can’t spit it out. You can’t swallow it down. It just stays, like smoke in a burning house.

You tell yourself to stay calm.

To breathe.

Because suddenly, you're standing in two versions of the same story—one where you’re the love of her life, and one where you’re just a soft, warm distraction.

Something she clings to so she doesn’t have to face the wreckage she’s making of herself.

Dina’s bass thrums in, low and powerful, followed by Jesse’s sharp crash of drums, and then there’s Ellie—center stage, gripping the mic stand with one hand, head tilting back as if she’s offering herself to the crowd. Like she was built to be devoured by it.

She looks alive.

No—more than that. She looks holy. Like every scar on her has been turned into gold under the spotlight. The weight in her limbs from just minutes ago, the haze in her eyes, the quiet shake in her fingers—it’s all gone. Burned up. Erased. Replaced by that wild, magnetic energy she wears like armor. The kind that drives fans into hysteria, that sells out arenas and sparks rumors.

That the world mistakes for magic.

And you watch her. You watch the way she throws herself into the music like her body isn’t something that can break. How she bends into every note, every chord, like she’s summoning something from her bones. How she moves like she’s high on the sound, not anything else.

Laughing between verses, sweat-drenched and radiant, eyes wild as she spins and shouts something into Dina’s mic. The crowd eats it up. She tips her head back and screams into the chorus, and the lights cut through the fog like blades.

She's a storm. A fucking supernova.

And the audience is too busy falling in love with her to notice she's burning herself alive to keep the fire going.

Song after song goes by in a rush of light and sound and screaming. Ellie stands at the edge of the stage, panting, soaked in sweat, short auburn locks stuck to her face.

It happened in the middle of a guitar solo—raw, jagged, teeth-bared. The lights strobed red and white, and the crowd surged like a living, breathing wave beneath her. Ellie stepped forward, sweat-slick and electric, the strap of her guitar cutting across her shoulder, her eyes wild with something feral.

That’s when she saw it.

A lesbian pride flag, waving high in the pit, just behind the barricade. The colors were unmistakable—sunset stripes of orange and pink, bold and unbothered. She smirked.

Without missing a beat, she bent low and grabbed it gently between her teeth, her fingers still flying along the fretboard. The camera feeds caught it instantly and blew it up across the arena screen.

The fifty thousand people crowd screamed like it was gospel.

She held it there for five full seconds—her mouth half-curled around it like a promise, like a war cry, like a fuck-you to everyone who had ever tried to shame her for it.

Then she spit it out.

Straightened.

And grabbed the mic—grinning, breathless, eyes blazing.

The crowd was already losing their minds when she let the flag fall from her mout. She grabbed the mic, breathless, smirking like she could set the world on fire and enjoy watching it burn.

“I’ve never been ashamed of who I am,” she said, voice echoing through the roar. “Not for a second. Not for loving her. Not for being loud about it.”

The cheers rose, thunderous. She paced the stage like she owned it—like she was hunting something.

“So yeah—I hit him.” She laughed, bitter and wild. “And I’d do it again. Twice as hard. With a fucking smile.”

The crowd erupted.

Ellie raised a hand, cutting through the noise.

Her lip curled into something wicked, triumphant.

“And if you’ve got a problem with that, find a new fucking show.”

Then she slammed back into the solo—louder, messier, holy. Her guitar howled like a riot. The spotlight caught the edge of her jaw, the spit on her lips, the fire in her eyes.

She was a storm. She was the siren warning before it hits.

“Thank you, Chicago!” she shouted when the solo ended, breath ragged, grinning like the night had finally caught up to her. “You guys are fucking insane!”

The crowd didn’t howl—they roared.

And she scans thru it like she’s memorizing the shape of this moment—then turns, eyes locking with yours in the wings.

A smile breaks slow across her face, wicked and soft all at once.

She leans into the mic, breathless but grinning.

“And shoutout to my girl backstage—lookin’ like sin, as always.” Her voice dropped into a smoky purr, teasing and wicked. “I’d write you a thousand songs if that means I get to kiss you after every show."

The crowd erupts again. Dina smirks, shaking her head, Jesse lets out a wolf whistle. Ellie laughs, radiant and reckless, and dives into the next.

Loving Ellie felt like fire—but you didn’t realize she was the one in flames.

You were just standing there, too mesmerized by the glow and the warmth to notice it was burning.

The moment the last note fades, the enormous crowd is still screaming, the lights still flashing, Ellie drops her guitar and walks straight off the stage. Not a bow, not a wave—just a beeline for you, eyes locked, raw and unguarded bleeding through the remnants of the performance.

And then she’s there.

Her hands cup your face, and before you can say anything, she kisses you. Hard, grateful, almost desperate. The kind of kiss that says, I made it. I’m still here. Her lips taste like sweat and adrenaline and something bitter you don’t want to name.

When she pulls back, she’s still breathing hard, her forehead pressed to yours.

“Caught you staring.” she teases gently.

“Can you blame me?” you say softly, trying to play it cool in front of her, to act as you always did. “You shoved a lesbian flag in your mouth, called out that asshole and made the entire arena scream your name. You were electric out there. I don’t think I blinked once.”

Her face shifts, the grin softening into something almost shy. All the edge, all the fire from the stage—gone in a blink.

She leans in and kisses your forehead like it’s a promise. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose, grinning now.

“You blow my mind, you know that?” she murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Every time I think I’ve hit the ceiling with how much I love you, you come along and tear the whole roof off.”

I love you too, you want to say.

But your throat is thick.

She’s pulled away before you can respond, called back by the crew for something—photos, signatures, maybe just the last wave before they wrap up the night.

The echo of Ellie’s kiss still lingers like heat on your mouth when Jesse and Dina step in beside you—quiet, hesitant, like they know what’s coming. Like they were waiting to speak to you. Try to explain.

You don’t look at them right away. You keep your eyes on the stage, where the tech crew is already beginning to break everything down. Lights dimming. Pedals unplugged. The calm after the storm.

And your voice comes out calmer than you expect. But sharp like broken glass.

“I saw her before the show.”

Neither of them respond.

“But she didn’t see me," your voice is shaprer now. “I walked in on her.”

You glance between them.

“Using. Again.”

The silence snaps taut, a wire stretched too far. Jesse shifts his weight like the floor’s become unstable. Dina doesn’t move, just exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing like she’s bracing for impact.

“Because I saw it last night too” you go on, steadier than you feel. “At the club. In that booth. With both of you. And I let it go.”

You’re shaking now, just a little. But the words don’t stop.

“I let it go because I wanted to. Because I wanted to believe you when you told me it wasn’t a big deal. And I didn’t want it to be real.”

You look at them in the eye, and your voice comes out razor-clean.

“But you lied to me.”

Dina flinches. Jesse looks down.

“You both stood there and told me it was nothing. That this was normal between you. Like I was overreacting. Like I was just some dramatic girlfriend who didn’t get it.”

Your voice catches, but you push through it.

“So I stayed quiet.” You take a step forward. “But I’m not gonna stay quiet now.”

Your eyes are on them, unwavering.

“Doing coke isn’t fucking normal.”

“We didn’t mean it like that,” Jesse says finally, his voice low and frayed. “We were trying to—”

“What?” you cut in. “Protect me? Or protect her?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Dina folds her arms across her chest. Her voice is flat but her eyes are burning. “Both,” she says. “We were trying to protect both of you.”

You stare at her.

“Ellie told us not to say anything. She made us promise. Said you were the only good thing she had that wasn’t touched by it. She didn’t want to drag you into the mess, to see that–"

She cuts herself before she could finish the sentence, then meets your eyes. “We just didn’t want to scare you off. It's always been… manageable."

You shake your head. “Doesn’t look manageable to me.”

“You are right,” Jesse agrees. “It’s not. Not anymore.”

There’s a pause, and it sits heavy between the three of you, a silence filled with all the things you didn’t say before. The things you’re only saying now because it’s too late to pretend anymore.

“She’s using more,” Dina admits, softer now. “More often. Less careful. Like… like maybe she doesn’t care if someone sees.”

“She used to hide it,” Jesse adds. “Back when she cared about being seen. But now, even in front of you—”

He stops.

Dina’s eyes are full of guilt. “She’s not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say, and your voice finally cracks.

“But she is.”

For a moment, the only sound is the clatter of gear being packed into cases, the low hum of the venue emptying out, the echo of your own heartbeat.

Dina steps a little closer. “She loves you. You know that, right?”

“And I love her,” you say—because it’s still true, even now. “But you’ve known her longer. So tell me the truth.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Jesse drags a hand down his face, slow and heavy, exhausted. Like the weight of the answer is already too much.

“It’s been like this since the band blew up,” he says, voice low. “Way before you.”

You stare at him, something bitter rising in your chest.

“And you just… let it happen?”

“No,” Dina snaps, too fast, too defensive. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest now. “We didn’t let anything happen.”

She glances at Jesse, then back at you. Her voice softens, but the edge doesn’t leave it.

“We flushed her stash. More than once. We’ve cornered her, begged her, screamed at her. Jesse threatened to walk once. I threatened worse. None of it stuck.”

“She’s Ellie,” Jesse mutters, like it’s both an explanation and a curse. “You don’t tell her to stop. You ask. You plead. And she looks you in the eye, promises she’ll try. And then a week later, she’s back at it like nothing happened.”

You feel the words crack open inside you. It’s like your ribs are trying to hold something in that doesn’t want to stay quiet anymore.

“She’s spiraling,” you whisper. “And it’s like she doesn't even care about anything... not even about me.”

“She cares,” Jesse says, quick and certain. “You don’t get it—she cares so much about you it kills her.”

“But I think she’s past pretending,” Dina says, her voice quieter now. “I think she doesn’t believe she can stop anymore.”

The words sit between you like ash. You breathe them in.

“She looks at me like I’m everything. And still…” you murmur, more to yourself than to them.

Still, she used. Still, she smiled. Still, she kissed you like nothing had happened.

You shake your head, trying to breathe through the ache in your throat.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Your voice is raw. Fragile. Half a question, half a cry.

But neither of them answer.

Because they’ve asked themselves that same question a hundred times. And it still keeps them up at night.

You meet their eyes again, and in a second, all the puzzle pieces rearrange themselves into a picture you wish you’d never seen.

She never let you go through the pockets of her jeans or jackets. Always smacked your hand away with a crooked little grin, called you nosy, told you “you’re not ready for the things I hide back there, babe.” You thought it was a joke. A line. Something flirty and mysterious and hers.

The quick trips to the bathroom at dinners, at rehearsals, backstage, after parties. The way she’d come back with her pupils blown wide, swallowing the green whole. How she’d press in close, breathing too fast, too sharp against your jaw, fingers restless like they needed something to do.

And you—god, stupid you—drunk on her, dumb with love, thought it was because of you. That you were the reason she was vibrating.

And Jesse. The way his jaw would tighten. How his eyes would dart to Dina, something silent passing between them. Dina, arms crossed, lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

The way she looked at them at those times. Not just like best friends. Not just like bandmates. Like they were co-conspirators. Survivors. Three soldiers in the same quiet, losing war. You thought it was history. Time. The kind of bond forged through sleepless nights and highschool stories and green room breakdowns.

But now you see it for what it is.

A secret. A loaded silence they all agreed to carry.

And you—

You're the only new one here.

You’re the girlfriend. The popstar. The one Ellie writes songs about and kisses in front of cameras. The one she calls her muse. The one she pulled into the eye of the storm with a smile and hands that never once shook when they touched you.

But you’re also the outsider. The one who didn’t know.

The one who walked into this too late.

You thought you were learning her. Thought every kiss was a key, every touch a map. You believed you were peeling her open slowly, gently, memorizing every scar and secret like scripture. You thought you’d earned your place in her world, carved it out with true, pure love.

You thought she’d changed. For you. With you. Because of you.

But this—this is the same Ellie who kissed the curve of your hip like it was sacred, who whispered that she’d never needed anyone the way she needed you—like you were heaven, or jesus, or god himself. The same girl who once said she’d kill for you, eyes clear and serious like she wasn’t speaking in metaphor.

Who scrawled I would burn up the world just to keep you warm on hotel stationery and tucked it into the back pocket of your jeans when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

The same Ellie who stood on the biggest stage in the world, held a Grammy in one hand and said I love you into the mic with the other.

Unflinching, unashamed, hers and yours and the world’s all at once.

And yet—this is her too.

An addict.

You said goodbye just after sunrise, under a sky that looked like it was trying its best not to cry.

The city still slept as you stood outside the hotel, the wind gentle, the air cool enough to make you shiver—but it wasn’t the cold that made you hold on so tightly to her.

You hadn’t slept at all. Not a second. You’d spent the whole night watching her instead—curled on her side, lashes casting soft shadows across her cheeks, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct.

You studied every freckle, every scar, every breath, trying to memorize the shape of her in the dark. Thinking about everything. About the dizzy, golden magic of the past three weeks. About the lines she’d crossed and the ones you couldn’t.

About the terrifying, beautiful ache of loving someone who made you feel like you were on fire and safe in the same breath.

About the weight she carried behind that easy grin. The fractures hidden beneath the spotlight. The quiet ways she unraveled when no one was watching.

You hadn’t wanted to believe it before. You wanted to believe she was past the messy headlines. That loving you had changed something. But last night stripped that illusion bare.

And lying beside her in the dark, you realized how much she’d been hiding—how long she’d been carrying it alone.

And realized the truth you’d only just started to see clearly.

“I’ll get your suitcase,” she murmured, her thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone as she pushed your thoughts aside. “You always overpack, and I’m not letting some idiot driver toss it around.”

You tried to smile, your throat too tight to speak, just nodding as she gave you one last look—like she didn’t want to turn away. And then she did. Shoulders hunched, disappearing around the corner of the hotel.

Jesse pulled you into a hug that said more than words could. His voice was gruff when he said, “Don’t be a stranger, alright?” and you nodded, your arms still around him.

Then Dina stepped forward and opened her arms without a word. You collapsed into her, your body giving in to everything it had been holding back.

“I’m scared,” you whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I am too.”

You pulled back, eyes wet, throat burning. And you looked at both of them—really looked.

“Promise me something.”

Jesse straightened. Dina’s brows knit.

“I want updates,” you said. “On her. On this.” You gestured vaguely, helplessly, as if the air between you held the weight of it all. “I don’t care how small. I need to know if she’s okay. I need to know if she gets worse. You have to tell me.”

They exchanged a glance—heavy, guilty, threaded with something like relief.

“We promise,” Jesse said, quiet.

“You have our numbers. Use them. Anytime.” Dina added.

Your mouth trembled. You nodded. You weren’t even trying to hide how hard you were crying now. It didn’t feel worth it, pretending anymore.

And then Ellie came back.

She smiled when she saw you—soft and crooked, a little lopsided. Even now. Even like this. But the moment she caught sight of your tear-streaked face, the smile faltered, melting into something quieter. Something concerned.

“Hey,” she said, sliding both arms around your waist, anchoring you to her like she could keep the whole world from tilting. “What’d I miss?”

You shook your head, swiping quickly at your cheeks, trying to steady your breath.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she murmured, gentle but firm, her voice dipping as she leaned in close. “Talk to me.”

You looked at her for a long time. At the girl who wrote you love songs and bruised your lips with kisses that always felt like need. At the girl who lit up entire arenas with nothing but a guitar and a grin. At the girl whose heart felt too big and too broken for her own chest.

“I’m just scared,” you whispered. “And I love you so much it hurts.”

And maybe you didn’t mean to say it quite like that—but a little bit of truth slipped out with it.

Ellie’s jaw tightened, the muscle in her face fluttering as though she was fighting something inside, something unsaid.

For a moment, her eyes glistened, her lips parted like she might break open, like she might finally let it spill. Like she might finally let herself cry, break, show vulnerability.

But she didn’t. Because she never did.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around your waist—like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her forehead pressed against yours, and her breath lingered, warm against your lips. The way her voice dropped, rough and intimate, carried the weight of something she couldn’t say aloud, even when it was all there in the silence between you.

“I love you,” she whispered, fierce and unguarded. “I fucking love you. You’re everything to me.”

"I love you too, Ellie. So much."

You said it because it was true. Because you did. You always would. There was never a question in that.

And when you kissed her, it was slow—each second drawn out, as if trying to capture the fragile, sacred moment before the world outside came crashing back in.

Your lips moved against hers with a kind of desperate reverence, as if you could hold on to this part of her, this part of you, forever. She kissed you back with equal gravity, as if the act of breathing you in could somehow keep everything from slipping away.

When you finally pulled apart, it felt like tearing something fragile—like the delicate ripping of Velcro, each piece of your soul protesting the separation.

But you still let her go.

Now, high above the clouds, somewhere between here and Los Angeles, you sit in the quiet hum of the plane, staring out the window as if the expanse of the sky could clear the storm inside your head.

Your eyes sting, makeup smudged beneath them, and the dull ache behind your ribs sits heavy, as if something was left behind that no altitude or distance could ever change.

Your team is scattered further back in the cabin, giving you the space you didn’t ask for but didn’t know how to fight for. But no matter how far they sit, no matter how many miles the plane cuts across the sky, there’s never enough distance to outrun the mess inside your chest.

For the next two months, you and Ellie keep in touch.

Even when you’re stretched across time zones and cities blur into each other like watercolor, you find her in the quiet in-between. Maybe she finds you. She’s good at slipping into the cracks—those brief pauses before soundcheck, between red carpets and press junkets and late-night flights. She folds herself into your life like a prayer.

And God, do you need her.

You’re flying city to city so fast you’ve stopped keeping track. Wake up in Madrid, fall asleep in Amsterdam, wake again in Zurich. Or maybe it was Prague. You can't remember. You're too tired to try. The plane-bus-concert cycle is relentless. Interviews. Photo shoots. Wardrobe fittings. Makeup chairs. Hotel hallways. Red carpets where you smile so hard your jaw locks.

You haven't slept more than four hours in a row since Seattle. You barely remember what a full meal feels like. Sometimes you forget to eat entirely. You drink coffee like it's your lifeline. Red Bull like it's holy water. There’s always someone waiting for you backstage, always something pulling you forward.

You're playing to crowds of thousands and thousands, the biggest tour of your career, your face plastered across LED screens and magazine covers and glowing billboards. People scream your name like it’s a religion. It should feel like everything.

But it only really hits when your phone buzzes and her name lights up the screen.

A notification from her is better than rest. A blurry selfie of her in bed, flipping off the camera. A close-up of a cat she found on the street’s paw. A twenty-second voice memo where she’s just humming a tune that reminds her of you. A picture of a crumpled napkin with your lipstick where she wrote “proof of god.” A voicemail at 3 a.m., slurred and sweet: “Can’t sleep. Miss you like hell. Also I found one of your earrings under my pillow, so. I’m keeping it.”

One night she sent a photo of a hoodie you left behind, sleeves curled up like it missed the shape of you, with no caption at all. You stared at it for ten minutes straight, your throat locked tight.

She sends stupid videos too—her lip-syncing dramatically to your old songs, filming her breakfast and saying “for you, m’lady.” And every time she makes you laugh, even when you’re so bone-tired you want to cry. Especially then.

You send her things, too. Snippets of half-sung lyrics. A picture of your hand on your mic, rings catching the light, “thinking of you” typed underneath. A photo of the hotel’s bathroom mirror with her name traced in the fog. A sweaty selfie at 2 a.m. from your green room mirror with the caption “wanna crawl inside your bed and sleep for a year.”

You say I miss you in the middle of sold-out stadiums and whisper I love you into bathroom stalls like it’s a secret only the two of you get to keep.

The FaceTimes keep you sane. Or make you crazier, depending on the night. Sometimes they’re tender. Quiet. You both lie in bed, barely speaking, just watching each other breathe. Other times they’re desperate. Dirty. Her voice low, teasing, her lip caught between her teeth. She tells you exactly what she’d do if she were there. You tell her to stop. You beg her not to. You tell her to keep going. You press your face into your pillow and think of her fingers, her mouth, the way she says your name when no one else is around.

But even in all of that intimacy, there’s something else.

A shadow behind her voice.

You’ve seen it. And you can’t unsee it now, not even if you want to. The version of Ellie who looks you in the eye and lies without blinking.

So when she texts you too late or too early or not at all, your stomach twists. When her messages are too manic or too hollow or too okay, your skin itches.

You feel it. That tug in your gut. That instinct you’ve learned to trust. She’s sometimes distant, even when she’s on the screen in front of you. Her laugh is still real, but sometimes it’s just a second too late. Sometimes her eyes don’t match the tone of her voice. Sometimes she’s too bright, too fast, too much.

You start checking in with Jesse. With Dina. Almost everyday.

Is she okay?

And every time, the replies are the same.

She’s okay. Same Ellie as always.

We’re keeping an eye on her.

She’s got people around. She’s not alone.

Just tired from the show, but she’ll be fine.

You want more. You want honesty. But a part of you is too scared to dig deeper. Like maybe if you ask the wrong question, you’ll hear the answer you’ve been dreading all along.

They tell you they’ve been staying close. That they’re not letting her drift. Entering her hotel room uninvited. Watching her to make sure she’s eating her food. Making sure she sleeps. “We’re not giving her room to spiral,” Jesse once texted.

But the truth is, they’re worried too. You can feel it between the lines.

Still, you don’t push it. Not yet.

You’re afraid. Because what if asking breaks whatever fragile thing still holds the two of you together?

You want to say the words, ask the questions, look her in the face and say Tell me the truth.

But not like this. Not over FaceTime. Not across an ocean or a tour bus or a thousand screaming fans.

You’ll do it when you’re both in the same room, when the air feels real, when her eyes can’t hide behind a screen.

So instead, you talk about anything else.

You tell her about the fan in London who held up a sign that said FUCK ME, I’LL FIGHT ELLIE FOR IT. About the rooftop party in Rome where everyone was too rich and too boring. About the moment on stage in Stockholm when your voice cracked and the whole arena still sang the lyrics back to you like it didn’t matter.

And she listens. She laughs. She tells you she’s proud of you. She tells you she loves you.

And every night, you whisper it back.

You fall asleep with her voice ringing in your ears.

And still—still—when the lights are off and the glam is stripped away and the door to your suite clicks shut behind you, it’s not the tour or the pressure or the headlines that keep you awake.

It’s her.

The things she’s not saying.

The parts of her you’re still trying to understand.

You were mid-set when it happened. Madison Square Garden. Sold out. Thirty thousand fans screaming your name like it meant something sacred. The lights were high and golden, bathing the crowd in a celestial glow, and the room felt like it might burst from the sheer volume of your voice.

Your performance outfit was stunning—purple, glittery, loud—a short, structured velvet bodysuit that shimmered with silver and lavender flecks when you turned, sheer mesh across your arms, delicate rhinestones scattered like stars. The fabric clung to your hips and shimmered every time you moved, catching the fluorescent backstage lights like it was made to be stared at.

And then—

She was there.

Not out front. Not center-left in the pit. Backstage. Quiet. Subtle. A shadow at first, just a figure hovering behind the curtain near the monitors, half-obscured by crew and security and the buzz of production.

But you knew her shape. Knew the way her shoulders slouched, the way she tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, the way her gaze pinned you like it was a tether.

You were halfway through a song when you caught her in the wings.

It knocked the wind out of you.

Two months of imagining this exact moment—what she’d look like, what you’d say, how you’d run to her, wrap yourself around her like armor—and yet, when it happened, all you could do was stare.

She had her hood up, but her hair stuck out in soft tufts, her mouth curled into that impossible half-smile. Her arms were crossed, her stance loose and casual like she belonged there. Like she’d never been gone.

She nodded once when she saw you see her. That was it.

Your fingers shook on the guitar. You sang the next line an octave too high. Your crew didn’t miss a beat, but your heart was a fucking drumline.

Your throat closed. You wanted to cry. You almost did.

But the music pulled you forward. One chord to the next, like a rope in a storm. And you kept glancing toward her like you didn’t trust she was real. Like she might vanish if you looked away too long.

She didn’t vanish.

When the song ended, you stepped back from the mic. The crowd was screaming. You turned your face to the side, toward the wings.

There she was. Closer now. Leaning against the side rig, arms still crossed, but her eyes soft. Tired. Open.

You laughed, breathless and a little wild, and said into the mic, “I—I wasn’t ready for that.”

The crowd screamed louder.

“She’s here,” you added, and your voice cracked. You bit your lip and looked down. “Holy shit, she’s actually here.”

The crowd didn’t know what you meant, not really. But they knew emotion when they saw it. They felt it in the tremble of your voice, the sheen in your eyes, the way your hand pressed to your chest like you were trying to keep your heart from breaking free.

“She surprised me,” you said. “And I swear to God, I think I’m about to cry.”

You caught her eyes again.

She smiled. That rare one—all teeth.

You stepped out of the spotlight, unstrapping your guitar with careful fingers. It wasn’t part of this one so you passed it off to a waiting crew member at the edge of the stage, hands shaking.

Then you stepped back into the center and wrapped your fingers around the mic like it was the only thing holding you up.

The lights shifted. Soft amber. A slow burn.

“I wrote this one for her,” you said, quieter now. “And I’ve sung it a hundred times. But tonight, she’s actually here to hear it. So… yeah.”

You didn’t say her name. You didn’t have to.

And of course the song was Don’t Blame Me.

Your voice carried the first verse like a confession, soft and deliberate. The crowd echoed the words in a hush, reverent and low, but your eyes stayed fixed on the darkened wing of the stage—where you knew she stood, just out of the light.

Every word was for her. Every note pulled from a place only she had ever been brave enough to touch. It felt like casting a spell, like bleeding out in real time—love and grief and hunger braided into melody, offered up without apology.

When the final chorus came, you let yourself break open.

And when the last note faded—when the crowd exploded and the lights fell—you stepped back from the mic, chest heaving, and looked toward the shadows.

She was gone.

Your heart lurched.

But then you felt it. A whisper of motion behind you. A rustle near the side stairs. You turned your head.

Ellie was stepping onto the stage.

Not fast—slow, careful, like even she wasn’t sure if this was real. Her head ducked, her hands curled into the sleeves of her hoodie, boots heavy on the floor. You saw her chest rise with a breath, and then she looked up—and grinned.

The crowd exploded.

Not a scream. A detonation. Deafening, chaotic, a wall of sound that hit you so hard your knees almost buckled.

Your mouth fell open. Your heart launched itself straight into your throat.

She jogged the last few steps, her smile breaking wide and stunned like she couldn’t believe it either. And before you could even take a breath, she was on you—throwing her arms around your shoulders, crashing into your chest.

Your arms wrapped around her without thinking, instinct, muscle memory. One hand in her hair, the other clutching the back of her hoodie like if you let go, she’d disappear.

She smelled the same. Exactly the same—cigarettes and pine and the expensive shampoo she stole from your bathroom. Sweat. Leather. Ellie.

“God, I missed you so much,” she breathed, right against your ear, her voice almost lost in the roar.

You choked on a sound, eyes squeezing shut. “You came,” you said, or maybe sobbed—you couldn’t tell. Couldn’t hear yourself.

Your mic was off. The music was gone. It was just the two of you on a stage shaking with the force of thirty thousand people screaming your names.

Ellie leaned back, her hands still on your cheeks, her thumbs brushing at tears you didn’t realize had fallen. She looked flushed, damp from backstage, eyeliner smudged under her lashes—but alive. Radiant. Electric.

“Of course I fucking did,” she said, loud enough that you heard it over everything. And she laughed—wild and breathless—and then leaned in and kissed you.

Not careful. Not shy.

She kissed you like you were oxygen and she’d been drowning for months—like nothing else could fill her lungs but you.

The scream rose like a wave crashing overhead, a tidal surge of sound and lights and limbs. You felt it in your bones. Your chest. The soles of your feet. But none of it mattered.

You clutched at her hoodie, pulled her closer. The kiss broke and you pressed your forehead to hers, laughing, gasping, shaking from the inside out.

And Ellie’s smile split wide, fierce and sure and a little glassy-eyed.

The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

Not from the show. Not from the kiss onstage. Not even from the way Ellie had dragged you into that backstage bathroom like she couldn’t breathe without you—spun you against the stall door and kissed you senseless, like her life depended on it.

Her hands were frantic, trembling as they pushed up the hem of your bodysuit, snagging on sequins, slipping beneath mesh and rhinestones like she couldn’t get to you fast enough.

“I missed you so fucking much,” she’d breathed, voice hoarse and shaking. “I need you right now—please.”

You barely got the door locked before she dropped to her knees on the cold tile, her palms splayed against your thighs, her mouth hot and everywhere at once—desperate and reverent, trying to memorize every inch of you all over again.

Your legs trembled, fingers digging into the stall door for balance as her name left your lips in a broken whisper. Your lip gloss smeared across your cheek where she’d kissed you too hard. Glitter clung to the sweat on your collarbones, catching in the low light like stars.

You came with a hand over your mouth and her name pressed to your tongue, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth. And when she stood, kissed you with swollen lips and glassy eyes, she looked like a girl who’d just come up for air.

Now you were curled up in the back of a car with her, the night stretching out in headlights and city blur. You’d changed before coming back to the hotel—switched out the stagewear for something more comfortable. A vintage tee, baggy sweatpants, your hair tied up in a rushed knot at the nape of your neck. And still, she looked at you like you were the main event. Like you were the show.

Your legs were stretched over her lap, your skin still warm from the show and her. Ellie’s hand rested on your thigh, her thumb moving slow, lazy circles just above your knee. Your fingers traced soft shapes along her forearm, brushing the tattoo you loved most.

“I can’t believe I fucking pulled it off,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve been planning this for, like, weeks. Jesse helped me book the flight. Dina almost spoiled it to you three times.”

“And I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you breathed.

She shrugged, but there was heat in her cheeks. “Had to find a window. The label’s got me all over the place—next show’s in London in two days. I have to fly out tomorrow night.”

“One whole day,” you repeated softly, your voice catching a little.

“I know,” she said, getting closer. “It’s nothing. But it’s something.”

You nodded, heart pulling tight. “It’s everything.”

Ellie smiled like you’d handed her the sun. “I didn’t wanna go another month without seeing you. I tried to hold out. I really did. But then I saw your tour schedule and you were gonna be in New York for three nights, and I just—fuck, I missed you.”

Her voice cracked a little, and she scratched the back of her neck, looking suddenly shy. “I missed you so bad it made me stupid.”

You reached out and caught her hand, laced your fingers through hers.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am. I’m stupid for you.”

You laughed, that soft, dazed kind of laugh that came from relief and wonder all tangled up. “So you flew out just to see me?”

“I flew out because I needed to see you,” she said, her voice lower now, stripped of bravado. “I was starting to forget what it felt like—just being near you. Talking without a screen in the way. I don’t care if it’s only one day. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

And God, you would give her the whole world if she asked.

You reached for her without thinking, fisting the front of her hoodie and tugging her closer. Your arms looped around her neck as you kissed her—slow, aching, like it was the first time.

You couldn't stop looking at her. Couldn't stop touching her. Brushed your fingers along her knuckles. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Traced the curve of her jaw like you were making sure it was really her.

The elevator ride up was fast and slow at the same time, like the universe couldn’t decide if it wanted to rush you forward or hold you still. You leaned against her shoulder, and she tilted her head to yours, and the silence between you sweeter than any song.

You dropped your overnight bag by the door, still half-dazed—adrift somewhere between the stage and this quiet hotel hallway. Your skin still hummed with the stage, your lips still tingled where she’d kissed you in the car. Everything felt a little too bright, too sharp. Like the world hadn’t come down from the high of the night either.

But then you opened the door to your suite.

The lights blinked on automatically—cool, clinical, sterile white. The kind of lighting that flattened everything out, erased warmth.

The kind that made even the most beautiful thing look a little too real.

She stepped in ahead of you, humming something tuneless, still glowing from happiness. And for a second, it was sweet. Perfect, even.

But then she turned to say something, grinning like a child, and the light caught her full in the face.

Your breath hitched.

She looked... different.

Not in a way most people would have caught. Not unless they knew her the way you did. Unless they’d spent night after night tracing every line of her face with their fingertips, memorizing the exact curve of her jaw, the softness of her cheeks.

But now—under this white, unforgiving light—there was less of her.

A tautness around her eyes. A hollowness in her cheeks. Her collarbone sharp beneath the frayed neckline of her shirt, more defined than you remembered. When she shrugged off her hoodie, it became unmistakable: her frame, thinner. Her clothes, looser. The angles of her body drawn in too tight, like someone had quietly erased the softness while you weren’t looking.

She’d lost weight.

And not in the natural, tour-life kind of way. This was different. Sudden. Stark.

A quiet, blunt force came crashing to your ribs.

Reality hit you like a bullet to the heart.

Something must have shifted on your face—just for a second, just long enough—because her grin faltered, and then she was moving toward you fast. Closing the space between you like she felt it too. She pressed her face to your neck and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, holding you like an anchor, like if she gripped you hard enough, she could keep you from floating too far away.

You held her back. Of course you did. How could you not?

She was so warm. So alive. So happy to be here. With you.

But you wanted to ask her everything.

Are you okay? Are you eating?

Are you using?

But she was kissing your throat now, murmuring in that rough-sweet voice of hers—You were so good out there. You were insane. I can’t believe I got to see you like that. Her words melted against your skin, reverent and starry-eyed, and her hands were already moving beneath your clothes like nothing had changed. Like this night was still perfect. Like she was trying to distract you.

Like you were still hers, and she was still okay.

So you didn’t say it.

Not when she looked up at you with awe in her eyes and asked, “This is everything, right? You and me?”

You nodded, even though your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said softly, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “You and me.”

You told yourself you’d talk to her tomorrow.

You’d ask the hard questions. You’d say all the things that needed saying.

Tomorrow.

But tonight, you let her smile at you like everything was still perfect.

You let her collapse beside you, tuck herself into your side like your chest had been built to hold her. She curled into you with all the weight of someone who hadn’t slept in weeks and finally felt like she maybe could. Her fingers hooked in the hem of your shirt, her breath warm against your collarbone.

Because if this was the last moment of peace before everything cracked open again, you wanted to feel it. All of it.

Even if it hurt.

Weeks of sleepless nights finally caught up with you too, lulled to rest by the feeling of home in her arms. And the moment you whispered I love you against her collarbone, your eyelids gave out.

She didn’t stop you. Just kissed your forehead. Turned down the lights. Let her hand settle at the small of your back and whispered I love you too into your hair like it was a secret too heavy to say out loud.

And the world went still for a while.

But hours passed. The clock slipped past midnight, and Ellie still couldn’t settle.

You could feel it—her body tense beside you, shifting under the sheets in restless bursts. Every few minutes, she’d turn, her legs tangling and untangling, breath coming in uneven huffs like her mind was too loud to quiet. She was shaking faintly, her fingers twitching every time she tried to go still.

You’d reached for her more than once, murmured a quiet “Shh, babe, it’s okay… try to sleep.” Your hand had brushed through her hair, soft and slow, trying to coax the fight out of her bones. Eventually, she stilled enough to drift off—or at least fake it well enough that you did too.

You were half-asleep then, warm and drowsy, still wrapped in the scent of her skin, the softness of her breath against your shoulder. That fragile, in-between space where everything felt safe again.

Until the shift came.

Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

Her arm, slowly unhooking from around your waist.

The mattress dipping, just slightly, with the careful weight of someone moving inch by inch, quiet as a secret.

You didn’t move, but you weren’t dreaming anymore. You were wide awake—heart pounding, eyes half-lidded, watching through the soft blur of sleep as she stood, outlined in the pale moonlight pouring through the window.

Just a tank top and boxers clinged to her frame, her hair falling loose around her face as she brushed it back with trembling fingers. Her feet made no sound against the carpet.

You watched her crouch by her bag, careful, methodical. Like she was searching for something delicate. Or dangerous.

Her hands were shaking. Not a little. Not subtly. Her whole body trembled with it—shoulders twitching, breath short, the kind of shake that came from somewhere deep in her bones.

And she didn't look back.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Soft. Gentle.

Still, it echoed like a lock slamming into place.

At first, you didn’t panic.

You told yourself she probably just needed to pee. Or grab her phone. Maybe she was thirsty, or couldn’t sleep, or needed a second to herself—she did that sometimes. Slipped away for air, for quiet.

But something tugged at you. A low hum beneath your ribs.

Because she wasn’t just moving quietly. She was moving carefully. Like she didn’t only not want to wake you. Like she didn’t want to be caught.

And whatever she was looking for in that bag—she wasn’t just rummaging. She was searching. Intent. Focused. Her hands a little too precise, a little too desperate, as they sifted through pockets and zippers and lining.

Searching for something she couldn’t go a few hours without.

The minutes ticked on.

First two. Then three.

Then five.

And with every second that passed, your skin pulled tighter. Your mind started spinning. You sat up slowly, the cool air of the hotel room wrapping around your arms like a warning. You could hear the air conditioner humming again, a low mechanical sigh.

But no other sounds came from behind that door.

Not the sink. Not the toilet. Not the squeak of pipes or the rustle of towels.

Just silence.

Ellie didn’t do silence. Not like this. She hated mirrors. She’d said once that they made her feel like she was being watched—like something was always about to surface she couldn’t control.

So why now?

Why this kind of quiet?

You hugged your knees to your chest. The room felt colder. The sheets beside you still warm from where she’d been lying, but that warmth was starting to feel like an echo.

Then—faint.

A sniff.

Barely audible.

Your whole body stiffened.

It hit you like a memory and a prophecy all at once.

And now, here. Now, this.

You didn’t move at first.

Because if you opened that door and saw what you were afraid of.

If you saw her doing what you knew she was doing

What then?

Could you carry it? Could you carry her?

You’d loved her in every way a person could be loved. In words. In actions. In songs you wrote when she didn’t text back. In silences you filled just by holding her hand.

And now she was behind that door.

Slipping.

Another sniff.

This one sharper. Wet. The kind that echoed.

No.

You couldn’t handle it any longer.

Your whole body moved before your mind could catch up.

You were off the bed in a blink, bare feet slapping against the carpet as you crossed the room in two strides. Your hand hit the bathroom door, pushed it open so hard it smacked against the wall.

“Ellie, what—”

Crouched by the sink. One hand steadying herself on the edge of the counter. That same credit card between her fingers. Two neat lines of powder, already half-dissolved into the marble by the room’s humidity.

Time froze.

Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Your heart slammed against your chest, sick and loud, and every inch of your body went cold.

She looked up at the sound of the door. Eyes wide. Caught. The kind of look animals give when they’re cornered—ears back, blood rushing, ready to bolt.

Just for a split second, the mask slipped.

And you saw it all: the shame, the desperation, the hollow behind her irises that hadn’t been there when you first met her.

And then it was gone.

Ellie straightened like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just been kneeling on the floor in the dark, her hair a mess, her jaw tight from clenching. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand like she could still pretend she wasn’t doing what she clearly was.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Your voice cracked halfway through, splintering somewhere between fury and disbelief.

You barely recognized the sound—thinner than you’d expected, raw with hurt. Fragile in a way that made you want to claw your own chest open just to feel something sturdier.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look ashamed or startled or even sorry. She just stood there, still as stone, saying nothing.

That somehow made it worse.

“You told me it wasn’t a problem,” your voice was shaky now, rough around the edges. “That night at the club—you looked me in the eye and said it was nothing. That you had it under control.”

“It is under control.”

She muttered, automatic and empty. Like it was a line she’d said a hundred times before and no longer believed.

“Don't you dare,” you snapped. “You said that exact same thing when you were high off your ass in that fucking booth.”

Her jaw locked. Her eyes dropped to the floor like she was searching for an escape route in the tile.

“It was just that one—”

“No, it wasn’t,” you cut in, voice rising again. “I saw you in Chicago, too. Right before the show. You think I didn’t notice?”

And then your hand lifted, motioning helplessly towards the counter— the half-finished lines like a wound on the marble.

“You waited until I was asleep,” you said. “You snuck out of bed to do this. And now you want me to believe it’s under control?”

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“I-It's not what you think, I'm not–.”

“No. I know this isn’t new, Ellie,” you said, your voice cutting hers, low and steady—like a fuse lit too close to the flame. “I know you’ve been using for a long time.”

She froze. Just for a second. But it was enough. Her jaw tensed. Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

Something flickered there—guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or both. But what came out was anger.

“They told you?” Her voice cracked sharp across the room like glass on tile. “Are you serious? What the fuck, man. What the actual fuck?!”

She ran a hand through her hair, seething. “That wasn’t theirs to say. That wasn’t—” She stopped, shaking her head. “They promised me they wouldn’t!”

“They didn’t tell me to betray you,” you said. “They told me because they’re scared. Because I’m scared, Ellie. And we’re not wrong to be.”

Silence. A hard, heavy kind that pressed in around the edges of the room. She didn’t respond—just kept her fists clenched at her sides, shoulders pulled tight like a rubber band about to snap.

Your throat burned. Your lungs felt like they were filling with cement—wet and slow and suffocating.

“You’ve even lost weight,” the words escaped before you could swallow them, signaling her body. “Not just a little. It’s in your face, your hands. It’s like you’re... disappearing.”

She flinched like you’d struck her. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes darted away, to the floor, the window—anywhere but you.

“Look at me, Ellie. You’re lying to yourself if you think this is normal.”

You tried to step closer—but something stopped you. Not her. Not fear. It.

That white residue on the counter, still sitting like it belonged there.

It was almost poetic, the way it held you back. Like an invisible wall had risen between you, built from everything she wouldn’t say and everything you didn’t want to see. A line drawn in powder, pulling you apart in the most literal way.

Just looking at it made you nauseous. It was repulsive.

Not just for what it was, but for what it meant. For what it was doing to her. Your stomach churned violently, bile rising like grief in your throat. You couldn’t look at it without wanting to smash it, scatter it to hell—because how could she let this thing carve its way into her and call it control?

It wasn’t just coke. It was the thing stealing her from you, grain by grain.

So you just stood there, frozen, a foot away but miles from her. And the distance between your bodies felt like it had been carved by the drug itself.

“Do you even understand?” you asked a second later, looking away from the counter like you couldn’t handle doing it any longer. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch someone you love destroy themselves right in front of you?”

She shook her head, still not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” she muttered. “This—this is how I get through it. The tour, the pressure, the writing, the interviews, the fans, the press, the expectations—fuck, I can’t breathe half the time unless I take something.”

Her voice was bitter now, rising in defense. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone waiting for you to fuck up, just so they can say they saw it coming.”

“Then let them wait!” you snapped, anger rising up on your tone that you couldn't stop. “Let them fucking wait. Who cares if they see you fall? I don’t. I only care if you come back alive.”

“I need it!” she snapped even harder. "I can’t do it sober anymore! Not with the noise in my head, not when everyone wants something from me!”

“And what happens if that’s not enough anymore?!” you shouted the question harshly, your voice trembling but strong. “When a bump isn’t enough to get by—when you’re reaching for something stronger?!”

She shook her head, too fast, like the words were flies she could bat away.

"That's not gonna happen."

“No, but it can,” your chest was heaving now, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. “Can’t you see it? You’re not using it to keep up anymore. You’re using it to survive.”

Ellie scoffed, sharp and bitter. Her eyes snapped to yours, dark and wild. “Oh, what, now you’re my fucking mom? You gonna ground me next? Flush it and pretend I’m fixed?”

“Ellie—”

“No,” she snarled, stepping forward. “You wanna love me so bad? Then love this. Love the wreck. Love the part of me that gets high at 3 am just to shut my fucking brain up."

You flinched—like the words were fists.

How dare she, you thought, throat burning. How could she stand there, ask you to love someone you didn’t even recognize? Someone who’d buried the girl you fell for?

Your chest heaved, and when you blinked, the tears spilled fast and reckless, like they’d been waiting all along.

But she wasn’t done. The sight of you crying didn’t even face her.

“Don’t stand there crying and pretending you know what it feels like,” she spat. “Your whole career was glitter and perfection and people praising you for just breathing.”

“Oh,” your voice cracked, the disbelief cutting sharper than her words. “So that’s what you think of me? That it was all roses and red carpets? That I’ve never bled for any of this?”

She sneered. “Compared to me? No, you haven’t.”

“Jesus, Ellie,” you breathed, tears now spilling harder. “You don’t know shit about what I’ve been through! You never asked! You just assumed it was easier for me—”

“Because you didn’t end up like this!” she shouted, pointing to herself like she was a living caution sign. “You didn’t need coke or pills or alcohol to keep up. You’re not the one everyone expects to be fucked up!”

“Fuck off!” she snapped before you could speak again, her laugh splintering like glass. “You think this is love? Standing there crying? That’s not love. That’s guilt. You feel bad, that’s all.”

Your throat tightened. Vision blurred. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

It was like something else had taken hold of her, speaking through her teeth with a voice that didn’t sound like hers. Like whatever softness she’d once carried had been swallowed whole by whatever storm was raging inside her now.

Her eyes were wild, unfocused, as if she couldn’t even see you—like she was fighting a ghost you couldn’t touch, bleeding words that didn’t come from her heart, but from the place where she kept all the pain she never talked about.

It wasn’t Ellie talking.

It was the part of her that didn’t believe she deserved to be loved.

The part that pushed people away before they could leave on their own.

“I’m not crying because I feel guilty,” you said, your voice barely holding together. “I’m crying because I don’t even recognize you anymore. Somewhere along the line, I lost you—and I don’t know if you're still in there.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.

“Yeah? Well, neither do I,” she snapped, her voice cracking on the edge of fury and grief. “You think I wake up feeling like myself? I don’t! I wake up every damn day wondering if this is the one where I ruin it all. Where I finally push everyone too far. I never wanted this!”

“Then stop!” you screamed back, voice frayed to the edge, pleading, begging. “Please. Ellie. Just—please stop!”

“I CAN’T!”

The words ripped from somewhere deep in her chest.

The room pulsed in the silence that followed. Her shoulders trembled. Her eyes were wild and wet. And somewhere in all that rage—somewhere behind the violence and venom—you saw it.

Fear.

You felt your whole body go still.

“You can’t…” you repeated, barely audible. “You can’t or you won’t?”

She flinched like the question burned her.

"I-I can’t….I don’t know how,” she was now whispering, voice coming apart after the weight of her own thruth. “Since I started…I never learned how to even breathe without it.”

You crossed the threshold between you before you could stop yourself.

“Go to rehab.”

She stared at you like you’d said something absurd. Like you’d just asked her to walk into the ocean and disappear.

Those words didn’t make sense in her mind, let alone her life.

You’d cracked open a reality she wasn’t ready to live in.

“What?”

“Rehab, Ellie. You need it.”

“You want to lock me up?” she said, laughing now, dry and bitter. “Put me in some white-wall fucking center like I’m some kind of—”

“No,” you said, “I want you to live.”

Your voice was thick. The tears were back, full force, spilling now. There was no stopping them. You reached to hold her hand, cold and shaky.

“You’re vanishing in front of me. Every day. And I keep pretending you’re not. I keep pretending I don’t see it. But I do. I see you.”

She was shaking her head. Backing up again, away from your hand, away from the love you’d tried to wrap around her like a blanket.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, voice hoarse. “I can’t stop. Not now. I’m on tour, I’m writing, I’m performing—I’m doing everything they fucking need from me, taking care of everything—”

“And who’s taking care of you?”

That stopped her.

Her mouth stayed open, halfway to her next excuse, but no sound came out. Her eyes flicked up to yours—wide and stunned, like you’d just spoken a language she didn’t know she needed to understand.

For a second, she looked like a kid caught outside in the rain. Wet lashes. Open mouth. No shelter.

You pressed your fist to your mouth, trying to keep it together. The grief was pouring out of you, molten and wild and ancient. Like you’d tapped into something deeper than rage—something older than heartbreak.

You took a breath that felt like glass. “I love you more than anything in the world. But if you won’t stop—if you won’t try—then what the fuck am I even doing here?”

She looked at you, finally. Really looked.

And there was something in her face now—something devastated.

“I- I can't do that…” she whispered. “If I stop, everything falls apart… I fall apart.”

You crossed the space between you. You grabbed her hands, shaking in yours.

“Then let it fall,” you said, voice trembling with something that was no longer fear, but love dressed in desperation. “Let the whole fucking thing fall apart, Ellie. Stop holding it up like you owe the world something just for breathing.”

You took a step toward her, heart pounding, voice cracking open like a confession.

“Let it break. Let it shatter. I’ll be here—we’ll be here—to help you put it back together. But you have to let me in.”

She didn’t move. But her eyes—those wild, tired eyes—were locked on yours now.

“You’re not indestructible,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be. And if you keep pretending this doesn’t matter, if you keep pretending it’s not killing you, then one day it will.”

A beat passed. You swallowed hard.

“Face it, Ellie. Own it. Accept that you need help. Because I’m standing right here, begging you to fight for yourself the way I’m fighting for you.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you—really looked at you—like she was seeing the wreckage of herself reflected back in your eyes. Her jaw clenched, unclenched.

A war behind her ribs.

Her eyes shimmered, rimmed red and glassy—not just from the coke, not just from the screaming, but from something deeper. Something old and cracking and hollowed out. She looked like she was standing at the edge of herself, inches away from falling in.

“I can’t sleep,” she rasped. “I can’t eat. Everything tastes like ash. And I… I never meant for you to see me like this.”

Her voice broke, small and sharp, like a bone snapping under the weight of its own truth.

“Not like this. Not when I can barely look in the mirror without wanting to smash it.”

She turned her face away, jaw trembling, eyes dragging across the tile like it might offer a place to hide. Her shoulders curled inward, instinctive, protective—like a kid who learned too early how to shrink.

“I just—” she choked out. “I thought if I could just stay ahead of the spiral, I could keep everything from falling apart.”

You felt something twist deep in your chest, sharp and slow. You stepped forward, steady. Gentle. Reaching for her without touching her.

“But it is falling apart, Ellie,” you said, soft but firm. “And you’re in the middle of the wreckage, pretending it’s not real. But it is. And it’s breaking you.”

Her eyes met yours, and this time she didn’t flinch. There was no defiance in them, no bravado—just terror and love, tangled like two vines choking each other. A kind of desperate honesty that only shows up when everything else has been stripped away.

“Would you stay?” she asked, barely more than breath. “If I tried—really tried to get clean… would you still love me, even if I can’t be the version of me you thought you were getting?”

Your throat closed. You stepped in, close enough to feel the tremor in her hands, the heat off her skin. You reached up, cupped her cheek, your thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

“Ellie,” you said, your voice thick, low. “There is nothing I want more than to love you through this. To love you while you’re healing, even if it’s messy. Even if you fall. I’ll be there to help you stand back up.”

And that—that—was what cracked her open.

You saw it happen. Like glass held too long under pressure, giving way all at once.

Her breath caught, sharp and fragile. Her bottom lip trembled, and then the tears came—silent and unstoppable. They slid down her cheeks like they’d been waiting just out of sight, biding their time. They clung to her lashes, gathered in the corners of her mouth, delicate as rain on the verge of becoming flood.

You had never seen her cry before.

She looked unarmored. Exposed. Like something tender had been peeled back to the nerve.

And small—God, she looked so small. Not in body, but in spirit. Like the weight of herself had become too much to carry.

But then her eyes found yours again, and you saw something shift. Not shame, not anymore. She looked down at first, yes, but when she looked back up, it was with the realization that she had nothing to hide. That whatever cracked open inside her wasn’t weakness—it was truth. It was what remained when all the lies had been scraped clean.

She nodded once. Then again. Her whole body moved with it, like she was anchoring herself to the decision, forcing it from bone and breath and blood.

And when she finally spoke, it sounded like a vow pulled straight from the center of her.

“I’ll go.”

A pause. A breath.

“I’ll go to rehab. Not for Jesse, or Dina, or some PR fix. For you.”

She swallowed, hard.

“Because I love you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

And there it was.

Not a promise of perfection. Not a magic cure. But a beginning. The only one that mattered.

You stared at her, your chest aching.

“After the tour,” she added, softer now. “I promise. I’ll finish what I started, and then I’ll go. And I’ll really try. Because you’re the only thing that still feels real to me.”

And somehow, through the pain, you believed her.

You looked at her then—really looked at her. The pale skin stretched taut over sharp joints. Her boxers sat low on her hips, revealing the deep cut of her pelvis, the subtle dip where muscle used to be. She looked worn down to the bone, fragile in a way she never let herself be.

And yet, something in her face was still so unbearably her.

Stubborn and defiant and full of that messy, hungry love she’d always given you.

Even now. Even like this.

“I’m scared,” you said. “You’re slipping and I can’t catch you. I keep reaching and you keep—God, you keep disappearing right in front of me.”

Your hands gripped the fabric of her shirt like you were trying to hold her soul in place.

She stepped into you then. Pressed her forehead to yours, her breath uneven.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so fucking sorry. I swear to you—when the tour ends, I’ll get help. I’ll stop being the person who makes you cry like this.”

Your tears had blurred everything, but her face stayed in focus. The weight of her gaze. The sincerity there, bruised but real.

You nodded, slow. Not because you were convinced. But because hope—real, hard-won hope—was a muscle. And maybe this was how you started stretching it again.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Ellie,” you said, your voice low, steady despite the storm in your chest. “You don’t even have to be strong all the time. But you do have to be real—with me, yeah, but more than that… with yourself.”

She didn’t look at you right away. Her gaze dropped to the tiles like she could hide from it—hide from what she already knew.

“You have to get clean,” you said gently, "But not for me. For you. Because your life matters. Because you matter.”

Her head bobbed once—barely a nod. Then again, more certain. Tears never stopped falling from her eyes without sound.

When you reached for her, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight. She just melted into your arms, surrendering—shoulders shaking, face buried in your neck, the soft hitch of her breath blooming warm against your skin.

And when you kissed her, it was slow. Soft. Like reverence. Like trying to memorize a feeling before it disappeared. The kind of kiss that didn’t pretend everything would be okay, but still made a promise: I’m not leaving. Through the unraveling. Through the reckoning. Through the wreckage and what comes after.

And maybe that was the beginning.

Or maybe it was simply the first time she let go—let herself fall, not as a woman broken, but as someone bone-weary from pretending she wasn’t.

Because in that bathroom, with your arms wrapped around each other, foreheads pressed like anchors against the storm, the night unspooling around you in dark, breathless quiet—it didn’t feel like rescue. It didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like two lives, two histories, two souls crashing into each other— and deciding to stay exactly where they collided.

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn.... collide nation how are we feeling...... I totally understand if this chapter felt a shocking or too raw. i tried to approach the topic with as much care as i could, and i actually did a good amount of research to make it feel respectful and realistic.

i did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance 😭 english isn’t my first language and i’m always open to constructive criticism!

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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