#wsitd is back from war sorry

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark: part fourteen sneak peek

...hi. 

so I know it’s been about 84 years, but the good news is that part 14 of wsitd is still going (slowly but surely) and the last scene of this chapter is still as vivid in my head as it was last year when I first envisioned the fic. it’s coming, I promise. it was my ride or die shawn bff @bluerroses‘ birthday on the 30th and I gifted her an extra scene from wstid, one that isn’t included in the original fic. @mendesftoakley also asked for a jetlag!shawn thing the other week which I’d wanted to write and then got totally distracted – all that’s to say, here’s a deleted scene that ended up being so massive it’ll probably stay, set in the middle of the night post-part 13.  to everyone who reached out to me after my minor rage freak out re: shawn and the state of his fandom and wsitd, much love. every time I think my love for this boy’s faded to something reasonable, he comes out with tour videos that make my chest ache cause he moves me so damn much. happy belated, to both grace and my darling one. I love you.   new york; now It’s 2:24 am.  You’re wide awake.  Shawn, of course, is fast asleep. His fingers are still curled into the edges of your t-shirt and the part of you that isn’t annoyed at his peaceful slumber aches a little at the innocence of the gesture. Just a boy. You toy with the idea of just laying here a while longer, but now that you’ve thought about it a trip to the bathroom is in order and it’s not as if you’re going to fall back asleep anytime soon.  Stupid jetlag. 

So you get up. You reach for Shawn’s Harvard hoodie tossed to the end of the bed (because it’s closer than yours, obviously, not because it smells like him) and pad as softly as you can to the door. From the bathroom you head down the stairs, following a wash of light into the kitchen.  Taylor whirls around from the open freezer, holding a pint of ice cream and looking guilty. “Oh god, I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” you reply quickly. “I was already up, you’re fine.” Her shoulders relax and Taylor grins a little sheepishly, as though this isn’t her house and she’d be caught doing something illicit.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “I don’t get how he’s just...out like a light. So annoying.”The unspoken intimacy is already out before you can even think to take it back, but she just laughs lightly. “His body’s used to it.” Taylor reaches into a drawer for a spoon. “Want some? Mint chocolate chip.”

It’s probably a bad idea, but you shrug and accept the utensil as Taylor gathers another spoon, two shallow bowls and an ice cream scoop. “How was your party?”

Taylor scoops you just enough for a couple bites and you smile gratefully. “It was fine. I mean, good. But I haven’t been out in a while and it’s kinda draining being really social for a long time, you know?” You think of all the times Shawn’s opted to sit in companionable silence with you instead of a last round or a second after party. “Yeah, sure.” “I’ll make you a warm turmeric milk,” Taylor offers. Even the way she twists her wrist to pick up ice cream seems graceful. “Worse case, I have melatonin somewhere.” “You’re not tired?” “Not yet. Takes me a while to wind down. How was your night? You guys have fun?” It’s an innocent question, but a flush crawls up your neck all the same. You shove a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth and “Mhmm!” Taylor’s smille crinkles around her eyes; she doesn’t press you. “Tell me about tour,” she says instead. “What’s been your favourite place? Your favourite show?” It takes a moment of consideration. You tell her about Paris and its glittering lights and birthday sparklers and candles. You tell her about Manchester and Youth. You tell her about Morgan on the barricade in London. You hardly mention Shawn by name and yet he’s there, lingering at the edges of all your sentences and inside your pauses.  Taylor makes you a warm golden milk with turmeric and you drink while you talk. When you yawn, surprising somehow like you’d forgotten how, she presses melatonin into your hand. “Get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  So up you go. Equally surprising is the strip of light at the bottom of Taylor’s guest bedroom door. Shawn’s slouched against the headboard, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face while the bedside lamp casts a long, warm veil over the rest of the room.  “Hey,” you say softly, closing the door behind you. “Did I wake you?”  He shakes his head. “Woke up and you were gone.” Something about the edge of sleep still in his voice makes it sound oddly vulnerable. “You okay? Is Taylor back? I thought I could hear you talking.”  “Yeah, I am. And she is. I couldn’t sleep and she was getting ice cream.” He’s staring a little as you put down the mug of warm milk on the bedside table. “What?” Shawn blinks. “Nothing.” His eyes linger on the place where his hoodie meets your shorts and you flush.  “Sorry,” you blurt, suddenly self-conscious. “It was just closer, I–” “El.” He drags your gaze back up. “I don’t mind. It looks good on you.” Shawn’s smile is tilted in that familiar, teasing way; you roll your eyes, but you let him reach across the bed and pull you closer to him until you sit up facing each other. You let him help you tug the sweater over your head and you let his eyes catch on your stomach, your ribs, the shadowed curve of your breast before your t-shirt falls back down. You turn out the light. Shawn presses his face into the slope of your neck and breathes deeply. “Loonie for your thoughts,”  you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, kneading gently over his neck with your fingertips until he groans. Shawn’s so quiet at first that you think he may have fallen back asleep sitting up. “Can I ask you something?” In the moonlight he’s more pale than ever. You hum in reply. The hand pressing tiny circles against the small of your back goes still. “About Hannah?” You don’t mean to flinch; Shawn’s grip tightens, just a little. You swallow and speak before he can take it back. “What about her?” Shawn straightens to look you in the eye, equal parts calm and unsure. “You get this look on your face when you talk to her, or about her. Even way back in Ottawa.” The realization that Shawn’s apparently been looking at you since the night you met is disarming, to put it mildly. It’s suddenly hard to focus on the conversation. “I know you guys haven’t–” he pauses– “talked in a while, but...” Shawn reaches forward with his free hand and thumbs gently at an unconscious furrow between your eyebrows. “I still see that look.”  Something like shame burns in your throat. You look down at the bedspread. Shawn waits patiently as you pick up his swallow hand, tracing the lines of its wings.  “I don’t have that big of an ego to think this is all about me,” he continues wryly. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I just...” You’re expecting him to tilt your chin up, to force you to look at him, but Shawn ducks his head a little and doesn’t look hurt when you can barely meet his gaze. “I was just wondering where you go when you look so far away.” You’re genuinely stunned into silence. A response, as much as you want to give him one, refuses to surface. And Shawn seems to be able to see the blank panic in your expression, because he just leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Never mind,” he says gently. “Just forget I asked.” You can feel him about to lean back, to give you space, to seek silent permission before he tugs you back beneath the covers so you can actually try to sleep. No disappoint, no malice, no distrust. You think, I am truly and deeply in love with you. You say, “She gave me a marker.” Shawn doesn’t say anything. He folds his hand around yours. “When my parents died the therapist said that routines were good, so I went back to school but everyone was like, weird, you know? And then one day we were supposed to make Mother’s Day gifts but I didn’t know what to do. My teacher said I could make something for my sister, but I’d left my colours at home.” You haven’t thought about that day in a long time. Shawn’s left hand touches your wrist; you follow the lines of his right palm. Comfort; comforted. “Hannah gave me her marker. And then everyone just stopped looking at me and we all coloured flowers. The next day I helped her learn long division and we’ve been best friends ever since.” You try to smile but you’re fairly certain the curve isn’t quite right. Shawn brushes your hair back as it falls forward. The gesture is so familiar now that it feels strange to remember he hasn’t always been doing it, that his touch hasn’t always been a tender, thrilling reminder: you’re here. this is real. you’re alive. His own smile is a little better formed, encouraging instead of patronizing. “Sometimes she’s awful,” you continue. “She can get petty and jealous.” You don’t mean to say what comes out next. “The week before Ava brought me to Ottawa we’d gone to a party and she made out with my one and only real ex boyfriend.” Shawn’s eyes widen, but still he stays quiet. It’s the only way you’re able to keep talking. “She was drunk, and she says she doesn’t even remember. He says she tried to take his clothes off, but he’s also a piece of shit, so…” You let out a tiny, bitter laugh. “And I forgave her, because what else was I supposed to do? And then Ava sent those tickets and you–“ Shawn’s fingers freeze, just for a breath, behind your ear. You try to smile again and it’s like lifting a weight you can only just barely get off the floor. “You were so wonderful and part of me was still so mad at her.” That earlier shame presses a knot in your throat. “And I knew I had to keep the secret but part of me was awful, too. I wanted to. It was something that was just mine, that I never had to share or have her judge or want for herself.” “I don’t think that’s awful,” he says softly. You shrug. Tears slide past your nose. He thumbs them away but doesn’t otherwise move. “I know she didn’t leak the news about us.” Now that you’ve gotten this far you’re determined to finish. “But I don’t know if I can forgive her for the way she made me feel about it. Or if I can forgive myself for letting her make me feel that way.” Shawn’s edges are a little blurry when you finally lift your chin. “I still love her, isn’t that fucked up? What kind of person does that make me?” He doesn’t speak for a long time. You have no idea how one drags themselves out of the emotional hole you’ve dug. Before you can let Shawn off the hook, or apologize for dumping seven years of emotional baggage onto him, he pulls you forward and folds you into his arms. “Do you want me to say something,” he asks, pressing his chin against the top of your head. “Or do you just want this?” The weight of this confession is so heavy that no longer having to carry it alone pulls you off balance. You slip your hand underneath his collar to pull Saint Christopher out. When you can speak without a sob swallowing your words, you let go of the chain. “You can say something.” Shawn kisses the crown of your hair. “You can feel however you want, whenever you want. You shouldn’t have to hide it. And you don’t have to, not from me. Okay?” You can’t reply. You just sniff into the collar of his t-shirt. His hand smooths up and down your spine. “I don’t think that forgiveness is a bad thing, El. Especially for yourself.” You’re shuddering with the effort of breathing normally instead of hiccuping. Shawn just gathers you closer. He doesn’t shush you, but just murmurs softly in your ear, “It’s okay. I’m here. I got you.” You’re still clinging to him when you fall asleep. 

[marlahey]

wsitd part fifteen (sneak peek)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: can anyone tell I still find fandom really annoying misc notes: so...hello again. literally so much has happened since the last time you saw me, so much that all I can really say at this point is that I hope you’re all safe and well, despite everything. I swore I wouldn’t abandon this fic and I haven’t! thank god for that. I wish I could’ve finished it for today as planned, but my job’s been nuts for the last few weeks and it totally ruined my writing mojo. in any case, here’s the first last ~3k of we stumbled in the dark. happy second birthday, wsitd. I can’t believe how old you are, suddenly. thank you to everyone who’s messaged me over the last little while and especially in the last few months when this last part was only like 300 words deep and felt so vast and scary. I can’t tell you how much your support has meant to me.  (oh and pls just pretend for the sake of an upcoming scene not found here, Taylor’s Lover is already out in the world. just– just pretend. you’ll see.)  so without further ado:  (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) (toronto; now) Shawn wants to FaceTime. Slide to answer.

His voice appears first. “Before you say anything, it’s not as bad as it looks.” “What–” You straighten automatically. “Shawn? Are you okay?” Bruises. On his beautiful face. Bruises and a tiny cut below his left eye, the beginnings of a scab along his jaw. Shawn’s rueful expression calms the start of your heart, like jumper cables jolting a battery into a steady rhythm. “I’m an idiot.” “What happened?” you demand, trying not to sound shrill or hysterical. He’s not dying. But his face. “You’re going to laugh at me.” “I won’t.” You’re too glad to hear from him – it’s been two weeks of rain checks and brief goodnight calls. Shawn sighs. The soft light of whatever room he’s in makes his features hazy. It’s late in Nashville. “I fell off a Bird.” “A what now?” “It’s a…” Shawn chuckles like he knows what he’s about to say sounds ridiculous. “Like a motorized scooter?” “Is that even a thing?” Your phone pings with messages: too-high, too-bright angles of him grinning, one hand on the handlebars of said motorized scooter, shots from behind of Parker and Geoff that are too blurry to be Kelsey’s work. Your heart pangs. “So totally worth it, huh?” He laughs. “Yes. Absolutely. I just wanted to tell you first before I like, story it or whatever. Didn’t want you to worry.” “Aren’t you performing? That country music thing?” “Tomorrow,” Shawn nods. You’re too late to conceal your wince. “National television, I know.” “Good thing you’re not just a pretty face?” He laughs so hard that he tips out of frame. Joy blooms inside your chest. “Ow. I think I bruised a rib. Damn El, way to kill a guy’s ego.” “Yeah,” you retort, “because your ego definitely needs taking down a peg.” It’s so easy with him. Somehow you’d forgotten that, amidst everything. A strange kind of sadness sticks in your throat. It clearly shows on your face because Shawn tilts his head. “What is it?” You almost say, nothing. “I miss you,” comes out instead. It feels like weakness, this honesty. You couldn’t really articulate why. “I’m sorry, I–” “I miss you too.” Shawn cuts you off so rarely in conversation that you genuinely stop out of surprise. His smile softens, oddly serious, as though he can hear the lost words: I know I put us here. “Every day.” There’s nothing accusatory in it, nothing reluctant or angry. Shawn says, I miss you, like he’d say, I love this song, with unequivocal certainty and ease. How can you feel better and worse at the same time? “One day at a time, right?” Shawn says gently. You nod. It’s what you agreed, after all. “You should get some rest,” you say. “Near death scooter experiences have to be exhausting.” Shawn snorts, his laugh crinkling around his eyes. It settles you in a way that you have to hang onto, in the days to come. “You sure you’re okay?” you ask, partly so he can’t pose the question himself. “Totally fine, El. I promise.” He’s giving you the out and you both know it. Shawn’s fingertips brush the edges of his camera, like he’s reaching for you through it. (He’s probably just adjusting his grip, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless.) “Call me tomorrow?” he asks. “We have the day off. Maybe we can watch a movie or something.” “Sure. Sweet dreams.” Shawn never hangs up first. He’s always still looking when you end the call, like he’ll never be able to stare for long enough. *

(new york; then) You If you only had one day in NYC what would you guys do with it?

Parker How much time are we talking actually? You As of right now?  Charlie Precision is essential Sinclair. You 37 hours. I’m on the red-eye out tomorrow. You Already packing. No one asks why, though you’re sure there are questions. The band doesn’t voice them in the group chat, much to your relief. Geoff Sophie’s all over it. Have you guys eaten dinner? Shawn Nope, cancelled our reservation last minute. Geoff Be ready in 45. Coming to get you. Brian PIZZA. PIZZA. PIZZA. Suddenly there’s like a hundred pizza emojis blowing up your phone. You’re still laughing when Ava comes to check on you. The laughing might become crying but no one needs to know that. * (toronto; now) “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.” “Oh yeah?” You’d nearly forgotten how much you miss home. High Park in the spring may not be Hyde or Central, but it’s yours all year round – even if you missed cherry blossom season by a mere two weeks. You’ve been lamenting it for three minutes, Shawn mhmm-ing in your ear at appropropriate intervals. He’s in a park too, a brief respite from rehearsal. It’s nice to trade photos of the view and pretend to be together. Tell me something new, you’d asked. This qualifies. “Is this another impulsive itch?” “I thought you liked my little meditative man!” “Oh I love it,” you assure him. You can picture Shawn’s false offense so clearly, struggling not to grin like a loon in front of an eldery couple sitting on a bench as you walk past. “I’ll never forget how terrible you and Brian are at it, and I love that you now have matching tattoos as a permanent reminder.” Shawn mhmm’s again, like he doesn’t believe you. Your cheeks hurt from trying not to laugh. “I’ve thought about it, you know.” “What, meditating?” “No you goof.” You lose that fight against a giggle, a stupid smile. “I mean, nothing against meditating. I’m sure my therapist would recommend it.” “Okay, so what have you thought about?” It sounds just suggestive enough – even in broad daylight at two in the afternoon – that a shiver races up your spine. He doesn’t mean that. But now that the idea’s in your head, you’ve definitely thought about that. “El? You still there?” “Yes!” you say, a little too high pitched. You have to clear your throat. “Hi. I meant a tattoo. I’ve been thinking about a tattoo.” Shawn mutters something too low to catch, your attention caught by laughing children chasing each other across the grass. “Sorry, what was that?” “Nothing.” He’s a terrible liar, but you let it slide. “That’s awesome! Do you know what? Or where? How is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Fondness for him swells like a wave. You shrug before you remember Shawn can’t see you. “I think I just wanted to put a lot of thought into my first one. Not...jinx it, or something? You have to be 18 right, so I figured if I still wanted it by my birthday that I’d just…” “Just what?” You swallow around a sudden knot. How the hell do people maintain long distance for years at a time? This feels like agony. “Get it when we came home from tour. I was gonna… I was gonna ask you to come with me.” “I still could, if you want.” “You’re only home a few days,” you object, half surprised even as the words leave your mouth. “You promised your parents you’d spend that time with them.” “Are you planning on getting a massive sleeve or something, El?” You snort. “No. I just...I know how precious your time at home is to you.” Shawn doesn’t say anything for a moment. Anxiety drops like a stone in your stomach. “I mean, if you get it soon, it’ll be pretty much healed by the time I’m back in the city. Might be a good idea.” You wish sometimes he wouldn’t let you off the hook so easily. “And if you were really mean, you wouldn’t even tell me what it was and I’d have to wait forever to find out.” “I haven’t completely decided yet,” you admit. “I know the artist I’d love though, down on Bathurst. I’ve been stalking her Instagram for like two years. I’ll send it to you.” “Can’t wait. I gotta go, I’m back at the venue. But I’ll call you later?” “See you Shawn. Have a great show.” “And El?” “Hmm?” “Unless you’re planning on getting it like, down your spine or something, it doesn’t hurt as much as everyone says. I dunno how much that scares you, but...it shouldn’t. You’re like, one of the bravest people I know.” A pause, in which you genuinely don’t know what to say. “That’s kinda dramatic. It’s not like, war or something. God. You know what I mean right? It’s really not that bad, I promise.” You haven’t cried in nineteen days. You’re not starting now. “Yeah. Thank you.” I love you. You’ve been swallowing those words for so long and you have no idea why. *

@lightsshawn: she’s gone guys we did it @cruelsummermp3: did what? @dancingwithshawn: got rid of ellie - she hasn’t been seen in three weeks! @afterglow: what the fuck is wrong with you guys? * Shawn For the record I said “Fuck that’s hot.” Shawn And then I thought it might be Shawn Too much. You Not too much at all. You Definitely not.

*

(new york; then) “Next!”

“I never thought I’d be so happy to line up for pizza.” You’re shoulder to shoulder with other patrons in Prince Street Pizza, inhaling the delicious scents of dough and cheese with Kelsey, Kristin, and Ava. The boys have bee-lined for the first available table that’s definitely too small for all of you, while Ava points out all the famous faces that line the walls beneath fairy lights. “I’m glad you’re here,” you tell her, barely loud enough over the din. Your sister just squeezes you gently. “Remind me to print some photos and buy some lights when I get home. I’m really digging this vibe.” “Think you’d get some use out of this?” Sometimes you could swear Ava’s purses are like Mary Poppins’.

“What the– when did you get that?” “From your Amazon wishlist, silly.” Your sister presses an Instax camera into your bewildered hands. “They’re cheaper here. I thought it might…” Ava’s smile softens. “Ease the sting a little. Be a nice project for your room? And I didn’t want you to lose that photography spark.” Not crying. “Did you put film in this already?” Ava nods. “Have at ‘er. Tonight seems like a good night.” You throw your arm around her neck, pointing the camera at your faces, twisting away from the people in line just behind you. The flash is so bright but it hurts in a way that’s almost sweet. “Next!” As predicted, there’s definitely not enough room at the table when you and the other women arrive with The Fancy Prince and a Spicy Spring pizzas. Shawn waves wordlessly towards him, sliding from the absurdly tall chair to offer it to you. As you clamber up, his arm snakes back around your chair and he steps back closer to you. On the outset it’s a space saving measure. But Shawn seems pretty comfortable eating with you essentially tucked against him. You can’t say you mind either. *

They sneak you into a bar.

(or more operatively, Kelsey slides a fake ID into your back pocket on the subway platform while you’re timing a shot of the train arriving. You gawk at it so long that you nearly trip through the doorway. It’s identical to your Ontario license – so much so that you have to check your wallet to make sure you haven’t irresponsibly lost your ID – save your birth year. Ava pointedly avoids your eyes. “Did you have something to do with the fact that I’m suddenly magically 21?” you ask Shawn. Just as he was pleased to eat pizza in close proximity, Shawn seems delighted to wrap his fingers just a few inches above yours around the centre pole inside the subway car. Looking up at him now, you know with a striking certainty that you’ll never tire of it either: the sharing space, the strokes of intimacy that seem so carefully brushed when you touch – incidental seconds hiding more yearning that you thought yourself able to feel. (You wonder if it’s mutual. You hope so.) Shawn just raises his eyebrows, reaching for the card between your fingers, but you jerk it back. “Oh no way are you seeing my driver’s photo.” “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. Shawn tightens his grip against the pole, stepping even closer as the car shifts back and forth. Something in your gut wants to flush at his words but he’s already extending an identical card to you, unabashed. The voice inside your head that used to see wanting whenever he looked at you now speaks in insistent imperatives: want. want. want. “Shawn Mendes.” You lower your voice in mock shock. “Are you telling you have–” you cast a furtive glance around the subway car, and he chuckles– “a fake ID?” Shawn tips his chin down towards you so that his mouth nearly touches your temple. “Don’t tell, El.” (You do flush this time, damn him.) The youthfulness of his face on his license startles you in a strange way. You forget sometimes that despite the two-ish years (and entire career) between you that makes Shawn feel much older sometimes, twenty isn’t exactly ancient. He can’t even legally drink tonight, for Pete’s sake. “You’re so cute,” he says quietly, like a secret. Your cheeks are hot when he hands you the counterfeit back to you. “And no, nothing to do with me.” “Will this even work? Don’t people get their licenses stolen by bars all the time because Americans don’t understand the concept of different countries?” Shawn shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”) You don’t end up needing the fake in a stroke of good luck, but it burns a hole in your pocket nonetheless. (Kristin hands you a red lipstick as you stand in line – “Just in case we gotta sell it.”; it makes Shawn double take in the reflection of the window.) Sophie exchanges pleasantries with the doorman at Hollow Nickel and he waves the group inside to a modest weekday crowd. “We got the first round,” says Geoff. Brian and Charlie blow a series of kisses. “Love you too, dorks.” Sophia returns with two bottles of red and a question in her eyes, to which Ava says, “Fries for everyone?” “Hear hear!” Parker tips his beer. “Got a toast in you, Sinclair?” “A toast?” All evening you’ve been thinking about Paris. And as everyone looks with warm expectancy, you finally have the words you didn’t then. “My birthday was one of the most memorable nights of my life. And I think I was worried that it was the only night like that I’d ever have. But it wasn’t really the city that I loved.” You can’t look right at Shawn. “Thank you.” You lift your glass. “For making that night and every night of this amazing journey so wonderful. I know we’ll see each other again, but I guess – we have tonight, and we’ll always have Paris. I love you guys so much.”

Not crying. “To you Sinclair!” Charlie tilts his bottle with a grin. “We’ll miss ya.” The sound of everyone reaching forward and their glasses clinking hurts too, in that same sweet and painful way. *

(toronto; now) Hey, it’s me. I think you’re either asleep or in rehearsal so don’t even worry about not picking up. I know it’s just a volunteering thing at the humane society but I’m like, weirdly very nervous about it, like god what if all the dogs hate me Shawn? How the fuck would I go on after a blow like that? I’m kidding. But only mostly. I just wanted to hear your voice before I went in. Even if it was just your answering machine. Is that lame? Probably. Anyway...god Ellie, wrap this up. I’ll let you know how it goes. *

You This is Earl and I love him with my whole heart You Sent an image You Look at those ears he’s like a bat I’m dying. Shawn Loved your photo You I’m considering him a good luck charm for my Sick Kids application. You How was the show? Shawn Good :)   It’s unlike him to be so monosyllabic, smiley notwithstanding. Especially about a show. You Where are you? A crosswalk light turns in your favour. You’ve been walking just behind a couple with a giant white Samoyed, admiring his beautiful fluffiness as he sat at his owner’s heel. “Appa, yip yip!” The dog gets up immediately to walk. Holy shit I’m gonna die.  

You’re literally typing Shawn oh my god I just–  when your phone rings in your hand. “Hi.” You catch your reflection in the glass of a restaurant. Do you always look this happy when you talk to him? “El.” Shawn hasn’t said your name like this in a long time – not since In My Blood’s release. It immediately deflates your The Last Airbender excitement and you stop in your tracks; Appa’s swinging tail disappears around the corner.   “Can you ask me again?” You turn down a local greenspace next to your building. The bustle of Queen Street fades and you press your phone closer to your ear. “Where are you, Shawn?” “Back in the hotel in Raleigh. You know that hammock thing by the window?” “In your story, sure. What time is it?” You know the answer, of course. Same time zone. “Eleven something.” Nerves pinch at the base of your spine. “And how do you feel in that hammock thing in Raleigh at eleven something at night?” Shawn sighs. “A little better now that I’m talking to you.” Your stomach jumps. “But? What is it?” The line is quiet for a moment, though you can still hear Shawn’s even breath. “I feel like I’m not doing enough.” “What do you mean?” “Remember what you said when you were filling in your application for Sick Kids? You have all this time and energy so you may as well use it to help other people?” “Yeah…I mean I spent a good portion of my day cuddling cats, but–” He huffs a gentle laugh in your ear and it feels like a victory. “Yes. I remember.” “I just feel like… like I could be doing more to help. What’s the point of having all these followers or this like, platform, if I can’t do good with it?” It seems important to choose your next words carefully. “You know your music really helps people, right? Like Morgan, from London? Like me?” Shawn sighs again. “Yeah. You know how much that means to me.” “I’m not saying you can’t or you shouldn’t look to do more – I dunno, fundraising or educating, or whatever. You’re right, you can and do reach so many people. But it’s not like Instagram is gonna solve every single major social issue in the world, or that you or any single person has all the answers or right opinions.” “I feel like an idiot sometimes,” he says, like a shameful admission. “I literally only have a high school diploma and I feel like, out of my depth all the time.” “It’s not fair that people expect you to speak about every trending topic of the day,” you insist. You can feel yourself on the edge of getting worked up, a surge of overprotectiveness you haven’t felt in a long time. “That’s not your job. What happens when you say something well-intentioned and it blows up in your face?” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” “Shawn…” It takes a second to straighten out all the thoughts now whirling around in your head. “I understand what you’re getting at. And I admire you for it, more than you know. I’m sure there’s a way to help people and use your platform in a productive way without all the...noise.” He’s quiet for a long time. “God, I miss you.” It’s ridiculous how he can still make you blush, even from hundreds of miles away. “I miss you too.” “Are you home yet?” “Just about to get in the elevator. Can I call you back?” “Yeah. Wanna watch something?” “You’re not tired?” “No. Just wanna be with you for a bit, if that’s okay.” There’s no one around but you bit back another stupid smile anyway. “Always okay.”