whisperedarchives

[whisperedarchives]

𓂃𓈒𓏸 since i am young you assume i know nothing

⌗ breanna stewart x reader ⌗ inspired by “cardigan” (alt lyrics ver.) by taylor swift ⌗ angst no comfort / second person / normal timeline (uconn → wnba) ⌗ warnings: age gap (7 years), toxic!stewie, emotional manipulation, heartbreak

you drew stars around my scars, but now i’m bleeding / i was there, i remember it all too well.

You were sixteen when you first saw her in the flesh.

It was the UConn game your cousin dragged you to. You wore a too-big hoodie and your camera slung around your neck, trying not to look as starstruck as you felt. And then there she was. Number 30. Breanna fucking Stewart. Not just a basketball player—the player. Like gravity in motion. Every point she scored looked effortless, like the net was made just for her.

You watched her warm up like you were watching a god stretch.

And maybe you were.

That was the first time. Not the last. Not even close.

You meet again years later.

You’re twenty, a photographer now, on a college assignment for your art school in New York. Your mentor has a hookup at ESPN and somehow, you land the gig of shadowing some of the WNBA athletes for a “day-in-the-life” piece. Your professor says you’ve got “a lens that sees ache.” Whatever that means.

You don’t expect her to remember you.

“You’re the kid with the camera,” she says when you’re introduced.

You blink.

“From UConn?” she adds.

Your hands shake. Just a little. “I was sixteen.”

She smiles, slow and wry. “Not a kid anymore, huh?”

And that’s how it starts.

It’s not supposed to happen.

You know that. You’re still in school. She’s a professional athlete, seven years older than you. She lives in a different world—one of press conferences and flights and fans who scream her name like it’s gospel.

But she calls you late at night when she can’t sleep.

You take the train to see her when she’s in the city for games, pretending not to care that you always pay your own way. She lets you take pictures of her in soft light—candid, barefoot, laughing—and never posts them. Just saves them in a folder named after you.

Sometimes, she kisses you like you’re the last good thing left in the world.

Other times, she forgets to text you back for days.

i knew you, stepping on the last train / marked me like a bloodstain.

You learn how to fold yourself small. You don’t ask her what you are. You let her take, and take, and take.

You get used to the silence after the wins. After the losses. After her body finds yours and then leaves it, a little colder every time.

She gives you songs on playlists but never calls you her girlfriend.

You start writing poetry in your notes app, full of metaphors that try and fail to make sense of it. Of her. Of how she says “you’re good for me” in a voice like apology.

Once, you say, “I love you.”

She freezes. Looks at you like you’ve thrown something heavy.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

You swallow it down.

You turn twenty-one and spend the night alone.

She sends you a photo of a candlelit table, some hotel somewhere in Chicago. The caption just says Happy birthday, kid.

You try not to cry.

Instead, you post a picture from last summer. Her hand in yours. Just your hands. You don’t tag her. But the fans catch on anyway. The gossip blogs. The WNBA girlies on Twitter.

Suddenly, your inbox is full of questions you don’t know how to answer. She calls you in a panic.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I didn’t even tag you—”

“You know what people will say.”

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re a secret she’s trying to keep buried.

but i knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss / i knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs.

You leave, eventually.

Not with a bang. Not with a fight.

Just a quiet message she doesn’t respond to for three days.

“i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep being something you hide.”

She finally replies: you knew what this was.

And you did. You knew. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

You turn twenty-three with a hollow kind of ache in your chest.

You see her on TV, holding another trophy. She’s still godlike. Still unreal. You still know the shape of her hands. The rasp of her laugh.

You still love her, in the way that hurts to admit. Your friends ask why you don’t date anymore. You say you’re busy.

What you mean is:

No one bleeds like her.

No one leaves like her, either.

and i knew you’d come back to me / and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone’s bed / you put me on and said i was your favorite.

She messages you on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

It’s been a year. Maybe more.

The text says: You still in New York? I saw your exhibit. It was beautiful.

Your heart clenches like it’s being wrung dry.

You type: Thanks. Hope you’re well.

Then delete it.

You write: Are you happy?

Then delete that too.

You stare at the blinking cursor and finally just block her number.

Because you remember it all too well.

You remember her choosing the silence. You remember the way she kept you hidden in shadow. You remember who you were before her—soft, open, untouched. You remember who you became after—faded, folded, and left behind.

You were a cardigan, worn and forgotten.

She only wanted you when the world went quiet.

You loved her like a prayer.

But she loved you like a secret.

And maybe that’s all you ever were.

you kept me like a secret, but i kept you like an oath / ’cause there we are again in the middle of the night, we’re dancin’ ‘round the kitchen in the refrigerator light

fin.

[whisperedarchives]

❀ — welcome to the archives — ❀

this is my side blog for angsty songfics and the fics that didn’t make it

i’m moka (mo), 20 / chinese / main blog: @/moshuka (where i live & breathe everything else)

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