#ALWAYS accept free stickers. You will ALWAYS find a purpose for them.

[stick-by-me]

The gays are taking over <3

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

Hmmm, I'm not sure if this has been requested before so feel free to ignore this if it has. The brothers with a motherly and caring reader that always makes them breakfast, lunch bentos, and dinner, and is a master of textile work (sewing, knitting, etc.) but will beat up anyone who dares to test her patience.

Lucifer, who sometimes thinks coffee is an acceptable meal replacement, kinda needs someone like this in his life. At first he acted offended, all "don't coddle me. I am not a child. >:(" But quickly turned that frown upside down when he realised how much mc's kindness has benefitted everyone in the house. Including himself. He really appreciates no more arguments about cooking, and he also appreciates the only argument he hears about it these days is mc making sure he actually remembered to eat today. He always takes his packed bento box with him, the only member to never once forget his lunch at home. 

“How fast do ya think you could knit another one?” Is Mammon’s first question upon mc handing him a sweater they knitted. And regardless of their answer, he’s asking because he wants to own another so he can constantly show off to his brother’s at what mc made for him. Mammon always cleans his plate from mc’s cooking, swears up and down it is the best cooking he’s ever eaten, to which mc claims that it’s because they make it with love. He’s asking for seconds. Sometimes forgets his bento on purpose because mc always comes and offers to share theirs with him, meaning they get to have lunch together. mc has caught on and now packs extra in their own lunch. 

Leviathan, who already knows sewing tricks thanks to enjoying cosplay, learns a few other things from mc. When a fabric just isn’t cooperating, he’s calling them in for back up, and normally between the two of them, they manage to pull through. When mc offers to make him a bento box for lunch, presents them with his Ruri-chan bento box while on his knees. Yeah he doesn’t always go into RAD but he still needs a healthy nutritious lunch too, is what mc tells Lucifer, who shakes his head while watching mc shape Levi’s sandwiches into cute faces similar to his favourite anime characters. 

Satan proudly owns a knitted set by mc, that all have the matching themes of, you guessed it, cats! On cold winter days off he can be seen walking around with his cat beanie, gloves, sweater and socks. He also has a plain green set but he clearly likes his cat set more. I can also see him asking for mc to teach him how to knit so he can eventually knit them a set. But he’s probably terrible at it at first and nearly ends up throwing the knitting needles through the wall due to not understanding how mc can just make it look so effortless. 

“I can patch that up for you!” Is how Asmodeus finds out about mc’s sewing talents, especially their efficiency under pressure. He needed his outfit ready by 8 and they had fixed ten minutes before. He’s very grateful for everything they do, not just fixing up outfits, but all the cooking too, he always loudly thanks mc for their delicious food before eating or when they give him a homemade bento. But he also worries that they might not be taking enough time to take care of themselves, so he offers pretty frequently for them to come do something with him to relax. Spa days, shopping trips, brunches, he’s happy to offer as long as they come with him. 

Mc cooks for Beelzebub, and he’s ready to defend them in every scenario. No but in all seriousness, he is so grateful. He will eat any dish they put in front of him, he will always say it’s delicious and clean his plate, as well as everybody else’s, after he makes sure mc has eaten something of course. He will always accept their bento lunches, and will send them crying stickers if he forgets his. “Mc I forgot my bento, I’m sorry.” Apologies to them because he feels terrible that all their hard work cooking for him was for nothing, only to be pleasantly surprised when they do out of their way to bring him theirs. He takes them out for dinner as thanks. He also really loves the sweaters mc knits for him, says they feel comfy and wears them all the time. 

Belphegor gets a handmade cow plushie made by mc for his birthday, to which he laughs dryly at. But for some reason, every now and then it makes it into his bed, along side his favourite pillow. Swears up and down he must’ve just accidentally thrown it into his bed. That it’s a strange coincidence he’s ended up hugging it. Not that he treasures a silly little plushie mc made for him as a joke. Yes he forgets his bento, yes sometimes he doesn’t even wake up in time for lunch and it stays in the fridge the whole day. But he is furious if anyone else even touches the bento mc made for him. Not even Beel is safe. 

[rainbowsnsunnies]

Bullet Journal - Beginner Tips and my first bujo

A couple of days ago, I asked for tips from the tumblr bujo community for first-timers and little hacks that help with the overwhelm a newbie feels while starting their first bullet journal (the passive pressure to make your bullet journal eye-catching is unreal!). As always, the studyblr community and the bujo community here was super helpful and they gave me some amazing tips and advices. I thought of compiling it into a post for later reference and as a basic guide for someone who is just starting out and could do with some extra tips.

Don’t blindly follow spreads, customise them to fit your OWN needs, there’s no one-size-fits-all

Your first bujo will almost never look like the ones you see on Studyblr/Pinterest. Accept it, you’re just starting on the journey. You’ll get better with time

MAKE SPREADS THAT YOU ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO USE (this was repeated quite a few times, so I wanted to highlight this), the more spreads you abandon (like unnecessary habit trackers, or daily spreads when you really don’t have much day to day), the less likely you are to continue with the journal.

Have a pen you like and keep it along with the bujo always, this helps jot down quick notes and increases the chances of you using the journal

Don’t be afraid of changing things and spreads every now and then to suit your needs at the moment, it helps you find your style and keeps things fresh. This is also why it is necessary to not make too many months at once, you may not like the spread later and then you’ll be demotivated. Take it one month at a time.

You absolutely do NOT have to make it super artsy, make is as plain and minimal or as colourful and artsy as you like. Again, suit it to YOUR needs, don’t just ditto someone else’s spreads (unless it exactly suits your needs)

Feel free to get creative with washi tape/stickers if you like (Amazon is your best friend for stickers)

Pick one spread at a time and then keep adding one or two each month as you continue using the bullet journal so you don’t feel overwhelmed

Remember that functionality>>aesthetics, if its pretty but not useful to you, its not really an efficient planning system for you. If you just want to use it as a way to channel your inner artist and creativity, by all means, do it. But if your main purpose is to get organized and use it for planning, functionality should be your priority (bujo is supposed to make your life easier, not a task that you dread)

If you have the time, note down what you want to actually use the bullet journal for and what spreads will be useful to you. You can find loads of inspiration and help on Pinterest, Tumblr, Youtube, even Instagram! Don’t be shy to take some notes 🙂

Don’t over commit to ALWAYS have an aesthetic bujo. Some months you might find the time to decorate it, some months you might not. Don’t beat yourself up if you can’t make it aesthetic consistently

(Thank you to @baugloophows @boot-prints @dixeyray @obsidian-rain @ptowzapotato @mersari89 @dungeonsandfierceorangecats @lunarstudiesblog @nexusnai @space-clown-bitch-boi @smokee78 @abigmothinalittleworld @seekcoffeeandfindhappiness for the advices :) )

Here is my first bullet journal, if you want to see

I am using my old diary that a previous employer gifted me for my bullet journal since I'm just starting and don't want to spend a fortune in getting a new one (I went online to get a new one, and not gonna lie, for a community that claims to be super flexible and cheap and fit-your-own-needs, its kinda expensive, I'm sure there are cheaper planners at Target. But again, the system in itself does not ask you get a brand new expensive journal, even an old school notebook will do)

Now, I'm not an artist and in no way, am capable of sketching or doodling or drawing but since I had the time and energy to do it right now, I tried making an artsy cover page. It is inspired by lootengstudio on youtube. I really liked the idea of including butterflies since it symbolizes transformation and I am kind of undergoing a major transformation currently.

(like I said, I'm no artist, but I tried)

The second page I made was a monthly cover page, again, I tried to make one inspired by Pinterest but I'm quite sure I did not imitate it well enough (I mean its a penguin of its own kind and puts God's own creation to shame, hahaha)

The next spread I made is a 6 months or half yearly goals plan. I used to have yearly goals earlier and it has never worked out well for me since I tend to put off everything till the end of the year and then cram everything in the months of November-December and end up getting nothing done. So I'm hoping breaking the year in 2 will help me achieve more, but we will see how it goes. I'm not adding a picture of the spread here since it is quite personal.

Next, I drew a schedule page. As I'm studying from home these days, it does get quite hard to separate study time from rest times. So I broke down the day into hourly blocks and kind of, time-blocked my day (for the week). I'll repeat this spread every week, depending on how different my commitments are each week. (not sharing it again for personal reasons but here is an image from Pinterest so you can get an idea)

Is your bullet journal even a bullet journal if you don't have a habit tracker, haha. The next spread I made is a habit tracker, pretty basic with squares for each habit. Only thing I did different that I haven't really seen in any of the spreads online, is that I've put a countdown for 'strikes', that is the times I miss a particular habit. I've put 3 strikes, meaning I can mark a habit as done even if I have not for 3 times, since my days get super hectic somedays and I genuinely cannot find the time to do everything that day (like say I have an essay due and if I haven't been able to work on it, I may skip my night skin care routine and instead use the time to work on my essay) and it doesn't really mean I avoided or neglected the habit, its just that it was impossible to do it that day. So I have allowed myself 3 strikes (in total, and not 3 strikes for a single habit) after which, I'll leave the habit unmarked. (again, not sharing it for personal reasons, again, a picture from Pinterest so you can get a basic idea :) )

The last spread is a weekly/daily spread. Weight loss is a major goal of mine this year, so I want to track my weight and other parameters at the start of each week. I've included a little record of the numbers (and a 'eat take-out food' coupon to ensure I eat home made food most days of the week). I usually have a lot to do day-to-day, so I've made daily spreads. Its pretty basic, just a to-do list incorporated in the bujo.

I hope this post inspires you to start your own bullet journal and is helpful in beginning your journey.

Good luck!

[xpeachesncream]

it takes two | one shot (myg)

summary: min yoongi was the one who came to understand you and took you for you. but, when boundaries start getting crossed and priorities begin to change, you start to question if your relationship with your bestfriend is strong enough to make it through.

pairing: athlete!reader x athlete!myg

genre: bestfriends to lovers au, basketball au | fluff, angst, smut

words: 12.3k

warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, protected AND unprotected sex (later on), slight breast play, oral (f. receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, missionary, riding/straddling, mentions of alcohol consumption, dancing, mention of marijuana, sex on the beach kinda?, some heavy angst, insecurities, crying, injuries (like a cut/ankle sprain), yoongi is just kind of an idiot at one point

note: heavily inspired by the movie love and basketball. unedited for the most part, pls excuse any spelling/grammar errors.

tags: @ggukkieland​ @miinoongi​ @bluesharksandfish​ @unicornbabylover​

⏏︎ now playing: triggered - jhené aiko ; sorry enough - chris brown

First Quarter: 6th Grade

You didn't really have a lot of friends in elementary school. Any, actually. Hell, the girls in your class purposely ignored you because you acted different. Dressed different. Enjoyed the shit boys liked, like playing ball and video games. You couldn't relate to their gel pens, Lisa Frank folders, cute binder stickers and bracelet charms. None of that shit was you. But you didn't care, you were fine by yourself. Nobody to please, nobody to care for.

The only person that came to understand you was Min Yoongi and that's because you played basketball with him and his friends during daycare. At first, it came as a surprise because truthfully, you felt like Yoongi only let you play because he felt bad for you. Which, okay, whatever— so be it. But, after the last round during a game of two versus two, you found yourself on the ground, huge gash on the knee from chasing after the ball before it could go out of bounds.

"Ouch! Crap!" You groaned as you sat up and checked out your knee. Yoongi walks towards you and crouches down, examining the bloody gash.

"Come on." He says, holding out a hand to help lift you up. He swings your arm over his shoulder, already knowing that any sudden movements to your knee can make the wound sting. He takes his time and walks with you as you hop on one leg towards the office, not really saying much. Yoongi wasn't the most talkative in class. He hung out with two or three other boys in your class on the daily, but they were quiet. Weren't much troublemakers, didn't cause ruckus like the other boys did. But, he was still popular among the girls because he was a little cutiepie. You remember walking into the bathroom, hearing Angie and her friends tease her about her crush on Yoongi. Then, the following week, one of her friends also ended up crushing on Yoongi and they bickered [weirdly] in the bathroom about it.

Getting to the office, he sits you down on the bench before approaching the office admin to grab some bandaids and ice for you.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Min?" Mrs. Yao comes over to greet him.

"Y/N's hurt. Can I get a bag of ice and a bandaid for her, please?" Mrs. Yao looks over her shoulder and does a head tilt before sighing. She knew you weren't like the girls in your class, always getting hurt one way or another, being more hardheaded and stubborn than the usual. She grabs a bag of ice and hands the supplies over to Yoongi before placing her hands on her hips.

"You think you can take care of Miss Y/N, or do you need me to help?" He shakes his head.

"I got it, thank you Mrs. Yao." He politely says, giving her a small toothless smile. You silently watch as he walks over, crouching down once again to tend to your wounds. "I don't think this will hurt, but stay still so I can put this bandaid on." He says softly as he spreads the small Neosporin packet across your wound. He wipes his finger down on his pants before removing the back of the bandaid and pressing it against your knee. "There. You should keep the ice on it so it doesn't bruise and stuff." He stands.

"Thank you." He nods as he watches you stand and slightly limp before you adjust your steps to the right pressure. He follows you out, coming back to your side with his hands in his pockets.

"Why don't you act like the other girls?" He asks, cocking an eyebrow at you.

"What? Not liking all the girly stuff that they like?"

"Sure, or you playing basketball. You know girls are usually like cheerleaders and cheer the guys on instead."

"Well, I don't wanna be a cheerleader. I just would rather play. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, it's just weird to see."

"You're weird." You snapped back.

"How am I weird?"

"You shoot weird."

"And you don't? I shoot better than you." He furrows his brows.

"No you don't."

"Fine, wanna play one more time? Unless you're a wuss and can't play cause of your knee." You rolled your eyes at the sudden change of events.

"I'll play you, I'm not a wuss. Unless you're afraid to lose to a girl." You taunt him as you both walk back to the court.

"Whatever, I'm not afraid cause I won't lose." He grabs the ball and checks it in. "My ball first."

"Sure, if you think that'll help."

And that's how Yoongi lost to you, busted knee and everything. From there, it was history. You became inseparable, Yoongi becoming a large part of your days and vice versa. His parents eventually became close to yours after the numerous times you both have been dropped off to hang out, or catching rides home after school. Yoongi lived in a nearby neighborhood, only being a good 7 minute walk, to be exact.

Second Quarter: High School, Senior Year

In high school, it became a little different. Yoongi grew up, played varsity basketball and became a fucking jock even though he claimed he would never. Yeah, bullshit. You too, played on the girls varsity basketball team, and surprisingly, you two kept each other close. It was a blessing and a curse though, because you couldn't see your life without Yoongi. He's been there since the 6th grade. However, girls took note of that shit. Trying to use you as their way in to Yoongi's heart, or pants, or both. You made it very clear though that you weren't interested in being a fucking messenger. Girls thought you were mean, but really, they just couldn't handle you. Hence, why you really couldn't relate and be one of them.

Yoongi was still the only person who could understand you and handle you, bad attitude and all. Tomboy habits and all. Not wanting to make friends and all.

"Jesus fucking christ, the day just started." Yoongi says as he watches you toss your duffle bag and backpack aggressively in the back seat of his car. "What's your deal?"

"Nothing, I'm just tired." You slump in his passenger seat after buckling your seat belt.

"Chill, don't start your day like this."

"Whatever, dad." You rolled your eyes, causing him to let out a pathetic chuckle.

"Are you coming to my game later?"

"Yeah, if I'm not too tired from practice."

"Y/N, I always make it to your games even if I'm tired."

"Do you?"

"The fuck? Yes I do. When haven't I?" His tone raises with yours. "Don't try and justify your shit by coming up with lies."

"Yeah, yeah bighead. You'll have plenty of cheerleaders there for you."

"Yeah and?" He smirks. "You're the one I'll be looking for though." He caresses your chin, making you smack his hand away while he laughs loudly.

"You're stupid." You groan as you sink lower in his seat. The rest of the ride to school, you shut your eyes and enjoy the peace before you're having to walk down those annoying, congested hallways.

People rave a lot about senior year, but it honestly hasn't felt special to you. Maybe because you kept the same routine since freshmen year, or maybe you really just didn't care as much as everyone else did about how "special" it was. You've always been locked in to basketball even if your mom wasn't a big fan of it. She wished you were more into cute, girly shit, like makeup, shopping, manis and pedis and dresses and heels, but she came to accept this was the way it was going to be. Especially because your dad was your biggest fan. You came to love basketball, more than just a side hobby. You joined the varsity team and practiced day in and day out. When basketball wasn't in season, you'd play with Yoongi at the park or sign up for camps and tournaments. You just wanted to keep bettering yourself so that you could play in college and get into the league post-grad. Yoongi was the same, and he may or may not have influenced your passion for ball. Either way, he was always supporting you and cheering for you even if the other females hated it.

His ex for sure hated the relationship you had with him even though you really steered clear when she was around. Wasn't your fucking problem or responsibility to take care of her insecurities. Same with his flings.

"Hey, so later, yeah?" He asks in between throwing nods and smiles to girls passing by.

"Mhm." You hum. "You gonna be free for lunch later?"

"I don't know. I know where to find you though if I am."

"Have a good day, punk."

"You too, bub. See you in English." He turns on his heel, walking towards his friends, aka his team members. Aka his jock ass group. Aka the ones females flock to.

Namjoon, Jimin, Eunwoo, Lucas.

They were all pretty boys who knew they were pretty boys and used that to their advantage to make big asshole moves. You hated that Yoonks got pulled in from time to time, but shit, it wasn't your life, you were only a small part of his. Sometimes, they also pulled in the football boys, Jungkook and Seokjin. Even the baseball boys, Hoseok and Taehyung. It was all a huge pretty boy, jock, asshole group in the making outside. A big fucking party for a lot of the girls at school, though.

So even if Yoongi was really the only one in your life, you weren't the only one in his. It is, what it is. As long as he doesn't go switching up on you, then whatever, so be it.

The first half of your classes go by quick, being that you enjoyed your chemistry, french and english classes. You had your english class with Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok. You had gotten to know Namjoon and Hoseok a little through it, and it was enough to know that they weren't all that bad. At least in this classroom setting.

"You two going to prom together?" Namjoon asks, making Yoongi snort.

"No, what the hell?" Yoongi responds.

"You guys can have fun at prom." You roll your eyes.

"You're really not gonna go?" Joon bites on the end of his pencil.

"No? The fuck I look like?"

"Y/N, I know it'd be weird as fuck to see you in a dress, but it's senior year. You didn't go last year, did you?" Namjoon asks from Yoongi's other side.

"Really, Namjoon?" You give him a look as if it could state the obvious.

"Well shit, I don't know. I know it's not your thing but can't really say I would have noticed either way." Hoseok laughs, causing you to throw your pen at his head before flicking him off.

"Miss Y/N!" Mrs. Maxwell calls you out mid-movie, eyes wide and in disbelief at how you're acting.

"What?! He started it." You slumped back in your seat and let out a sigh.

"Not another word." She says sternly.

"Not another word." You mock her under your breath.

"Aye, stop. You and that attitude boutta get in some trouble the last weeks of senior year." Yoongi puts his hand on your wrist, causing you to shake your head and click your teeth.

"Anyway, you should go." Hoseok whispers as he leans over on the table to look at you.

"No. Besides, with what date?"

"Take the basketball." Joon snickers.

"You're a complete dumbass, Namjoon. Stop talking." You snap.

"Maybe they're right, bub. It's senior year and it's coming to an end quick. I'd hate for you to regret it." Yoongi turns to you and says lowly.

"You know that won't happen." But really, part of you did feel a little bad. You knew it wasn't your scene, and you really didn't care what people thought of you when it came down to it. However, you always wondered what it would be like if someone liked you. If someone wanted you. Crushed on you so hard that they couldn't keep their hands off of you, couldn't stop thinking of you. Your first love. To feel pleasure, pain. Mixture of emotions simply by being in love. You wondered what it would be like to lose your virginity and have good, good sex. Besides, you were a human with needs. But the only person you have ever been close to was Yoongi. For the most part, you didn't see him that way because you knew he definitely didn't. But, you also couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to take your relationship to that point. If it was anyone, he would be the one you'd have feelings for. He would be your first kiss, your first everything. Because Yoongi was comfort and security for you.

But you valued your friendship more than anything.

"Just saying, think about it." He follows up.

"Think about getting an expensive dress and painful ass heals to wear for one night, just to dance around in 'em and take one professional pic with a date? Maybe get railed if I'm lucky?" You playfully wiggle your eyebrows making Yoongi shake his head.

"Don't be such a party pooper for once."

"Mmm. Great reasoning. Really convincing me here." You laugh it off even though in all honesty, you were thinking about it.

The bell rings and thank god it's finally lunch because you were fucking starving. Appetite and attitude on na-na, no doubt. You silently part ways with Yoongi to stop by your locker and grab your lunch. You make your way to the rowdy ass cafeteria, quickly scanning the room to catch a sight of Yoongi. You see him sitting on top of one of the lunch tables with Hoseok, Namjoon, Jimin and Taehyung sitting around him. Clearly, Yoongi wasn't free today.

"Wassup baby? Wanna trade that ball in for me?" Jimin says as you pass by their table to make your way outside to the bleachers. You flick him off before rolling your eyes and pretending to gag.

"Fuck off, Park." The group laughs except for Yoongi.

"Wonder if she's got that bad attitude in bed, too." Yoongi doesn't hesitate to smack Jimin upside the head because yeah, no matter what, he was gonna protect you as much as possible. "Owwww, I'm just kidding Yoongi."

"Don't let me hear you say that shit around me ever again."

"Fuck, I'm sorry. It was just a joke." Jimin winces as he rubs the back of his head.

"Damn Min Yoonks, why don't you take her ass to prom if it's like that?" Taehyung says, chewed up food coming into full view as he smacks loudly.

"Why don't you learn how to close your mouth first?" Yoongi spits back.

"Y/N is really rubbing off on you."

"It's manners, idiot. You should've been learned that." Namjoon says, laughing.

"But foreel, why won't you take her? You both are close, you've never seen her that way?" Hoseok asks making Yoongi shake his head in response.

"She's my bestfriend. I value her just the way she is, no more no less."

"Ah, you must have thought about it at least once." Yoongi keeps silent. Luckily, the group easily gets distracted and starts paying attention to Seokjin and Jungkook coming over as they talk about the dates they've scored for prom.

Yoongi has thought about it. Still does. Just like he is for you, you're the only one who understands him and takes him for who he is. You know the real him besides basketball player Yoongi. You're the only one who keeps it real. But he would rather keep it this way than ruin things between you and him. He'd hate to fuck up with you because he knows he can fuck up, there's no hiding from it. He'd never forgive himself if he lost you.

Practice is hell today for you and fuck, you really wanna just go home and lay down for the rest of the evening. Coach had you all running suicides and conditioning drills on the courts outside and pulling scrimmages against each other left and right. Let's not forget how coach is always on your ass right before a game too. Hell, she catches an attitude way worse than you before game time and after a loss. You wanted to avoid that at all costs. But, to avoid taking the bus home and instead hitching a ride with Yoongi, you throw on a hoodie and haul your ass to the gym in some nike slippers. You take a seat on a free end at one of the bleachers, holding Spalding in between your legs with your duffle next to you on the floor. The game is off to a start in about 5 minutes, Yoongi catches sight of you on the bleachers and nods. You give him a small smile as a gesture of good luck, which he reciprocates.

The game starts off intensely, both teams scoring closely even with the boys putting straight pressure. Towards the end of the first half, Yoongi and Eunwoo are the leading scorers, putting their team up by 10. Halftime is a bunch of hoo-haa, with cheerleaders in their itty bitty skirts, trying to shake their asses as they cheer for the boys. The boys don't even hide the fact that their ogling, and it's clear as day they all want some pussy. Quite frankly, they walk around thinking they deserve it cause of how hard they try to pull some wins and put the school on the map. Student government comes up for a bit too, pulling some kind of skit to weirdly promote prom. It makes you cringe and in all honesty, it makes you not wanna go even more, but it is your senior year. If you can snag a date, then maybe.

"Hey." Terra [not a cheerleader but still a pretty, popular chick] plops next to you with a smirk on her face. Immediately, you want no part in it because you already know what she's trying to do.

"Hi?"

"I'm just gonna cut straight to it. Do you know if Yoongi is seeing anyone?"

"How the hell would I know, Terra?" You furrow your brows at her.

"Because you're close to him, aren't you?"

"And? Doesn't mean I'm telling people his business. Besides, he's not obligated to tell me everything just cause we're close." She rolls her eyes.

"Whatever. Look, can you do me a favor and give this to him?" She tries handing you a little ass piece of paper folded neatly with a pink heart decorated on the front.

"Why don't you give it to him yourself?"

"That's no fun." You scoff and roll your eyes. Really, miss girl? "Be a doll for once, yeah?" She winks and slips the note in between your wrist and Spalding so it stays put. You take the note and eye it, letting out a deep sigh as you shove it into your pocket. You weren't in the mood to be extra rude today so you'll give it to him later when he drives you home.

The game finally finishes with Yoongi making a final three, the boys keeping their lead up by 10. Everyone cheers and showers the boys with love after the team has finished shaking hands and high-fiving their opponents. You stick around until the crowd dies down, watching Yoongi flirt with Terra as you swing your duffle bag strap onto your shoulder before slowly heading down the bleachers.

"Hey bighead, good game today." You lightly punch him against the chest.

"I knew you'd come."

"Shut up. I'll be at your car."

"For what?"

"Cause you're taking me home, punk."

"No please?"

"Please." He shakes his head and chuckles before you part ways to let him gather his things in the locker room. When you finally catch sight of his teeny head coming towards you from the gym, you hear him unlock his car to let you in while he continues to walk over.

"Fuuuuuck." He says, throwing his things in the back before buckling his seat belt and switching the gear into drive.

"You have fan mail." Yoongi looks over and sees you clutching the note Terra gave you.

"What's that, a condom?"

"You're sick. It's from Terra."

"Who's that again?" You make a face at him.

"You were just telling her sweet nothings earlier after the game?"

"Oh, Terra with the tig o' bitties. Got it." He shakes his head. "I wasn't telling her sweet nothings."

"Right. You're an absolute dipshit, you know?" You prop up a leg on the seat while you unfold the letter.

"Give it!" You move it away from his grasp and begin to read it out loud.

"Yoongi, you're honestly so hot. If you don't have a date for prom, I just want you to know that I'm free, and I promise I'll give you a good time if you take me." You cackle. "Boy, what the fuck is this? Ew."

"Shut up." He blushes before laughing along with you.

"Look at her, writing her coochie out on paper."

"She isn't."

"Oh, really? Pfft." You softly scoff. "So, are you taking her or what?"

"I don't know? Maybe, damn. What about you?"

"What about me, fool? I told you I'd think about it."

"Go with Jimin. He still doesn't have a date." He hates to say it with how much of an asshole Jimin can be, but if it meant you'd be at your senior prom then Yoongi will let it pass. He'll make sure Jimin doesn't try any slick shit.

"Ew, god no."

"Look, I'll make sure he doesn't go overboard. I promise."

"Why do you want me there so badly, Yoongi?"

"Because it's our last year in high school together and I'd really like to celebrate with you somehow." You sigh heavily.

"Fair enough. Let me sit on it."

"Better hurry and stop keeping that seat warm."

"Don't rush me." You punch his arm, causing a groan to erupt from him.

- - -

Really, you'd rather be anywhere than at prom with Park Jimin holding onto your waist the way he is for the pictures you're taking with him, Yoongi and the rest of their group and dates. After all the pictures and fake smiles, you feel him slowly slip his hand down your dress to try and get a grip on your ass, but before you could do so, you're grabbing his wrist with full pressure and making him wince.

"Don't you fucking dare or else I'll cut your dick off and throw it in a blender."

"Aish, ah, fuck! Okay, I'm kidding, let me go!" He whines lowly. You let go of his wrist after one more good squeeze, causing him to wiggle his hand to get the feeling back.

"Get me some punch, will you? My mouth is dry."

"You know, I might know something else that can help." Jimin wiggles his eyebrows as he continues to hold onto his wrist.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

"Or not. I'll be back." He accepts defeat by smiling from ear to ear before walking off. You sit off to the side, the heels a huge pain in the ass on top of Jimin already being a huge pain in the ass. You lean over on your knees, completely forgetting you have a short dress on, causing boys passing by to whistle and eye at the easy access.

"The fuck are you looking at? Keep it moving." Yoongi says pushing the guys forward before shooting you a look. "Y/N, really?"

"Shit sorry, I forgot. I'm not used to this." You sit up and adjust your dress before rubbing your arms at how self-conscious you suddenly [and unexpectedly] feel.

"Are you having fun at least?" He sits next to you, manspreading on the seat in the navy suit he has on.

"Mmm, sure." You slightly smile at him. "What about you? You actually took Terra, huh?"

"Yeah, it's pretty fun." He chuckles. "Don't lie, I saw you dancing a bit earlier."

"That's when the alcohol hadn't worn off yet." You snort, remembering Seokjin's older brother giving the group alcohol after all the parents were done taking their pictures of you all. Yoongi laughs along with you before he looks over and simply stares at you, hair all done, makeup done perfectly without it being too much. You in a dress.

"You look beautiful tonight, bub."

"You don't look too bad yourself, bubby." You blush before Jimin interrupts the moment with your cup of punch.

"Here, princess."

"You better not be trying anything slick, punkass." Yoongi says.

"Mm, don't worry. I haven't been able to." You kick his shin as you chug your punch, causing him to cough and choke on his own words. "I'd like to peacefully have this slow dance with you at least, damn." You swallow the last bits of punch before you're taking Jimin's hand to the floor. Yoongi watches as you two make your way to the dance floor for a slow dance, slightly regretting that he didn't just ask you to dance.

"Let's dance, babe." Terra's baby voice comes out as she pulls him up from the seat to find a spot on the dance floor. Yoongi is honestly tired of having to keep up with Terra's energy and her clingy ass, but nonetheless, he was happy you were around for prom.

He was really happy you were around for prom, even though you hated this shit more than anything.

He had you in full view ahead, and so did you. He couldn't help but direct his attention towards you and keep his eyes on you. Fuck, he has never seen anyone so beautiful until you walked through Seokjin's doors with Jimin. Look, let's get this straight. Even though you had your own way of expressing yourself, he always loved your natural beauty, your natural glow. He loved watching you on the court and how happy it made you to play ball. He remembers every accomplishment, every milestone you've reached. How you've grown tremendously as a ball player. He would never admit it to you in person, but he definitely admires how you push yourself and how you always do what you can to improve. Hell, you might just be the better player between the both of you. And when you catch him looking over, he doesn't even try and hide it. He doesn't even care that he's still holding onto Terra and slow dancing with her.

Something within you flips. You feel that shit in the pit of your stomach, at the heat of your core.

But, you brush it off and break eye contact first, even if he doesn't stop staring. This couldn't happen, no. This was your bestfriend. You weren't gonna let the things you felt get in the way of that.

Nope.

Suddenly, the song changes to something more upbeat and twerkable, Jimin taking the opportunity to spin you around and grind on you. You really need a distraction anyway, something to rid you of those god awful thoughts about your bestfriend, so you let him and you have fun with it. Everyone around you is having fun anyway, and fuck, you wouldn't have to do this ever again so fuck it.

"Let me get a dance with my bestfriend." Yoongi says to Jimin.

"Go dance with your date!"

"Shut up and switch for a second!" Yoongi says, pushing him off of you so he could get behind and dance with you.

"Yoonks, what the hell?" You laugh.

"Go with it, bub. It's fucking senior year, we're graduating soon." You go with his movements, having the time of your life with everyone around you as prom quickly comes to a close.

When you get into Jimin's car, you knock off your heels as he continues to talk nonstop about the night. Jimin was a cutie but god, you could not stand his mindset for the life of you. You were grateful he had agreed to take you to prom, but damn. Prom was done and all you wanted was some peace and quiet.

"I hope you had fun with me tonight." You give him a toothless smile before slipping your heels back on.

"I did, thank you for taking me. Really." He smiles from ear to ear before leaning over near your seat.

"Can I get just one good smooch for the night?" You look at him before you smirk and lean over near his lips.

"Sure." You whisper.

"Oh fuck, this is actually happening."

"Close your eyes, I know you don't fucking kiss with your eyes open. What are you doing?"

"Right. Sorry." He closes his eyes and puckers his lips. You lean in a little closer, feeling his breath against your lips.

Then you flick his nose.

"Ouch!"

"Peace out, Park." You throw open his door to step out and shut it behind you to quietly walk into your house.

The lights are off and your parents are already tucked into the room for the night, leaving you a note on the fridge reminding you to make sure all the doors are locked before retreating to your room. You do as you're reminded before quietly shutting your door and tossing your heels to the side. You let the pins down from your hair, ruffling it around a bit and relieving any pressure on your head. Before turning away from your dresser, you notice a letter from the one university you had been waiting on. You had been waiting to hear back from Stanford for the longest time, and quite frankly, you had been upset you hadn't heard especially when their scouts were at your game awhile ago.

You had broken down to your parents, to Yoongi, automatically assuming the worst when you heard that other people had already been accepted and scouted for Stanford. Suddenly, you found yourself working harder and harder because you felt like you were lacking in so many areas. You felt low, and like your dream was running miles and miles away from you. Faster than you could keep up.

You take the letter in your hand, but don't want to open it because you don't feel ballsy enough [surprisingly]. You call up Yoongi, not caring that he could possibly be in the middle of getting his dick wet.

"Sup?"

"Are you busy?"

"I was just about to walk into my house."

"Oh, nevermind."

"Need me to come by?"

"I got a letter from Stanford."

"Shit, I'll be there in 2 mins."

And in 2 minutes, he surely was knocking at your window. You slide it up enough for him to climb in, Yoongi still in his prom get-up as well.

"Here." You instantly hand him the letter.

"What, why me? It should be you."

"I can't, I really can't." He sighs.

"Are you sure you won't regret this?"

"No, bub. Please." You sit on the bed and fiddle with your fingers as you watch him rip the envelope open and tear out the letter. You can't even keep your eyes on him as he reads the letter and starts backing away from you.

"Shit."

"What? What?!" You stand, trying your best to keep your tone low. He covers his mouth, causing you to pinch his bicep at how dramatic he was being. "Just say it!"

"You're not going." Your heart sinks, but before you could process it, Yoongi speaks up again. "To any other college because Stanford wants you."

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" You whisper and shove him.

"Congrats, bubby. Guess we'll be together in college too." Your eyes widen.

"Y-you're going? T-to Stanford?" He smiles and nods.

"Yeah, I am."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Look, I just wanted to give you your space. That's all. I found out before you went all cry baby on me."

"Shut up." You say before laughing and jumping into his arms, throwing your legs around his torso while he swings you around. As he sets you back down onto your bedroom floor, your hands linger around his neck, gently tugging on the hair that rested there. He keeps you close, his hands resting around your waist as your chests are still touching. You honestly have no idea what takes over you— perhaps all the feelings you felt tonight at prom taking over, or feeling overjoyed from finally hearing back from Stanford, you couldn't decide. But you crash your lips against his, immediately pulling back after you realized you've just kissed your bestfriend.

You just had your first fucking kiss through accidental causes.

Well, shit.

Was it accidental or no?

Mind is going off on a tangent.

"Woah. I'm so sorry, Yoonks, I—" He doesn't allow for any space between you two, keeping your body flush against his as his lips crash onto yours again to cut you off. To be quite honest, things are moving fast and the kiss deepens quick. You follow his motions, gaining some rhythm as your tongue dances along with his in the [now] wet, sloppy kiss.

"Wait, Y/N." He pulls away as the moment intensifies. "A-are you sure you wanna keep going? To be honest, I don't know if I'll be able to hold myself back and I know you haven't exactly—" He knows it would be your first time and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. I mean, sure, he loved you. You were special to him. But he wanted to make sure your first time was also special, whether it be him or whoever else.

"Please. I want this. I wanna do this with you."

By the looks of tonight, it seems like it's meant to be him.

You press your lips back onto his with the same intensity and start to unbutton his shirt when you feel his hands hike up your dress. He gently pushes you on the bed, crawling over to you as he kicks off his shoes and finishes ripping off his shirt and tie. He slowly removes the straps of your dress down your shoulders and undoes the zipper on the side before slipping it down and leave you in your panties.

You had no bra on.

Yoongi's eyes widen when he realizes such, your cheeks heating up while you watch him stare down your body. You begin to feel incredibly self-conscious so you cover your chest with an arm. Yoongi senses your uneasiness, your confidence shooting down below zero.

"You're beautiful, bub. Don't." He says, gently tugging your arm away and letting it fall limply to the side. You simply nod and let him take the reigns because you had no idea what the fuck you were doing. So many emotions were flooding your mind— you were nervous, you were scared, you were shy, you felt lost and too innocent under Yoongi, even if he knew you like the back of his hand.

And because of that, he could pick up on it with the way your body continued to tense up. He shook off his pants, leaving on his boxers until you were ready for him. Cause fuck, he was ready for you, but he had to take this slow. He had to take care of you.

He lowers himself onto you after the two of you have climbed under the sheets, lowering his head against your neck to press light, feathery kisses along the surface. You felt the tingles shoot down your spine every time his lips made contact, causing you to softly gasp and arch your back at how sensitive you were already feeling.

"If you ever feel uncomfortable, just tell me to stop okay?" He says lowly. You nod in response, Yoongi taking it as leverage to plant a kiss on your lips before moving down to your breasts. He keeps his eyes on you, making sure you don't seem uncomfortable in the slightest bit. But you don't, and it's indicated in the way you bite your bottom lip and arch your back at the way his tongue wraps around your hardened bud. He does the same on the other breast before peppering kisses down your stomach and abdomen.

"Yoongi." You slightly gasp, shy at how unusually close he is to your lady friend.

"What's wrong? Want me to stop?" His thumbs gently caressed your thighs as his head hovered over your pelvis. You shake your head and nervously swallow before speaking once more.

"I-I'm just scared, what if you don't like—"

"Shh." He shushes you. "You're everything to me, you know that. You don't have to change just so I could enjoy you in bed. I'll take good care of you, bub. I promise."

"O-okay." He nods, placing a kiss over your clothed clit before pulling them down to get lost within your sheets. He swipes a finger down your folds, causing your breathing to hitch slightly. You watch as he slowly inserts the same digit inside of you, biting onto his bottom lip watching your facial expressions turn from uncertainty to straight pleasure. "Another." You moan.

"You sure?"

"Yes, please." He inserts another digit, curling his fingers upward as he starts to finger fuck you at a steady pace.

"Shit, you're so wet Y/N." He says lowly before lowering his mouth onto you to get a taste and tease your clit. You gasp at the overwhelming sensation, feeling the pleasure bubbling in your core and you had no idea how to deal with it. He picks up his pace while tonguing your clit and sucking at the right pressure until suddenly, you short circuit and tremble under his grip. You purse your lips together to prevent yourself from moaning too loud with your parents at the other end of the hall [jesus fucking christ], knuckles turning white as you grip the sheets tightly.

Your first orgasm came and washed over you quick.

"Did you just—" He removes his digits from inside of you, drooling at your cum accumulating all over his fingers.

"Holy fuck." You whisper as you regulate your breathing, twitching when Yoongi places a quick kiss on your pussy before coming back up to you.

"How was that?"

"So good. Wanna feel you." You whine, tugging him down towards you.

"I got you, bubby." He says, kissing your jaw, cheek, nose and lips. He reaches over into his pants on the floor, grabbing a condom out of his pocket. You furrow your brow and chuckle, confused if this was something he always did.

"You just carry that around?"

"The guys and I split on a box and carried one each for tonight. Just in case."

"Total fucking assholes." He chuckles.

"Better safe than not, right?" He rips it open with his teeth, spitting the wrapper out onto the floor before rolling it down his cock. He was perfectly thick and long, and it made you a nervous wreck all over again thinking about how this could feel. "Ready? I'll go slow." You nod. You immediately felt immense pressure when you felt Yoongi dip his body and slowly enter you. You winced, Yoongi immediately pausing until you tapped his arm to continue. And so he does, and you continue to breathe through it until he bottoms out and lets out a soft groan against your neck. "Fuck, you're so tight bub. God, you're gonna make me cum quick." He slowly pumps in and out, steadying his pace when he feels you buck your hips up to go along with his motions.

The pleasure skyrocketed; You shut your eyes, letting yourself be in this moment. Feel this moment.

He picks it up a little faster, careful not to bang your headboard against the wall. His forehead is pressed against yours, watching as you let out soft whimpers against his lips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yoongi-Yoongi—" You whispered. "You're gonna make me—" It was becoming overwhelming, your clit rubbing against him as he steadied his pace and continued to fuck into you. He nods, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

"Yeah, that's it. Let go. It's okay." And that was enough for you to reach your second orgasm tonight. Quick, but fuck. Yoongi made you feel so good, and you wouldn't want it any other way. You shut your eyes as you hurdled over the edge, mouth open with silent, inaudible moans being released. "So fucking pretty." Yoongi says as he feels himself reaching his high with the way your walls pulsated against his cock.

God. So, so good.

He holds onto the headboard and quickly fucks into you until he's spilling his seed in the condom, muffled moans being released against the crook of your neck. It takes a moment before Yoongi raises his head, your hands running through his black hair while he presses a tender kiss against your lips. He slowly removes himself, wrapping the condom in a tissue before tossing it into your trash can. He plops next to you and welcomes you into his arms, caressing you to soothe you from your first time.

"You okay?"

"More than okay." You say, the both of you trying to savor the moment before trying to navigate where to go from here.

What now?

Third Quarter: College, Junior Year (Present)

You bent down, hands resting against your knees as you tried to catch your breath during the timeout Coach Chu had called with 5.2 seconds literally left on the clock. He laid out the play he wanted you and the team to pull off in order to gain the win over Berkeley.

It had to be executed perfectly. No flaws.

Coach Chu had been riding your ass since you were a freshman. But, over the years, you've learned how to work through his tough love and turn it into positives, bettering yourself on and off the floor. It paid off, and he saw the fire in you, finally moving you up to starting point guard right before the season ended. Some team members hated it at first, but eventually, grew to work with it as well.

The plan was to have you come down into the paint and lay up the ball or take a shot at the very last second to avoid Berkeley from getting another chance at scoring. Sometimes you hated the pressure, but you've also learned that a big part of playing ball was thriving under pressure.

Your team closes up the huddle before you and your teammates are heading back out onto the floor to try and get this win. You shake off the nerves, bouncing the ball out of bounds until you check it in with your teammate. After that— it was like a blur. Shit happened so quick, you couldn't even process it. You passed the ball and dashed over to the other side of the court while your teammate put up a screen. You rose your hand as you ran into the paint, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you awkwardly lay up the ball in the position you were in and stumble onto the ground from losing your footing. You turn your head as the buzzer went off, noticing that the ball had bounced off the rim.

You missed a fucking lay up.

How could you miss a fucking lay up?

"Fuck!" You cry as you sit up and smack the floor.

"Aye, it's all good girl! Ain't a big deal! You win some, you lose some! We still got a ways to go!" Your teammate [roommate, and closest college friend] Clarice said as she helped you up. She was right, but every loss to you was a big loss no matter what. Coach was for sure gonna drill you about this too, and you were already mentally preparing.

"Thanks." You mumble. You look out at the disappointed crowd slowly dispersing, wishing you could still catch a familiar face in the crowd.

But, Yoongi hadn't been to your game in years. So you thought. You never caught him if he ever stepped foot into your game.

Your head hung low as the familiar feeling of pain and loneliness came rushing back while you headed to the locker room. Too bad you didn't see him hiding out on the side of the bleachers with Lucas.

"Y/N, a word." Coach Chu says, leading you into his office.

Fuck, here we go.

You shut the door behind you and stand awkwardly in front of his desk, fiddling with your fingers.

"Look, I just want to say that you put on hell of a show tonight, win or lose. We still have plenty of games left, plenty of opportunities to lock in play-offs. Alright? Don't be upset."

"Thanks Coach." You give him a tiny smile.

"Are you doing okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"What's on your mind?"

"Nothing coach, just been a hectic couple of weeks." In which, it was no lie. You crammed for test after test, project after project. You barely had any time to breathe this year.

"Well, my door is always open if you need to chat." You nod. "I'll see you at practice. Enjoy your night."

"Thanks again." You say as you exit his office and get yourself showered and into comfier clothes.

Meanwhile, Yoongi heads back to his dorm room alongside Lucas, hands dug deep into his pockets while his head hung low.

"You ever gonna talk to her?"

"I don't know." He sighs. "Pretty sure I fucked up any chance of that."

"Look, dude. You haven't really been the same since you and Y/N fell out." Yoongi stays silent as they slowly climb the steps up to their room. "Why are you just gonna leave it like this? It's been so long already. Doesn't it bother you?"

"Positive she doesn't want me around." Lucas shakes his head.

"You haven't even tried. You just gave up and that shit is cold, to be honest. I know Y/N always held it down for you, I would have expected you to do the same." The words cut through Yoongi so deep, he doesn't even know how to respond and leaves it at that.

As you heavily dragged your body back to the dorms and took your sweet ol' time, your mind began to wander back to Yoongi as well. After he had taken your virginity that night, things took a turn for the worst.

He treated you differently, created this distance that allowed you to grow farther and farther apart from each other until he was no longer in your grasp and vice versa.

You went from Yoongi being a part of your every day to nothing. And fuck, did it hurt you. You cried and cried, until you were so tired of crying. You had to pick yourself up and keep it moving no matter what. Life waits for nobody.

You reminisce on those days of debating over who could really be considered the greatest. Although, you did pay your respects to the bigs, the greats— Kobe, Magic, MJ, Lebron— you paid respect where it was rightfully due. However, Derrick Rose at his prime? Rajon Rondo? Chris Paul?

Hell, even Baron Davis, Monte Ellis. Rookie Steph Curry? Shiiit. They were it for you, and Yoongi used to dog your ass on how unrealistic you were being.

That was all gone.

He must be having a ball watching Steph climb up those charts now, though. You wonder what he would say to you.

The days of going to basketball games, to each other's basketball games, to ordering hella pizza and creating chaos in either house over the dunk contest during the NBA All Star Week or yelling all around the living room and jumping on couches during the NBA playoff season and championship games— All gone.

If you knew this would drastically change you and Yoongi, you would have never let that night happen. You continued to put on your brave face, your thick, tough skin even though deep down, it took everything in you to suppress the hurt, betrayal and confusion. Even after all these years.

He meant everything to you. Did you not to him? You could never understand until this day. How could he dispose of you so, so quickly?

You see him on campus and quickly break any eye contact, or run the opposite way. You were tired of doing this even though you felt like you needed closure. Some explanation. You deserved it. But you weren't gonna initiate that. Even if Yoongi did, you don't even know if things could ever go back to the way it was. He promised he would never hurt you, but he has. He still is hurting you. The wounds— it cut deep. Deeper than he could ever imagine.

"Hello?" You smile, hearing your dad on the other line.

"Hey dad."

"Hey baby! How was your game? I'm sorry I couldn't catch it tonight, work kept me behind." You sigh.

"Eh, it's probably good you didn't. Didn't turn out so well." He picks up on how your voice cracks ever so slightly, enough to indicate that you were trying your hardest not to break down about your performance. "I missed the winning shot."

"Oh sweetheart, you'll get 'em next time. You always do. You still have a couple of games left don't you?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't change the fact that I played shitty as hell tonight."

"There's always room for improvement, only way to go is up from here right?" He says softly, making you smile. "You'll get 'em next time, I have no doubt. You always know how to better yourself even when I think you've already reached your highest potential."

"Thanks Dad. You always were my number one fan."

"I still am." He chuckles. "How's everything else? School?"

"Fine." He always has to stop himself from asking about Yoongi, even to ask if there's been the slightest change to your relationship.

"You sure?"

"Course." You lie.

"Alright, well you know me and your mom are here for you if you need anything."

"I know."

"I'll let you go and get some rest, alright? Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Mmm, I'll try." You chuckle. "I love you."

"Love you too. And hey, baby?"

"Yeah?"

"Always remember that you deserve everything good in this world. If someone can't handle you at your worse, they sure as hell don't deserve you at your best."

"Thank you." You smile as if your dad can see you through the phone before hanging up and unlocking your dorm door.

"Sigma Nu party going on tonight, wanna come and slide through?" Clarice asks as she watches you toss your duffle aside.

"I'm tired, not in the mood."

"So aren't I, but I think we both need it. Come on girl, just for a little." You sigh. Clarice had also been there by your side since you both were freshmen recruits. One day, she came into the room and found you a crying mess, causing her to wrap her arms around you and craddle you until you calmed down. You had spilled the beans about Min Yoongi, especially when he quickly became the talk of the campus as a ladies man and one of the best freshmen recruits Stanford has ever seen. You hated it, but a part of you still found yourself happy that he was getting the recognition he deserved as a ball player.

He wasn't the tallest, or the biggest, but boy had heart and played every game like it was his last. You had been his number one fan, and even though you hated him, that fact would never change.

Anyways, without Clarice, you weren't sure where you'd be. Definitely not here because you'd be too busy running away from your past and all the issues that came with it.

Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and say it. You would be stupid enough to not go to your first choice just because of a stupid boy.

"Fine, fine. I'm leaving as soon as someone wants to start acting up and getting all crazy though."

"Deal." She chuckles. You've learned how to dress up a little more— and by a little we mean baggy sweats, a crop tight fitting tee and chapstick. No way in hell you'd get dolled up for a party. Out of the years you've already been here, you probably went to two parties. One being the party Coach Chu threw at his house for a record-breaking season. The other was a legit party that you stepped foot in for all of 2 seconds before you figured it was time to head home, especially after seeing Yoongi hugged up with some chick and disgustingly tonguing her down while groping her ass.

Shit, you were never gonna get used to it.

The frat house is fucking packed and wreaks of weed even down the corner. You and Clarice push your way through, greeting people who were acknowledging your presence and waving at your other teammates that were also present.

"More basketball babes have arrived, let's go!" One of the frat guys cheers as you and Clarice make your way to the kitchen where all the alcohol is laid out.

"One shot?" She asks as she already has her hand wrapped around the Svedka handle.

"One and done." You tell her. You shouldn't have let her pour the shot though because now, you're stuck with nasty ass vodka near the halfway mark of the cup. "Clarice, what the fuck is this?"

"It's called savoring our one."

"You're fucked up." You joked as you tap your cup against hers and take the shot in three chugs. "Really fucked up." You wince.

"Come, lets go see what the other girls are up to and hang out for a bit." You follow her lead to the corner of the living room, chatting it up with your team before dancing around in the little corner you all occupied— keeping as far away as possible from sloppy and messy dudes.

You turned to eye the crowd at some point, catching Yoongi coming down the stairs, a female following from behind holding his hand. Then, they disappear to the outside of the house. You swallow the lump in your throat, the room feeling hotter than it already was.

Why he still had this affect on you, you had no idea.

Clarice and your teammates are too busy cracking jokes that they don't realize you've slipped away to get some air. You're finding that the crowd has come bigger in the short amount of time you've been here and navigating through it has become difficult. You're having to bob, weave and shove your way out, letting out a sigh the closer you get to the front of the house. You're also really glad you've been able to steer clear from—

"Shit, my bad." You unintentionally bump into someone making your way to the front from the side of the house due to you keeping your head low.

"Y/N?" You whip your head around to see Yoongi raising a brow, dropping his arm from the same chick's shoulders.

"Hi." You give him a fake, tight-lipped smile and rush your way to the front of the house. Thank god you finally make it because you were starting to feel claustrophobic, even being outside. However, you weren't prepared for Yoongi to come after you and grab your wrist the way he did.

"Wait, I didn't expect you to be here." Out of defense, you quickly snatch your wrist away from his grip and furrow your brows at him.

"Yeah, and now I'm leaving."

"Why, hang out for a bit—"

"And what, Yoongi? Watch you be the life of the party? Watch you walk around all fine and dandy like shit never happened between us?" You feel the tears welling up on your bottom lids, but you promised yourself you would never cry over him again. You refuse to. He had already taken up so much of you that you refuse to give him any more.

"Is that what you really think?" He says, the hurt apparent in his expression. To be frank, no. Yoongi really, really never meant to hurt you. And just like he had mentioned before, he would never forgive himself if he ever hurt you. He hasn't forgiven himself. He hasn't forgiven himself for how he let you slip out of his grasp when it was his own fault for pushing aside his feelings for you. He thought the world of you, the only woman who kept it real with him and stuck by him through the highest of highs, lowest of lows. There was no one as special as you, no one who could ever be as special as you, no matter how many times he tried to sink his dick into other females.

No one was real like you.

But, he was also conflicted because of that. He felt like he couldn't give you the love you rightfully deserved, he didn't think he could love you properly. He had so much to learn and he didn't wanna hurt you in the process. It sounds so fucking stupid [because it is] that he thought distancing himself was better than just being honest. He was a dumbass high schooler, he didn't know any better. But, he never meant to make you feel special for one night, then run from it. You were always special to him. You had always been. You always will be. And these past years hurt like a bitch, but he coudn't find the words to explain. Eventually, he just believed he would do less damage if you both remained distant this way.

Although, he longed for you. He really needed you just as you needed him. He always has, always will.

So when the two of you bump into each other tonight, he felt like maybe, it was a sign. Maybe it was time to stop being childish.

God, he missed your face.

God, he was a fucking asshole.

"No, I'm not doing this shit." You shake your head. "Just— continue to stay away from me, okay? I'm better off without you." The words sting you, but it doesn't sting you as much as it stings Yoongi. You glare at him once more before you turn on your heel and begin walking down the street to head back to your dorm.

"Y/N! Wait up!" Clarice calls for you, eyeing Yoongi as she passes him to catch up with you down the street. "Hey, hey. You okay?" She swings her arm around you when she catches you silently crying to yourself. "What did he do, Y/N?"

"He fucking exists, that's what." You groan. "Ugh, fuck! I'm not supposed to be crying over his dumbass, I'm better than this Clarice— Why the fuck am I crying over it?" You break down, crouching down to your knees, causing Clarice to hover over you and pull you into a hug.

"Maybe you just need to let it out and stop forcing yourself to not feel anything."

"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him." You bawled into your arms. "I hate him so much." She caressed your back. "But he still finds a way to mean so much to me."

"I think it's time for you two to talk."

"I can't. It's just better this way."

"Are you sure? Because look at you, Y/N. You're a mess, and this hasn't even been the first time you broke down about him. As much as you want to believe that you're fine without him, you're not. He was your bestfriend and I think you need him more than you even know yourself."

"He's doing fine without me."

"You don't know that, baby. Dudes are annoying as fuck because they can literally go on about their day and mask that shit well. If he's ready, let him explain. Hear him out. You both may be misunderstanding the entire situation." It takes you a good minute before you can finally gather yourself and make it back to your dorm room with Clarice.

She was right.

But you were so angry more than anything. You were angry and you weren't sure how you could get past it.

He left your side. 

And so the next day, you go about your day in class, staying quieter than usual during practice. For the most part, Coach Chu was always on your ass because of how vocal you were and how much you caught an attitude when things didn’t go the way you'd like it to. So, to see you this quiet, almost sullen even, concerns him. But, he already pressed you once and he wasn't gonna do it again to avoid irritating you any further.

You run the usual conditioning drills, practicing play by play before a final scrimmage game for the night. You push yourself hard like you always do, almost coming out of practice dry heaving from how tired you are. It was your bad habit though, you wouldn't quit until you got it right. Until you felt right. And unfortunately, it's another one of those nights where you feel unsatisfied with your performance. So, you take it upon yourself to continue practicing in the empty gym that was set to close within the next hour. You're tired out of your mind, and you know this is probably a bad idea, but you can't shake off the feeling of dissatisfaction. To you, that was the next worst thing. Right behind Yoongi.

You begin to work on your three pointers, lay ups and shots out of range before you start to play a scrimmage game with yourself.

"I'll play you." You suddenly hear, the sweat beads dripping down your forehead at this point. You watch Yoongi as he drops his water bottle off at the side of the court before walking over to you.

"Go away."

"Afraid you'll lose?"

"No, I just don't wanna play your ass." You shot up the ball, only for it to bounce off the backboard and land in Yoongi's hand.

"Ball up. Let's play till 10."

"Why the hell do you wanna play me, Yoongi? Don't you have a random chick to bone?"

"I'm clearly standing right in front of you aren't I? Quit fucking talking and play." He aggressively passes you the ball to check it in, you following suit, making the ball damn near bounce off of his chest with how hard you pass it back. He knew exactly how to rile you up.

You get into the zone quickly, trying to find some kind of redemption for the way you had been feeling lately. Redemption, validation, way to take the edge off— anything, really. It was only until the first person scored to 10, but Yoongi was putting up one hell of a fight, jet black hair parted down the middle and matted to his forehead from the sweat building up. You take the lead, sitting at 8 while Yoongi sat at a sad 6 points.

"Ball." You call out as you scored a layup, ramming yourself against the padded wall with the force you had put up.

"That's 10."

"Ball, Yoongi." You huffed and puffed.

"Stop, don't overwork yourself. You just got—"

"Suddenly you care? Stop being a pussy and pass me the goddamn ball." He furrows his brows as he passes you the ball, crouching down to meet you at eye level to try and guard you. You run towards the right of the court, pulling a pump fake before you pivot to get away from Yoongi's guard. You pivot hard and drive it up to the basket, only to fall on the wrong footing and twist your ankle on the way down. "Ouch, fuck!"

"Shit, Y/N!" Yoongi comes to your side, hand supporting your back as the other is on your ankle.

"I'm fine, leave me—"

"Stop being so fucking stubborn and let me help you." He says angrily. You don't say anything else while you fix your position on the floor. "Can you wiggle it at least?"

"Y-yeah." You wince as you wiggle your foot and roll it around a couple of times. Phew, at least this shit wasn't gone for good. But Coach Chu still wouldn't be happy to hear you sprained your ankle releasing your anger on Yoongi during a dumb game. Yoongi helps you stand, arm around your waist as he throws your arm around his neck and holds you steady by the wrist.

"Try walking on it."

"I can, but it hurts a little." Yoongi sighs.

"You just sprained it. Let's go get you some ice or something at the nursing center before going back to your dorm." You silently nod as you hang onto Yoongi for extra support, careful not to make the situation any worse than it already is. He has you sit on the chair within the nursing center, the nurse coming over to wrap your ankle nicely before giving you crutches and some instant hot compress to pop onto it. She orders for security to drive you two over to the dorm building in their go-cart so that you wouldn't have to do much walking on your foot while you focused on healing.

Yoongi doesn't leave your side, even after you've walked into your dark, empty dorm room, not really knowing where Clarice is at right now [possibly library]. He shuts your door and sits you on the edge of your bed, setting your crutches near your bed side and your instant hot compress.

"You need anything else?" Your head hangs low as you slightly chuckle and shake your head.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask him lowly before looking back up at him, tears clouding your vision. "Hm? Why, Yoongi?"

"You're hurt, why wouldn't I—"

"Hmm." You hum. "I'm hurt? So where the fuck were you after prom night? When I was hurt then, where the fuck have you been?" You began to cry.

"Y/N." His tongue swipes over his lips before he sighs. "I'm sorry." He says, close to a whisper.

"Are you? Because I don't think you really understand how bad you hurt me." You aggressively wipe away your tears while continuing to look at him, his body language soft and full of regret. "You didn't care about me."

"How could you say that? I cared—" He sighs as his head drops for a second. "I care about you more than you know."

"If you did then why the fuck was it so easy for you to drop me the way you did?!" You yelled. "You just don't do that to the people you care about, especially if it’s your bestfriend."

"Look, you're right. I have no excuse for the way I acted, and if I could turn back time to re-do it, I would. But I can't, and the only thing I can do is apologize and do my best to make it up to you." His bottom lip trembles as he steps closer to you, a small frown forming at the corners of his mouth.

"Yoongi." You cried. "I did everything for you, I stuck by you through everything, even during the times you didn't deserve that shit from me. But I stayed! I stood by you because you meant everything to me and god—" You groaned. "I needed you. I needed you and you weren't there! I fucking hate you for doing this shit to me but part of me will always have love for you no matter how fucked up the situation is. I will always drop everything for you. I will always care about you, and it's so unfair." It broke Yoongi's heart and he didn't know what to say, but he wraps his arms around you anyway, keeping you in a tight hug against his chest. He's surprised that you let him, even more surprised at how he feels your body soften under his touch.

"Fuck, I'm so, so sorry bub." He says lowly as he presses a kiss on top of your head. "I'm so sorry."

"Please don't ever go again." You cry against his chest.

"No, I'm not. I'm gonna be right here." He says hugging you tighter. "You're the only one who's ever understood me, who's ever kept it real with me. I don't deserve you, but I know damn sure I'll work hard to make up for letting you go in the first place." He places another kiss on top of your head. "I'm right here. Not going anywhere. I'm so sorry."

- - -

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

"THE STANFORD BOYS TAKE THE CHAMPIONSHIP!" The commentator screams into his mic, Yoongi running a lap around the court before he's cheering loudly with his teammates and joining the group hug. You run down the bleachers, dashing straight into Yoongi's arms while he swings you around.

"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" You squeal and giggle as Yoongi places you back down and plants multiple kisses around your face, hands resting on the small of your back.

"Let's get out of here." He whispers in your ear.

"I'll wait at your car, bighead." You wink, causing him to smile that gummy smile of his that you adore more than life itself.

There's obviously a huge party going on tonight to celebrate this huge achievement, but Yoongi says he doesn't wanna join for once. He's happy, yeah. But the way he wants to celebrate is in peace. After so long, he feels like he can finally say he's content with where his life is at and where it's going. He drives over to the nearest beach, backing into a space so the both of you could sit in the back and try catching all the shooting stars up above. Yoongi leans against the side of the trunk, allowing you to lay your head on his lap while you curled up beside him listening to the waves slowly crash against the sand.

"Saw one." He says, looking up at the sky.

"You're a punk, no you didn't."

"What?" He laughs. "How are you about to say that? I caught it with my own two eyes."

"Oop! I saw one!"

"Now that's a lie. I was looking up too."

"Shut up." You laugh, causing Yoongi to tickle you along the sides before he stops and plants a kiss on your lips. It's silent for a minute while the two of you take in the night view— The sky and ocean coming together as one, forming a view that seemed endless.

"Hey."

"Hm?" You hum as Yoongi's fingers gently brush through your hair.

"You know I love you right?"

"Ew with the sappy shit, Min Yoongi." He laughs.

"Seriously."

"I know." You smile up at him. "I love you too."

"Come here." He says softly, tugging you upwards. You sit up, allowing Yoongi to press his lips against yours. He pulls you in by your shirt, having you straddle his lap while he grips onto your hips and immediately grinds against you. You let out a small moan feeling how quickly he hardened, his cock hitting you in the right places as you continue to grind on him. "Fuck, wanna feel you babygirl."

"Here?"

"Yeah." He chuckles and bites onto his bottom lip.

"What, all of a sudden you're scared?"

"Fuck off." You fire back, releasing his hardened member from its confines as you stroke him gently. He tilts his head back in pleasure before tugging your shorts and panties to the side, enough for him to cop a feel of how wet you are.

"Baby's all wet."

"What're you gonna do about it?" You whisper against his lips, biting onto his bottom lip and pulling back slightly. He hisses at the sensation before he moves your hand from his cock and takes control. He pushes you upward, positioning you enough to line up with your entrance.

"Take this shit off."

"Yoongi, we're in public."

"So, you're all talk and no play."

"I hate you."

"Nobody's here." He groans. "Just take off your shorts, pleeease." He begs as he slowly strokes himself. You toss aside your shorts, Yoongi immediately hooking his finger at the bottom of your panties and tugging it aside in order to push himself into you. He does enough before he lets you do the rest of the work and sink down on his length, a gasp leaving your throat as you take all of him in. He grips your hips tightly, setting the pace as he groans into your neck, your fingers tangled in his hair resting at the nape of his neck.

"Shit, babe." You moan as you tilt your head back.

"Fuck, you always ride me so well." He presses light kisses against your neck before he's nipping at the surface.

"Godddd why do you feel so good?" You whimper.

"You like how I feel inside of you?" You nod. "Yeah? Like how my cock fills you up?"

"Never gonna get tired of it." You moan, Yoongi making you pick up the pace aggressively. Besides the waves crashing, the lewd noises of skin slapping against skin fills the car, along with your soft moans and Yoongi's groans. Your clit is constantly rubbing against him, causing the pleasure to build so quickly it becomes overwhelming. You try to hold off as much as you can but—

"My pretty baby. All I fucking need." He almost growls, the words enough to send you over the edge. You let out a loud moan, not even caring for the houses nearby as your orgasm hits hard and ripples throughout your body, sending aftershocks. Yoongi continues to have you ride him fast and hard, the overwhelming sensation causing a hint of pain to mix with more pleasure until  you feel him feel you up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He groans as his nails dig into your skin, giving two good thrusts upwards into you to help ride out his high. You both sit in the position for a minute, trying to come back down from your highs. Yoongi gives you a delicate peck on the lips, smiling into the kiss before he pulls away. "Swear you're all I need."

"See, I don't know if I could say the same." He smacks your ass as you hike up and off of him to put on your shorts.

"Take it back."

"I'm kidding." You blush.

"My ride or die. Are you with me?"

"Always have been. Are you?"

"You know I am."

"Good. You know it takes two." He smiles before pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss against your temple.

[cat3ch1sm]

Hello! If this tickles your fancy, was wondering if you had any headcannons or ideas about Mello and/or Matt regarding music.

Could be music tastes/genres, how often they listen, what platform, if they play an instrument/which one, how willing they are to listen to each others stuff/expand their taste, where they may listen the most, speakers or headphones, or how reader! might interact w/ them bc of it etc. And ZERO pressure 💜 feel free to ignore if its not something you'd be interested in. And this was just me spitballing ideas, pick one or more (or none) if you happen to find any inspiration from them!

Love your Death Note writings!!! 😊 Have a great day!

🌱| gonna b honest i don't know a thing about music 😭😭 i just listen to the same damn five songs every day and i know nothing about genre or anything. but ill try my best ig 😅😅

🌲| agh, sorry this took so long!! thanks for being so sweet, ily<33

🌳| for info on my account click here!

mello

· his playlist probably consists of like two songs. mf is just too stubborn to be open to other stuff

· he's the type that will find a great song from a particular artist and then proceed to never listen to that artist again bc he thinks their other songs won't be as good

· genre is all over the place. tbh mello has no knowledge of music genre, he'll have no clue what to say if you ask him what genre he's most into.

· mello listens to music all the time- it's the only thing that manages to pacify his turbulent emotions and bitter mindset. he enjoys feeling like someone else

· he always uses earplugs/wireless ear buds- headphones aren't subtle enough for him

· he doesn't dance to music like at all. he just won't, his ego is far too inflated, and dancing makes him feel silly anyway. although this for sure doesn't stop him from laughing at matt when he dances like an uncle at a wedding

· when mello listens to music, most of the time he's by himself or with matt. he'll never admit this even at gunpoint, but he really loves vibing to matt's own music when the two are speeding downtown on their motorcycles

· mello would actually really enjoy playing an instrument, it would be quite productive for him to just vent through music. but he can't seem to find the time, and frankly, he doesn't have the motivation

matt

· has like two thousand songs in his playlist

· "genre" is mostly hyperpop, glitchcore/weirdcore

· bothers mello all the time about putting more songs in his playlist

· he only dances bad in front of mello to give him second-hand embarrassment. he is actually a really good dancer and quite flexible, he can pull off all sorts of insane contortions while he dances

· he wears really "out there" looking headphones. he probably added tons of stickers and paint and wires on them to make them look super tricked-out

· matt loves to play the electronic keyboard and electric guitar! he's offered to teach mello about a million times, but mello is far too proud to accept help from matt

· also spends most of his music time with mello on motorcycles and almost crashes because he's too busy vibing. mello has to knock into the mf's motorcycle purposely just to get him to snap out of it

· when he has his headphones on he cannot hear anything else and mello finds it so annoying

· is always open to listen to mello's music taste and songs- although as stated earlier, it's not very diverse lmao

· has a thing for songs in reverse, especially songs like brooklyn blood pop, everything sounds cooler to him that way

· almost always has his headphones in, listening to music at full blast. like mf are ur ears ok

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Supernatural Series Finale

It took me a couple days to collect my thoughts on one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch in my life. Like I said a few days ago, I cried even harder watching it the second time around. But now that I’ve had a chance to process and also see what other people were saying, I think I can finally put into words my impression of the finale. 

Buckle up, this is a long one....

Let me preface this first off by saying that as an adamant Dean girl that has said numerous times over the years that all I’ve ever wanted was to wrap Dean in a blanket and give him some forehead kisses and tell him everything is going to be fine, this episode gutted me. I fully believe that my boy did not deserve to fight so hard for so long to just die as soon as he was free. He deserved a lifetime of truly enjoying time with his baby brother, the person he loved most in the whole world.

Now with that being said, having watched this series so many numerous times, I truly don’t believe that the show could have ended any other way. It’s something that has been pointed out by the creator, the writers, the actors, and even the characters themselves in the show. Dean never saw anything else for himself than dying doing the one thing he knows best, hunting. I saw a post that discussed how this would have happened numerous times already had Chuck not been interfering in their lives, and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. 

And Dean had been raised to never think anything of that. It goes back to Cas’ declaration that he is “the most loving human he has ever met”. Dean is and always has been a man of duty. He would gladly die at the end of a blade if it meant he saved someone from the fate his family was ‘destined’ to live. He has always cared more about other people than he ever has himself. It part of the reason that his freak out in 15.17 didn’t throw me because for fuck’s sake wasn’t it his turn to be a little bit selfish for once?

Anyway, I digress. Dean has been fighting for others his whole life. And as stated in 15.19, him and Sam were free to finally write their own story. Is it not 100% on character that Dean would die a hunter’s death? As we see in the beginning of the episode, the Winchesters could have chosen to walk away from the life then. They could have chose the apple pie life, a wife and 2.5 kids. But they didn’t, they chose to continue saving people, hunting things. They were writing their own story, even if it ended tragically. But that’s life, it’s messy and depressing, but it’s also beautiful and even if Dean only got a small taste of that, I can be happy.

I know a lot of people feel like that negates their character growth throughout the seasons, but I disagree. I think that the way this ended shows just how much both of them had grown. Sam very well could have went to Jack and begged him to bring Dean back and Dean could have asked him to. But neither felt that it was necessary any longer. Without Chuck pulling the strings, that scary, neurotic, codependence they used to hold was gone. Dean was okay with dying and Sam let him go. Dean told him how much he loved him and how scared he had been to go get him at school. Dean opened up, something that season 1 Dean never would have done. Just look back at “Faith”, the episode where Dean makes every joke in the book about dying instead of facing the truth that his time was up and Sam refuses to accept it so much that his one source to save him (unwittingly) is black magic. The men I saw in 15.20 were far from the men we met in season one. 

Coming back to finally being free, I have to talk about the dammed paperwork in Dean’s room. I’ve seen the speculation about that. But that’s all it is, speculation. We have no idea what that was supposed to be about. If they had meant for us to see it, they would have shown it to use like they showed us the “Dean’s other other phone” sticker. But they didn’t. So it’s perfectly fine to speculate about it, that all a part of art interpretation, but in my opinion, even if Dean was working on ‘something else’ I don’t think he ever could have fully walked away from hunting. This ending was for all intents and purposes, inevitable. 

For all the rest, as a writer, I fully understand the way that they chose to do this episode. Sure covid played a role but the boys had said that the crux of what the episode was did not change. There is a certain nuance to storytelling, like I posted back on Thursday and something that is probably one of the most famous lines from this show. Endings are hard. Writing is hard. It’s impossible to please everyone and even harder to tie up all loose ends. At the end of the day, the writers had to be satisfied with the story that they put out, irregardless of what you or I think. As Jensen so beautifully puts it, Supernatural is a piece of art, one that has numerous hands in the pot. From writers to actors and directors. And art is always up for interpretation. But that’s the beauty in it. 

I talked to a dear friend, @waywardbeanie after the episode and was like “I want to know x.y.and z” because a part of me wanted all the answers from them. I’ve always been a person so very deeply rooted in canon (I know as a fanfic author that sounds weird but stay with me). I trust the information given to me and take it as face value. I seen my stories as an extension to canon, not trying to rewrite it. So it took me a few days, and more conversations with other fans of the show, like @winchest09 , to understand that the facts left out of the final were most likely intentional. 

This is a show that has such a passionate and loving (mostly) fandom. Together we have done so much good for the world, and that is something even if you hated the finale, you can’t take back. The writers left the ending open for us, to write our own stories, whether it’s just your thoughts or if you actually write a piece of fanfiction. There is so little about what happens after Sam leaves, presumably for Austin (don’t even get me started on the essence of that cause I might cry again), because it’s our job to decide. Did Sam quite hunting all together or was he a pseudo Bobby, manning the phones for other hunters? Did he finally go to law school or end up getting some other mundane job? Who was his wife or girlfriend or baby momma in the background? Was it Eileen? If not did she know about his life? One could drive themselves crazy answering these questions, and it’s your right to do so however it will make you happy. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter to the story. 

At the end of the day, what mattered was the peace that the boys found together, in heaven. Sure Dean missed Sammy when he first got there, but he didn’t fuss, because as Bobby said “he would be along”. So Dean did what he’s always done, he took a drive in Baby, and Sam was there when he finally brought her to a stop. In the end their story ended just as it had started, our boys together. 

And I know a lot of people are angry because one of the big themes this show touched on was that family doesn’t end in blood. And I agree wholeheartedly that I would have loved more familiar faces or even the mention of them (I screamed when Donna was mentioned), but at the end of the day, something Eric Kripke has been saying since season one, this show is and always has been about the brothers and their relationship. I in no way think that this negates the family they found along the way or how they could not have done a lot of it without them but, it’s not their story. I’m sorry but it’s true. 

It’s not about Cas, Jack, Bobby, Crowley, Ellen, Jo, Mary, Eileen, etc. It’s about Sam and Dean and it sucks that people can’t let that go, but I get it. I can’t imagine putting so much time into something to let something like that ruin the whole experience for you. I hope that you can find peace eventually. I guess that’s my blessing, that I never really cared for anyone besides Dean. Which isn’t to say I didn’t like characters but what happened to them never mattered to me, as bitchy as that sounds. 

I’m at peace with this ending, no matter how much it hurts me. And I think it’s just the finality of it that hurts. Jensen and Jared and Kripke are satisfied with their little show that could and that’s what matters most to me. Because those are the real people with real feelings that I care about. 

So there you have it. I have zero tolerance for negativity, so please keep your comments off this posts. You are free to your opinion but I don’t want to see it and put any seed of doubt in my acceptance of this ending. I’ll be the first to admit I’m too easily swayed, ha!

But if you need to talk, my inbox is always open. I’m still coping with the loss of this show and everything that comes with it. I don’t do well with change or facing my own mortality, something that has rattle me these past few days. I feel a million years older and that scares me. So know your feelings are valid and I’m here. 

[elianthvia]

7 Reasons Why I Quit

(only for a little bit)

It has, alas, been another few weeks since I posted. I have an excuse for my unpunctuality: I've been spinning non-stop like a top. The conclusion of the last Zoomester and the start of summer are to blame. I have seven partners in crime.

Culprit 1: Puppetry Workshop

Towards the end of the year, DTI (Design Thinking Initiative), in collaboration with the Theatre Shop, hosted an in-person puppetry workshop where a small number of people could participate per covid protocols. In-person events were few and far between this semester, so of course I rushed to sign up. The workshop ran for about 2 hours on three consecutive Mondays. We met in the theatre shop inside Mendenhall Center for Performing Arts.  

The first day we made shadow puppets (and mine was a bee); the second day we made hand puppets (mine was a ... cyclop ghost king?); the third day we made marionette or string puppets (I attempted to make a teru teru bōzu, but everyone thought it a ghost). I had a lot of fun trying different fabrics, re-learning how to use a bandsaw, and magically joining things together with the help of a hot glue gun. (Side note: Polymer chemistry is the magician behind the scene, and I will be learning more about the science of hot glue guns in the polymer class I am taking next semester!) The workshop was surprisingly not as popular as I anticipated, maybe because people were busy as the semester came to a close. The good news is that DTI will be running the workshop again in the fall so more people will get to participate.

(Is she a ghost or teru teru bōzu?)

Culprit 2: Spring Piano Recital

I did not expect to attend a live concert this semester, but I was invited to the spring piano recital as a "special guest." It is a habit I developed while working as a concert crew at Sage, to sit outside the Sweeney Concert Hall and listen to the rehearsals after I finished setting up the stage. That day I was going to do homework outside the concert hall while waiting for my performing friend to finish. The piano instructor spotted me and asked me if I wanted to join. Disbelieving in my good luck, I accepted the invite. About ten students were scattered in the almost empty concert that felt sad and lonesome, but soon music filled the air. I thoroughly enjoyed every performance. Lots of Chopin were played, but my favorite one is Rhapsody in Blue which just entered the public domain this year. All pieces are about or more than a century old, which is not a surprise, but refreshingly, there is a piece by a female composer, Amy Beach, whose granduncle co-founded Bates College. You can find the full program here.

Culprit 3: End of Classes

The end of classes was epitomized by professor-resembling pixels on our computer screens bidding us goodbye. Usually professors would plan something fun for the last day of classes, virtually as well. 

I remember last semester my Multivariable Calculus professor changed his virtual background to a wall of donuts, explaining that during the pre-pandemic times he used to bring a box of donuts for students on the last day. This semester in Mathematical Methods for Physicists and Engineers, we explored the applications of Fourier Transform by looking at the velocity of a star and detecting the number of planets around it. Our last Circuit Theory lab was in person, where we got to listen to a song/piece of our own choice through the low pass filter and the high pass filter pictured below. The professor handed out prizes (cool items she accumulated in conferences) to students to reward them for their participation in the pre-class trivia games. I received a mini glow moon. In addition, our circuits professor left out end-of-class fun packs with origami papers and stickers outside her office. Our last Organic Chemistry lab was also in-person, where each lab group presented their experiments and findings (through a projector rather than Zoom screen share!) My presentation group decided to dress up for this special occasion after a long year of virtual school. Lastly, for Organic Chemistry, we played organic chemistry jeopardy in our last lecture.

With all the professors wishing you a happy summer, you start daydreaming about the sunny beach and breezy wind. Oh wait, you still have final exams to take. All in three days!

Culprit 4: Final Examinations

This semester we had a three-day final exam study period (or reading period) when professors are not allowed to assign any homework or set deadlines. Right after the reading period is our final exams. Smith is known for its flexibility when it comes to exams thanks to its Honor Code system. Many exams are self-scheduled. Some are open-notes, and some are untimed. In a normal year, students go to Seelye Hall to print out and take the exams when they feel prepared. 

For the classes I am taking this semester, I had three hours to take my Math Methods final, a whole day to take the Circuits Theory final, and the entire finals period to take my Organic Chemistry I final. Besides the exams, I had several other writing assignments to turn in. I was very fatigued at the end of the semester, so even though I only had three exams, I struggled to muster up mental energy to study. To make things worse, I got my second Pfizer shot during the reading period and had a pretty bad reaction. As a result, I asked the class dean to give me an extension on an exam, which was generously granted, and I was gratefully less overwhelmed.

Culprit 5: SmithCycle

The finals are now over, but my vacation didn't start yet. I am staying on campus for a few extra weeks to work for SmithCycle. SmithCycle is a program that collects, sorts and redistributes gently used dorm items students donate in the move-out process at the end of each school year. It gives purpose to items of reusable value and creates a more sustainable campus. In the past week, we have collected hundreds of bags (no exaggerations!) of items. Besides clothes, books, school and dorm supplies, some of the unexpected items include coffee makers, brand new water filters, and a monitor. One of my coworkers commented that first-years shouldn't have to shop clothes hangers again while they were going through three boxes of donated hangers.

The winter clothes we collected are going to the International Students and Scholars Office. They have an event called Winter Clothes Closet every fall where international students "shop" for free to help them get accustomed to the New England weather. School supplies will be moved into the Common Goods Resources Center which CEEDS hopes to launch in Fall 2021 (very exciting!). I cannot plug SmithCycle enough. If you are an incoming first-year, visit the Common Goods Resources center before you head to Target! 

I have always been interested in sustainability and renewable energy and want to get more involved. When I saw the SmithCycle worker position posted on Workday, I immediately applied. Every SmithCycle worker's job varies. I am mainly responsible for washing and drying the linens and blankets. When waiting for the washer and dryer, I help with unloading the van that circulates between houses to pick up bags of donations. I also help with sorting. Pictured below is the inside of Scott Gym where all the items are currently stored.

Culprit 7: Summer Housing

As college transitions into summer, students who are staying on campus for some part of the summer had to move out of their spring housing assignment into their summer housing. I moved from Chapin, the house in central campus, to Capen, which is on the periphery of Smith. I know Chapin and Capen sound alike, but they are very different houses location-wise and personality-wise! To make up for its distance to the academic buildings, Capen House has its own garden, Capen Garden. The garden a gorgeous place many current Smithies are missing out on. There is a mini fountain, hedges, a garden temple, a plant arch, and a bizarre owl statue. Look at the last picture of the garden in this blog, and you will agree with me that the Paradise Pond is overrated.  

Built in 1825 and acquired by Smith in 1921, Capen House is named after Bessie Capen, the second woman to be admitted to MIT. She taught chemistry at Smith College. Fun fact: Bessie Capen was once the associate principal of the Mary A. Burnham School for Girls, now Stoneleigh-Burham School; I went there for horseback riding lessons during my first year at Smith. Small world, right?

Case Closed

Thanks for reading this long-ish explanation. I hope my tardiness in delivering this post may be justified by the causes above. To compensate, I will write about my other summer plans and updates in the next few weeks. Stay tuned! Meanwhile, enjoy your summer!

[leggomylino]

Pushing Up Daisies | Seo Changbin

Genre: fluff, crack, comedy, college au, secret admirer/stalker au

Pairing: Seo Changbin x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.7k

A/n: Masterlist(s) linked down below and in bio!!! | Requested by @hanniiesuckle17​ <3

— ✔✘✔✘ —

Darkness fell like a cloud over the room, a hazy mist where Changbin found the most comfort. It was a place where he felt calm, collected, cool, and accepted.

It was also the place he resided to watch Y/n L/n. The cute new transfer student from out of town.

Now, he didn’t think what he was doing was creepy. Or weird. Or immature. Not by any means; he was simply keeping an eye on her to make sure she was safe; the library could be a dangerous place, and there were all sorts of sick and twisted weirdos running around at this late hour of six p.m. that purposely targeted nice foreign girls like Y/n. He’d seen it happen all the time. It was more common than he’d like to admit. Which is why it was up to him to keep an eye out for her, since Chan was working late (again) at the studio and the mighty Lord knew Han Jisung wasn’t gonna do jack squat, especially not after Hyunjin had to go mentioning the grand opening of some new restaurant called...Factory Cheesecake? Cake Factory? Something like that.

That only left himself to rely upon. The only one truly trustworthy and qualified to keep Y/n safe. Even if it meant having to—

“Changbin!”

Clank. “OW!”

Rubbing his now slightly swollen forehead, he turned around the cramped space to peer over his shoulder. “What is it? What are you doing up here?”

Felix bowed his head, an apology hanging in the air. “Sorry. Seungmin sent me to get you. He said he’s clocking out in five minutes and he doesn’t want to get in trouble for your…“deed.”” He blinked. “He used other words I’d rather not repeat, though.”

Changbin scratched his chin. Ah, yes. The perks of having a roommate that worked part-time at the campus library: free access anywhere, so long as they’re on duty. And you don’t get caught. Like that one time he and Han scoured the back storage room for vaults holding the answer key to Mr. Kim’s final, and...well, that wasn’t important now. “Tell him I’ll be down in ten. I think she’s almost done.”

Felix glanced through the slits of the metal air duct, then back at his buddy. “...Are you sure you’ve really thought this through all the way?” His face scrunched up in an awkwardly distasteful matter, and he looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to commit such a crime. Like what he was doing was even criminal. “Why don’t you just talk to her? Instead of...y’know…” He blinked, gesturing to the cramped space around them. “Hiding in the air duct? It’s kinda creepy, is what I’m saying. And unethical...actually, very creepy and very unethi—“

“Okay! I got it already!” Changbin waved his hands. He didn’t need to hear this from someone he cared about. “Shoo, shoo! Go have dinner with Hyunjin and the bottomless cake pit.”

“You mean Han?”

“Duh.”

...Sighing, Felix left without another word. 

Finally—

“...I really think you should just talk to her!” His voice echoed. Changbin sighed.

...Okay, a few words. “Go!!!”

His harsh command bounced around the narrow chamber, spiraling down out of the air duct. Gasp. He covered his mouth, praying to heaven no one heard him; peering down, the study corner Y/n was in— if not the library itself— was nearly vacant, with only one other student reading at a far table and a few stragglers making their final choices.

It would appear his voice had gone unnoticed. Phew.

Y/n was still standing at the same shelf. She’d been standing there for over twenty minutes, occasionally pacing back and forth a few steps, side-to-side, trying to make up her mind. Most guys hated that, but Changbin couldn’t help but find it cute and endearing; like a lost little star trying to find her way home, calculating the best route, hesitant, waiting to shine. Most guys took it as a lacking sign to confidence, but to Changbin, it just showed that she was smart. She didn’t want to barrel straight ahead; she gathered data, took notes, and made the best option that would satisfy both her needs and her interests. And to Changbin, there was nothing hotter than that...

Suddenly, her hand moved. The one with the leather watch she wore, rumored to be a gift from her father. It was worn and frayed, the inseam splitting at the ends. Brown; tan. A simple clock face encased in basic sterling silver. She wore it everyday, but it’d been a while since he’d seen the pleated pink skirt that swayed above her ankles, or the matching floral-printed scarf—

Her hand brushed against the spine of a worn old poetry catalogue. Oh no. This is it. She’s really going for it. His letter…

She was so close to finding it. Twice a week, Changbin would rush down seven flights of stairs and across five blocks of campus property to make it to the library an hour before Y/n was set to arrive, as she always visited the library after English 1302 on Mondays and Wednesdays. Something about departing from that class must have left her longing for more, he figured; she was a writing major, after all. He didn’t do well under too much pressure, so after panicking about what he was going to say this time, he’d steal borrow some of Seungmin’s fancy calligraphy paper in order to write her a poem, something soft and...what was that word he’d looked up last week...lilting, which he was pretty sure meant the same thing as uplifting and...happy. Then he’d have Seungmin (one time Han; big mistake) hack into her leasing record in order to find out which books she was currently into, or which ones she had on hold. He’d carefully and strategically place the handwritten poem inside the book’s first few pages.

The book was in her hands now. She’d chosen his book! Again! She was examining the cover...flipping it over…...now, she was…?

...She put it back.

Again. He lowered his head with a sigh. Game over. You lost again. He gripped his hands into fists; when? When would he learn? When would it be his turn to win?! …!

Oh? What was this…?

A figure turned the left corner too fast, crashing into Y/n. She stumbled to the right, dropping said book as well as her belongings and sending them somersaulting to the pale blue carpet.

The letter he’d tucked between pages four and five spiraled out a foot away. Unopened, still sealed securely in a crisp white envelope with a Molang sticker. He’d heard she liked him.

Some Shady Guy was now talking to Y/n. “I’m so sorry! Let me help you— I’ll get—”

Y/n picked the book off the ground, dusting and checking it for damages like her first priority. She was so selfless, caring more for a damaged old tomb rather than her shiny new laptop and fancy water bottle. “Oh, no, that’s okay, don’t worry about it…” 

Her eyes fell upon the letter. Changbin held his breath. Oh no. Not now. Not with some punk watching! The moment would be totally ruined!!!

Shady Guy beat her to it, his undeserving fingers tainting Changbin’s craft. “Here. Is this yours?” He examined it. Smirked. Disgusting. “Cute. Aren’t you a little old for cartoons, though?”

Who here gave you permission to judge her?! ...Wait.

Y/n took the letter, frowning. “I don’t think so...Molang is for girls and boys of all ages. He’s cute. But, this isn’t mine…someone must have left it as a bookmark.” Her eyes swept the room. “I’ll go return it to the front desk.”

The… The front… 

His face hardened. What?! No!!! That’s your letter! URGH!!! Were girls always this frustrating?! ...And why is this guy still standing so close?! … … 

It couldn’t be helped; with defeat, he watched the two of them walk away.

— ✔✘✔✘ —

The next day at lunch, Minho squinted at him in anger.

“I can’t believe you skipped out on dinner with us again to go stalk the new girl.”

Beside him, Hyunjin huffed his agreement over a juice box that was meant for a five year old. Changbin groaned. “It’s not stalking. You make it sound like I’m a pervert or something...I’m not, I’m just…”

...His voice trailed off into a long, steady exhale. Beside him, Seungmin rolled his eyes. “Next time, at least quit using the air vent. I’m tired of growing a collection of ulcers in my gut because I’m afraid you’re going to make one wrong move and come crashing down through the ceiling like doom over Narnia, and then we’re both going to get in trouble for it.” He practically slammed down his bowl of soba. “I need this job, Bin.”

Across the outdoor picnic table, Minho froze halfway through unwrapping his sandwich, Hyunjin nearly choking on his orange juice. The former of the two cast a chilling glare while Hyunjin fought through a coughing fit. “You…”

Crap. And just when he’d thought Seungmin would be the least likely to open his big mouth. Changbin pressed his lips into a hard line before speaking. “...It’s not what you think—”

“Isn’t it, though?!” Hyunjin blurted. His juice box went flying into the nearest trash can as he pointed drastically in the direction of the library a few blocks down. Dance majors. “You’re telling me you’ve been bailing on dinner with us at the best new restaurant in town to go crawl through the dusty library airways and spy on a girl who doesn’t even know you?!”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you!” Changbin hissed. “And hey,” he added, leaning over his ramen. “We’ve talked before. We’re in the same writing class.”

“Over a project!” The Dance major roared. “That hardly counts!”

He and Changbin both fell back into their seats with a thud, exhausted with each other. Minho sighed. “Well,” he mumbled, “I guess we’re just going to have to show him.”

At this, everyone gave Seoul University’s one and only Bundle Boy a quizzical look. “What do you mean?” Seungmin asked.

Bundle Boy smiled, already stacking his leftovers. “Come on. Finish eating already and we’ll show you.”

Hyunjin blinked, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. “We…?”

Smack. “Just do it already. Let’s go. Quickly.”

Stunned, he had no choice but to inhale his soup on the way over.

— ✔✘✔✘ —

The library was ironically closed for renovations that day; something about a generous donation from some well-to-do politician wanting his name engraved along the school walls. Whatever.

After bribing Seungmin into using his key, in the very same room where Y/n had been pondering her next private adventure surfing amongst old worn pages, Minho placed his hands on his hips, taking the roll of stage director. “Okay, now.” He pointed left. “Hyunjin, you go backstage. Pick a book off the shelf and get yourself ready. You two,” he piped, startling the remaining cast members, “will sit over there. Watch how it’s done.”

“......” Side-eyeing the other, Changbin and Seungmin took their seats at a nearby study table. The former could tell the latter was regretting his decision to let them in already.

Minho smiled. “Great,” he said, taking what was supposed to be Center Stage. “Now—” 

Seungmin raised his hand. The director sighed. 

“Yes?”

Seungmin lowered his hand with a soft plop. “Do I really have to be here for this? Don’t we all have better things to be doing right now?”

...It was a fair question. But Minho didn’t really seem to care much for fairness. “Yes, this is a team effort. I’m telling Chan you said that at our next rehearsal.”

The boy groaned.

“Now,” Director Bundle began. “Watch and learn how the pros do this. I’ll be Changbin, and Hyunjin is Y/n.” He turned his head to the side. “Cue!!!”

The lights suddenly dimmed, shocking the audience as they looked around curiously. “I could have sworn no one was on staff today,” Minnie mumbled.

Then the lights rose again, slowly in escalation, as a far-too-tall and far-too-muscular Y/n entered Stage Right. His eyes blinked wildly from atop the horizon of an encyclopedia about frogs. “Look,” he cooed, voice far too high and squeaky. Changbin and Seungmin both cringed. “I’m Y/n! I love books and boys and all the many girlish wonders that girls like me enjoy! Teehee!”

...Dear Lord, strike him now. Changbin rose from his seat. “Stop!!!”

His cry fell on deaf ears as the show went on, Minho turning and giving his best, dreamiest, disgustingly playboy-ish smile. “You’re Y/n?”

Hyunjin giggled (to which Changbin felt sick), the book never leaving the lower half of his face. “That’s me!”

“Changbin” (Minho) cocked his head aside, shifting his bangs to the right. Seungmin gagged. “That’s a cute name. A cute name for an even cuter gi—”

Fzzt! ...The power went out.

From the far corner, the real Changbin glared a storm across the room, holding the power extension cord too tightly. “That’s enough,” he grumbled, tossing the extension aside. “I didn’t come here for you to mock me. Or her. I’m not sure what I’m more angry about: the fact that you dare mock an innocent girl, someone I care about, to my face...or the fact that the two of you are supposed to be my friends.”

Hyunjin tossed his book on the table, doing his best sassy Dance major pose: a hand on his hip, knee slightly bent, head tilted to the side. Dance majors. “You can’t say you care about her, Changbin. You hardly know her.”

“I told you we’ve spoken on more than one occasion!”

“Over a project! That doesn’t count!”

“You said it hardly counts before!!”

“Yeah?! Well now I’m changing my answer!!!”

“Okay, okay…” Seungmin rose from his seat, wading between the two. “That’s enough. Fighting never solves anything.” He peered over his shoulder, focusing his gaze between the shelves. “Also, you need to keep your voices down— I’m not losing my job over something this dumb.”

“......” With a grunt, Changbin marched his way toward the exit; Screw these guys, whatever. He didn’t need their help and never asked for it anyway. He was doing just fine in his relationship with Y/n that...didn’t quite exist… 

He’d almost made it to the door until Hyunjin stopped him. The should-have-been Drama major’s long fingers curved harshly over Changbin’s bulky shoulder. 

“...Just face it, Bin,” he whispered. “Y/n...she’s one of those girls. A bookworm. She’s out there. Way out there.” He sighed. The whole room seemed to. “Girls like her live on another planet. You’ll be pushing up daisies before she agrees to go on a date with you.”

“......” 

Changbin scoffed, carrying his storm out of the room.

— ✔✘✔✘ —

At 2:46 a.m that night (morning?), Changbin lied awake in his dorm room, pondering many things. Too many things that shouldn’t have had any connection whatsoever, yet did all the same. Because life was messy, and love was fornot.

What is it with girls? He thought. I’ve never put so much thought into one before. They were just...there, and then Y/n showed up, and suddenly it’s like I forgot how to read. I saw her smiling, looking all pretty by the lecture hall window...I know I’ve written a song about her before.

Shift. The gray wall facing him gave no comfort.

...And what about them? Hyunjin, Minho, Seungmin...criticizing and judging me like that… Hyunjin… He had no right to say that to me. “You’ll be pushing up daisies before she agrees to go on a date with you!1!1!” ...Pfft. Please. What does he know?! Who does he think he is giving me advice? About Y/n?? After his horrible misrepresentation of her?!? ...Man, I miss Jeongin. I wonder when he’ll be back from his field trip...

Toss. The ceiling was no help either.

Then again… Is it really that strange? I was just keeping an eye on her. She should be grateful, right? Who doesn’t like having protection throughout the day? … … 

Sigh. ...Maybe… Maybe it is kinda weird what I’ve been doing...how I’ve been acting...my behavior… … … 

Turn. The ticking of the far clock mocked him. All his lost hours of sleep...tormented by his own thoughts...

… … … 

“...Hnnn!” 

Shift. Toss. Sigh. Turn. Watching the seconds pass him by Changbin rolled about in agony, puzzled and tried over the last few weeks. Perhaps, as Hyunjin had said, even before his most recent insult, Changbin’s behavior as of late really had been “ugh.” …

A pillow fell over his face. He didn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe, as ridiculous as it all was, Minho and Hyunjin had been onto something; maybe all he needed to do was introduce himself. Start fresh, simple, anew. Maybe, this whole time, all he needed was to treat Y/n like a person he was interested in, rather than a science experiment he had to guard from afar. Maybe, just maybe, all he needed to do was say “hello”...

Unfortunately for him, “hello” was currently the word he was most afraid of.

“Changbin…”

He rolled over, peering down at the lower bunk; what could he say, except, Music and Photography majors didn’t make that much? At least not as undergrads. “Hm?”

Seungmin squinted up at him with sleepy eyes. “Turn off the light. I have two exams tomorrow…”

Shoot. Changbin grimaced, reaching for the switch. “...Sorry.”

Chink. Lights out. 

“...Changbin?”

Chink. Lights on. “Yes?”

“......” Seungmin sat up, trailing his drowsy behind to the guest couch on the other side of the 12 x 10 room, the one Chan or Han sometimes crashed on during late nights producing or editing soundtracks. He pulled a blanket over his head, curling up beneath it like a puppy. “...Do you wanna talk about yesterday?”

Changbin scoffed, shifting his gaze to glare anywhere else. “...Like I’d wanna spend my precious time talking about those two.”

“So it is bothering you.”

Changbin fell silent.

“...The fact that you’re awake right now tells me that you’re letting them get to you. You shouldn’t.”

“I’m not! I never said they were bothering me!”

“It’s what you didn’t say that tells me otherwise.”

Changbin huffed. “Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?”

“I have two, actually,” the boy answered. “One at eight and one at nine.”  

“Then go to bed. Quit worrying about me and mind your own business. Class starts in a few hours.”

Chink. Lights out.

...But though he rolled over, pulling the sheets above his head and facing the gray wall, the annoying brat missing from the lower bunk didn’t move. In fact, Changbin could feel his eyes burning a rash on his skin, spelling out the words, you’re lying; accept your feelings. Talk to me.

Chink! He swung back up into a sitting position. 

“Okay, fine! Sheesh…” he groaned. Below, Seungmin almost bounced in delight, were he not engaged in a battle of fending off certain unconsciousness.

“Great...tell me what’s troubling you.”

“...That’s…” 

Good grief. That was far easier said than done. He’d become so defensive, the automatic response to escape Changbin’s lips were always, “That’s none of your business,” “It’s none of your concern,” “Quit asking me about it.” 

Now, here he was, at confession hours. He adjusted himself, the words swirling in his gut; hissing at the proposal of facing sunlight, wishing to remain buried. “...I just…” He began picking at the fabric around his legs. “...I don’t feel like myself lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so tired… Everything was fine until Y/n came here. Now…” He breathed. “...It’s like I can’t do anything properly anymore, and I’m not myself at all. I lost myself the moment I walked into class, and she was standing there, smiling under the sunshine and fluorescent lighting. ...Argh, listen to me! I never said crap like this before she came! It sounds so stupid!”

Seungmin continued to listen, patiently, as Changbin spilled his thoughts. Every waking thought he’d had since a few Monday’s ago. He nodded his head...starting to sway…

“...And it’s like, I’m saying all these words I’ve never even heard of before, y’know? You’ve noticed it too, right? Like my vocabulary is proliferating. It’s a nightmare! But...what really scares me is…” 

He paused. On the couch, Seungmin fell over, beginning to snore softly.

“...I don’t like the person that I’ve become. I heard it said before that when you fall in love, or some garbage like that, you’re supposed to...become a better person? That learning from that person is supposed to help you mature? … All I���ve learned to do is become...some creepy stalker. I never saw myself becoming like this, not for a minute, but with her it’s like...I totally…”

“...Zzzk!” Seungmin sat up. “...Hm? What? ...Oh, uh…” He rubbed his eyes. “I heard you, I swear I did. Hang on…” He yawned, squinting upward. “...You’re not learning from her.”

Changbin turned toward the couch. “What?”

Seungmin adjusted himself, working at removing a year’s worth of sleep in his eyes. “You haven’t been following her example. You’ve been letting your unchecked emotions run all over you. It’s an act of immaturity and being insecure. Also, what you said before is only true if you and the other person are both mature, and share an intimate relationship. You don’t. And you’re not mature.”

To this, Changbin opened his mouth to give back some witty reply he’d stored in his new-found vocabulary somewhere, but of course, the boy dozed off, getting away with the last word like he usually did.

Pssh. Even his internal clock is in sync with his antics. Spoiled brat. That sure was a lot of words for three a.m...

… … …

He let those words reside with him. “You haven’t been following her example. You’ve been letting your unchecked emotions run all over you. It’s an act of immaturity and being insecure.”

… … …  

“Also, what you said before is only true if you and the other person are both mature, and share an intimate relationship. You don’t. And you’re not mature.”

… … … 

...Bah! He hated it. Hated hearing it, the way it sounded out loud, directed at him. 

But perhaps it was a bitter truth he had to overcome. 

“Tomorrow, you can always start anew.” ...That was a lyric from one of his favorite songs, from a rapper he admired all too well. Perhaps...maybe…

Tomorrow, I too, can start anew. … … 

...Reaching over, he turned out the light.

— ✔✘✔✘ —

The next day was Wednesday. The climax of every week. Shouts of “hUMP DAYYYY!!!” could be heard echoing around campus corridors, with students and faculty scurrying this way and that, some walking with direction and purpose, a few jogging, and others moving to a slow, leisurely pace, just getting out of class or having nowhere in particular to be.

For Changbin, it was a day of change. When the sun rose, after ignoring it for a few extra hours in defiance toward the clock that mocked him, he got dressed, ate a waffle, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair with his fingers as he hustled out the door.

“Hey!” Chan greeted him outside the door. “Ready for—”

“Busy,” he called over his shoulder.

English 1302 wasn’t until 3 p.m., but seeing as it was currently noon and he only had three hours to set himself straight, well...setting yourself straight was a daunting task. He’d need all the time he could get. Ignoring the fact that Chan and Han followed him out of the dorms and down two blocks while muttering precariously puzzling things, he set his focus solely on his current destination.

“I’m here,” he announced, slamming his bag on the front desk. Behind the library counter, Seungmin sighed, tilting his head back. 

“I’m not letting you into the air vents anymore. I told you, I’m done.” He glanced at the clock behind him. “Aren’t you a little early? Your class hasn’t even started yet. I thought you’d still be sleeping.”

“Can’t. No time.” Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his English textbook, the one with a soda stain he’d have to pay for later thanks to Yours Truly (Han Jisung). Seungmin observed it curiously.

“What’s this?”

“My textbook.”

“...We don’t have stain remover. Try the laundry room.”

Changbin rolled his eyes, biting his lip. Don’t let pride get to you right now. “...I uh…” He cleared his throat. “...It’s not that. I want you to help me study. I’d like to have something to fall back on, when talking to Y/n. In case things fall flat.”

When he looked up, the expression on Seungmin’s face was that of a thousand suns. Like the skies had cleared, and the war was over. It looked like something Shakespeare or Dr. Seuss would write about. “At last,” he said, “the drought has ended. Seeds have sprouted. There really is a brain in there.”

Changbin swatted at him. “Just shut up and tell me when your next break is.”

— ✔✘✔✘ —

“Y/n?”

Her name came rolling out of Changbin’s mouth like a stone. It started light, yet gained velocity and fell into the pool of sweat at his feet with a heavy thud.

The moment she turned around, sitting up a little straighter, a little taller, looking him right in the eyes, his mind went blank. “Yeah! What’s up?”

… … … 

He had no idea what was up. What was up? What was down? Which way was it to the nearest train station so he could use the last of his tuition money to board a train and haul it all the way to the highest bridge so he could— …

Cool, Changbin. Play it cool. The sun has risen, so you’re Mature Bin now. “Uhh…”

“......” She listed her head. “Yeah?”

“......”

“......”

“...Cake!” he blurted.

She blinked, shifting herself back while the surrounding pews started. “I’m sorry?”

“Ahh…!” Changbin adjusted himself. Took a deep breath. 

Still cool. Roll with it. 

“......” He smiled. “...Cake, uh...there’s a new cake shop that opened downtown.” He pointed...somewhere towards the door. “I was wondering if...maybe you’d...like some?”

The kindness that radiated off her features made his heart soar. “Are you asking me to come with you?”

“......” He nodded, looking away. But from the corner of his eye, he could still see her smile.

“Okay! I’d love to. Say, after class?”

He nodded again, more fervently. “...But aren’t you going to the library after this?”

Her gaze turned a bit sour and peculiar. “You...know about that? You must have seen me before.” 

Having walked in right on cue at 2:59, Hyunjin made an irate sound that wasn’t unusual of a sassy Dance major such as himself. Dance majors. “Oh, he’s seen you, alright. He—”

The nearest pencil went flying towards his head, marking his pretty boy face.

“Ahh! Seriously?!” He rummaged through his bag. “I have practice after this!”

Having turned away before, Y/n examined both men curiously before clearing her desk space for class. “Well, it can’t be helped. I do spend a lot of time there, so you were bound to pick up on it subconsciously, I’m sure.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it.”

He and Hyunjin shared a glare.

She giggled, shaking her head. “Alright then! How about this: we’ll stop by the library, and then we can go to the cake shop from there. Sound good?”

He grinned from ear to ear; blissfully, simply, politely. But most importantly: in control. “Yeah, sounds good. Oh, and Y/n?”

The clock struck three, the professor walking in right on cue. As his voice took hold of the classroom atmosphere, the two lowered their heads, voices tumbling into whispers. “Yeah?” she asked. “What is it?”

Mature Bin held fast to his smile. “Hello.”

— ✔✘✔✘ —

ღ Stray Kids M.List | M.List ღ

[humonguusnutarbiter]

Daycare Activities For Toddlers - Activities That Help Children Learn

Educational Activities For Toddlers In Childcare centre offers a range of educational activities, which helps to develop a toddler's mindset in an early age. These activities include indoor activities such as art and crafts, reading activities, reading material, alphabet activities and numbers games. On the other hand, kids Early Learning Centre features a large variety of outdoor activities. Some of these activities incorporate clay shooting, riding activity, horse riding activity, and many more. The centre also organizes weekend workshops which are aimed at providing information about the child's favourite subjects and enhancing his creative skills. In addition, the centre offers fun-filled activities like clowns club, treasure hunt, and much more.

Innovative and Easy Alternative Activity - Plastic Bottle Bank. This innovative and easy alternative activity helps develop hand-eye coordination, eye-hand coordination and builds up the self-esteem of children. The children stand on a small platform on which a plastic bottle is placed. They can then use their fingers to pull the bottle through a small hole in the platform using their fingers. The level of difficulty increases as the child improves his/her coordination. Toddlers are highly recommended to wear protective gear to avoid any accidental spillage of the liquid.

Art and Crafts Activity - Toy Trucks. Toddlers enjoy painting, drawing, or simply making use of their hands for various activities. Toy trucks are available in a range of sizes and colors. Toddlers can select from red truck, green truck, yellow, blue or purple plastic trucks. All these toys are washable and can be used for multiple purposes.

Number Recognition and Board Games. A number recognition game or card game is an interesting activity that improves hand-eye coordination, motor skills and also improves the toddlers' intellectual ability. A toddler does not require any particular skill to play this game. It provides a fun and learning experience for toddlers while developing their cognitive, sensory, social, emotional and physical development.

Creative and Original Ideas. This section is for those innovative and creative ideas that can be applied in an educational activity. Toy pianos, toy cars, musical instrument sets, bubble blowing machines, or wooden building blocks are some of the items for which you can offer your assistance. You can make use of stickers, paint and markers for this purpose. You can also experiment with different color combination, arranging, stacking or creating cutouts by using different objects.

It is always important to know that there is no scarcity of educational activities for toddlers. You just have to keep a check on the toddler's interest and choose an activity accordingly. If the activity has several interesting aspects such as learning, sharing, imagination and creativity, then it can work wonders for your toddlers.

I'm a 74-year-old former teacher who now works part-time as a drivers' education instructor for a private sector driving school located in the western suburbs of Chicago. Generally speaking, this driving school attracts 15 and 16-year-old, academically inclined students who prefer learning to drive outside of the school day. This private-sector option allows these students to load their respective class schedules up with honors classes (not driver's ed) that, upon high school graduation, increases their odds of being accepted into the college of their choice.

In short, I drive with lots of really bright kids from 6 different public high schools and 4 different private high schools, a large percentage of whom are straight A students. And every one of these kids, in their own unique way, is acutely interested in exploring the various issues involved with living a life that's worth living. But ironically, only one of these nine highly regarded high schools offers a class in the field that's specifically designed to explore what it means to live a life that's worth living - namely the field of Philosophy.

And in this one high school, philosophy is offered strictly as an elective. This means only a very small percentage of that school's students ever go eyeball to eyeball and wrestle with history's most profound and influential thinkers ranging from Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle through Aquinas, Descartes, Rousseau, Spinoza, Locke, Hume, Kant, Hegel Kierkegaard, Marx, and Nietzsche, just to name a few. While kids at the other eight schools have zero chance of learning anything about these intellectual giants other than their names in an historical context.

A Simple Solution to a Profound Problem But fortunately for the kids I drive with, I have a simple solution. Allow me to introduce you to a podcast entitled "PHILOSOPHIZE THIS." The Seattle based producer/narrator Steven West does an absolutely spectacular job of translating some very complicated philosophical concepts into plain English. He speaks to the current generation in their terms. He also does a great job of providing a context in which these iconic figures can be understood and fully appreciated for their contributions to the history of the human race.

West has been producing his wonderful (free for the asking) podcast since 2013. It currently features almost 150 twenty-five to thirty-minute episodes. The context he provides allows each episode to stand on its own. This means that you can listen to them in chronological order. Or you can pick and choose randomly and still finish up with a wealth of knowledge to which very few high school or college students in this nation will ever truly avail themselves.

It'll Make Your Wheels Turn... I confess, in my own case, "Philosophize This" borders on being addictive. I can hardly put the bloody thing down. But more importantly for this communique, any student who finds the time to give Steven West's podcast a fair shot, will be introduced to critical thinking experiences that, in the name of STEM, are being ignored by modern educational systems across the nation. In contrast, West will cause your mental wheels to turn in ways that you've never experienced before. I promise! And, because so few students will ever avail themselves to these extremely insightful possibilities, you'll automatically become the smartest kid in your class by default!

[jamesdazell]

My Own Private Life

I don’t often post to social media because I find it hard to be authentic here, and relate to nothing on my profile. So much of life is removed from what can be posted. On social media, existence has no context, but each photograph is an abstracted identity, discontinuous from the atmosphere and forces that make up real moments of life. It rather consoles for life, than amounts to it, by cropping a moment of life from a selective angle, and defining life by the overwhelming feeling of it. ~

My social presence is being with others and to be where I am, without feeling a need to connect it to a public broadcast in exchange for likes. I like to feel one person in a space of many, anonymous, unremarkable, a human being, without considering some artificial grandiose idea of myself and my accomplishments, which hopefully would rather speak for itself. ~

The grief in my life comes from online and other media. My day to day living is untroubled. My personal experience of life is far better. Strangers and friends treat me better in real life than online, and my presence in real space has more influence than in this virtual world, where we all become tourists and voyeurs of each other’s brand-Me, billboards advertising a lifestyle, and journalists of our own lives. Faced with life, our choices amount to what we can post next, like a tradesmen whose existence is directed to what they can sell at the market. Our work, our life, our thoughts, our memories, our passing moments, must now perpetually and inevitably end in publication. I’m disinterested in turning them into an international lifestyle brochure where people can estimate me by what I post. ~

The rawness of life is missing from our culture and without it there cannot be good writers, for it is their territory. Nor artists that allow us to joyously dive safely into that raw depth of life’s reality. Social media offers us an alternative to life, not something more, but something less than life. ~

Our perspectives must befit our character, our objectives, and the pace of our own personal development. It is unnatural to try to refine it into an homogenous direction. We work out a perspective not always because it’s true but because it is empowering. There is also a need to be wrong, to think however we will, for a time; the world must carry our own definition as we proceed through it. To live in another’s opinion is as if to depart from yourself and live another life. We don’t hold the truth, but the wisdom we have to strength to accept. No opinion is final, but each is a door, to a door, to a door. Own the consequences of your own life. Your own opinion leads you onwards and is obstructed by the public hostility from another’s conviction, each demanding another to see the world through their own thoughts. The wisdom of SM is a fool’s folklore; the bullshit you tell yourself to console a bad day. A bumper-sticker wisdom, a consoling slogan, a cheap mantra. Wisdom does not flatter us. It’s not that the books of the past contain a real and sound truth, but their conversation with your own thoughts is deeper and more enriching. ~

This purpose, to be popular, doesn’t suit me at all. I’m genuine enough to not care how I seem. There’s something unnatural, cheap, and fraudulent about an effort to be popular. When I post anything to Instagram or twitter there’s suddenly an emptiness to it. It’s value was in that I valued it, and I deprived it of that by putting it up for public auction. Given the opportunity to be free with our media, ironically we use it to be inauthentic and police each other’s views. But for a generation that has been brought up on a life of being liked, material success, reality tv game show competitions, being popular on social medai, through immaturity and trivialising life - whilst also existting in an era of collapsing democracy, far right politics, economic crashes and terrorism, then a consolaton for life by beautiful images and pretty thoughts are likely what they’d gravitate to. The pessimistic consolation in the metaphysics which the Internet provides. Romanticism in images. Existentialism in thoughts. ~

We have created a culture of billboards, bumper sticker wisdom, game show success, narrated by the journalists we have become of our own lives. Hopefully this shallow, immature, misinformation lead, on-demand, game show success culture, will be overtaken by a culture that wants more enriching experiences, the exclusivity of living in the moments we live, appreciates the effort to maturity, makes real intimate bonds with people, and wants to contribute to the history of their field rather than become famous by turning their life into a lifestyle advert. Until we come again into the recognition of the “like-it-or-not” reality of life’s typical and inevitable character, for one and all, life is elsewhere. ~

“Social media is the toilet of the Internet and what it has done to pop culture is abysmal” @ladygaga

[atelophobicity]

Top 10 Things You Shouldn’t Do If You Want to Finish Your Thesis On Time

It’s my entry for September! I’ve been busy in consuming new music, films, and kvariety episodes in my effort to catch up on everything. So, I decided to post monthly to fulfill my oversharing Tumblr needs and to exercise my skills in writing in English and putting thoughts into coherent words.

TL;DR of this: things I’ve done instead of doing my thesis for the past year and a half. I’m not romanticizing my not doing thesis self for the past 21 months, but I’m also not dissuading you from doing other stuff besides thesis because god knows, you will need something.

1. Got a part-time job. This was the first new thing I’ve done that really took my time and effectively gave me no time to do thesis. And yet, this was the most rewarding thing as I learned how to get my TIN, accomplish my deliverables, answer to my superiors etc. Looking back, I wasn’t the best employee and I deserved no job offers on the same company after. But still, it was a stepping stone in the right direction. Adulting-wise, anyway.

2.  Discover the art of creating.

Journal spreads. I bought a 2019 planner and I couldn’t fill it up, so I decided to turn it into a journal-planner. The art materials I used for to design pages are from old supplies bought back when I was in high school or stickers from the fandom-related events I attended. I didn’t spend money and I was given a chance to be creative.

Sew doll clothes. In K-pop, dolls that look like your idol exists. It usually comes with one set of clothes to dress it. As a “doll mother”, I wanted to dress them with new clothes but buying clothes was expensive. So, I just sewed clothes for them. I made clothes from scrap fabrics or clothes no one wears in our household. I’ve been barely successful, but it’s one of the things that keep me happy and make me feel like I’ve succeeded in one measly part of my life.

3. Purged my online files.

From my high school files. Nostalgia has been one of my coping mechanisms. I was able to be provided by lots of it when I discovered that I didn’t lose my high school files and it was on my mom’s laptop all along. Being able to relive memories while organizing my files was the best hours of that day.

To my external hard drives. Since 2016, I have been a hoarder of online files for so long that I have two EHDs to prove it. This time though, I was able to delete content that was either repetitive or uninteresting anymore. I was able to shave off some of my data bytes and am now able to save new interesting content available online (if I ever find one).

4. Realigned my priorities and consumption of K-pop as a stan and as a person by:

Selling 3/4 of my merch. Unlearning the pride that comes with owning K-pop merch was difficult, but overtime, I have been proud of myself for not falling to the traps of capitalism—at least in K-pop. Also! I was able to buy my own concert tickets with the stuff I sold so it is a win!

Joining giveaways instead. No matter how I can avoid the urge to buy K-pop merch, I still can’t help but want to own them. This is where I discovered how joining giveaways was my next best option. It takes a lot of effort and screenshots to win these things. However, if and when you win, it really feels like winning against the odds. You get free merch too!

Actually spent hours to vote and stream. In relation to the last point, since the main requirement in giveaways I’ve joined are voting/streaming proofs, I have been one of those people who collects points on voting apps or has a playlist of music videos that should be streamed. After collecting and/or streaming, I take screenshots, put watermarks there, and tags mutuals if needed. It’s relatively hard work but there’s a feeling of pride when your idol wins the poll or an MV reaches a certain amount of views and you know you participated in making that happen.

5. Rediscover Youtube. Channels like the vlogbrothers and their associates (Crash Course, Pemberley Digital among others), Buzzfeed’s shows (The Try Guys, Ladylike, Buzzfeed Unsolved) were a delight to watch after being out of the Youtube loop for so long. The platform also offered new niches of content and I allowed myself to be sucked in it. From Simply Nailogical to Ask A Mortician to amazing pop culture video essays like Lindsay Ellis and Jenny Nicholson, Youtube has all it for you! Learning something new every day is one of my favorite things and I get to do it with this website.

6. Rediscover my love of writing. (As if I’ve written anything for my thesis but here.)

Made drabbles. There is a weekly activity on my fandom where we write < 500 word drabbles on any pairings. I have been joining when I can, and through the support of the (small) community (back then), I gained confidence to write one. I’ve written at least four now and I’ve not done yet because I’ve been on a slump lately. But I’ll get back to it soon!

Short story. The same account that brought the drabble challenge created a festival where we write a pairing and write a short story with it. I decided to join the event! Not going to lie, my entry was shit, It was the first draft, it needed a lot of revisions and more constructive criticism and yet, I am still proud of it. It was the first creative fiction I wrote since 2019 and I did it in a day. And, I believe it has potential, so I’m going to review and revise the hell out of it someday.

7. Reclaim my college days.

Reconnected with orgmates. Visiting Elbi for registration and consultation purposes are brightened up by the fact that I get to do this. My first four years of college were not kind to me. I’ve forgotten a lot of things because of trauma and deep sadness that I still have until this day, and when I remember good things, they’re few and far in between. The numbered days I was in Elbi during 2019 were also few and far in between, but they were infinitely better than my academic years from 2015 to 2017. I was able to do the things I wasn’t able to do before (mostly attending Happy Ts and eating in newly-opened food places there) and I get to do it with people I love.

Made friends. One of the drawbacks of being a slot-driven student with no care of my coursemates’ schedules: I didn’t get to establish a friend group. So I didn’t get to make friends. During this time, I’ve accepted that I didn’t have any friends outside my organizations. But this time, instead of a feeling of dread of being that cliché orgmate, I feel relief and happiness because now, I realize that I do have friends from college, unlike the 2015-2017 who didn’t have anyone in college to rely on her darkest times.

8. Appreciated my friends more. For the past few years, I was the shitty friend. I agreed to go on hangouts only to message them that I’m backing out the last minute—sometimes I even straight up ghosted them. I really took my friends for granted. I have been slowly making it up to them by always attending when there’s an invite! I sometimes initiate the invite and it’s always a fun and healing time for me (it was a literal healing time for me as I was depressed during that time). I love them and I’m always thankful for them—and more so now than before.

 9. Unlearning things like:

Realizing that a priv (a private account meant to be seen by your mutuals you trust; usually contains unpopular opinions and hot takes on stan twitter) only encourages negative emotions and I must not do it again.

No matter how I tried rationalizing my hate for Jennie when the JenKai dating news happened, I was one of those K-pop stans who hated her because she dated my idol. (I have moved on past that and have started liking her and Rose.)

Knowing that attacking people for what they say won’t make them unlearn their wrong opinions. Not talking down at them and educating with patience is the key, always.

There are still so much more I unlearned and learned where those came from. My main takeaway is: it’s complicated.  Sometimes our opinion needs a more nuanced perspective and sometimes it needs to scrapped entirely because it was just wrong. But it is essential so we, as people, won’t be stuck with outdated views of the world.

10.   Learning something new like:

Practicing how to do Tzuyu’s helicopter hands until I realized it wasn’t meant for me.

Utilizing Omegle to look for potential quaranflings.

Installing Telegram and uninstalling to ghost quaranflings.

How to do laundry in compliance with my mother’s preferences.

Doing two things at once.

Enough patience to take time and read the laws our government makes every day to know what I’m fighting against.

Optimizing my Twitter lists and now I can keep up with current affairs (that takes a toll on my mental health) then scroll through a fic fest-centric list the next (that helps me forget the stress from reading news).

Learning something new every day has become one of my life goals. Knowing that the world always has something new to offer to me, a speck in this universe, warms me up and keeps me going. And you’ll never know where the new tidbits will lead you. Maybe it’ll help you reconnect with something you’ve known before, maybe it’ll change how you see things, or maybe it’s something new that once explored, it will contribute something new to the community. It may seem small and unimportant but with a tweak in perspective, it might be something worth doing and pursuing.

Looking back at my list, I can finally see how if I didn’t do all these things, I would have probably finished my thesis by now and probably working a full-time job, able to provide the financial needs for my family. There will always be regret that I am still not done until now. But stressing over my current predicament in this time when the world is in its most stressful state yet won’t help me. So, we soldier on and hopefully, hopefully get back to the thesis I’ve been meaning to do.

 Let’s get it.

[a-secondhand-sorrow]

Dear Evan Hansen Gift Exchange!

This is my gift for the @sincerely-us DEH Gift Exchange for @thatfriendlyanon! Hey @thatfriendlyanon, hope you enjoy :D This is a bit of an amalgam of prompts that you offered but it’s mostly centered on Evan and Zoe a year later. Just for ease of timing/pop culture references it’s set in 2019/2020. Happy 2020! (here’s an ao3 link if you prefer)  

Her first night back home, Zoe slips out the back door and just sits on the porch. It’s cold outside, like it always is in December, and it seeps through the old dollar store flip-flops she’d shoved her feet into on the way out the door. She shivers as a chilly gust of air bites through her purple and white sweatpants and old, graduating-class t-shirt. She’s like a collage of new and old school spirit, and some part of her hates it while the rest of her loves it. Sinking into one of the wicker chairs, she takes a breath for what feels like the first time since she stepped off the train in town, letting the hum of the cicadas drown out her other thoughts. She’s almost forgotten the different noise in the suburbs, the noises she was so used to in her first eighteen years of life. It feels disarming to be back in those noises after so long away.

Finally, once she’s sat in the feeling of the cold outdoors, her eyes drift up towards the sky. A smile picks at her lips, drawn by the faint points of light in the sky. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers names of a few, although had she tried to remember them consciously, she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to say them.

(Maybe it’s two memories, ripe with different kinds of nostalgia, that stop her from truly remembering. Maybe it’s the memory of two different hands in hers under the night sky. The memory of childhood, of wild giggles spilling from her lips, of another protective little hand in hers and speaking in what they thought were whispers but were more like normal volumes, sharing those names with her for the first time. And later, a later memory, of grass underneath her and a once-still hand in hers and warm lips pressed just right of her ear whispering the names he knew and asking her the ones he didn’t.)

She...likes school. She really does. It‘s felt like a fresh start in so many ways, with new people and new scenery and an easier way to breathe. Fewer shadows to haunt her from the corners of her eyes, drowned out by the constant lights of the city.

She just wishes she could see the stars there, that’s all.

Not that the stars at home are bright, exactly. They’re still dulled and hard to see, but they’re a world away from how they look at school. They are visible even if they’re not the strongest.

So Zoe smiles and looks at them, ignoring the lights that spill out from inside the house and the two figures they reveal inside.

After some time, she stands quietly, moving through the air as though it is nothing more than smoke and revelling in how silent she can be just before opening the door to the indoors.

“Everything alright?

Zoe’s head snaps up, locking onto where Larry is seated just beyond the kitchen and into the living room. She shakes her head at her own jumpiness, freeing her feet from the flip-flops. “Yeah, just catching some fresh air.”

Already, that almost-suffocating feeling is back. She can breath, but the air doesn’t seem to quite reach her lungs.

“Yeah, I just wanted some fresh air.” Her eyes scan the rooms. “Where’s mom?”

Larry’s lip quirks at the corner, but it doesn’t really seem happy. “She wanted to stay up to talk with you, but she was pretty tired so she turned in early.”

“Oh,” Zoe says, and for some reason it makes her feel kind of small. She crosses the house, letting her feet acclimate to the warmer temperature through her socks. She studies her father; he has dark circles of his own, and his hand seems to shake slightly where it holds the day’s newspaper. “I’m probably just gonna go to bed anyway, unless you…?”

“No, that’s fine, sweetheart,” he says, and for some reason Zoe’s heart feels heavy. Larry hasn’t called her sweetheart for a long time, and something in the word makes her feel like a little kid again. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

She nods and grabs her phone off of the small coffee table, turning towards the stairs. The light is already off upstairs, she can tell. “Well, ‘night.”

A sound that’s suspiciously like a yawn, and then a “‘night” back.

On the second step, her father’s voice stops her. “Zoe? We’re really glad you’re home.”

She ducks her head back down, forces a smile in his direction, and then continues to her room without looking up from her feet.

*

Evan’s still working at Pottery Barn.

He told himself, time and time again after senior year, that he’d be out of Pottery Barn in a year. Off to college full-time, maybe commuting or maybe even living on campus. But it’s six months past that year-long deadline, and here he is, on the first night of Hanukkah only just finishing the common app for next fall. Or trying to, rather, around his Pottery Barn shifts and his general fear of opening up to other people.

On one of his shifts, he scrolls through Instagram during a quiet spell, having accepted the fact that his application would not be worked on during work hours long ago. Just his average feed, a few former high school classmates posting holiday pictures (Alana Beck, unsurprisingly, has color-coordinated with her dads, sister, and grandma effortlessly for Christmas photos) and some of those Central Park nature shoots the pretentious photographers he follows are always posting. He’s about to click onto his Explore page when a recommended account catches his eye. His heart sinks as he recognizes the profile picture and the name, simply titled “zo + ev” in place of full names. And there she is, Zoe Murphy, smiling so wide that some of her freckles disappear behind the others and her eyes are smaller than usual. Another girl sits just behind her, her lips angled so her face comes across as more “funny” than “happy,” but that’s on purpose, he thinks. Before he can convince himself not to, he clicks into their account, and it’s revealed that the other girl in the picture must be ‘Ev,’ or Eva, if her main account’s handle is trustworthy. His pulse slowing slightly, his eyes skim their profile.

@stargirlzo_m and @evamillthegreat_ / NYU ‘23 / covers + general goofery / dm to req a song!

From a glance, it appears that they’re roommates. Not that he’s like, actively trying to figure that out, no, it’s just that all of the videos seem to be filmed in the same place, and the previews of the comments have a couple messages like “that’s our fav down the hall neighbors!” and such. Evan’s not even surprised to see that they have a couple hundred followers, since when one of their videos begins to auto play, they definitely sound really good. Zoe’s playing guitar, and something in the familiar curve of her fingers on the strings almost makes him turn his phone off and shove it away to get rid of the deep swell of emotion he feels just seeing her like that.

After...everything, he never really saw her play guitar again. While they were together, it was almost constant, because their coexistence was almost constant. But he couldn’t bring himself to go to the jazz band concerts for the rest of his senior year, and he certainly wasn’t hanging around her house while she figured out a new tune. Hearing her play is bittersweet and nostalgic and he feels...off. But he listens anyway.

Her roommate has a really great voice, and it’s clear that in their few months of knowing each other they’ve played together a lot. He keeps scrolling. Eva, or Ev, has a few videos up of her singing a cappella, or with a background, some kind of...TikTok riff challenge, maybe? Zoe, too, has a few where she strums some jazzy numbers by herself, that familiar old smile on her face in a whole new light. But then he finds one of her alone in a denim jacket and a flower-patterned dress, and she opens her mouth and begins to sing, and Evan swears he could cry. She always claimed she couldn’t sing, but of course he disagreed. He still does, and as she softly sings Dodie Clark and her fingers pluck at the strings in some complicated pattern, he could never disagree more. He hurriedly keeps scrolling, since if he were to continue listening he’s not sure if he’d be able to make it through his shift without crying.

She and her roommate are playing Crush by Tessa Violet, then, and it’s a little easier to hear.

A customer comes into his line of sight and he quickly shoves the phone under the counter before he can hear Zoe come in to harmonize in the background.

*

Sometime after Cynthia accepted the fact that Zoe wasn’t going to share every detail of her college life with her, she set her the task of going through her closet and cleaning up. She’d already done it before leaving in the fall, but Zoe agrees, mostly just to have something to do rather than thinking about the bedroom across from hers. She still hasn’t really breathed properly, but it’s a little easier when she’s alone.

When her trash garbage bag is already partially filled with old tops from high school, old Harry Potter and Brie Larson posters, and some guitar sheet music she doesn’t remember buying, she catches sight of an old plastic storage bin. Her hand brushes the unmistakable feel of dusty plastic, and her fingers search for purchase so she can drag the container out. It’s heavier than it looks, and the most she can do is drag it out. She falls back onto her heels as she does, eventually crossing her legs criss-cross under her. She pushes her hair away from her face and lets her eyes roam over the container. It looks like it’s filled with paper, and as she opens the lid there’s an overwhelming scent of school glue and cheap acrylic paint. There are old star stickers coming off everywhere.

“Oh, boy,” she mutters under her breath.

She considers just chucking it into the trash for a moment, but thinks the better of it. Tentatively, she plunges one hand into the pile of papers and promptly sneezes. Fucking dust allergies.

A few old math tests from elementary school are in the top pile, for some reason. She wastes no time in setting those into the garbage bag. She’ll sort the recycling out later, but for now she just wants to get the dust into one area. There’s an old, dried-up glue stick under the old tests and a couple of purple and blue markers with no caps. The faded yellow folder beneath them has clearly suffered for it, with big splotches of color on the thin paper. After tossing the markers in her normal trash, she picks the folder up. Immediately upon opening it, she’s hit by an image of herself as a little kid, her hand scribbling some crayon against printer paper with Connor at her side scribbling on the same paper. She lets out a sharp hiss of breath for nothing in particular. It turns out the folder is just full of old drawings, nothing special. Crayon stars on superhero capes, just about her and Connor’s combined interests. Seeing them on the same page feels like less of a gut punch after remembering them drawing together, but it still hurts all the same.

She knows her mom would want to keep the drawings, but she dumps them into the garbage bag before she can think to do otherwise.

The construction paper is surprisingly rough under her fingertips, but she smiles at the glue galaxies she’d created on the page, the letters of each star’s name written painstakingly next to them. She wonders where her good handwriting went and sets the page aside, figuring a little nostalgia won’t hurt.

There are several pages that just seem to be covered in glitter and star stickers, which immediately find themselves in the unforgiving cell that is her garbage bag. Some old book reports reach the same fate, as does a small journal that seems to be dedicated entirely to her writing with her left hand. If some of the handwriting looks like Connor’s, she chooses to ignore it.

“It’s weird,” Zoe says. “Who else writes with their left hand?”

Connor sniffs, looking indignant as he holds his pencil aloft in his hand. It’s held so gently and delicately in his artist’s hand, all long and thin fingers. “I think it’s cool. Right hand writing isn’t special.”

“And you smudge everything you write,” Zoe mutters under her breath. That didn’t stop her from trying to write like him, though. If he saw her, he ignored it.

It’s better to be rid of it, anyway.

The next item appears to be crudely bound by some old thread. It’s several sheets of printer paper bound together, and with a sinking heart Zoe sees the same crayon stars and superhero capes on the page. Monsieur Lumière. One of Connor’s pretentious French phases as a child, probably, fueled by the old English-French dictionary he found in his room.

She’d completely forgotten about the fake superhero they’d created, probably while huddled under one of their beds as their parents fought. A man to take away all their fear and sadness, who would bring the light of the stars wherever he was. Just a silly invention they’d dreamt up. A lot of good it did them.

This hurts more, this creation of their shared crayons on one page. There were probably hours spent on this, and she can’t even bring herself to open it and read a page.

She drops it suddenly as though the very touch of the paper to her fingers scalds her. She pushes it across the floor, away from her. She may leave it on some counter for her mother to find, rather than bringing herself to throw it away. She wants to get rid of it, but she can’t bring herself to pick it up again, not yet.

It’s only as she picks up the next glitter-coated paper that she realizes it gave her a paper cut.

*

“-right here—oh, isn’t this lovely?” Heidi says, her head turning back in Evan’s direction. She drops down onto the blanket she’s just finished spreading over the grass, crossing her legs under her.

Evan smiles. “It is, yeah, definitely.”

And maybe he’s just a little surprised by how much he means it. Because this is the first year in a very long time, too long a time, where January 6th has felt like something other than a slightly sadder mirror of every other day. When he woke up today, he didn’t feel that same hollow dissatisfaction on this birthday. He felt...excited.

It’s a nice feeling. Unusual, but nice.

He’d probably be excited even if he hadn’t woken up like that, however. Heidi had insisted she take the day off, and she herself was so excited to be off and to be with him that he couldn’t help but pick up on it. His mother was always like that - if she was excited, he was excited.

And she was definitely excited, given the honest-to-God picnic basket she’d packed for them and the new watch she’d given Evan just that morning “so he’d know when to look away from his inbox” (to which he’d feebly protested that it’s never too early to keep an eye out for forward movement, which she’d dismissed with a kiss on the cheek). As Evan carefully chooses a spot on the blanket where he is protected from the sun by the shade the tree branches above them throw, Heidi gets set unpacking everything, from small cans of sparkling water to grilled cheeses to bakery cookies to a bunch of grapes that looked like they’d had a fight with an anemic mouse and lost. Evan smiles as each item gets pulled out.

Almost automatically, his eyes start scanning over the park. It feels like it’s been a while since he’s been here, too, or at least since he’s taken a moment to sit back and observe the park in its entirety. In the time it takes Heidi to finish setting up, he’s not sure he’s discovered the source of the uneasiness deep in his stomach.

But Heidi is happy, and so he is, too. He turns back to her.

“I picked up this cheese from Shaw’s, it’s supposedly super sharp which I know you love, so it should turn out better than the Kraft Singles grilled cheese last week.”

Evan represses a shudder. “Oh, good.”

Heidi lies back slightly, smiling at him. “Here.” She holds out a plate full of food she’d just pulled out.

“Thanks,” Evan says, and when he smiles at her it's more genuine than most of the smiles he'd given her when he was younger.

She reached over and pats his cheek. “I like seeing you happy, you know that?”

“Yeah, I think I got that from the whole motherly affection thing.”

Heidi shakes her head. “I’d tell you to lay off the sass, but this is the one day I can’t, huh?”

“Oh, you love it.”

“Yeah,” Heidi says, picking up an apple and taking a bite out of it. “Yeah, I do.” She leans over, and with her free hand, she ruffles Evan’s hair.

“Hey!” He protests. “What was that for?” The action makes him feel like he’s a little kid again.

Heidi smiles at him again. He can’t remember the last time she smiled this much. “My little boy is all grown up. Twenty. Can you believe it?”

He shakes his head, looking up toward the trees. He really can’t believe it. Three years ago, he’d never have believed it. Seventeen was a bad year. But here he is, sitting in Ellison Park three years later, where he’d felt so helpless before. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t an edge of that now, but it’s nowhere close to the wide expanse it had once been. He’s made it to twenty, and he knows he’ll make it longer. He smiles back at her. “Not really,” he says.

They eat in silence for a moment. Normally the presence of other people in the park besides them would make him anxious, but not today. He’s just another person, enjoying the afternoon sun with his mother. He blends in with everyone else. He feels like them. He wants to cork it up along with the feeling of the sun on his cheeks and the grass below him. With a start, he realizes his ache a little from the constant pull upwards his lips are engaged in. He’s smiling so much his cheeks hurt.

“I think you’re freckling again,” his mother mentions offhandedly. “I think you’re just about the only person who can’t freckle in the summer but can freckle just fine in January.”

“Maybe I am,” he says. “Like a superpower. Although it’s kind of a dumb superpower.”

“I don’t think so at all, sweetheart.” Heidi says.

He shakes his head, and as his mind fills with the image of someone else’s freckled cheeks, he may be inclined to agree.

*

“So you play a lot with Eva?”

Zoe looks up from her laptop, her brain unable to really understand the question. “What?”

Cynthia sits at the other end of the couch, and Zoe automatically tilts her screen in towards herself. “Aunt Christie mentioned it. She said that Sarah was talking about your...music Instagram at Christmas?”

Her cousin had ended up cornering her about her instagram account between dinner and desert. She was actually kind of happy to talk about it, since she and Eva do get along better than most roommates and it’s pretty cool to play with other people. She couldn’t really care about their followers, but they certainly had them, that’s for certain. Besides, it was a welcome reprieve from the dreaded “do you have a boyfriend?” questions, since she couldn’t exactly say no, i don’t have a boyfriend, since I’m still caught up on Evan, you know, the guy from junior year who lied about being friends with Connor and completely but accidentally fucked over the family in the public eye? But they didn’t know the half of that story, and she didn’t like to admit to herself how much she still cared for Evan, so the significant other area was a no-go and anything else was boring.

“Yeah, we have an account,” she says, shrugging. “It’s just a habit we’ve gotten into, playing together. It’s kind of fun to share it.”

“Ah,” Cynthia said, in that ‘I’m trying to understand but honestly have no idea what she’s talking about” tone of voice. “I’m glad, Zo’.”

Zoe smiles.

“But are you sure that’s the...best thing?”

The corners of her lips turn down, and she can feel her voice hardening a little. She doesn’t want to be defensive, but she is. “What?”

“Well, after everything that happened with your brother...with the Connor Project.” When she realized that wasn’t a sentence, she continued. “Are you sure the public eye is the best thing?”

She bristles. “It’s hardly the public eye, it’s just an Instagram account, and my full name isn’t on it. And honestly, mom, it couldn't get worse. No one cares anymore. It’s been years. Most of that was taken down. And I can take care of myself.”

“I know, Zoe,” her mother said, and maybe she’s just being placating, but the hand she reaches over and lays on her arm really does lessen her defenses. “I know. But you can’t control those people, and I just want you to be happy and safe.”

“I know,” Zoe says. “I know you do.”

She’s sure they both remember the endless days of calls, coming in a time of confusion and new grief she doesn’t know if they’ve really moved past, yet. Zoe knows that, if she tries, she can probably remember the exact words they said, the exact tone they said them in. It was only worse when she believed them.

Cynthia sits back again. They sit in silence for a little while.

“I’d love to hear some, though,” she says, in that classic mom voice.

“Why don’t you ask Sarah for a link?” Zoe says, sure to make her voice sarcastic.

“Why have a lousy link when I’ve got the rockstar right in front of me?”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “Sure, let me just summon my roommate. She’s not in Buffalo at all, she’s actually been tiny sized and in my suitcase this whole time, just waiting for my mother to ask about my music so she can belt her tiny heart out.”

“Ha, ha,” Cynthia says. “Good thing you can sing, missy. I know this is where you’re going with all of your university sarcasm.”

“I can’t, mom.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“What would you prefer I give you?”

“An accurate assessment of your talents.”

“Sure, I know I’ve got one in my coat pocket somewhere, right with my sky-high self esteem and my 4.0 GPA.”

“Your GPA is more than fine and if you keep talking like that I’m going to worry. Why don’t you go pick it up from your room along with your guitar? Then I can hear the famous musician’s liquid silver voice while she plucks away with the speed of a god at her strings.”

Zoe cringes. “Always so poetic.”

“It’s a gift,” Cynthia says airily, and the two smile at each other. “Go on. I’ll get your father.”

“I'm not a child at a recital.”

“Why couldn’t you be? We just want to hear you play, sweetheart. We barely see you now, and next time it’ll be Carnegie Hall.”

Somehow, Zoe ends up retrieving her guitar. True to her mother’s word, Larry was there when she came back downstairs. She’d never expected to actually play for them, but this is the first time Cynthia has really pushed her on something in a long time. It’s nice, quite honestly, that she feels that strongly about hearing her play guitar.

“I really normally don’t sing,” she protests mildly.

“Nonsense,” Larry says, and Zoe smiles. She shifts the guitar in her lap.

“Eva absolutely loves singing this,” she begins, her fingers seeking out the beginning chords to Crush, because quite honestly she can’t think of anything else to play. Her parents’ eyes on her make her feel nervous. “She’s made me play it a million times. She’d probably be mad if she knew I was singing it without her.”

It’s...nice to play for them. They smile and clap as she plays song after song for them. She can feel their happiness at something she’s accomplished, for the first time in her life. But for the first time since she’s been home, she thinks she can feel the weight of a third gaze on her. She knows it’s just in her mind, but all the same, she hoped she’d left that lurking guilt from Connor far away, in the orchard, at the end of senior year. She doesn’t know how she feels now that it’s back.

He always used to listen to her play. Maybe this is what she gets instead of him, now.

*

“Zoe?” Evan says.

She looks...small, is the first word that crosses his mind. Which is funny, because although Zoe Murphy isn’t the tallest person you’ll ever meet, she’s certainly got the confidence and gravitas to make up for it. Stage presence, as his mother would say.

Maybe he’s caught her between the first and second act, then.

She looks up at him, her hands practically drowning in her chunky-knit yellow sweater. It comes up to her chin, half-tucked into a denim skirt at her waist, and where the skirt ends a pair of high riding boots begin. Some part of his brain recognizes that she looks impeccable just as she always does, even when the look on her face is so unguarded and shaken that he’s half surprised she’s still standing. Something passes over her face, and in a second it rearranges into something a little happier than before. It’s not happy or okay, not by a long shot, but if he didn’t know her better he may think it was. Barely giving himself a moment to marvel at just how cool it is she does that, concern overrides every alarm bell going off in his brain about being around her and talking to her and hurting her again (not again, not again), because the most important thing is making sure she’s okay, the most important thing is her comfort. “What-” he breaks off, shakes his head. What does he want to say? What are you doing? What are you feeling? What do you need?

What could he possibly say?

(He knows it doesn’t matter what he wants, in the end. It doesn’t matter.)

“What’s...up?” he finishes a second later, cringing internally.

Zoe’s mouth twists and her nose scrunches, and for a second he thinks she’s going to cry, but a moment later she settles on a half smile, and she looks so much like Connor did that day in the computer lab that he feels winded, winded by an image he couldn’t have conjured consciously. At once the weight of where he is hits him squarely in the chest, and Zoe must sense it, because when she speaks it’s gentle, almost, even though every fiber of her being feels like it’s been shifted on its axis. “Well, uh. You know. Not a lot. And a lot, also, I guess.”

Evan nods, and for a second he feels seventeen again, fighting against a torrent of words, because Zoe never talked like that. She always selected every word carefully, and if she can’t, there’s no hope for Evan. “Yeah, no I, I definitely get it. That makes, that makes sense. You’re um, I guess you’re home for break? Winter break?”

Zoe nods once, and for once he detects a hint of ice in the gesture. “Yeah. And you’re…”

“Still home,” he supplements quickly. “I’m, uh, applying, actually, but, you know…”

“Yeah,” she says, and Evan privately thinks that this may be the most painful conversation they’ve had. There’s still a look in Zoe’s eyes, something a little unhinged and a lot hurt, and he wants more than anything to get rid of it. He knows that it’s not his job, but God, he wants to. He wants to grab her hand and press a kiss to her temple just like he used to, to slide his hand along the side of her jaw like he did whenever she was upset. He wants to remind her to breathe just like she used to remind him to do, wants to trace the freckles on her cheeks until she’s giggling and her eyes are dry.

“Are you here to see Connor?” she spits out, as though surprising herself, and Evan finds himself nodding, because oh yeah, they’re at a cemetery. He absolutely could not tell you why he chose to go down to the cemetery, rather than literally any other place. He just...felt like he had to. For some reason, he felt like he needed to go to Connor’s grave to say sorry and maybe thank you for something he couldn’t quite understand. He hadn’t planned on running into Zoe, though.

“You are too? I can...I can go,” he offers, and he’s surprised at how quickly Zoe shakes her head.

“No, I’d...I’d like someone else there.”

“Really?” he says, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” she says, offering him a quick ghost of a smile before steeling herself and turning.

He follows her in silence, choosing to focus on the sound of her shoes on the concrete and examining the back of her head and the trees lining the rows of graves and new clouds that have crossed the sun. They must reach Connor’s plot eventually, as Zoe turns sharply and leads him through the maze of stones until they stand in front of one that is simpler than its neighbors. Classic, he supposes, although he doesn’t know if that’s actually a thing, a ‘classic’ grave. Connor Murphy is cut into the stone, followed by a birth and death date and a short epitaph of beloved son, brother, and friend. He squashes down an unkind thought before it can really grow at all.

Zoe’s sat down on the grass, denim skirt and all. After hesitating, he follows.

“Would you like me to-”

“No,” Zoe says, but her eyes are focused on the grave, and Evan has the feeling she’s a million worlds away from him and it wouldn’t matter what he said. “You’re fine.”

So he sits quietly, and tries to think of something he’d like to say to Connor in the peace of his own head. What would he say, if given the chance? He doesn’t know if it would be worth anything. For him, he grew to learn that he was not who he thought he was on his worst days, no matter how many there were. But he doesn’t know if that’s worth saying to Connor. It wasn’t even really Connor who taught him that, in the end. He forced that message into his own brain, with the help of Dr. Sherman and his mother and even Zoe and the Murphy’s, in some roundabout way. He’s learned he can keep going.

Maybe Zoe still needs to learn that, he thinks, with a glance in her direction. She seems to be deteriorating, her hand absently twisting grass at her side, her face falling just a little more. She’s biting her lip and her brow is furrowing deeper. Or maybe this is just one of her bad days.

She stands up and sways on her feet. Evan clambers up after her, a hand reaching out to steady her almost unconsciously. “I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s only then that he notices the near-silent sobs coming from her, although there are not yet any tears. She just looks...sad. He hasn’t seen her look that sad in a while. Her non-grassy hand reaches up to her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Evan says, and he aches to reach out and touch her, to comfort her in some way, but he holds himself back. He attempts a joke. “You apologize too much.”

He sees tears on her cheeks, and one indents where he’s sure she’s biting the inside of her mouth.

“Please,” he says, and it’s only then that she seems further away than she was before. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

She’s in no state to refuse, but she looks like she might anyway. He cuts her off with another ”please, let me do this” and she relents. She looks ready to collapse at any moment, and he’s terrified she will, so he keeps one hand hovering nervously hovering between her shoulder and back their whole walk as though he’s swatting invisible bugs away. He considers opening the door for her, but thinks the better of it and leaves her to fend for herself in that particular field. They’re silent as he gets into the car and shifts the key in the ignition, pulling out of the cemetery parking lot. They stay silent for a few minutes on the road as well, while Evan drives in the vague direction of her house.

“You’re driving,” Zoe says suddenly, and through the thickness of tears Evan thinks he can detect a hint of pride.

“Yeah, that I am,” he replies, shaking his head slightly.

He thinks Zoe may say something like “wow” under her breath, but a moment later she’s sniffling again and that’s all he can think about. “I have some tissues in the glove compartment.”

“Thanks,” she says softly, almost getting drowned out in the sound of tires on pavement, and the sound of her soft consonants breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” she tries again, but Evan stops her.

“Don’t, Zoe. Don’t ever apologize. Really.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Believe me. You have nothing to apologize for.”

There’s another silence. It seems like Zoe has stopped crying, although she still seems unsteady, albeit less all over the place than when he first saw her.

“I swear I’m doing better than this,” she says. “I really am. I don’t, I really don’t know why that happened. I wish I could explain to you why. Why it’s still happening now, honestly. I’m doing better. I am.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations, Zoe.”

“I know. I mean, I don’t, but. I want to give you one, anyway.”

He nods. “Where to?” He finally says, the words stiffer than he wanted them to be.

Her voice is small, almost fragile. “Could you...maybe go to the orchard?”

He nods again, feeling a bit like a bobble head. “Yeah, of course.” He doesn’t add the anything, anything at all for you, but he thinks she might hear it anyway.

*

Sitting in the orchard with Evan again, it’s almost...surreal.

Zoe hasn’t been back since she met him a week before graduation. Being in the orchard brings all kinds of feelings of melancholy for her, a tangle of guilt and longing and maybe a little bit of hope, too.

Because when she looks across from her, Evan is there, and her own emotions are reflected on his face. They’re both sitting in the grass under one of the trees. They’re no longer saplings, which in itself is weird. The year has brought a lot of growth for them. Looking at Evan, she can’t help but think that they’re not the only ones.

He’s so much more...something than he was before. Is it happy? Confident? Whatever it is, it fills him from the inside. Even in the orchard, where his brow is furrowed and his eyes are focused on some faraway point in the distance, he’s sitting taller and fidgeting less than before. He’s doing better.

And she meant what she said to him, how she’s doing better too. Getting out and away to the city had really done wonders for her, finally being away from all of the shit that happened in high school.  

She pushes her foot out, nudging against his thigh. He angles his head to her, and suddenly she gets the same urge to cry again. Her vertigo has lessened significantly since arriving at the orchard and stumbling to sit, but she still feels unsteady even while sitting. The corner of his lip perks up a bit as his eyes meet hers.

“It’s been almost a year,” she says.

“I know.”

There’s a pause; she lets herself listen to the rustle of the no-longer-saplings.

“Do you ever wish you could go back?” she says, surprising herself.

He takes a moment to respond. “To when?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. Her eyes burn and she’s not quite sure why. “Last time we were here? Last year? The very first time we really talked? This morning?”

Evan shakes his head. “That’s, that’s a lot of times.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I’d go back to this morning,” he said. “So I could...prepare myself for this. So I’d be ready to see you.”

She snorts. “I’d like preparation to deal with me, too.”

“That’s not what I meant, Zoe.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t know where this challenge has come from in her tone. “What did you mean?”

“I meant—I meant that it’s...different seeing you now. Because of...everything. And I don’t want to hurt you more.”

At once, all the fight leaves her. She passes a hand over her face. “God, Evan. I don’t think that’s possible.”

If she had meant to hurt him-and she honestly doesn’t know herself if she did-she certainly succeeded. Evan seems to curl in on himself a bit.

“That’s not what I meant,” she adds belatedly. “I just-you make things difficult, you know? Because this entire—” and here she gestures emphatically to the orchard, “thing is so fucked, and I want to leave it all behind, since it makes me feel fucked. But then I see you, and it’s like…” she lets out a puff of air. “It’s like I’m back to being sixteen again. Which is terrible on so many levels but is really, really great on one.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Her hand picks at the hem of her skirt. “I had you, Evan. And that made everything else okay.” She blinks rapidly against her blurring vision. “And as much as I want to leave everything else behind, I don’t-I can’t leave you. And that.”

“I understand,” Evan says softly.

She doesn’t say the other part that keeps her from leaving, the total guilt that fills her mind every once in a while when she thinks about Connor. She had a feeling he may already know that part.

“And the stars are here, too. I can’t leave them.”

She can hear the smile in Evan’s voice. “No, I bet you can’t.”

She shakes her head, tears slipping from her eyes. As he leans over and swipes them away with his thumb, she represses a choking sob from somewhere deep inside her chest. “I couldn’t either,” he says, his smile morphing into something sadder and smaller. His fingertips brush against her cheeks one last time, and belatedly she remembers those nights spread out on the grass where he traced the stars from the sky on her freckles. His fingers feel just like they did then, almost reverent against her cheek, his feather-light touch sending shivers from where it lands. Her eyes close, and without the hard ground beneath her and the sunlight that’s bright on her eyelids, she can almost pretend no time has passed at all, that she can have this entirely and wholly and painlessly. But Evan’s hand, and then his whole being, moves away from her, and she is left with only the phantom of his touch and the quiet noise of the leaves behind her. She lets her eyes drift open again, once the tears have receded slightly.

Evan stands, maybe sensing that she needs to get away or maybe just wanting out himself. “C’mon,” he says, holding a hand out to her. “I’ll drive you home.”

She smiles, albeit a watery smile, and takes his hand, ignoring just how familiar and easy it feels to slip her hand into his. His palm is warm, and he hoists her up with only a little difficulty. She smiles as she rights herself, and he steps back quickly once he’s sure she won’t fall. The faint blush that steals across his cheeks only makes her vertigo worse, but she manages to walk anyways, the blurriness fading from her eyes.

Just before they get in the car, Zoe reaches out a grabs his sleeve, the fabric of it rough under her calloused fingertips. Time slows down for the barest second, and her world narrowed to the faint, warm brown of his eyes. But the moment passes, and she tugs him in closer to her, wrapping her other arm around his shoulder. She means to say thank you, but the words never pass her lips. Instead she pushes herself up until her mouth is right next to his ear. Zoe breathes, “Watch the stars for me, Evan. Please.”

She feels him nod against her shoulder, and finally his grip around her lower back feels like more than just dead weight. “I will, Zo.”

In a moment, she’ll reach for the car door and step away from him. In a moment he’ll do the same, and they’ll sit in an almost-comfortable silence for the ride home. In a while they will be at her house, and they will say goodbye, and Zoe will go back to NYU the next day and Evan will go to his shift at Pottery Barn. In a moment, this may be the last time they just exist like this with each other, or it may not be.

Either way, she holds him close in this moment and savors the feeling of his heart beating in tandem with hers.

[bfgplanner]

Lately...

So, I’ve been pretty slack when it comes to keeping up with updating this page. I guess that sometimes life happens really fast, and that’s exactly how I would describe the last couple of months! The purpose of this blog was intended to track my progress with running, something I’m still and will always be passionate about, but, well, I haven’t been running. At all...

...because... (click below to read a whole lot more)

Shortly after we got home from Guatemala, we found out that I was pregnant! This had been a goal of ours for 2019, but we had absolutely no idea it would happen as quickly as it did, and we feel very fortunate for that. 

The week that I found out, I was TERRIFIED to run. In fact, Not only that, but I was worried about moving too much, eating too little, not drinking enough water, letting my heart rate get too high, eating a ‘forbidden’ food, etc etc. I was being totally unrealistic about the damage I could do to what was at that time a tiny cluster of cells hidden safely deep inside my body. 

After a week, though, this constant anxiety got old, and as happens when you suddenly cease being active, I started feeling pretty awful. This was not how I was going to spend 9 months of my life. I started running again, tentatively at first, but then I worked back to my normal pace and distance for about a week. Unfortunately, I had a couple of spotting episodes immediately after runs, and it scared me enough to decide to hold off on running until I’m safely into my second trimester, when everything becomes a bit safer. 

Instead, I’ve been spending my workout time in the gym on less jarring exercises: cycling, using the stair machine, elliptical, etc. And of course, plenty of weight training. I’ve noticed that staying active has definitely helped me cope with the overall crummy feeling that the first trimester brings. I’m very fortunate to not have had traditional morning sickness in the form of vomiting when I wake up. Instead, the surge of hormones has manifested itself in more of an all-day feeling of sea sickness (bleh). To say that I’m ready to feel like myself again is an understatement :)

The last couple of months have been full of difficult conversations involving big lifestyle changes. We are city people through and through. We love the life we’ve built in Hoboken over the past six years, and of course, half of our hearts are just across the Hudson in NYC. It’s safe to say we split our time evenly between the two cities. Initially, we decided that we wanted to stay in Hoboken until it was time for middle school, we just couldn’t picture ourselves leaving. It didn’t help that one of my best friends, also in Hoboken, found out she was pregnant only 3 days before me. We would chat endlessly about the playdates we would have and how we would have the best maternity leave ever together. But then I came back down to earth and started thinking more realistically about what our lives would like like in Hoboken with an infant. 

We would have to upgrade to a two bedroom apartment of course, which meant going through another move (anyone who’s lived in a housing-competitive city knows how much of a hassle this is). There’s no telling how pissed off our new neighbors would be by a crying infant at all hours of the night, which for me was beyond anxiety inducing. Then, at only 7 weeks pregnant (even before my first scan which is insane), I was already researching Hoboken infant care centers and setting up appointments to go tour them because I didn’t want to risk being wait listed. There was some major sticker shock to learn that the average infant care price was $2400/month. Of course, nannies (even shared) are over $3k. 

For weeks, I was waking up in the middle of the night with major anxiety about all of this. It was all do-able, but was it worth it? Were the suburbs really that bad that we were avoiding considering them like the plague? Over the course of a couple weeks, we had an epiphany. We wanted a space to call our own. We wanted an actual house we could paint and decorate. We wanted a yard where we could plant flowers and have cookouts. We didn’t want to hear our neighbors television anymore. We wanted enough space to host family if they wanted to come help us with the baby (Darryl’s parents just retired so we’ll take all the free babysitting we can get!). 

More importantly, after we crunched the numbers with a mortgage broker, we realized we didn’t want to keep throwing away MORE MONEY on renting a one bedroom apartment than it would cost to buy a four bedroom house. 

So the search for the perfect town began. Anyone familiar with New Jersey knows there are hundreds of commuter towns in the NYC suburbs to choose from, it can all seem a bit overwhelming. Our criteria was (what we felt) simple: a quick and easy commute to the city (where I work and many of our friends live), highly rated schools (so weird to think that this was a criteria for us now), a centralized and bustling downtown (with local businesses and not many chains) and plenty of park space. We began where most of our transplanted friends had ended up- in Bergen and Essex counties. We had assumed we would end up somewhere like Glen Ridge, Montclair or Glen Rock. We spent a weekend scoping out these towns and visiting open houses. I can’t say exactly what it was, but they just weren’t doing it for us. We just didn’t feel any connection to these areas, and we both despise the traffic and feel of highway 17 and the Parkway. It’s just so congested up there. Out of the three, Montclair was our favorite, but for the type of house we were looking for, we were unfortunately priced out of the area. We were conflicted because we weren’t willing to consider anything further north than Ridgewood. Our only option was to look south, which was tough because we don’t really have any friends who have moved this direction and haven’t spent any time there. Someone suggested Westfield, so we did some digging and decided to check it out. 

What a change from the congestion in Bergen county! We drove around a bit and checked out the downtown area, which was a real downtown. It was adorable with just one drawback, nearly all of the shops and restaurants were some familiar chain. Ugh. We still popped into a few open houses, but again, there was something missing for us. We decided to see if there were any open houses in any of the surrounding towns because we knew next to nothing about the area. We ended up finding some in the neighboring town of Cranford and, well, this is where it looks like our new chapter in life will begin.

It was literally love at first sight in Cranford. There are the most beautiful parks (the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, so this certainly helped), and we ended up spending the afternoon strolling the charming downtown checking out the local coffee shop, brewery and restaurants. Everyone seems to walk and bike throughout town, there isn’t much driving done, which is exactly our style. There are quite a few city transplants there, mostly our age who are starting families as well. The schools are great, and the homes were in our price range.

Fast forward a couple weeks, and an offer we made on a Cranford home (that we love!) was accepted and we’re that much closer to living in the burbs. 

What a whirlwind! Much, much more to come as we enter this totally new, totally exciting stage of life :)

Side note: While I will greatly miss all the Spanish wine, it looks like our 2 weeks in Spain in July will be much more than our summer holiday, it will be our babymoon! :)

[chasing-my-beloved]

Solace in Separation

It’s funny how when I was young all I wanted was to fit in and belong. I wanted to be accepted and seen. Not for who I was pretending to be during my failed attempt to fit in, but for the true me. I wanted somebody to see right through the anger and selfishness. I wanted somebody to find what I couldn’t find and lead me to where I was searching to go but hadn’t found. Home. I just wanted to go home. This silly feeling that has come over me since I was a small child... I do not belong here.

Now that I’m older I know why. Because... I don’t belong here. I am different. I don’t mean that I am different in a better way than that of the people I know and love, just an acceptance that I am different than anybody I know. While they can relate on shared interests, or music, or thoughts of life... I don’t. I don’t care about earthly things. Truly any of it. I don’t care about a career or earthly success. I don’t even care about shopping anymore. Gasp. I know. My mind is now forever on Heaven and Jesus. The only place I find peace. 

I want to go to the broken and the lost and I want to love them in a way that they feel the love of my precious Savior. I don’t want to judge them for bad choices or lifestyles that go against my beliefs. I want to see them smile and sit with them in the dark places that haunt them. I don’t even need to be a light in that dark place. I mean seriously, who likes it when you are in the dark and some annoying light is shining in your eyes? Nobody. Nobody likes that. I just want to hold their hand or let them be but not be alone.

Because in my darkest moments...that is what Christ did for me. On the floor of my living room or while driving down a backroad... He was always there. Just there. Loving me in my mess. In my chaos. In my darkness. And that love was felt deeply and undeniably and thus pulled me to Him.

I want to escape the pressure of the white picket fence. Of the perfect marriage. Of the perfect children. Of the perfect body or perfect mental health. Of the perfect Christian lifestyle with the perfect Christian outfits and bumper stickers. I want to be free from this thought that if you are not successful here then you have no riches in Heaven. I want out of the traditions of men and of the pressure of the world that is not my Home. This is how the Devil put roadblocks up for the church and their commission. How are we to be busy doing the Lord’s work and being Heavenly minded as instructed in His precious Holy Word...when we are too busy and overwhelmed by doing man’s work just to survive? 

Jesus told somebody to let the dead bury the dead and to follow Him. Why? Because the dead (those bound by earthly law/traditions/not of Christ) people who are serving this earth are more worried about their earthly inheritance than their heavenly one. We are called to abandon it all and follow Him. This is all I want to do. I feel stuck in this trap of the Devil’s and want out of it. I want to forever be Heavenly minded and I never want to fit in to this place. God forbid!

While some may speculate that this is because of the loss of my father and a depression or phase, I do not deny that losing such an important person to me has brought me to where I am now, but now that I am here I know with everything within me that I am changed and cannot go back to the person I was before. I would never even want to.

There are no books I would rather read than the Bible. No shows I would rather watch than those that portray my Beloved. No conversations I would rather have than that of our true purpose on this temporary place we exist in for now. Like a key that unlocked a door that can never be shut again, I see it all so differently and so clearly how everything is just wrong. How Christians are either obsessed with earthly success or are more wrapped up in politics than in their Lord. We are instructed not to be yet they rally behind liars and manipulators because they say what their itching ears want to hear and like lost sheep they are following their friends not even seeing the truth anymore..

 'Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them. For they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple. ' Romans 16:17-18

I do not know of a single politician that would not fit that description. The hate filled accusations for anybody who is not like them has caused strong divisions in our country. And this finger pointing nonsense is not the doctrine of Christ I was taught. Lovers of self. That is not the mark of a true believer. 

Why then, instead of rallying behind a sinful man, are we not rallying for Christ and His Kingdom and staying separated from the world? This includes politics  and hate to say it (not really) but it also includes false religious practices that have become the norm so nobody argues it and just goes along with pagan foolishness. I just cannot go along with it anymore. 

We are to gather and sharpen one another, but Why are conversations more so about gun control, homosexuals, abortion, and things that divide us..  instead of hurting people who need us?! The rights of the people...oh you sad, lukewarm Laodicean church...

While this has turned into more of a rant than I intended, I know it is my soul crying out in despair for what I see and for what I don’t see. 

I don’t see Christ as the center anymore. We are all too busy serving the world instead of serving Him. 

So while younger me wanted desperately to fit in, this me wants desperately to never fit in again. I find solace in separation. I find solace in Christ alone. I feel blessed to be different. I feel blessed to see what I see and to know what I know. 

And now every day I pray for Jesus to come and if not today then to let me show Him to a lost soul in some way and further His Kingdom while I can. All for His glory, not mine. All for what He did and His promises. I love Him so much for His sacrifice. I know I am not worthy. I still have quite the temper. I still need patience and faith. But He died anyway and now I know that one day I will be with all of my loved ones again. Forever! In peace and wholeness. No more broken down body. No more fear of what new pain awaits me today. I will be whole one day. I will fit in one day. Just not here. And that is perfectly ok with me. 

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Bog Girl

Karen Russell (2016)

The young turf-cutter fell hard for his first girlfriend while operating heavy machinery in the peatlands. His name was Cillian Eddowis, he was fifteen years old, and he was illegally employed by Bos Ardee. He had celery-green eyes and a stutter that had been corrected at the state’s expense; it resurfaced whenever he got nervous. “Th-th-th,” he’d said, accepting the job. How did Cillian persuade Bos Ardee to hire him? The boy had lyingly laid claim to many qualities: strength, maturity, experience. When that didn’t work, he pointed to his bedroom window, a quarter mile away, on the misty periphery of the cutaway bog, where the undrained water still sparkled between the larch trees. The intimation was clear: what the thin, strange boy lacked in muscle power he made up for in proximity to the work site.

Peat is harvested from bogs, watery mires where the earth yawns open. The bottom is a breathless place—cold, acidic, anaerobic—with no oxygen to decompose the willow branches or the small, still faces of the foxes interred there. Sphagnum mosses wrap around fur, wood, skin, casting their spell of chemical protection, preserving them whole. Growth is impossible, and Death cannot complete her lean work. Once cut, the peat becomes turf, and many locals on this green island off the coast of northern Europe still heat their homes with this peculiar energy source. Nobody gives much thought to the fuel’s mortuary origins. Cillian, his mother, and several thousand others lived on the island, part of the archipelago known to older generations as the Four Horsemen. It’s unlikely that you’ve ever visited. It’s not really on the circuit.

Neolithic farmers were the first to clear the island’s woods. Two thousand years later, peat had swallowed the remains of their pastures. Bogs blanketed the hills. In the Iron Age, these bogs were portals to distant worlds, wilder realms. Gods travelled the bogs. Gods wore crowns of starry asphodels, floating above the purple heather.

Now industrial harvesters rode over the drained bogs, combing the earth into even geometries. On the summer morning that Cillian found the Bog Girl, he was driving the Peatmax toward a copse of trees at the bog’s western edge, pushing the dried peat into black ridges. True, it looked as if he was pleating shit, but Cill had a higher purpose. He was saving to buy his neighbor Pogo’s white hatchback. Once he had a car, it would be no great challenge to sleep with a girl or a woman. Cillian was open to either experience. Or both. But he was far too shy to have an eye-level crush on anyone in his grade. Not Deedee, not Stacia, not Vicki, not Yvonne. He had a crush, taboo and distressing, on his Aunt Cathy’s ankles in socks. He had a crush on the anonymous shoulders of a shampoo model.

He had just driven into the western cutaway bog when he looked over the side of the Peatmax and screamed. A hand was sticking out of the mud. Cillian’s first word to the Bog Girl required all the air in his lungs: “Ahhhhhhfuuuuuck!”

Here was a secret, flagging him down. A secret the world had kept for two thousand years and been unable to keep for two seconds longer. The bog had confessed her.

When the other men arrived, Cillian was on his knees, scratching up peat like a dog. Already he had dug out her head. She was whole and intact, cocooned in peat, curled like a sleeping child, with her head turned west of her pelvis. Thick, lustrous hair fanned over the tarp, the wild red-orange of an orangutan’s fur, dyed by the bog acids. Moving clouds caused her colors to change continuously: now they were a tawny bronze, now a mineral blue. It was a very young face.

Cradling her head, Cillian lost all feeling in his legs. A light rain began to fall, but he would not relinquish his position. Every man gathered was staring at them. Ordinarily, their pronged attention encircled him like a crown of thorns, making him self-conscious, causing red fear to leak into his inner vision. Today, he didn’t give a damn about the judgments of the mouth-breathers above him. Who had ever seen a face so beautiful, so perfectly serene?

“Mother of God!” one of the men screamed. He pointed to the noose. A rope, nearly black with peat, ran down the length of her back.

Murder. That was the men’s consensus. Bos Ardee called the police.

But Cillian barely heard the talk above him. If you saw the Bog Girl from one angle only, you would assume that she was a cherished daughter, laid to rest by hands that loved her. But she had been killed, and now her smile seemed even more impressive to him, and he wanted only to protect her from future harm. The men kept calling her “the body,” which baffled Cillian—the word seemed to blind them to the deep and flowing dream-life behind her smile. “There is so much more to you than what they see,” he reassured her in a whisper. “I am so sorry about what happened to you. I am going to keep you safe now.”

After this secret conversation, Cill fell rapidly in love.

Cillian was lucky that he met his girlfriend on such a remote island. When these bodies are discovered in Ireland, for example, or in the humid Florida bogs sprinkled between Disney World and Cape Canaveral, things proceed differently. The area is cordoned off. Teams of experts arrive to excavate the site. Then the bog people are carefully removed to laboratories, museums, where gloveless hands never touch them.

Cillian touched her hair, touched the rope. He was holding the reins of her life. Three policemen had arrived, and they conferred above Cillian, their black boots squeezing mud around the bog cotton. Once it had been determined that the girl was not a recent murder victim, the policemen relaxed. The chief asked Cillian a single question: “You’re going to keep her, then?”

Gillian Eddowis was on a party line with her three sisters. She tucked the phone under her chin and took the ruby kettle off the range, opening a window to shoo the blue steam free. In the living room, roars of studio laughter erupted from the television; Cillian and the Bog Girl were watching a sitcom about a Canadian trailer park. Their long silences unnerved her; surely they weren’t getting into trouble, ten feet away from her? She had never had cause to discipline her son. She wouldn’t know where to begin. He was so kind, so intelligent, so unusual, so sensitive—such an outlier in the Eddowis family that his aunts had paid him the modern compliment of assuming that he was gay.

Voices sieved into Gillian’s left ear:

“You want to warn them,” Sister Abby said.

“But, Virgin Mother, there is no way to warn them!” Sister Patty finished.

“We were all sixteen once,” Cathy growled. “We all survived it.”

“Cillian is fifteen,” Gillian corrected. “And the girlfriend is two thousand.”

Abby, who had seen a picture of the Bog Girl in the local newspaper, suggested that somebody was rounding down.

A university man had also read the story of the Bog Girl’s discovery. He’d taken a train and a ferry to find them. “I’ve come to make an Urgent Solicitation on Behalf of History,” he said. He wanted to acquire the Bog Girl for the national museum. The sum he offered them was half of Gillian’s salary at the post office.

In the end, what had happened? Christian feeling had muzzled her. How could she sell a girl to a stranger? Or pretend that she had any claim to her, this orphan from the Iron Age? Gillian told the university man that the Bog Girl was their house guest, and would be living with them until Social Services could locate her next of kin. At this, all the purple veins in the man’s neck stood out. His tone sank into petulant defeat. “Mark my words, you people do not have the knowledge to properly care for her,” he said. “She’ll fall apart on you.” The Bog Girl, propped up next to the ironing board, watched them argue with an implacable smile. The university man left empty-handed, and for a night and a day Gillian was a hero to her son.

“So she’s just freeloading, then? Living off your dime?” Cathy asked.

“Oh, yes. She’s quite shameless about it.”

How could she explain to her sisters what she could barely admit to herself? The boy was in love. It was a monstrous, misdirected love; nevertheless, it commanded her respect.

“The Bog Girl is a bad influence on him,” she told her sisters. “She doesn’t work, she doesn’t help. All day she lazes about the house.”

Patty coughed and said, “If you feel that way, then why—”

Cathy screamed, “Gillian! She cannot stay with you!”

It was gentle Abby who formulated the solution: “Put her back in the bog.”

“Gillian. Do it tonight.”

“Who’s going to miss her?”

“I can’t put her back in the bog. It would be . . .”

Silence drilled into her ears. Her family had a talent for emitting judgment without articulating words. When she was Cillian’s age and five months pregnant with him, everyone had quietly made clear that she was sacrificing her future. She’d run away to be with Cillian’s father, then returned to the boglands alone with a bug-eyed toddler.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed to her sisters. “If I put her out of the house, he’ll leave with her.”

“Oh!” they cried in unison. As if a needle had infected them all with her fear.

“Do something crazy, stupid . . .”

Silently adding, Like we did.

“Now, be honest, you little rat turd. You know nothing about her.” His uncle put a finger into his peach iced tea, stirred. They were seated on a swing in the darkest part of Cillian’s porch. Uncle Sean was as blandly ugly as a big toenail. Egg-bald and cheerfully unemployed, a third-helpings kind of guy. Once, Cillian had watched him eat the sticker on a green apple rather than peel it off. Sean was always over at the cottage, using Gillian’s computer to play Poker 3000. He smeared himself throughout their house, his beer rings ghosting over surfaces like fat thumbs on a photograph. His words hung around, too, leaving their brain stain on the air. Uncle Sean took a proprietary interest in anything loved by Cillian. It was no surprise, then, that he was infatuated with the Bog Girl.

“I know that I love her,” Cill said warily. He hated to be baited.

Uncle Sean was packing his brown, shakey weed into the rosy crotch of a glass mermaid. He passed his nephew the pipe. “Already, eh? You love her and you don’t know the first thing about her?”

What did he know about her?

What did he love about her?

Cillian shrugged, his body crowding with feelings. “And I know that she loves me,” he added, somewhat hastily.

Uncle Sean’s pink smirk seemed to paste him to the back of the wicker seat. “Oh?” His grin widened. “And how old is she?”

“Two thousand. But she was my age when they put her in the bog.”

“Most women I know lie freely about their age,” Uncle Sean warned. “She may well be eleven. Then again, she could be three thousand.”

Gillian, plump and starlit, appeared on the porch. A pleasant oniony smell followed her, mixing with the damp odor of Sean’s pot.

“Are you smoking?”

“No,” they lied in unison.

“Tell your . . . your friend that she is welcome to eat with us.” With a martyred air, Gillian lifted her kitten-print pot holders to the heavens. Cill smiled; the pot holders made it look as if she approved of the situation—two big thumbs-up! His poor mom. She was so nervous around new people, and the Bog Girl’s silence only intimidated her further. She was insecure about her cooking, and he knew she was going to take it very personally when the Bog Girl did not touch it.

Dinner was meat loaf with onions and, for Sean, a thousand beers. It was not a comfortable meal.

Gillian, stirring butter into the lima beans, beamed threats at her son’s new girlfriend: You little bitch. Crawl back into your hole. Stay away from my son.

“Biscuit?” Gillian asked. “Does she like biscuits, Cill?”

The Bog Girl smiled her gentle smile at the wall, her face reflected in the oval door of the washer-dryer. Against that sudsy turbulence, she looked especially still.

Three drinks in, Uncle Sean slung an arm around the Bog Girl’s thin blue shoulder, welcoming her into the family. “I’m proud of my nephew for going after an older woman, a mature woman . . . a cougar!”

Cillian fixed his uncle with a homicidal stare. Under the table, he touched his girlfriend’s foot with his foot; his eyebrows lifted in apology. His mother shot up with her steaming cauldron of beans, giving everyone another punitive lima ladle and removing the beer from the table. Their dog, returning from her dusk mouse hunt, came berserking into the kitchen, barking at a deranged pitch. She wanted to play tug-of-war with the Bog Girl’s noose. “Puddles—_no! _” Cillian’s vision was swimming, his whole body overheating with shame. He relaxed when he stared into the Bog Girl’s face, which was void of all judgment, smiling at him with its mysterious kindness. Once again, his embarrassment was soothed by her infinite calm. His eyes lowered from her smile to the noose. Of course, she’s seen far worse than us, he thought. Outside the window, insects millioned around the porch light. The bog crickets were doing a raspy ventriloquy of the stars; perhaps she recognized their tiny voices. Soon Uncle Sean was snoring lightly beside the pooling gravy, face down in his big arms. Cill sat slablike in the moonlight. The Bog Girl smiled blindly on.

For the first two weeks, the Bog Girl slept on the sofa, the television light flickering gently over her. That was fine by Gillian. She wasn’t about to turn an orphan from the Iron Age out on the street.

Then, on a rainy Monday night, without warning or apology, Cillian picked up the Bog Girl. He cradled her like a child, her frondy feet dangling in the air. Gillian, doing a jigsaw puzzle of a horse and colt in the kitchen, looked up in time to see them disappearing. She felt a purple welt rising in her mind, the revelatory pain called wonder. Underneath the shock, other feelings began to flow, among them a disturbed pride. Because hadn’t he looked exactly like his father? Confident, possessed. He didn’t ask for her permission. He did not lie to her about what he was doing, or hide it, or explain it. He simply rose with the Bog Girl in his arms, nuzzling her blue neck. The door shut, and he was gone from sight. Another milestone: she heard the click of the lock.

“Good night, son!” she cried after them, panicked.

She could not reconcile her knowledge of her sweet, awkward boy with this wayward, confident person. Was she supposed to go up there now? Pound on the door? Oh, who could she call? Nobody, not even her sisters, would take a call about this problem, she felt quite certain. Abby’s son, Kevin, met his girlfriend in church. Cathy’s son, Patrick, has a lovely fiancée who teaches kindergarten. Murry’s girlfriend is in jail for vehicular manslaughter—but at least she’s alive!

In the morning, she watched the mute, hitching muscles of his back as he fumbled with the coffeepot. So he was a coffee drinker now. More news. He kissed his mother’s forehead as he left for work, but he was whistling to himself, oblivious of her sadness, her fear, completely self-enclosed in his new happiness. It’s too soon for this, she thought. And: Not you, too. Please, please, please, she prayed, the incomplete prayer of mothers who cannot conceive of a solution.

That evening, she announced a new rule: “Everyone has to wear clothes. And no more locked doors.”

That Saturday, Cillian took the ferry three hours to a mainland museum. Twelve bog bodies were on display, part of a travelling exhibition called “Kings of the Iron Age.” The Bog Girl had met his family—the least he could do was return the favor. Cill sneaked into a tour in progress, following a docent from sepulchre to sepulchre. Under the glass, the Kings of the Iron Age lay like chewed taffy. One man was naked except for a fox-fur armband. Another was a giant. Another had two sets of thumbs.

Cillian learned that the bogs of the islands in the cold Atlantic were particularly acidic. Pickled bodies from the Iron Age had emerged from these deep vats. Their fetally scrolled bodies often doubled as the crumpled maps of murders. They might have been human sacrifices, the docent said. Left in the bog water for the harvest god. Kings, queens, scapegoats, victims—they might have been any of these things.

“From the contents of his stomach, we can surmise that he last dined on oat gruel. . . .”

“From the forensic analyses, we can surmise that she was killed by an arrow. . . . ”

“From the ornaments on this belt buckle, we can surmise that these were a wealthy people. . . . ”

What? No more than this could be surmised?

The docent pointed out the dots and stripes on the potsherds. Charcoal smudges that might be stars or animals. Evidence, she said, of “a robust culture.” Cillian took notes:

“they had time to kill. they liked art, too.”

Back on the ferry, he could admit to his relief: none of the other bog bodies stirred any feeling in him. He loved one specific person. He could see things about the Bog Girl to which this batty docent would be totally blind—for example, the secret depths her smile concealed. How badly misunderstood she had been by her own people. She was an alien from a planet that nobody alive could visit—the planet Earth, in the first century A.D. She felt soft in his arms, bonelessly soft, but she also seemed indestructible. According to the experts, a bog body should begin to decompose rapidly when exposed to air. Curiously enough, this Bog Girl had not. He told no one his theory but polished it inside his mind like an amulet: it was his love that was protecting her.

By August, their rapport had deepened immeasurably. They didn’t need to say a word, Cill was discovering, to perfectly understand each other. Falling in love with the Bog Girl was a wonderful thing—it was permission to ignore everyone else. When school started, in September, he made a bespoke sling and brought her with him. His girlfriend, propped like a broomstick against the rows of lockers, waited for him during Biology and Music II, as cool and impassive as the most popular girl the world has ever known.

Nobody in the school administration objected to the presence of the Bog Girl. Ancestral superstitions still hovered over the islanders’ minds, exerting their quiet influence, and nobody wanted to be the person responsible for angering a visitor from the past. Soon she was permitted to audit all of Cillian’s classes, smiling dreamlessly at the flustered, frightened teachers.

One afternoon, the vice-principal called her into his office and presented her with a red-and-gold badge to wear in the halls: “visiting student.”

“I don’t think that’s really accurate, sir,” Cillian said.

“Oh, no?”

“She’s not a visitor. She was born here.” In fact, the Bog Girl was the island’s oldest resident, by at least nineteen hundred years. Cillian paused. “Also, her eyes are shut, you see. So I don’t think she can really, ah, study. . . .”

“Well!” The vice-principal clapped his hands. He had a day to live, quotas to fulfill. “We will be studying her, then. She will give us all an exciting new perspective on our modern life and times—Oh my! Oh dear.” The Bog Girl had slumped into his aloe planter.

Cillian put the badge on her polyester blouse, a loaner from his mother that was vintage cool. Cillian—who never gave a thought to his own clothing—enjoyed dressing the Bog Girl for school in the morning. He raided his mother’s closet, resurrecting her baby-doll dresses. The eleventh-grade girls organized a clothing drive for the Bog Girl, collecting many shoplifted donations of fall tunics and on-trend boots.

Rumorsprawl. Word got around that the Bog Girl was actually a princess. A princess, or possibly a witch. Within a week, she was eating at the popular girls’ table. They’d kidnapped her from where Cillian had positioned her on a bench, propped between two book bags, and taken her to lunch. Already they had restyled her hair with rhinestone barrettes.

“You stole my girlfriend,” Cillian said.

“Something awful happened to her,” Vicki said reverently.

“So bad,” Georgette echoed.

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Priscilla said, looping a protective arm around the Bog Girl. The girls had matching lunches: lettuce salads, diet candy bars, diet shakes. They were all jealous of how little she ate.

How had Cill not foreseen this turn of events? The Bog Girl was diminutive, wounded, mysterious, a redhead. Best of all, she could never contradict any rumor the living girls distributed about her.

“She was too beautiful to live!” Priscilla gasped. “They killed her for her beauty.”

“I don’t th-th-think,” Cill said, “that it happened quite like that.”

The popular girls adjusted their leggings, annoyed. “No?”

Cillian was dimly aware that other tables were listening in, but the density of the attention in no way affected him. “I am hers, and she is mine,” he announced. “I have dedicated myself to learning everything about her.”

A sighing spasm of envy moved down the popular girls’ table—what boy alive would say this about them? A miracle: nobody mocked Cillian Eddowis. They were all starving to be loved like this. The popular girls watched him avidly as he ate a grilled cheese and waffle fries, his green irises burning. Between bites, his left hand rose to touch the Bog Girl’s red braid, tousling it like the pull-chain of a lamp.

Gillian couldn’t help it: she was heartbroken. The past that was most precious to her had filtered right through her son. The songs she’d sung to him when he was nursing? The care with which she’d cut the tiny moons of his fingernails? Their 4 a.m. feedings? Erased! Her son had matured into amnesia about his earliest years. Now her body was the only place where the memories were preserved. Cillian, like all sons, was blithe about this betrayal.

“There is so much about yourself that you do not recall,” Gillian accused him after dinner one night. Cillian, writing a paper about igneous rocks at the kitchen table, did not look up.

“When you were my boy, just a wee boy,” Gillian said in a voice of true agony, “you used to be terrified of the vacuum cleaner. You loved your froggy pajamas. You used so much glue on your art projects that your teachers—”

“Quit it with these dumb stories, Ma!”

“Oh, you find them dumb, do you? The stories about how I had to raise you alone, without a penny from your father—”

“You’re just trying to embarrass me in front of her!”

The Bog Girl smiled at them from the amber armchair. Her leather skirt was outrageously short, a donation from tall Bianca. Decorously, Cillian had draped the cable guide over her lap. Bugs spun in her water glass; mosquitoes and dragonflies were always diving into the Bog Girl’s food and drink, as if in strange solidarity with her.

Cillian drew himself up triumphantly, a foot taller than his mother. “You don’t want me to grow up.”

“What? Of course I do!”

But Cill was ready with his rebuttal: “You gave us rhyming names, Ma!”

This was true. Gillian and Cillian. She’d come up with that plan when she was a teen-ager herself, and pregnant with a nameless otter, some gyring little animal. A rhyming name had seemed just right then; she couldn’t have said why, at seventeen. Had Cillian been a girl, she would have named her Lillian.

“You’re so young, you can’t know . . . ” But what did she want to tell him?

Her body seemed to cave in on itself then, becoming smaller and smaller, so that even Cillian, fortressed behind the wall of his love, noticed and became alarmed. “Ma? What’s wrong?”

“It’s changing all the time,” she murmured ominously. “Just, please, wait, my love. Don’t . . . settle.” What a word! She pictured her son sinking up to his neck in the reddish bog water.

She was hiccupping now, unable to name her own feelings. Without thinking, she picked up the murky water glass, drank from it. “Your potential . . . all the teachers tell me you have great potential.”

Just come out and say it. “I don’t want you to throw your life away on some Bog Girl!”

“Oh, Ma.” Cill patted her back until the hiccups stopped. Her face looked crumpled and blue in the unlit room, hovering above the seated Bog Girl. For a second, they might have been sisters.

The Bog Girl floated, thin as a dress, on the mattress. Barrettes, pink and purple, were scattered all over the pillow. She smiled at Cillian, or beyond him, with her desiccated calm. Downstairs, Gillian was making breakfast, the buttery smells threading through his nostrils like an ox ring, tugging him toward them. But when she called up for him he was barely in the room. He was digging and digging into the peat-moss bog again, smoothing her blue cheeks with both hands, spading down into the kingdom that she comes from.

“Cillian! The bus is coming!” It should have taken him twenty seconds to put on pants. What was he doing in there? Probably jacking off to a “meme,” whatever that was, or buying perfume for the Bog Girl on her credit cards.

“Coming, Ma!”

Cillian was always learning new things about his girlfriend. The longer he looked at her, the more he saw. Her face grew silty with personality. Although she was young when she disappeared into the bog, her face was plowed with tiny wrinklings. Some dream or mood had recurred frequently enough to hammer lines across her brow. Here were the ridges and the gullies her mental weathers had worked into her skin.

Cill studied the infloresences on her cheeks. Her brain is in there, the university man had said. Her brain is intact, preserved by the bog acids. Cillian spent hours doing this forensic palmistry, trying to read her mind.

“Will you have a talk with him?” Gillian begged Sean. “Something is going really, really wrong with him!”

“First love, first love,” Sean murmured sadly, scratching his bubonic nose. “Who are we to intervene, eh? It will die of natural causes.”

“Natural causes!”

She was thinking that the poor girl had been garroted. Her bright-red hair racing the tail of the noose down her spine. You could not survive your death, could you? It survived with you.

In mid-October, a stretch limousine pulled up to the cottage to take Cillian and the Bog Girl to the annual school dance. A techno-reggae song called “Bump de Ass!” filled the back seat, where half a dozen teen-agers sat in churchlike silence. The Bog Girl’s reticence was contagious. Ambulance lights sparkled through the tinted windows, causing everyone to jump, with one exception: Cillian Eddowis’s date, the glamorous foreigner, or native—nobody was sure how to regard her.

Since acquiring his far older girlfriend, Cill had begun speaking to his classmates in the voice of a bachelor who merely tolerates children. “Carla,” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you mind exhaling a little closer to the window? Your smoke is blowing on us.”

Two girls started debating whether or not a friend should lose her virginity in a BMW that evening. What was the interior of the car like? This was a very important question. The girl’s boyfriend was a twenty-six-year-old cocaine dealer. Prior to the Bog Girl��s arrival on the scene, everyone had found his age very impressive. The dealer boyfriend had been unable to accompany the girl to the school dance, so she had taken poor Eoin, her sophomore cousin, who looked near fatally compressed by his green cummerbund. The twenty-six-year-old would be waiting for her in the BMW, post-festivities. Should she deflower him?

“Wait. Uh. I think he’s deflowering you, right? Or maybe you’re deflowering each other? Who’s got the flower?”

“Just do it, and then lie about it.” Carla shrugged. “That’s what I did.”

“My advice,” Cillian said, in the unfamiliar voice, “my advice is, wait. Wait until you find the person with whom you want to spend all your earthly time.” The Bog Girl leaned against his shoulder, aloof in her sparkly tiara. “Or until that person finds you. If that’s this guy, well, kudos. But, if not, wait. You will meet your soul mate. And you will want to give that person every molecule of your life.”

The attempted conversion of the high-school gymnasium into an Arabian-themed wonderland had not been a success. Cill and the Bog Girl stood under a palm tree that looked like an enormous toilet brush, made of cellophane and cardboard tubes. Three girls from the limo came up and asked to dance with Cillian, but he explained that his girlfriend hated to be left alone. All were sulkily respectful of her claim on him.

The after-party was held in an old car-parts warehouse on the west side of the island, where everything was shut or abandoned; the population of the island had been declining steadily for three decades. The music sounded like fists beating at the wall, and the floor was so sticky that Cillian had to lift and cradle the Bog Girl, looping her silver dress around one arm. Cillian had never attended an after-party before. Or a party, for that matter. He surveyed his former tormenters, the seniors, with their piggish faces and their plastic cups. Some were single, some had girlfriends, some were virgins, some were not, but not one of them, Cillian felt very certain, knew the first thing about love.

Eoin the sophomore came over, his date nowhere to be seen. He was breathless in the cummerbund, in visible danger of puking up Bacardi. He rolled a bloodshot eye in Cill’s direction, smiling wistfully.

“So,” he said, “I’m just wondering. Do you guys—”

Cillian preëmpted the question: “A gentleman never tells.”

It was a phrase he’d once read in a men’s magazine, while waiting to get a root canal. In fact, his mother needn’t have lost so much sleep to this particular fear. At night, Cillian lay beside the Bog Girl, barely touching her. A steady, happy calm radiated from her, which filled him with a parallel euphoria.

Cillian carried the Bog Girl onto the dance floor, her braided noose flung over his shoulder. And even Eoin, minutes from unconsciousness, could hear exactly who the older boy believed himself to be in this story: Cillian the Rescuer.

“Oh, damn! Wise up! She’ll make you wait forever, man!” The lonely laugh of Eoin died a terrible death, like a bird impaled on a spike.

At 3 a.m., the lights were still on. Uh-oh, Cill thought. Mom got into the gin again.

Drinking made her silences bubble volubly. He almost got the hiccups himself, listening to her silences. Oh, God. There was so much pain inside her, so much she wanted to share with him. Cillian and the Bog Girl tried to tiptoe past her to the staircase, but she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Cillian?” She looked child-small in the dark. Her voice was tremulous and young, and her slurring reminded him of his own stutter, that undead vestige of his early years. His mother sounded like a sleepy girl, four or five years old. Her feet were bare, and she rose onto her stubby toes to grip his arm. “Where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere. The dance. It was fun.”

“Where are you going?”

“Aw, Mom. Where do you th-th-think?”

“Good night!” she called after him desperately. “I hope you had a good time! You looked so handsome! So grown up!”

By early winter, the Bog Girl’s stillness had begun to provoke a restlessness in Cillian, a squeezed and throbbing feeling. He was failing three subjects. His mother had threatened to send him to live with Aunt Cathy until he “straightened out.” He didn’t care. Waiting for the bus in the freezing rain, he no longer dreamed about owning a car. He knew what he would do with the summer money he’d earned from Bos Ardee: run away with her.

He’d flunk out of school and take the Bog Girl with him to the mainland. She’d be homesick at first, maybe, but they’d go on trips to urban parks. It was the burr of peace, the burr of happiness, goading him on to new movement. Oh, he was frightened, too.

In his fantasy life, Cillian drew the noose tighter and tighter. He imagined, with a strange joy, the narrow life they would lead. No children, no sex, no messy nights vomiting outside bars, no unintended pregnancies, no fights in the street, no betrayals, no surprises, no broken promises, no promises.

Was the Bog Girl a co-signer to this fantasy? Cillian had every reason to believe so. When he described his plans to her, the smile never left her face. Was their love one-sided, as the concerned and unimaginative adults in his life kept insisting? No—but the proof of this surprised no one more terribly than Cillian.

One night in mid-December, lying in bed, he felt a cobwebby softness on his left cheek. It was her eyelashes, flicking over him. They glowed radish-red in the moonlight. Cillian swatted at his face, his own eyes never opening. Still sunk in his dreaming, he grunted and rolled over.

Cillian.

Cillian.

The Bog Girl sat up.

With fluttering effort, the muscles of her blue jaw yawned. One eye opened. It studied itself in the dresser mirror for a long instant, then turned calmly back toward Cillian. Very slowly, her left arm unhinged itself and dropped to the plaid bedspread. The fingers curled around the blanket’s edge, and drew it down. A blush of primal satisfaction colored the Bog Girl’s cheeks as the fabric moved. She tugged more forcefully, revealing Cillian curled on his side in his white undershirt. Groaning in his sleep, he jerked the covers back up.

“Cillian,” she said aloud.

Now Cillian was awake—he was irreversibly awake. He blinked up at her face, which was staring down at him. When they locked eyes, her frozen smile widened.

“Mom!” he couldn’t help screaming. “Help!”

The Bog Girl, imitating him, began to scream and scream. And he could see, radiating from her gaze, the same blind tenderness that he had directed at her. Now he was its object. Something truly terrifying had happened: she loved him back.

For months, Cillian had been decoding the Bog Girl’s silences. He’d peered into her dreams, her fears, her innermost thoughts. But her real voice was nothing like the voice that he’d imagined for her—a cross between Vicky Gilvarry and Patti LaBelle. Its high-pitched ululations hailed over him. In the kitchen, the dog began to bark. The language that she spoke was no longer spoken anywhere on earth.

He stumbled up, tugging at his boxers. The Bog Girl stood, too. The past, with its monstrous depth and span, reached toward him, demanding an understanding that he simply could not give it. His mind was too young and too narrow to withstand the onrush of her life. An invisible woods was in the bedroom with them, the scent of trees multiplying. Some mental earthquake inside the Bog Girl was casting up a world, green and unknown to him, or to anyone living: her homeland. Her gaze drove inward, carrying Cillian with it. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed her parents. Her brothers, her sisters, a nation of people. Their cheeks now beginning to redden, every one of them alive again inside her village. Pines rippling seaward. Gods, horned and faceless, walking the lakes that once covered Cillian’s home. Cillian was buried in water, in liquid images of her; he had to push through so many strata of her memories to reach the surface of her mind. Most of what he saw he shrank away from. His mind felt like a burned tongue, numbly touching her reality.

“W-w-who are you?”

“Heartbreak” is the universal diagnosis for the pain that accompanies the end of love. But this was an unusual breakup, in that Cillian’s mind shattered first. The love that had protected him began to fall away. Piece after piece of it clattered from his chest, an armor rusting off him. What are you?

The Bog Girl lurched toward him, her arms open. First she moved like a hopping chick, with an unexpected buoyancy. Then she seemed to remember how to step, heel to toe. She came for him like an astronaut, bouncing on the gray carpet. The only English word she knew was his name.

Almost weightlessly, she reached for him. For wasn’t she equally terrified? There was no buoy other than this boy, who had gripped her with his thin, freckled arms, bellying her out of the peat bog and into time.

Cillian hid behind the dresser.

Her fingers found his hand, threaded through his fingers.

He screamed again, even as he squeezed the hand back.

Her words rushed together, a thawing waterfall, moving intricately between octaves; still the only word he understood was his name. Perhaps nothing he had said to her, in their six months as a couple, had been comprehended. Cillian worked the levers in his brain, desperately trying to find the words that would release him.

“Unlock the door,” his mother’s beautiful voice called.

Cillian was frozen in the Bog Girl’s grip, unable even to call out. But a moment later he heard the key turning in the lock. Gillian stood in the doorway in her yellow pajamas. With a panoramic comprehension, she took in what had happened. She knew, too, what must now be done. If she could have freed these two from the embrace herself, she would have done so; but now she understood the challenge. The boy would have to make his own way out. “Take her home, Cillian. Make sure that she gets home safely.”

Cillian, his eyes round with panic, only nodded.

Gillian went to the Bog Girl, helping her into a sweater. “Put a hat on. And pants.”

His mother shepherded them downstairs and onto the porch, switching on every yellow bulb as they moved through the cottage. It was the warmest December on record, rain falling instead of snow, the drops disappearing into the rotted wood. Cillian carried the Bog Girl to the edge of the light before he understood that his mother was not coming with him.

“Let her down gently, son!” his mother called after them.

Well, she could do this for him, at least: she held a lantern steady across the rainy lawn, creating a gangplank of light that reached almost to the larches. She watched them moving toward the inky water. The Bog Girl was howling in her foreign tongue; at this distance, Gillian felt she could almost understand it.

Oh, she hoped their breakup would stick. She had divorced Cillian’s father, then briefly moved into his new house; it had taken years before their affair was truly over. You had to really cultivate an ending. To get it to last, you had to kneel and tend to the burial ground, continuously firming your resolution.

This was a bad breakup. A quarter mile from the cottage, under a bright moon, Cillian and the Bog Girl were rolling in the mud, each screaming in a different language. Their screams twined together, their hands reaching for each other; it was during this undoing that they were, at last, truly united as a couple. His flashlight rolled with them, plucking amphibious red and yellow eyes out of the reeds. “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over,” he kept babbling optimistically, out of his mind with fear. Her throat was vibrating against his skin. He could feel the echo of his own terror and sorrow, and again his mind felt overrun by the lapping waves of time. She clutched at the collar of his T-shirt, her body covered in dark mud and cracked stems of bog cotton, blue lichen. At last he felt her grip on him loosen. Her eyes, opaquely glinting in the moonlight, liquid and enormous, far larger than anyone could have guessed before their unlidding, regarded him with what he imagined was a soft surprise, and disappointment. He was not who she’d expected to find when she opened her eyes, either. Now neither teen-ager needed to tell the other that it was over. It simply was—and, without another sound, the Bog Girl let go of Cillian and slipped backward into the bog water. Did she sink? It looked almost as if the water were rising to cover her. Her cranberry hair waved away from her scalp. As he watched, her body itself began to break up.

Straightening from where he was kneeling on the ledge of mud, he brushed peat from his pants. His arms tingled where her grip had suddenly relaxed. The clear rain drenched his clothing. The bog was still bubbling, pieces of her sinking back into the black peat, when he turned on his heel and ran. For the next few days, he would be quakey with relief; he’d felt certain, watching her sink away, that he would never see the Bog Girl again in this life.

But here he was mistaken. In the weeks and years to come, Cillian would find himself alone with her memory, struggling to pay attention to his droning contemporaries in the cramped classroom. How often would he retrace his steps, wandering right back to the lip of the bog, peering in? Each dusk, with their primitive eloquence, the air-galloping insects continue to speak the million syllables of her name.

“Ma! Ma! Ma!” That night, Cillian came roaring out of the dark, pistoning his knees as he ran for the light, for his home at the edge of the boglands. “Who was that?” 

[woodtoolsdlfd915-blog]

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tool perfectionist that values the innate feeling as well as complete high quality of people-powered tools or someone who makes use of hand tools just for the touch-ups that are hard to achieve with an equipment, Rockler has the hand tools to fit your needs. We stock every little thing from hand saws for ripping, crosscutting and reducing dead-on joinery to blades for cleaning up syncs and truing mortises and also tenons to bench planes for smoothing table tops.

For carvers with an eye for curves, sculpture and three-dimensional surface areas, we equip a huge variety of timber carving tools, from chip-carving blades to palm sculpting devices. We've obtained draw blades, also. Need to make a picture frame? We've obtained the right tools to help you reduce specific miters, hold them tightly as well as attach them safely.

Deagreez/ Getty Images The irreplaceable always trusted device that provides lots of variations yet all serve an usual purpose. The hand saw is the one favored by traditional woodworkers as they can regulate the cut while generating a terrific surface. Since this tool has several variations, the hand saw is always a helpful tool to have with you.

Hand saws are not a substitute for power saws, however being the most simplified one, it is valuable, not optional, to have. If you can, having a power saw is an excellent concept, as well as a cordless one is even better.

A wood workbench has always been the center of a conventional woodworker's workshop. If you're truly on a limited budget you can get away with virtually anything that permits you to safeguard your timber in area for planing and sawing, and also use clamps to protect your work surface. Nevertheless, I would certainly recommend that you either develop a wooden workbench, or purchase one if you feel a workbench build is too progressed for you today.

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You can acquire it in my shop right here. You can discover Will's totally free workbench plans for the Moravian Workbench right here. Whichever course you pick, make certain you pick to either develop or get a heavy & tough wooden workbench, with at the very least a 3 solid top, solid helpful base legs, and at least one strong vise.

aircrafts that are made use of so frequently that they are usually on your workbench). If you're on a budget a jack plane can temporarily be made use of in place of various other planes that execute specialized functions: rough stock elimination (if you buy a 2nd iron/blade and also form it with a bent "camber"), jointing board sides (as long as the board isn't over 3x the length of your jack airplane), and also smoothing the boards.

Block airplanes have become one of the most oft-used tools in a woodworker's workshop. Some typical woodworkers even maintain them in their aprons! These little aircrafts can be made use of to trim your joints, placed chamfers aboard edges, trim end grain, and so on. I would certainly suggest finding a low angle block plane, https://www.tooleden.com since the reduced angle allows you cut hard grain much more quickly.

Handsaws (usually called "panel saws") are long, thin saws with a comfy wood handle. They are utilized for rough dimensioning of your lumber. Although a "panel saw" is practically a smaller sized handsaw that matches the panel of a device chest, I'll hereafter refer to this kind of saw as a "Panel Saw" to separate them from the wide category referred to as "hand saws".

You will need both. Panel saws can be fairly inexpensive (often just $5 an item), but you need to know what you're seeking as well as want to invest a long time learning to develop hand saws. My hand saw buying guide will assist you recognize which brand names & designs to watch out for at your local flea markets or on ebay.com.

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The thin metal saw plates are made tight with steel or brass "backs" that leave the top of the saw plate. If you get on a limited budget plan, you can manage with just a dovetail saw for some time. But if you have the methods, after that I 'd advise that you buy 3 backsaws: a dovetail saw, with great rip teeth, used for reducing joinery along the grain (like dovetails), a "carcass saw" utilized for crossing the grain (penalty cross cut teeth), as well as a bigger tenon saw made use of for reducing much deeper cuts, like tenon cheeks, along the grain (rip teeth).

As discussed above, you could definitely manage with simply a dovetail saw in the beginning, since the little slit teeth do not do as well negative of a task at crossing the grain. Getting backsaws can be really confusing because the majority of sellers do not recognize what saw they have, and the tooth setup can change the job of the saw.

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My purchaser's guide truly removes this confusion up as well as will aid you know what to seek. An excellent miter box & miter saw (a huge backsaw) will certainly allow you to cut your timber to extremely accurate sizes, at precise angles. This will especially conserve you a lot of time in trying to settle your board finishes.

The frame's angles can be transformed to allow you to cut ideal miter joints (the joint used for picture structures) as well as many various other joints. I use my miter saw frequently. I have actually acquired them utilized for just $15, however anticipate to pay even more than that. The very cost effective coping saw (generally under $20) is frequently used for rough reducing forms in the board, however particularly for eliminating waste from dovetail joints (one of one of the most common wood joints).

Read my hand saw buying guide for more information on brand names & functions to try to find when acquiring a dealing saw. I utilize blades probably greater than any other device in my workshop, so it's a great idea to not economical out here. A high top quality collection of bevel edge bench knives (brand-new or vintage) will certainly last you years (likely your entire life) as well as will be used on virtually every project.

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An excellent collection of 5-7 bench chisels (they don't need to match) will get you going right now. Later on you'll eventually add some specialized blades (like paring chisels, fishtail knives, etc) however bench knives will function for nearly whatever. I often pay only $10 for premium quality vintage blades, so a put together collection can absolutely be economical, and also greater quality than reduced high quality brand-new collections.

To start off you only require either a 1/4-inch or 3/8-inch mortise chisel (or some size near those). I favor 3/8-inch. You do not require a whole set of mortise knives. Mortise blades (also led to "mortice knives") are used for chopping mortises (rectangle-shaped openings) into the side of your board to accept the insertion of a tenon.

I like the English style "pig sticker label" mortise knives since of their strength, weight, as well as the feeling of the oval take care of. My chisel getting overview shows where to find these chisels and also what to try to find when getting them. A really excellent and also accurate 6-inch mix square is made use of for many tasks in my workshop, consisting of checking the squareness of http://query.nytimes.com/search/sitesearch/?action=click&contentCollection&region=TopBar&WT.nav=searchWidget&module=SearchSubmit&pgtype=Homepage#/Traditional, manual tools for carpentry and woodworking boards (when planing them to last dimension), scribing dovetail joints, determining the depth of mortises, and much, far more.