#I'm tempted to do like?? Short stories for every month on the 18th??

[aj-draws]

Our Heartstrings

July 18th was the day Sly made the sacred post. I suppose you could consider this a one month anniversary for The Heart Squad! 

So this is a short story that explains how it feels like being on Tumblr, and how lucky I am to have such amazing friends. Because I like mixing fantasy and magic with my writing to make it more exciting, there’s a bit of a...twist that you’ll see :)

If you wanna scroll past this, feel free to, I don’t mind! This is personal writing of mine that I wanted to share, and if you’re curious about me (since this reflects me as a person as well), then you can go ahead and read this.

(Note! Some things I write about not might be necessarily true. The way I describe things might not be accurate, but behind the screen, that is what I see and interpret. It’s just my way of seeing things, my perspective, so uhh don’t get mad if I’m wrong lol??) 

(Another side note! This is completely related to the story involving The Heart Squad that we’re working on. Just wanted to make that clear)

Either way, have a lovely day, everyone! :D

@danyulsdimple @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @bubblseri @phlying-squirrel

(I’m gonna put a cut because this actually became really long? Whoops I still don’t regret a thing lmao-)

But first, an explanation. 

I...have this weird habit. I guess it stems from me being a detail oriented writer, but whenever I meet someone new and get to know them after an extended period of time, I have specific ways to describe that person. Similarly, this also happens for characters from new shows that I watch. For Sanders Sides, well, there’s that ‘Describing Sanders Sides Ships’ that I wrote. For Analogical, I think of an evening sunset, or for Logicality, the sun and the moon comes to mind-things like that.

Writing has always been very personal to me. Most of my art comes without thought, you see, there usually isn’t some secret message hidden in it. But whenever I write, it’s always to tell a story. Writing has posed a difficult and unpredictable, but rewarding challenge for me. I haven’t been able to write something so passionately for quite a long time, so thank you for that. <3

You all are awesome. Creating this little group has been so much fun, and having you guys be there means a lot to me. Sometimes it’s hard to express that, so I hope I can make that a little more clear with this little story. 

This is for my dear friends.

To Lea, whose openness and humor lets me smile and laugh with ease. 

To Piper, whose positive impact on others has caused me to admire her from afar.

To Sly, whose fascinating, patient personality provides comfort and stability. 

To Sienna, whose bright and kind nature has warmed my heart. 

This one is for you. I love you guys 💜💜💜

The red string of fate. 

It is said to be an unbreakable string of scarlet that binds soulmates. Just like how fate is more than what people make it out to be, so are the strings. 

I’d know. 

Because love comes in so many different forms, I’ve already had several strings when I was little. 

On my left hand was the comforting kind of love. The kind that gave me a small, soft smile when my mother kissed my head. Or when I couldn’t stop laughing over something my father joked about. Not just that, but even how proud I get when my sister compliments my art. Two strings tied to my parents wraps around my index finger, to lead me in the right direction. On the other hand, a string from my sister is looped around my thumb, which assured me that I could do anything. 

I’m glad the strings are weightless, because my right hand would feel as heavy as a dumbbell if they weren’t. My right hand symbolizes platonic love. A string instantly becomes attached the moment I interact with someone. It first starts around the wrist, and as you get to know the person, the string moves. The middle finger is where hatred for that person resides, the thumb for those that are simply acquaintances that cheer me on from afar, and the index finger is reserved for good-natured, honest best friends that bring out the best in me. 

My ring and pinkie fingers remain untouched. 

Now, the ring finger, I understand. If I were to feel affection toward a friend, perhaps a string might find a home around my ring finger. But my pinkie? What does such a tiny, trivial finger represent? 

Now back to the myth. As you can see, there is truth behind what is only known as a legend. 

But there is one thing that they got wrong.

Tapping the power button on my laptop, I lean back in my chair. I sigh, long and quiet, all the while tugging and massaging my fingers. Faint aching at my joints causes me slight discomfort, but it’s nothing unusual. After finishing seven drawings in a hour or two, what do you expect?

I rest both hands atop my keyboard and let all of my fingers stretch in front of me, admiring the strings. I smile, I really do...I can’t help but flinch when I feel my grin dissipate. 

The strings are a fading white, completely empty of color. 

All the rich, vibrant shades of red that they talked of was untrue. Seeing the strings makes my heart soar, but their colorless, bleak nature is bound to bring a bit of gloom from time to time. 

I constantly wonder why. Was I supposed to see color? Do I see colors when I reach a certain age? Am I broken? Why-

The screen comes alive, and the light that radiates from the letters on the keyboard bring me back to reality. Clicking on the blue logo that I know all too well, I find myself smiling right away. 

Online friends are an interesting case. Since I’ve never physically met them, they don’t have strings. I can leave asks on as many people’s blogs as I want, but not a single string appears. 

...There were four exceptions. Let me tell you about them. 

-

She is the countryside. 

She is the short walk to a nearby town, where the buildings huddle together and lights reflects off each other’s windows. There are quiet voices, the occasional booming cackle and the clinking of glasses. The streets and roads are mostly empty, but it is inside the stores and shops where laughter and chatter belong. 

There is a homely feeling to this small town. You could always find her wandering around, going from building to building leaving smiles and bright faces. Whether it’s complimenting others or joining a protection squad, she is there with the town, reveling in the closeness of their companionship.

And then you are home. You are where the houses become scattered and the concrete roads become gravel or sand. Gazing out over the horizon, there is only the gentle swaying of tall crops and a setting sun. 

You remain outside, sitting down and watching the sun fade away. Light falls and darkness rises, covering you with a blanket of constellations and glittering stars. With no factories or skyscrapers close by, the sky can breathe. 

When your back drops against the ground and the grass meets your hair, she grins beside you. She laughs along when you point out the constellations, remarking that they look like things they definitely aren’t supposed to look life. She is the lift of your lips, the sparkle in your eyes.

Lying down with the smell of fresh grass and cool air lingering upon my nose, I feel calm. Her presence, though it is not entirely familiar, is peaceful.  

But she is not always peaceful. In a place where there are nothing but fields and flatlands, you are bound to find something to liven things up. 

When the colorful leaves drop from trees and a chilling breeze settles in, you could be chatting with friends in that bustling coffee shop in town, or be in a library, immersing yourself in an interesting book. Even indoors, you are sitting by the fireplace or watching movies. You could be smelling the blooming flowers and morning dew, visiting gardens and climbing trees. Then all of a sudden, you’re dancing, barefoot, with the stars hanging over your head, a popping firecracker in your hand as you take in the warmth of July.

Whatever it is, it is new and exciting. Taking something so simple and making it worthwhile is an admirable feat. 

You do not know this place well, that is for sure. But you wish you do. You wish you could. The countryside is filled with wonders that you hope to explore and learn about in the future.

As you sit upright, you glance down. That faint swish on your wrist was indeed not the grass, but a string. 

All you can do is hope she feels the same. 

We are connected, the countryside and I. 

-

She is a city. 

Sometimes she feels distant, just like how New York City is to me, but I don’t mind. She isn’t constantly a part of my life, and yet every time I drive down that bridge, look into the river and see those shining buildings, I’m filled with excitement. 

The city is an acquired taste, something that you maybe wouldn’t enjoy unless you’ve visited it on multiple occasions. Even for me, a person who was born and raised in such a place for most of her life, the city takes some getting used to. 

In some parts, the buildings glitter like gold. With its polished glass windows, allowing sunlight to grace its surface all too perfectly, and elegant architecture, you are almost fooled by its facade. 

Then you could turn your head and see tired, drooping eyes, voices yelling into phones and people crossing streets with a red traffic light hanging over their heads. 

Insecurity disguises itself within beauty. 

And she is always there. 

The sun begins to set, bringing upon the shadows, the people and the lights. I’m stuck within a crowd of people, and I’m still alone.

After not being in the city for several months, things don’t seem all that beautiful anymore. 

Suddenly the echoing footsteps of the people around me doesn’t sound so soothing. The buses roar, lions that snarl and growl intensely. Cars screech to abrupt stops, paying no attention to the rapid honking or the blinking stoplights. Above me, the trains let out bellowing cries as they bang against the rickety steel tracks.

She is there, pulling me to safety. Away from the dreadful noises, from the crowd, until there is tranquil silence. In order to ease the tension, she cracks a small joke.

Now, just for a moment, I can laugh in peace.

There is a tug at the corner of her lips as she sets off into the city. I follow alongside her. For a little while, things don’t feel overwhelming anymore. There are no due dates, no drawing requests to get done, no stories that are begging to be written. I can see the city for what it truly is.

Just like her, the city is real. Its raw, imperfect magnificence is bound to stun anyone, as long as they take the time to get to know its delighting qualities. 

She is the embodiment of stupid, but brilliantly amusing conversations in the middle of the night. She speaks in the language of references, using words in a way that will make you giggle. Her words come quickly, in a rush that ends as soon as it appeared, but that refreshing feeling of a car speeding past you will never stop being exhilarating. 

She tends to change a lot. One moment she’ll be bubblegum pink, a rose dripping in paint. Then the warm tones of golden sunflowers, or even a cat stalking through the night. All the colors and scents shift from one theme to another-her love for aesthetics never ceases to impress me. 

She moves quickly and easily, but she will never completely abandon you. If she disappears for a couple of minutes, you can rest assured that she’ll come running back bearing a smile and a funny story. As fast as a subway train, she will jump from one topic to another, whether it’s about crazy school stories or cantaloupes. 

Her relatable humor will lift a chuckle from one’s throat, lightening up someone’s mood like how the lamp posts along the sidewalks come alive at night. Light pours in through the windows of buildings, illuminating the jet black sky. In the same way, she, with her exciting personality, is able to brighten one’s day. 

Only when you’re sitting on the roof of a building will you be able to appreciate her. When you sit still, taking in the view, just listen. She will be there. Not everyone enjoys the city the first time around, but I promise you, there’s always something there that’ll make you smile. 

She doesn’t even live in a city, so for all I know, she could have no idea what I’m talking about.

But as a person who has lived in one and loved it with all her heart-that’s saying a lot. 

She smiles softly, saying goodbye before turning her head to the city. She stares, almost in a daze, at the skyscrapers and flashing lights. She rises, jumping off the ledge, hitting a metal staircase attached to the side of the building. Rushing down the steps, she doesn’t look back once.

You aren’t worried. She will return, one way or another.

The wind picks up, a light breeze that mirrored her swift movements. I stand up and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, noticing the tingling sensation that momentarily crossed my wrist. I look down and grin. 

We are connected, the city and I. 

-

They are a forest.

Personally, I haven’t spent much time in forests, so I think of them are rare. Unique. Where I live, there’s always been random patches of trees here and there, but never forests. 

I think forests have plenty of hidden beauty. There’s just something captivating about entering a forest in the midday, seeing the light filtering in through the trees. Every tree’s branches spreads out far and wide, their long arms stretching out to embrace the glorious, radiant sun, but also weaving together to create a blanket of protection over the forest floor. 

Forests means freedom. You could run, run, run: fast, far and even a little careless, but the support of the forest is always apparent. As you dash through the woods, you notice everything you could ever love about being able to express yourself. There’s the scent of pine cones and dirt, the gust of air that blows your hair into a tornado, and the babbling brook that you easily soar across.

But when the night fell-everything all of a sudden became more terrifying. 

It isn’t the forest itself that frightens you-it’s what surrounds it. There are howls of stalking predators, jaws snapping wildly. Voices come from the swaying trees and whistling wind, rapidly increasing whispers that made your legs tremble. Their vile words yank and snatch at the remnants of my sanity, draining all of the energy and hope out of me. The sounds are not there to hurt you necessarily, but sickening feeling persistently tugging at your stomach isn’t the most comforting thing either. 

They tell you that you’re not supposed to be there. Maybe you don’t deserve to discover any of the forest’s intriguing mysteries, or experience the gorgeous lights of a city, or even the simple excitement of the countryside. What if you’re being bothersome, or overbearing? What if-

The forest does not like ‘what ifs’. The forest does not mean to scare you, or make you feel out of place. 

The wind begins to ease up, the steady breeze soothing your shaking hands. As you look down, you close your eyes and listen once more. To the faint chirping of the cicadas, the rustling leaves and swishing branches. 

They appear at your side in your moments of unexpected, excessive doubt and panic. When your eyelids flutter open and you see them beside you, you are grounded. Safe. You start to talk to them, their tone hushed and quiet, as if they’re afraid of scaring you. You could never be scared of them. Perhaps worried that these conversations might be too time consuming for them, yes, but never scared. 

They show you the forest as it is: fascinating, patient, understanding and even showing a bit of fear from time to time. The forest is as welcoming as it is calming, and you enjoy that.

You never expected that you would ever experience happiness from a night as horrible as that one, but you did. The thoughts never destroyed you because the forest was there to protect you. 

Within the pitch black, there was light. Fireflies danced throughout the forest, their luminosity making me smile that night. 

When your eyelids felt heavy and your yawns grew longer, they told you to sleep. It was late, they spoke, and you need rest. You reluctantly gave in to this request.

Just before you were pulled into a deep slumber, something brushes against your wrist. The ghost of a smile graces your lips as you lose consciousness.

We are connected, the forest and I.

-

She is a meadow. 

I wish with all my heart that I could travel more often. I’ve only seen meadows through videos and pictures, but as an introvert that appreciates nature, I’d love to see one someday. 

All I can imagine is light and beauty. The ground dips into smooth, elegant valleys and rises in the form of rolling hills. The sky mirrors the sun’s movements, changing its colors as it dances across the heavens. If you only you were there to see it-the dazzling, radiant meadow at work, stunning you with its abundance of warmth.

After wandering around momentarily, you shiver, turning around and stiffening. The wispy, cotton-like clouds that were just drifting through the sky had transformed into something worse. You tremble in sync with the ground beneath your feet, feeling your breathing become choppy and unsteady. The loud, booming, angry noises sink into your mind, not giving you a chance to recover. All you can hear is the regret, all you can feel is the doubt and all you can see is the fear. 

You see her. Never once had she not been there for me. 

Hearing her footsteps, the noises disappear. The grey clouds linger for a second, before giving in to the blue skies and sunshine. The storm does not come for the meadow, whose genuine joy is something that cannot be easily purged. 

She comes with words-happy, lovely words woven together in the dandelions that surrounded her. She sits down, a smile on her face as she invites you to pick the flowers with her. The flowers’ colors are grounding and gentle to the touch. 

For every flower that you take, her kind words flood your eyes. One tells you that you are amazing, the second that you are talented, and another that you deserve all the happiness in the world. Each one carries laughter, brings excitement and makes you grin. One after another, as the dandelions fill your lap, her compassion fills your heart. 

There is one more dandelion. Once your fingers brush against its petals, you can hear it right away.

It reminds you that you are loved. 

Pressing that one to your chest, you can feel your smile grow, which was almost impossible considering how wide it was beforehand. You like that specific flower a lot, you admit. Sometimes you forget.

Her arm rests along your shoulders, her smile comforting you. She knows, and that is precisely why she says it.

The meadow, in all of its glory, embraces you. She whispers, telling you how sorry she is, and how much you are loved. You can smell it in the dandelions, and you can feel it in your heart. You do not deserve her. 

Are you okay, she asks with worry still lacing her voice. Upon spotting a string twirling around your wrist, you giggle and let yourself breathe. Without a doubt, you are alright, you answer.

We are connected, the meadow and I.

-

You might be asking, what about me? If one’s the countryside, the second’s a city, another is a forest, and the other is a meadow, then what am I?

The thing is: I had no idea.

I never saw myself as anything extravagant, or special. I don’t have the brightness of a city, the homely feel of the countryside, the soothing nature of a forest, or even the warmth of a meadow. What do I have? 

A tug on my wrist. Faint, but urgent. I glance up at the screen. 

I am...wanted...? Hm. I wonder. 

I’m walking, blind. My eyes are closed and I cannot will them open. But the four are by my side, so I know all is fine. 

The darkness clears, bringing in light. 

Dunes of soft sand spreads out in a blanket of golden as far as I can see. The sunlight casts its rays over the shoreline, causing glittering, hidden shells to reveal themselves. I stare in utter awe at the waves-at how, with every passing second, the colors seem to change. First, it’s turquoise, then azure, and suddenly cerulean. The shades of blue shift and churn peacefully, emitting the scent of salt. 

A beach. 

Maybe...Maybe I do belong. I don’t doubt it as much anymore. 

I stretch my hand out to the sea. I long for it, after all. Then, instead of focusing on the ocean, my gaze travels to my wrist. 

Four strings lift from their place and begin to move, following the movements of the gentle breeze. Once unfurled from my wrist, they leap-

And find a comfortable spot around my pinkie. 

Each string is filled with a color. 

Green for the city.

Pink with flecks of gold for the countryside. 

Red for the forest.

Yellow for the meadow. 

Purple for the beach.

Once upon a time, five colors met. They have never been the same since. 

They made a promise. It wasn’t too real or serious, just a dream that they hope with all their might would come true. They wish to one day meet each other. 

When this dream was made apparent that all five of them shared, purple smiled. Purple’s heart sung with joy, for she was once again reminded that she belonged. She sits, in front of her screen, closing her eyes and extending her pinkie. Purple wishes to meet the four vibrant, wonderful colors. 

One day, purple hopes. For now, she will remain at her screen: pencil to paper, fingers to keyboard. She is content with sharing herself this way, but...perhaps, with time...she will not be afraid of posting that picture. 

They all have their differences, yet they are still friends. 

They are The Heart Squad. ❤️💚💖💛💜