#I've lowkey been avoiding writing out my thoughts and feelings because I spend all day in the place we used to work together just trying to

[witchcraftingboop]

If I can just last until the end of the day, this'll be the first week since he died that I've managed to work more than 30 hours. I have no idea how I was pushing 60 hours before this; I just can't conceptualize it. Honestly, the world barely feels real when I look back, like those feelings and memories can't possibly exist in the same timeline that ended like this. It just doesn't feel right, and I know it's not fair but all I can think whenever anyone brings up the past is "that was ____ days before he died" or "she (me) has no idea that in ____ days he'll be gone" and it just makes it all feel different. Every memory is shaded with heavy emotions that weren't actually there, and now it's like I'm holding two reflections of the same time in my hands but I can't look away from the darker of the two no matter how aware I am that people are only bringing it up to make me smile or feel happy again. And without even thinking about it, I've realized that I've been looking at everything like that now. "This'll be my first Thanksgiving where I'm not going to his house." "These are the leaves he wanted to watch fall with his wife." "He would've wanted to hear about this." "I was going to invite him to this event once she got better." Not a single day goes by where I'm not experiencing the world through the lens of loss and it is exhausting.

[enchxanting]

our love is god [ethan landry x reader] pt. 8

read part seven here || all parts

pairing: ethan landry x fem!reader

warnings: angst then fluff then angst again i'm gonna give you whiplash, emetophobia warning (not graphic just implied), discussion of suicide

a/n: next chapter is gonna be crazy... just fyi so stay tuned i lowkey can't believe i've kept up with this through 8 chapters but i'm glad i did because it's been super fun interacting with you guys and a rlly good writing exercise. enjoy this short chapter!

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Dear Diary,

Funerals blow. I suppose they blow more when you were the one to accidentally kill the person, but I think they still blow in general. I tried saying something to Tara when we were all throwing roses into the grave (I know, how trite), but I ended up talking to God instead. I said something dumb, like “Technically, I did not kill Tara, but, hey, who am I trying to kid, right?”

I’ve started coping with humor.

No one ever feels much like celebrating at a teenager’s funeral. Sam was a wreck; barely even talked. I started a conversation, but she just stared through me. Mindy and Chad kept trying to get my attention, but I’m still kind of avoiding them. It’s easier this way, just to be with Ethan.

Speaking of, he didn’t show. Of course, no one was expecting him to– except me. I don’t know, I thought he’d want to be here.

I should probably go. I’ve been away too long, it’s getting suspicious.

Y/N

I close my diary in my lap and shove it into my bag. I’ve been writing in one of the bathroom stalls for the last ten minutes. Trying to kick the hand-washing habit. It’s hard to do much of anything with chapped fingers. Even though Dr. Stone’s writing therapy feels useless, it keeps my hands busy.

Making my way out of the women’s room, I spot my parents in the far corner of the church lobby. My mom has her head down, and her glassy eyes tell me that she’s reading some Times article that we’ll discuss on the car ride home instead of my best friend’s tragic suicide. My dad has the same vacant stare, too, but he’s not absorbed in anything– just staring out a window on the opposite wall.

For some reason, the sight makes me sick– I can’t spend another minute watching it. I storm out of the doors, chest heaving. 

Crossing the street, I end up on a small patch of grass by the parking lot. I double over, short of breath, and everything comes up. I’d be mortified if I didn’t feel like shit.

As I finish retching, I feel a hand on my back. I stiffen and turn to look.

“Fuck, Y/N, are you okay?” It’s Chad, with Mindy close behind.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry. Just overwhelmed.”

His eyes soften. “I get it.”

I can’t lie: it’s good to see the two of them. After avoiding everyone but Ethan for so long, the relief I feel at being with them outweighs my grief and guilt for the first time in days.

“Are you guys holding up any better than me?” I ask.

Chad laughs softly. “To be honest, no. I try not to think about it. I’ll get sucked into the cesspool of grief.”

“Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “I get that. What about you, Minds?”

She sighs. “Thinking too much, I guess.”

“Mm.”

There’s a long pause between all of us, but I don’t mind. I appreciate the quiet after the service.

Chad clears his throat. “So, um, we get that you’ve been MIA recently, and that’s cool because grieving is personal and all, but we miss you. A lot, actually. So will you please, please, please come have dinner with us tonight? At our place? Our parents are going out, so we can break into their wine cellar like we used to, I will cook, and Mindy will let you choose the movie for once.”

“I don’t know about that last bit,” Mindy intervenes, and Chad gives her a playful shove. “But, yeah. Please?”

I should probably say no, but, fuck, I miss them. “Okay.”

“Yes!” Chad hugs me tight, and pulls away, grinning. “We missed you, Y/N. Don’t be a stranger right now. We’re a team– you, me, Mindy, and Anika.”

Mindy groans. “Save your pep talks for your actual team. Season hasn’t even started yet, dork!”

“Yeah, whatever. We’ll see you tonight, okay?”

I roll my eyes at them as they walk away. “See you then.”

For the first time since Tara died, I let a big smile creep onto my face. Maybe this will all be okay.

That is, until I catch a glimpse of a dark jacket and curly hair in my peripheral vision. Turning sharply, I see Ethan, parked in his car across the street. He’s staring at Chad as he and Mindy walk towards their car.

Then he turns and looks at me, and my blood runs cold. His eyes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. There’s no hint of that softness I’ve become used to, but they’re not wild like last night in his car. His eyes are dark and stony, perfectly calculating.

Against my better judgment, I start towards his car, but his engine roars to life. He drops his gaze, and I stop before I reach the curb. 

Ethan speeds away without looking back.

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