#grief is suffocating. except because you didn’t… process or talk about any of it? the fact that the concept of family to some extent is

[godblooded]

fucking love being forced to take accountability and apologize for having emotions in a situation where my aunt is dying because evidently it’s never excusable to get angry when you’re pushed. it’s never fine to get upset when someone literally says to you ‘well we’ve all lost people’ when you mention that you’re losing your second mother.

[dannilea]

Gimme a moment of your time, if you would, to talk about Maddie Buckley (and, indirectly, her brothers, both of whom she loved so much, but only one she could save).

Maddie Buckley loves her baby brother more than anything- more than her parents and certainly more than Doug and there is nothing she wouldn't do for Buck, and that's where Philip and Margaret and Doug all miscalculated.

(They also underestimated Maddie in her entirety. She is kind and loving and fierce and stubborn and so much stronger than anyone ever believed, except maybe Buck, because he thought Maddie could do anything. And we don't know about Daniel, not really, only that he was there, so briefly, and the only evidence left is his sister's smothered grief and his brother's existence).

Maddie is nine when she looses her brother, and she doesn't just loose him to death, but also to their parents' grief as they make every piece of Daniel's very existence disappear.

(Except, they can't make Evan disappear and Maddie refuses to let their grief bury the brother she has left).

And maybe Philip and Margaret were different when Daniel was alive, but if they were it just meant Maddie lost them to their grief too.

So Maddie, no longer allowed to talk about Daniel (her brother), and not allowed to really process that grief, that loss that's almost impossible to understand that young, pours everything she has into herself and into Evan.

She holds him close and makes pinky promises and patches up his hurts (both physical and emotional because he doesn't know and can't understand why their parents are like that and it makes her so mad because she and Evan are right there. Don't they matter too?

And the answer, is, of course. Of course they matter, but it'll take over twenty years and running across the country for them to find the people that will love them as fiercely as they love they each other. To find a family).

And then she meets Doug who is sweet and charming and makes her feel wanted and valued. Who listens and adores her and supports her.

Who wants to know everything she does and every where she goes and after a life time of indifference from the two people who should have cared unconditionally it feels like freedom.

It feels like love.

She doesn't ever want Evan to know any different.

And then she goes with him to Boston and leaves behind her brother, and it breaks her heart but she always plans to come back.

(There is nothing in the world that will keep her from Evan)

But then she's married and her parents cut her off completely and Doug and her parents make it difficult for Evan to come see her or for her to see him and she can feel it in her soul that everything is wrong wrong wrong

And then she's back in Hershey and she sees how her parents are suffocating Evan - her baby brother who's heart is so big and so fragile and she loves more than anything. Who is bright and kind and just wants to matter.

(He matters. He matters to her so much more than he knows and her heart breaks everytime she sees the doubt in his eyes)

She knows if he stays with their parents, or even here in Hershey, he'll be suffocated by the ghost of their family's grief and he won't even know it.

She gives him her jeep and the money she'd been hiding and sends him away

(Oh, how she wanted to go with him but Doug was so mad when he found out and she never wants him near her brother again and she knows, she knows, he'd hunt them down if she went.

She won't ever let this monster have her brother.

She couldn't save Daniel, but she can save Evan.)

Evan wanders from place to place and state to state and Maddie treasures every postcard, talking about his adventures and the life he's living. He sounds like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Carefree and happy the way young boys in their early twenties should.

And then he's in Los Angeles and Evan becomes Buck and he finds a family in the 118 and she's so so happy when she reads his post cards. He's loved and cherished and she knows it.

And then things with Doug get worse and she clings to his Christmas card and wishes -

Then she's in L.A. and Buck has grown so much and she's so proud and she gets to meet the family he's built and -

She finds love - real love, the kind that props you up and makes you happy and feel safe. She gets folded into this makeshift family of first responders and gets to watch her brother grow more into himself and into this family he's found. She finds her own place in it and is so unbelievably happy.

(She couldn't save Daniel, but she saved Buck and got to see him thrive, and she hopes that, in whatever comes after death, Daniel can see them - and know that they're both happy and loved).

She didn't know this life was possible for her and Buck but she's so, so glad they've found it.

[mooglesorts]

hmmm... does it sound like a bird secondary/bird model thing to be, for lack of a better word, territorial?

not necessarily in the sense of, like, getting defensive and driving people off (although if someone gets into My Territory who makes the space unpleasant for me in some way i’ll be distressed and irritated). more like... establishing a home base, i guess? and slowly expanding my comfort zone from there. people, communities, my living space, there will usually be a few that i come back to when i’m too tired or overwhelmed to keep track of everything else. 

examples: 

---

when i’m in a discord server that i want to participate in more than in passing, i’ll usually start by camping out in one channel for a while and ignoring all the others. from there, once i’ve gotten to know people who frequent that channel, feel like they’ve gotten to know me, and feel like i’m Established there, i’ll start expanding out into other channels one or two at a time until i’m familiar with the whole server. it deadass took me half a year to branch out from the vent/mature topics channels in my current main server, and then it took months more for me to catch up to the whole server. if i don’t do it this way i’ll be overwhelmed, eventually get bored, and trip off my feeling-left-out-of-a-community sore spots. 

(which is a Thing about using snake secondary to reach out and do new things. sometimes it’s a lot of fun to just go where i feel like and explore! but if a) there’s nothing i can really do without spending money i don’t have, b) i get the side-eye for being Poor and Socially Awkward and Doing Things Weird, c) i don’t happen to be into some anime fandom i don’t care about that everyone else does, and have had zero opportunity to get at least a little invested in it in order to connect with people, d) i get ignored because no one knows me or is invested in the things i contribute; or e) i just plain go past my limits because i didn’t realize going in how much energy i’d be expending on the thing... i get bored, fast. what’s the point? might as well just turn around and go home; at least it’s comfy.)

(badger secondary model?)

---

i’m prone to homesickness. i’ve gotten a little better about it over the years, and after moving so many times in such short succession, but it’s really hard to let go of My Territory the more memories and familiarity i’ve built there. it’s super rough on me emotionally from anywhere to a few days to a couple weeks, and any time i think about it, but otherwise i adjust pretty fast to my new surroundings. 

(the exception here is when i, well... avoid going out and exploring snake-style, because i don’t want to get attached and then deal with the grief of leaving it behind later on. housing instability trauma sucks, and i’m still struggling to figure out how to deal with that.)

part of that might be having stayed in one place for most of my growing up, but it’s like... pretty easy for me to designate a new place as a home base even if i still miss the old one? idk. even when i have nothing left there, i still think of everywhere i’ve intentionally planted my flag as One of My Places.

---

it often takes me a long time to get comfortable with interacting with someone on a regular, friendly basis the closer the space i get to know them in. a lot of people who are now good friends of mine i had to build up my comfort levels with for years. there’s usually a moment of like... ‘oh okay this is our Friendship Unlocked Moment. the dam is broken,’ and even if we go long periods of time without talking a lot in private i don’t feel anxious and suffocated when we do. sometimes the Friendship Unlocked moment is one thing that happens all at once, and sometimes it’s several things over a long period of time until the scale tips for good. this is one reason i get cagey about initiating those friendship moments too directly sometimes, just because i know i might need to pull back and have space for a while again for the friendship to develop, and i don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.

weirdly enough, though, this process tends to be circumvented a lot the more distance there is between me and another person while i’m getting to know them? if i had gotten into the shc community by joining a server i would be way more shy, anxious, and wary, but when most of my potential-friendship-moments interactions with people take place on tumblr where it’s easier to get some space if i need to, it makes it way less uncomfortable and anxiety-inducing to point and go ‘friend! :D’ i’d probably be fine with exchanging discords with most of the people i’ve met on here at this point. 

it’s like the difference between meeting people and making friends at a hobby group where you meet once a week, and making friends by having to invite them over to your house every day. 

---

i’m very much the kind of person who will stick close with the friend who invited me to a party, lmao, or if i’m tagging along on a trip but don’t want to be there (or don’t want to deal with the hassle of finding them again if i wander off). sometimes i’ll jump right into a new situation and start making friends, but i get anxiety pretty easily about making people feel snubbed or left out if i don’t have the time or energy to engage with everything, so often i’ll just fall back on one or two options i’m most familiar with and let everything else pass me by. i used to be the kind of kid/teenager who’d stick so close behind people on public outings that i’d constantly be bumping into them by accident. (once again, if i didn’t want to be there, wasn’t allowed to go do my own thing, or was--in hindsight--dissociating.)

---

just... hm. thoughts? to me this sounds like either snakey, badgery rapidfire bird, or birdy, badgery snake who uses the other two to cover for social awkwardness/feelings of alienation/lack of time or energy/depression from my burned snake. or shit, maybe it’s badger all along, who knows.

[imanes]

Hello! You mentioned reading Piranesi a few months ago and I finally got around to reading it and I love it so much - thank you for the lovely recommendation <3 If you don't mind can you talk a little about what you loved about the book (I love hearing your thoughts)? Also have you read Jorge Luis Borges' Ficciones (I believe it inspired Piranesi)?

HELLO my friend!! first of all tysm for taking the recommendation, I'm so happy it worked for you! honestly what do I NOT love about this book? it's hard to wrap my thoughts about piranesi because it was such a lovely reading experience which i honestly need to repeat ASAP because the layers to explore in piranesi are so numerous. secondly let me admit that i haven't read any borges yet BUT he's definitely on my radar and I've been looking for his books on my used bookstore runs since i read piranesi, not to much avail unfortunately but i added ficciones to my tbr for reminder!!

anyways I'm gonna stop right here for anyone who has not read piranesi yet because i think you'd benefit from going into it not knowing much except that it's told in vignettes and that it has elements of mystery which become more and more central to the plot as we advance and unravel the world that piranesi lives in. so don't keep reading past this if u haven't read piranesi yet! i did keep it spoiler-free though so no pressure. also putting everything under a read more bc i truly was obnoxiously verbose adlkjglsjk if it didn't work my apologies 4 it

NOW let's talk about what i loved about the book which honestly will probably just be a flimsy overview bc again i think a re-read would make what i love about it more salient and richer but i guess we can already have a start here!

first of all, the character of piranesi. when i first started the book and immersed myself in his inner voice, i was kind of thinking ok there must be a reason as to why he is so incredibly wholesome but also with an extremely sharp mind and immaculate observation skills. the childlike wonder of his perspective was an absolute joy to read from but also provided some tension because i think pretty early on you catch that he might be a bit of an unreliable character and that what he tells you may not match the reality of what his experiences and observations mean to the reader. you're very much the prisoner of his limited perception, his sometimes bizarre but always delightful thought process, and also again the childlike wonder with which he observes the world and which makes everything carry so much more weight w/o resorting to pompous/pretentious gravitas. a statue isn't just a statue to him, it is the Statue, something important in and of itself, with its own story/mythos and it harkens back to a child's point of view which hasn't yet been shaped by the world and therefore isn't as limited as our jaded adults' minds, even though he is an adult himself, which is apparent in his very keen mind.

then we have the form, with the novel being told in vignettes. i personally really like novels such as these because they feel a lot more personal but also propels the story forward. I'm not a fan of huge chapters tbh because my attention span is trash lmao. it was so easy to immerse myself in his world because the writing was so vivid and honestly made me reevaluate a lot about myself adjdjslg. I'm not much of a quote person but "the Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite" lives rent-free in my mind because 1. it appears at two key points in the novel and both iterations echo the other brilliantly in their respective context and thus add even more meaning to the quote and 2. i think it's a beautiful metaphor for the world we live in, which leads me to the next point

what i mostly clung to during my reading experience was the theme of confinement to a specific physical space, which can feel suffocating and limited. susanna clarke suffers from a chronic illness that has kept her within the confines of her home for many years and this book very much reflects that. from my personal experience with that theme, i was less reminded of how thematically relevant it was in the middle of a pandemic, and more about how much goodness there is still in this world at a time where everything seems so bleak, and unkind. i myself suffer from an ugly case of chronic cynicism which i think is very unappealing lmao but at least I'm self-aware! being reminded that we live in a world where kindness is indeed infinite in the smallest and biggest of ways is the balm that my shriveled soul truly needed. i guess it's my emotional support quote lmao.

then we have the setting of the book which, while limited spatially, is also so full of wonderful things and imaginative configurations that i was just in awe of everything that was being done with it. the plot is closely tied to the setting and i really want to keep this spoiler-free (just in case) so I'm not going to delve too deeply into it but i'd love to visit this place and have piranesi guide me through the labyrinth of the House and the many wonders (and tragedies) that it holds.

finally we have the MYSTERY and omg i love picking up the clues and kind of forming my own theories along the way bc it truly isn't an in-your-face mystery like a thriller would be. we buddy-read this with some ppl from the book club so the experience of sharing our theories made it all the more pleasant. i really loved how clarke presented the many mysteries of the story in such a subtle yet gripping manner that soon i was just obsessed with knowing who was whom and what they wanted from piranesi and who piranesi was and how this all came to be. all the different players felt fully fleshed out and made me feel veeeery strongly (i.e. i wanted to kill some of them like literally daydreaming about choking them to death... not to sound unhinged or anything). they provided such good foils to piranesi's inherent goodness and all that they lacked in terms of decency. their shamelessness and infinite greed and how they see piranesi as a pawn to use set my teeth on edge so i was just biding my time for the karmic retribution that they'd get akjdlkgj also great exploration of how ambition can be the downfall of mankind

then we have all the clever-people-themes of neoclassicism and philosophy and plato's cave and whatnot and it's not what held my attention so i can't speak much on it bc I'm not one of those clever people who picked upon these themes LMAO but I'll for sure spend more time unpacking these layers on my re-read of this book because there are so many smart ideas hidden in the nooks and crannies of this story that i think you could get something different from each read, kind of like i feel about pride & prejudice by jane austen which offers me new delights to enjoy upon each re-read.

honestly i have so much more to say about how religion is handled, the rituals surrounding grief and their importance in the celebration and respect of of life, birds being amazing creatures, identity and how it can create contradictions etc etc but at this point i might as well just write a college essay on literally every theme explored in this book because it was just SO GOOD! thank u piranesi for me life

tl;dr this book made me feel like my brain was buried in a thick coat of dust and let some much-needed air in

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Ashes”

After The Joker’s daughter accidentally drowned, his relationship with Y/N fell apart: they were guilty of failing to protect what they loved, blaming each other and themselves to the point of no return. The sole palpable proof of Emma existence is her ashes encapsulated in glass pendants her parents wear and that’s hardly a memento able to help in such a difficult situation. Ashes are not meant to bring people together.

“Happy Birthday, Pumpkin Pie,” The Joker grumbles. “Here’s Charlie: I thought you would like to see him,” he places the purple hippo on Emma’s headstone.

Today his daughter would have been 4 years old. Instead of the usual party filled with laughter and presents he’s at “Eternal Peace” cemetery early in the morning for a different kind of festivity.

J never celebrated birthdays before yet once she showed up in his life the anniversary got a fresh new meaning: Y/N ensured that The King of Gotham was aware of how lucky they both were to have her. And he did learn to care about that tiny being he created who first called him something similar to “dada”, then a cute “da’y” and finally the word he craved to hear every single day until she was gone: “daddy.”

Being a father thought him a couple of things, but the most important was quite stunning: the index finger from his right hand wasn’t only meant for using a trigger; it was also his child’s soother.

Emma would keep it prisoner when she slept from an early age; of course all babies do it although in this case it didn’t go away once she got older.

And he misses that…

A lot.

Actually, he would give up on a robbery or anything that involves him holding a gun if she could clutch to his finger one more time.

That’s how much he misses The Princess.

“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” Frost gets him out of trance. “There’s movement at the South gate. We have to go…”

J snatches the plush animal and follows Jonny on a path behind the crypts when a woman walking on the alley leading to Emma’s grave catches his attention: although she has a red wig and sunglasses on, her disguise doesn’t fool him. It’s Y/N.

She’s carrying a small cake and intensely stares at the pavement, unaware of her surroundings.

The Joker can’t really tell what she’s doing once in front of the tomb, nevertheless he guesses she’s singing “Happy Birthday” while wiping the tears strolling down her cheeks.

He didn’t see Y/N in about 4 months. They went to the cabin by Moon Lake after Emma’s drowning and things were so rough he left immediately. She never followed, called or texted.

J didn’t either.

Why bother? They were guilty of failing to protect what they loved, blaming each other and themselves to the point of no return.

Today is extremely difficult to deal with, especially since the catalyst binding them vanished forever.

The sole palpable proof of Emma existence is her ashes encapsulated in glass pendants her parents wear and that’s hardly a memento able to help in such a difficult situation.

Ashes are not meant to bring people together.

***************

After 2 Hours

“Hi,” The King of Gotham drags his feet on the porch and takes a sit on the chair next to yours.

“Hi…” you whisper, surprised to spot him after such a long absence.

Complete silence, then he utters:

“I’m here for the cake,” he points at the sweet treat resting on the wood table: vanilla- strawberry combo, your daughter’s favorite.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I crave the taste…”

You lean over and cut two slices, sharing Emma’s birthday cake with her dad. It’s really painful to swallow the morsels knowing your baby can’t; it seems J is in the same boat.

“I can’t make anybody happy…” The Clown mumbles under his breath and the randomness of his statement makes you wonder what’s going on in his mind.

“Me neither… Sweet Pea was happy, wasn’t she? She was a happy kid…”

The Joker moves his plate towards you, hissing:

“She was and she would still be with us if instead of flirting you would have watched her!”  

“… … W- what?!...” you glare at him, astonished he has the nerve to pop up and hurt you in such a manner. “Since when talking to somebody is flirting?! Where were you, huh? Where were you??? In your goddamn office plotting more schemes in order to get more money because nothing is enough!” you raise your voice and burst out crying in the next second. “She was ours to protect, the only treasure that mattered! I just… I just took my eyes off her for a few moments, I had no idea my baby was drowning in that pool …” you keep sobbing at the horrible memory, heartbroken. “I could have save her…Why didn’t I…?…”

The Joker can’t understand what you’re saying anymore, yet he doesn’t reply to your accusations or remorseful confessions.

How could he?

He’s equally responsible for Emma’s demise but it’s easier to attack her mother.

You abruptly get up and rush inside the cottage, abandoning J to his own demons. He doesn’t know if he should bail or stay, thus he continues to gaze at the lake numb to everything.

Still… The quietness is becoming unbearable so he finally gathers the strength to stand up and search for you.

“Y/N?...” he shouts. “Where are you?”

Silly question since the cabin is a little area with a kitchen/living room combo, one bedroom and bathroom: easy to find what you’re looking for.

No response but the shower is on which queues him Y/N must be there.

The Joker approaches the bathtub, unwilling to remove the curtain and talk to you face to face.

“It was my fault too…” he admits a fact that tormented him since the accident. “I should have kept an eye on her… I couldn’t predict she’ll sneak out to play by the swimming pool… I would give away a fortune if I could fix it… Do you believe me?...”

You sniffle and cover your mouth, trying to avoid his trap: if you engage, he will probably bite more and that’s the last thing you need.

“I have Charlie in the car; I thought you might want him tonight,” J reveals the true purpose of his visit. “Drop him off tomorrow at 3pm, I’ll be at the warehouse on 17Th Street. You can’t have the toy, it belongs in her room…”

You hear his steps receding and gasp for air, completely crushed by despair: the agony of grief is stronger than any consolation a stupid purple hippo could offer.

But it was Emma’s favorite and The Joker is willing to share a token of what you both lost; now that you think about it… you really missed Charlie…

**************

Next Day, 2:05pm

“Where’s everybody?” you mutter whilst entering the code at the gates. Usually there are at least 8 henchmen guarding the fence and no sign of them so far. You drive up the unpaved alley, curiously checking out the landscape: same trees, bushes and trucks you’re familiar with, except you can’t discern a single goon patrolling the perimeter.

You honk to get the crew’s assistance without any success and you wonder if The Joker tricked you; I mean, you should have seen it coming: he is probably attempting one of his convoluted strategies to punish you for the tragic past.

You stop in front of the building, intrigued to notice it appears deserted.

Suddenly, a powerful blast shakes the ground and you watch part of the roof collapsing on the north side; a few windows shatter also.

You jump out of the car, totally confused at the strange occurrence.

“Hello?” you yell. “J???”

There’s smoke coming out of the opened metal door and you hesitantly walk in the warehouse, coughing at the suffocating odor.

“J?...” you scream. “J!!!!!”

A faint knock in the distance prompts your attention.

“Y/N!!”

“J??” you run towards the source of the noise only to find him under rubble next to the south entrance. “Oh my God!” you kneel by his feet buried under bricks. “What happened?!” The Queen frantically removes debris as he groans in pain.

“Explosives, that’s what happened. Shit, I think I fucked up my legs!”

“Where are the guys??!!” you inquire, managing to free his feet enough for him to move.

“I gave them the day off,” The Joker’s explanation puzzles Y/N. “Hurry up, please!! Another detonation will follow shortly!”

“Jesus Christ!” you quicken the pace and push the last bricks out of the way. “Can you stand?”

J rolls on his side, unable to comply.

“No, you’ll have to haul me out of here!”

“Come on!” you place your hands under his underarms and start pulling. “The exit is right there!”

You huff while straining to get to safety as The Clown aims to aid by lifting his body off the ground as much as he can.

“Behind the truck!” he urges once you’re out of the premises and you barely have time to hide behind the vehicle when a second bang levels half of the construction.

“This didn’t go according to plan,” J admits in a low tone, panting a storm after the ordeal.

You asses his wounds, pressing on the ankle and he immediately growls.

“The bone’s fractured,” you wipe your sweaty forehead.  “What plan?”

“It’s actually your fault for all of this; I told you to swing by at 3 o’clock. You’re early!”

“Huh?”

“You were supposed to come when I told you then boom! Before you reached the building it would go up in flames: you would flip thinking that I’m dead and then I’ll show up and ask you to come back home. You would be so excited to see I’m alive you couldn’t refuse. Yet you ruined everything: you appeared out of nowhere, I panicked and messed up: you know I’m not good with this stuff!!”

You can’t even process the plot he’s throwing your way.

“What kind of plan…”

“I just told you I’m not good at this stuff,” he interrupts. “You know I’m not.”

You touch your chest, baffled at the ridiculous story.

“My pendant!” you exclaim when you realize the chain is not around your neck anymore. “It’s gone!” Y/N desperately searches the grass. “My baby, where’s my baby?” you part the green lawn on the verge of crying. “I can’t find my pendant! Maybe I dropped it the building,” you whimper and prepare to flee when J grabs your jeans, firmly holding on.

“Don’t go; the poles might cave in and whatever is left standing will squash you!!”

You don’t comprehend why he’s so worked up and his plea catches you off guard:

“Don’t go! I’ll give you half my ashes, ok?”

The Queen debates on The King’s proposal, conflicted by his candid offer.

After all, if ashes tear people apart, how come they can’t bring them back together?

Also read: MASTERLIST

https://diyunho.tumblr.com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[catboymingi]

memories - in this life and the next chap. 1

navi/masterlist

story masterlist

pairing: mingi x reader

genre: angst; soulmates & reincarnation au

word count: 3.1k

warnings: amnesia, hospital environments, dealing with grief, emotional neglect, a teeny bit of language

a/n: this is so short i’m sorry i promise the next ones will be longer, this one was just mainly to like... build the context. also the change in you/her from the previous chapter is intentional, it’s ~foreshadowing~

while some people want nothing more than to remember, others would give everything just so they could forget

the four minutes of silence had been the worst four minutes your family had ever lived through. the doctors had done whatever doctors did when someone died in their hospital bed, but were at least as surprised as your family when you shook slightly, immediately resuming their efforts at reanimating you, and this time it worked. they attached you to an incredible amount of machines and put you into an artificial coma to spare your body from having to do more work than absolutely necessary until they could somewhat safely say that being awake would not risk anything for you anymore.

when you woke up for the first time weeks after you had died for four minutes you didn’t recognise any of the faces around you. you didn’t understand what they were saying, and you couldn’t recognise the name they called you by.

“i don’t understand”, you said weakly, and surprised everyone when you spoke korean. of course your entire family spoke korean - your parents had immigrated in their twenties, before you were born, so you’d grown up bilingual. what was surprising wasn’t that you knew korean, it was that you didn’t understand the language that was supposed to be as natural to you as korean was. it was then that they realised they hadn’t gotten their daughter back. that their daughter didn’t even remember that she was their daughter. but you were alive, and that was already more than they’d hoped for when the machines first turned silent.

the doctors told you that this amnesia might slowly disappear, that you might slowly remember your life again, but also warned you that it might not ever leave and you had to be prepared for that. it stung, but they tried their best to give you your memories back, tell you about your life, your friends, everything you’d ever done that they could tell you about. you couldn’t remember any of it, but it seemed like your life had been fairly happy, if you ignored the autoimmune disease you had to deal with. they’d always tried their best to allow you as much of a normal life as they could, and even though you couldn’t remember any of it you still felt a deep gratitude towards these people that obviously cared about you incredibly much. so you tried to like them, to feel the feelings towards them that a daughter should have towards her parents, and while you didn’t feel close to them yet, couldn’t feel close to them yet, your discomfort at their touches, their physical affection, had slowly started to decrease. you knew it probably hurt them, but it wasn’t something you could change, no matter how hard you tried.

//

unlike this family, mingi hadn’t been lucky enough for the love of his life to wake up again. he’d refused to leave her side until they had told him there was nothing they could do, that there was nothing he could do either, at which point he’d broken down crying, unable to be strong anymore. he’d lost her. he’d lost her forever and he was stuck waiting until he could find her again, in the next life and the one after that, wanting nothing more than to speed up the process. but he knew that she wouldn’t have wanted that, so he forced himself to go on, even though he was but a shadow of himself, burying himself in his work and moving in with a friend because he couldn’t stand returning to the apartment he’d shared with her every single day, all the memories and all the little pieces of her that he refused to get rid of even though he was unable to even look at any of it. he felt like if he got rid of even the smallest piece of trash that she’d forgotten to throw away before she left for work that day he got rid of her, of the memories and of the relationship and of all the moments and feelings he’d shared with her. and while his friends were worried for him they knew he needed to grieve, they knew he needed his time, and they were more than willing to wait for him to be even a little more okay than he was now. they knew she’d been his everything.

//

day after day you tried to become yourself again, trying to remember who you even were in the first place. but your memories seemed to be irrevocably gone, even your name not yet something you reacted to each time someone called out for you. it didn’t feel like you. it didn’t feel like the person you were now, and you felt like you’d failed everyone for not wanting to be a person you couldn’t even remember. you wanted to create a new you, because unlike the people surrounding you, the people that remembered who you used to be and that had an attachment to those memories, the person that you were before you died held no significance to you, the only thing you had in common with her being her body, her genetic set up. you didn’t want to have to keep trying to be someone you weren’t even sure you wanted to be.

at least your overall physical condition seemed to have improved drastically, miraculously. it was as if your autoimmune disorder had died along with you, something the doctors tried very hard to figure out because that wasn’t how genetic disorders worked, but it seemed like that was the trade-off for your complete lack of memory. everyone was still somewhat wary at your sudden and technically impossible recovery, so that you were kept in the hospital for another couple weeks even after you were fine, just to be sure, but when your condition seemed to not worsen at all even after one and a half months you were deemed stable enough to return home. you would have to come in weekly for a check-up, and you would have to be careful to not over-exert yourself, but since you would be on constant watch by your parents the doctors decided that it might be helpful for you to return to your childhood home, maybe having some memories resurface in the familiar environment.

that hope was quickly destroyed by the harsh reality of your brain refusing to remember anything at all. it was as if you’d never even been in this house, and all the pictures on the walls didn’t feel like you, either. the house felt heavy, suffocating, enveloped in feelings and memories that everyone but you remembered. you felt like a stranger, you felt out of place, and as soon as your parents allowed you to you spent as much time in public spaces as you could. you wanted to escape the pressure of having to remember, and you wanted to escape their looks of disappointment and resentment towards you, the person that looked so much that the daughter they’d loved but didn’t behave like her at all. because even though you had no memory of them you didn’t want to be looked at like that, like you’d stolen their daughter from them, like you were an intruder. like it was your fault. not remembering them was okay for you, but knowing that they remembered you, remembered the you from before and the you now, and that it was very obvious which one they preferred? that hurt. knowing that you weren’t good enough for them hurt. knowing that, even if they’d never admit it, a part of them wished you’d stayed dead because this was like you being dead except they had to look at you all the time hurt. and knowing that you had no one to go to about this, to talk to about how you felt, hurt as well.

so, hours outside turned into more and more time, until at some point you decided you were tired of it. your parents had money, savings, and even though you felt a ping as guilt as you took them that quickly subsided, because you knew that the money they kept in the house wasn’t even close to all their money. they’d maybe not even notice it. but for you, it would make life much easier. you gathered the essentials - a sleeping bag they’d told you about in one of their desperate attempts to get you to remember things, food that wouldn’t be expiring anytime soon, and whatever else google told you was useful for living on the streets. it wasn’t like you were planning to do that - you weren’t stupid, nor were you suicidal, and the money you had might last you for a very cheap airbnb for the entire month and maybe more; by that time you planned to have found a job and your own place to stay. you didn’t rush this, either - transferred the money to a new bank account, got yourself a new wardrobe, a few pieces at a time, tried to prepare yourself for what you were about to do as well as you could. you might’ve hated your current life, but running away without any kind of planning wasn’t going to improve your situation. so you took your time.

when you finally did it, though, you felt relieved. you didn’t realise how caged you’d felt until you were out. it felt like you were able to breathe again, for the first time since you woke up after dying.

//

mingi still was very far from over her, but his friend yunho had convinced him that he should rent out the living room in the apartment he still refused to enter, he still refused to give up. he paid rent there, by himself now that she was gone, and the only reason why he managed to keep it was all the extra shifts he’d picked up and the fact that yunho had mercy on him and didn’t ask for a lot of rent. but he couldn’t keep it up forever either, and it was because of this that a few weeks after the initial idea, they’d found someone who had rented the living room for a few weeks right away. mingi still wasn’t ready to go in, so he asked his friend to go and lock your bedroom and take away everything that he knew was so personal to the heartbroken man. he hated the idea of changing anything, but he hated the idea of a stranger rummaging through his life with the love of his life even more. so all the important things, the anniversary gifts, the pictures, were locked in the bedroom.

it hurt yunho to be there, as well - mingi hadn’t been the only one that she’d meant a lot to. being as close as he was with the tall male it had been impossible to not befriend her too, her bright and lively aura pulling in everyone that got to meet her. but he prepared everything, for his friend, because he knew that if he had to go back he’d break down and no one might be able to piece him back together.

and it was yunho who welcomed the very first person - besides him - to enter the apartment where mingi’s entire heart was still kept.

//

you’d found a place to rent for cheap very soon - it was almost an entire apartment, for half the price you’d pay if you were to rent it first-hand. the person you’d been messaging sounded incredibly nice, and while you were doubtful because it was a man who sorted things with you and a man that was the main tenant you had a fairly good feeling about just these men. you’d been given some clear rules via call already - don’t move anything, don’t throw anything away that you didn’t bring, preferably just don’t touch anything unless absolutely necessary. you thought it was odd, but you accepted it. it was a place to stay, more luxurious than you could have hoped for, and you were guaranteed that you’d be able to stay for as long as you wanted to if you followed the rules.

a tall blond greeted you in front of the building, showing you the way to your new home for the next few weeks and handing you the keys. he entered with you, making sure there were no questions about the apartment and once more stressing that you were not allowed to throw anything away, change anything, and that the bedroom was a hard no. it was locked, anyway, but he wanted to be sure. and while you accepted these rules, you were curious about them because it did sound a little like the owner either had ocd or was an axe murderer who kept the evidence hidden away in his apartment.

“i’ll do that, no problem, but why all these rules?” but you knew the question was a sensitive one when you saw the pain that immediately distorted the man’s expression.

“this is my friend’s apartment. he shared it with his girlfriend, but she… she died. no pretty way to say it. it’s still fresh, and he just doesn’t want to lose any memories, you know? he hasn't even been here since. he wants to have her to come back to when he does, even if just in the trash she left on the floor.”

you nodded in understanding - you remembered how the first time you’d changed anything up in your room your parents damn near had a breakdown, and you weren’t even really dead.

“i’m sorry for his loss. i’ll do my best not to change anything up unless absolutely necessary. thank you for letting me stay here even though it’s hard. i know it is.” and because your voice sounded like you genuinely understood yunho got curious about you, this stranger that had rented the apartment from two strange men by herself, for several weeks in a row, seemingly willing to accept whatever rules and regulations he’d put up. he knew it’d be inappropriate to ask about you when he’d barely just met you, though, so he stayed silent, nodding at you.

“just in case something’s wrong you can always text me, or call me if it’s urgent, same number as when we last called. i hope this’ll be okay for you.”

it felt like the two of you were nodding at least as much as you were talking, you moving your head in acknowledgment again.

“anyway, i’ll go now. check up on my friend.”

“tell him thank you for letting me stay here.”

“yeah.” and with that, he left.

when you settled on the couch you felt a weird kind of familiarity, a familiarity you hadn’t felt a single time ever since you woke up again. you didn’t understand why, had no conscious recollection of this place, knew you’d never been here before. still, it felt like you knew it, knew these surroundings. the feeling was weird, kind of uncomfortable and scary, but you decided to ignore it in favour of going to sleep.

//

mingi had sent yunho to check up on the apartment every single day, to make sure that the stranger he still hadn’t met wasn’t wreaking havoc and destroying the only remembrance of her physical presence he still had. but day after day his friend told him that it seemed like you kept your promise to not change anything up, like you’d barely even touched anything at all. the couch was changed, of course, and you’d also used the bathroom and the kitchen, but both yunho and mingi were surprised at the fact that you always used the same set of cutlery, the same plate, the same towel. you’d gotten your own dish soap, your own laundry detergent, because you didn’t even want to risk emptying the ones she’d bought back then. you were careful, attentive and compassionate, and it made mingi curious to get to know you. he knew he’d not be able to see you in the apartment, so he asked yunho to ask you to meet up with the two of them in some café, just because he was curious and he wanted to ask if you were still comfortable at his place that didn’t feel like his anymore now that she was gone.

he was a little nervous about it, just because you might ask questions and because you might dig in his past and because being face to face with the person that was living where she used to live might cause emotions he’d more or less successfully suppressed by now to resurface. but his friend had convinced him that at least from your part there was nothing to fear, that you’d been more considerate of the situation than even most of their friends had been.

//

you were nervous when yunho asked you to meet in some café, because you didn’t know the second man at all, hadn’t even been told his name yet because the blond always just referred to him as ‘his friend’. you wanted to leave a good impression, so you got a little dressed up, though not too much because that’d be inappropriate as hell considering the other man had just lost his girlfriend not too long ago. it was just subtle makeup and clothes that were a bit fancier than your usual ripped jeans and oversized t-shirt, opting for ripped jeans and a cropped top instead. it was all black, not even on purpose but because you felt most comfortable in dark clothes, and after you’d spent half an hour overthinking if your outfit was appropriate or if you should wear something else you finally left.

it wasn’t hard finding the café - it was close to where you lived now, and while it wasn’t too fancy it wasn’t too hidden away, either, so that you weren’t left looking around for some secret entrance for an hour as you’d feared you would be. you entered carefully, scanning the café for the blond man whose face you could easily recognise by now by how often he’d visited you to check up on both you and the apartment, and it only took about a minute to spot him. then, your eyes fell upon the tall male next to him, and you felt the same weird kind of familiarity that had become your constant companion in the apartment. you knew there was no way you knew him, and you knew that this was probably just the desire to finally know something again, remember something again. still, you surprised yourself when you opened your mouth and yelled for him.

“mingi!”

[diifacto]

Saw your post about the hunger games and i completly agree. Anyway you said there wasn't really a love triangle and now I'm curious what you mean with that? I mean like imma start following you anyway now so i won't miss it when you talk about this, but...

I’ve gotten a lot of questions/comments like this one on the statement I made in my last Hunger Games post about the series having no real love triangle, so here’s me (finally) explaining my reasoning.

It was really hard to organize my thoughts in a cohesive, complete way, as I’ve never actually organized my arguement on paper—just verbally, usually yelling (passionately) at my sister—so I’ve split them up into categories based on which aspects of the novels I’m discussing.

First Impressions

Beginning, as all things do, with first impressions. The Hunger Games is, first and foremost, categorized as a YA novel. Now, I love YA. I’ve been reading YA all my life and will probably continue doing so for the rest of it. But there are a ton of tropes/patterns found consistently through just about every YA novel out there, just as in any other genre—sci-fi has spaceships, blasters, and aliens; fantasy has monarchies, dragons, and curses; and YA has love triangles, rebellions, “bad boy” boyfriends, etc. Obviously, this is a gross generalization, but you know what I mean—when Katniss introduces Gale as “the only person with whom I can be myself,” and he checks off the attractive and male boxes on top of it, anyone who’s ever read YA has alarm bells going off in their head: Love Interest Detected.

But, before anything can happen with Gale, we’re heading straight into the Games, where we are confronted with yet another possible love interest. Peeta, Katniss’s competitor—but fake, star-crossed lover? And they have history from back in District 12? We have ourselves a second Love Interest, and therefore we’ve got ourselves a Love Triangle!

(Ignore the Games, of course. The oppressed, impoverished, desperate state of the districts under the Capitol’s control. The children being sent to die for their amusement. The two sixteen-year-olds doing anything they can to stay alive one more day. No, we’ve got some romance on our hands!)

And isn’t that it? Readers go into The Hunger Games, are introduced to these two young, attractive men, who obviously have feelings for Katniss, and whom Katniss depends on (we’ll dig into the significance of that later) in return—and understandably assume this’ll blossom into a plot point. And it does, but not in the way readers are expecting. Suzanne Collins herself never portrays Gale and Peeta as opposing love interests; rather, she uses them to represent opposing worldviews, a huge choice Katniss has to make in Catching Fire. What readers are expecting to happen, though—Love Triangle, Katniss choosing one of the boys, Team Peeta or Team Gale, etc.—can get in the way of how they perceive what Suzanne Collins is really trying to say.

Katniss’s “Choice”

I’d like to present a word to you: juxtaposition. I learned it in English class, it’s fun to say, and it means, according to Google, “The fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect.” I think it describes love triangles pretty well; after all, isn’t a love triangle just two, different people placed in the same situation, each with their respective pros and cons? I also think it describes Gale and Peeta’s characters pretty well; except instead of Suzanne Collins juxtaposing them based on their looks, general atheleticism, and by who remembers Katniss’s birthday, she aligns them with two possible futures for Katniss, and two different beliefs.

A life with Peeta means a lifetime of keeping her head down, following the path the Capitol has set for her, living in fear and suffocating oppression, hoping the spark will die out. A life with Gale means the opposite: taking it to the Capitol, rebelling against the Games, turning the spark into a flame and hoping everyone she loves survives the fire.

This is the choice Katniss makes in Catching Fire. When she kisses Gale after he’s been whipped, it’s not because she’s coming into any newfound feelings, it’s because she’s made her decision—to stay and rebel against the Capitol. And in this choice, a life with Peeta is of the Capitol’s invention, and a life with Gale is only another way to rebel.

That’s all there really is to Katniss’s “choice.”

Dependence

“But Margaret,” you say, “Katniss does have feelings for Gale and Peeta in return.” Oh, sure. I won’t argue there—there’s a reason, aside from them being superficially perfect Love Interest archetypes, that both these boys themselves do appeal to Katniss. But these “feelings,” this reason, aren’t/isn’t inherently romantic.

After Katniss’s father died, Collins depicts how Katniss’s mother fell into an incredibly lethargic state, sick with sadness, and effectively abandoned eleven-year-old Katniss to deal with her own grief and keep the family alive, all alone. Understandably, this experience has kept Katniss from trusting easily or becoming too dependent on people, lest they do the same and leave when she needs them. For the most part, Katniss lives independently, relying on no one for support, not accepting help. But why, when people argue that Katniss does have feelings for both Gale and Peeta, do I have to admit that while I disagree overall, there is something there Katniss doesn’t let herself feel for anyone else? What makes these two boys different from everyone else in The Hunger Games?

Simple: they’re the only two people Katniss (reluctantly) lets herself depend on.

When discussing Gale’s popularity among the girls at school, Katniss mentions that it makes her jealous, but not for the reason people think. “Good hunting partners are hard to find,” she says, 1. acknowledging Gale’s desirability, 2. making her lack of romantic interest clear, and 3. admitting she relies on him as a hunting partner, and feels threatened by the idea of losing him. And of course she does—especially since Collins shows us that it isn’t just Katniss herself depending on Gale; after the reaping it will be Prim, who Katniss describes as the only person in the world she’s certain she loves, and her mother. Without Gale, and with Katniss heading off to the Games, she has no way to ensure Prim’s safety. Thus, Katniss is incredibly dependent on Gale.

Peeta comes later, but equally as necessary; offering Katniss safety through their star-crossed lovers strategy, and, later, an understanding of the Games she can’t get from anyone else. Katniss, someone so scared of depending on people, has ended up depending on these two boys for different things. Gale, to protect her family, her home, to offer her freedom from the stifling nature of the Capitol and the Victor’s Village; and Peeta, to offer her understanding and freedom in a different way, from the dreams, from the arena, from the pressure of keeping everyone alive.

So when people counter my opinion that Katniss never had any romantic feelings for either Gale nor, initially, Peeta (we’ll break that “initially” down, don’t worry), I’ll give them that, yes, Gale and Peeta got something from Katniss no one else did: trust. And trust is, of course, a fantastic base for a healthy, romantic relationship. But it doesn’t become one in Hunger Games. Katniss loves Gale, and she loves Peeta, I can’t argue that. But that love isn’t romantic.

Debts Owed

This will be very brief—just something to think about, to go along with my analysis of Katniss’s dependence.

I need to acknowledge that, while my arguement is that Katniss never had any definitively romantic feelings for either Gale or Peeta, they definitely did for her. And she knew. So, just for a moment, I’d like us to consider the thought process of someone who has never, ever, let herself depend on anyone else—depending on someone who obviously wants something more from her?

Do you think she may feel like she owes something to this person, as thanks? Do you think she might be afraid, if they weren’t to get what they want, that they might leave? Do you think that, even if she didn’t have any romantic feelings for either of the two, she might kiss them, just in case?

I’m not saying this is the case in Hunger Games, but as I was writing up “Dependence,” it occurred to me: what would that really do to a person? And I just wanted to bring it up for discussion. When Katniss made her choice—rebellion—did she have to seal that choice with a kiss? Or was that her way of ensuring that yes, she was picking rebellion, and Gale was the rebellious choice, and yes, this kiss, this promise, will keep him by my side.

Was Gale Ever Really A “Contender”?

Let’s tie the frayed ends of “First Impressions”/“Katniss’s ‘Choice’”/“Dependence”/“Debts Owed” together. If you’ve made it this far, you’ve an inexhaustible well of patience, and I applaud you.

Remember when I added that “initially” when discussing Katniss’s lack of romantic feelings for Peeta? While I’m still firmly on the side of Katniss ending up single—at least for a few years, while the poor girl recovers and figures all the shit you’re supposed to understand in your teens, and when you’ve been through a war, out—of both “choices,” of course she ends up with Peeta. Why? Well.

Despite the “choice,” despite dependence, despite all the evidence laid here on the contrary, despite all that, if you still think there’s a love triangle in Hunger Games, explain to me this: you need two love interests to make a love triangle—and was Gale ever really a contender?

Let’s walk through it. Right from the beginning, immediately after Suzanne Collins introduces Gale, she has Katniss go through the steps discussed in “Dependence”; acknowledge desirability and attractiveness, state her disinterest romantically, and move on. Already, sweeping any suggestion that Katniss may have some unspoken, romantic love towards Gale. Not to say it couldn’t develop—but it doesn’t.

Catching Fire is where the boys are perhaps juxtaposed the most, with Katniss’s “choice” coming into play. Remember what I said about debts owed? Gale continues to push Katniss’s boundaries, confessing his love, pressuring her, even after she’s expressed her disinterest in love right now (amid all this death and rebellion, a perfectly fucking normal sentiment) and confusion around the subject. Not only that, but he insults Peeta, Haymitch, and those involved with the Games (ex. Cinna, Effie, Katniss’s prep team) by lumping them in with the Capitol, and while the latter is a fair judgement, he doesn’t listen to Katniss when she tries to defend them and explain they’re rebelling in their own way, same as him. Gale in Catching Fire begins his “downwards spiral,” as he turns everything black and white, shunning Katniss when she doesn’t agree 100% and accepting her back with open arms after she kisses him.

Peeta, on the other hand, understands the gray area. He listens to Katniss, and although he’s getting exactly what he wants—a relationship with Katniss, a life with Katniss—he takes no joy in it because he knows it isn’t what Katniss wants. Remember after their proposal, on the Victory Tour, when Katniss asks Haymitch why Peeta’s not happy, as this was what he wanted? Haymitch tells her it’s because he wanted it to be real. And that’s true for Peeta throughout the whole trilogy; he truly cares about Katniss’s wants, tries his hardest not to pressure her, and is genuinely a continuous source of support. He rebels, the entire time, in his own quiet, calculated way; with the money in District 11, with the “baby bomb” in the interviews.

Here’s a juxtaposition for you: Peeta’s love for Katniss isn’t conditional; Gale’s is.

For proof, just look at Mockingjay. Specifically, look at—spoilers—Prim’s death.

Everyone knows that girl is the most important thing in the world to Katniss. All of District 12 knows it, President Snow knows it, President Coin knows it—hell, regular, average citizens of the Capitol know it. Everyone knows there is nothing, nothing in the world that could make Katniss put Primrose in danger, even at her own expense. Katniss would rather die than have Prim get hurt, and anyone close to her, who loves her, knows damn well that’s what she’d want.

So when Gale’s bomb goes off, delivering the final blow to the Capitol, at the expense of so many innocent lives, at the expense of Katniss’s sister—there was no love for Katniss there. There was absolutely no consideration, no respect for Katniss. There was just violence, and the hungry, desperate need to win this war, to rebel.

I could never say that Katniss and Gale weren’t a great team. I could never say they weren’t good, lifelong friends—I mean, starting out. They were fantastic hunting partners, further shown in Mockingjay, when they started hunting people instead of deer or turkey or wild dogs. But they grew apart, after Katniss changed in the Games and Gale changed in the rebellion, and there was never, really, the chance of anything romantic between them. Katniss depended on Gale to, above all other things, protect her sister, and he didn’t, so she stopped depending on him. And there wasn’t anything left.

That’s what I mean when I say, even if you think Katniss had real feelings for Peeta—and they do end up together, so even if I don’t agree with it, okay, alright, maybe it was Suzanne Collins’ intention—there’s still no love triangle, because Katniss never had feelings for Gale. And even if, maybe, maybe some would’ve developed—we’re getting into pure hypotheticals here—his character never would’ve been a real option for Katniss. They changed too much, and grew too far apart, and there would have been absolutely no chance for him after Prim.

Conclusion

In conclusion, I’m sorry. I’m more cohesive and intelligent verbally. Most of the time. Promise.

In conclusion, there is no love triangle in Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games. Rather, there are two boys who have feelings for the same girl, and this girl, who never depends on anyone, depends on these two boys for different things, and has to make a huge, horrible, irreversible choice, and somehow it ends up attaching itself to these two boys. And that’s really all there is to it.

[primedirection]

Needy

Harry thinks Y/N is needy

Weeks go by and almost all has been swept under the rug. As far as you knew Harry had been completely oblivious to the event he missed. Only ever asking questions about it when seeing the trophy and although it made you furious. Very furious. You made the conscious decision to pretty much pretend it never happened in order to save yourself the grief.

Why get so worked up over something that wasn't even a blip on his radar? He probably wouldn't react the way he's supposed to, therefore causing more drama so there was really no point.

Especially since he gets swept into a mania of his own and things are a little tense. Four different performances this week, a televised album release party slash live show, not including other TV appearances, and the perfectionist in him is running wild.

Okay so actually.. things are super tense these days.

The late rehearsals and early sound checks were meshing together. Cutting into the limited time that you two barely had to spend together. Since he was bound to start his international promotional tour in the following weeks.

Today it was Harry's idea to come out and spend the day with him and yet you wished to be anywhere he wasn't.

While in the backseat of a town car on the way to the venue, Harry was completely and utterly glued to his phone. Scowl on his face and stress apparent in the tension of his shoulders. You thought that it would help if you loved on him little bit, maybe with a warm squeeze around his tummy and chaste kiss to the cheek. So you did just that. Smiling an encouraging, "Love you," up at him and waiting for the returned gesture.

But you couldn't have been more wrong.

Harry flinches instinctively, startled more or less and when you smile at him he frowns thoroughly irritated, "Can yeh give me two bloody minutes to breathe? I literally feel like I'm suffocating!" he snaps.

Hurt, you deflate immediately muttering a quick, "Sorry," before sliding back on your side as close as possible to the window. Trying to give him the space he needed.

Harry kills all hope of the ride becoming pleasant again when he huffs a grim but satisfied, "Thank you." Then occupies himself with his phone again.

He doesn't say another word until you arrive at the venue, and it's to a production manager. You get a tour of the backstage area and then of the enormous arena itself. In that process your previous inner turmoil was put out by empathy and pride. All at once you understood why he was so on edge but you were also extremely proud of him. Jeff had just informed him that it was a sold out show too. That all these empty seats would be filled up just to see him.

Filled with enamor, you couldn't help yourself when you catch him coming off the stage. Quietly discussing a delay in the equipment set up with Jeff. A playful pat on his butt instantly grabs his attention and you smile excitedly, "You would be the one to sell out this massive place, I'm so happy for you babe!"

Jeff quickly makes himself scarce and for the lack of an audience your grateful. But perhaps you should've taken note because once again Harry startles in an irritable way. The muscles in his jaw taught as he suddenly and briskly ushers you by the upper arm to an unoccupied area backstage, "Jesus Christ, why are you everywhere I turn? You do realize that I'm working right now, right? I don't have time to deal with this needy shit all day."

Though this time around you struggle to just take it on the chin. Harry was literally treating you like some burden that begged to come and not like you had to clear your whole schedule of things that were actually top priority just to be here. "Needy? I'm just trying to be supportive!"

"Okay and you can't do that from the stands? You're not some sort of puppy that needs to be wrapped round my leg Y/N! Look, I know I invited you but the point is to enjoy the ride and go with the flow not stand in my way." The fact that he lowers his voice and yet his tone is blaring really hits you in the feelings.

It wasn't just because he was stressed but he genuinely felt that way.

Suddenly, you didn't want to be here nonetheless anywhere near him. You hoped that he detected your new jilted attitude, "Sorry, you're right. From now on you wont even know I'm here." You smile so overtly sweet it bleeds of sarcasm.

Harry doesn't even realize the lack of sincerity in it anyway. Stalking off after a surly, "Perfect." Leaves his lips.

With that you go to sit in the stands as he wanted, but on your way theres commotion coming from the same direction Harry just went. In the distance you spot him greet one of his opening acts with the most enthusiasm in the world. Hugging her and laughing with her like there wasn't a care in the world. When literally less than a minute ago he was yelling at you. Suddenly you couldn't get away from him fast enough. Only finding solace in the nosebleeds rather than the enticing idea of going home altogether.

This is disturbingly new. You'd been to plenty of Harry's shows where his moods often ranged from amped to sometimes getting nervous enough to maybe make him a little frustrated. But even then it wasn't unleashed on you, and like that. How could he treat you one way and in the next breath switch it up? You didn't like that one bit.

Watching his set was too difficult to enjoy anymore due to bias, unable to stop playing his words in your head. Needy? Was it really needy to show him some love in times he was obviously anxious? Definitely not, and even if it was it didn't give him an excuse to be an asshole about it. Especially since he wanted you to come in the first place.

Rehearsals drag on for what feels like eternity. Costume changes and numerous sound checks later, lunch is offered in the catering area but you politely decline. Hanger seemed like such a small price to pay in exchange for being subjected to his unnecessary attitude. In this case distance was best for the both of you.

Proven when he doesn't even bother to come look for you, or say anything really, at least not until he's ready to go home. Even then it's only a text.

On the ride home his mood has done a total 180. In the greatest mood to talk about his band mates and opening act's hijinks. You honestly tried not to take the way he acted personally but the complete personality flip made it impossible. How could he be that unfair?

Making it a point to avoid any and all contact with him by sitting in the same position as you had when you arrived. He uneasily takes notice, "Alright?"

"Yeah, just tired..." Of your bullshit! You mentally add on glaring out the window. Conveniently he received a phone call anyway.

Once you get home you decide to cure your possible hanger and make something quick to eat. Missing Harry reappear in the room in the process, "I guess catering doesn't count as dinner huh?" He attempts to be playful with you to check your temperature. Your unusual silence naturally made him uneasy.

"I didn't eat. Didn't want to risk overcrowding so I stayed in the stands," Like you wanted! You ached to add but held your tongue.

He doesn't dwell on it anyway. Chirping and fluttering about behind you as you make your way around the kitchen and to the table. "Love, guess what... I get to do a funny skit with James in a couple days!"

"That's great," you reply sitting down and albeit with forced enthusiasm.

He wordlessly follows suit practically singing, "Do yeh wanna come watch? It'll be fun."

Your sarcasm comes instinctively with a sharp roll of your eyes, "Like today? Hard pass, enjoy yourself though."

Harry's eagerness melts away like an ice cube on a hot summer sidewalk. No longer in the mood for elusiveness, "Alright I'll bite, what's going on with yeh?"

"With me? Nothing." You shrug shoveling around the food on your plate, loosing your appetite more and more by the second. Impending doom so palpable you could damn near taste that instead.

"Doesn't seem like nothing," he retorts with a brow cocked expectantly.

He could go to hell with the explanation he thought he deserved, "Doesn't matter," you sigh pleading to the high heavens that he'd leave it alone so that once again you could save yourself the agonizing grief.

Just as stubborn as you are he continues to push, "Based on how you're acting, it apparently does. So what is it?"

"Just drop it Harry," you groan agitated. At this rate you'll definitely be staying in the guest room tonight.

"No," This time he takes it a step further and moves your plate out of reach so that there was nothing to distract you. "Tell me." He demands.

Though the manner in which he does it is not to simply just to get to the root of the problem and solve it, but seems to be just for the confrontation. To point fingers at you being the problem, and so you snap, "Okay fine! You treat me like shit and it's not okay."

Unsurprisingly his face contorts into total confusion, "Where's this coming from?!"

But you're all too thrilled to remind him, "In the car and in rehearsals. One minute you're snapping at me for being needy when I was just trying to offer support, and in the next you're giving all the love and admiration to your opener and everyone else you work with!"

The frown etching on his face told you that he was going to deny everything and he did not disappoint, "No I wasn't, yeh were all over me,"

"Yeah okay, because reminding you that I love you and how proud I am is smothering?" An incredulous dry laugh summons itself, "Really?"

"When I'm in the middle of a conversation with Jeff! Obviously at that moment I was frustrated." Harry argues.

"You weren't frustrated when you hugged Kacy and joked around with Mitch right after! It's like everyone else gets a pass except me, but you know what it doesn't matter. Just keep that same energy so that I can properly navigate you. Because if I was suffocating then then I must be suffocating all the time." You glumly add, standing up and grabbing the plate you no longer had any interest in eating anymore.

In response Harry sighs loudly, and for a moment you start to believe that he's beginning to come to his senses but a quick glance reveals the most condescending and patronizing eye roll with it. Eventually he stands too, restoring his chair the way he found it. A passive yet aggressive, "Just forget I fucking asked," muttered under his breath.

Irking you enough to toss the plate absentmindedly into the sink, "Or just be a man about it and fucking own it!" You shout at him angrily.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I can't own something yeh literally made from nothing!" He shouts back.

"From nothing are you kidding me?! Why the hell is it so hard for you to admit when you're wrong! I am so tired of sweeping everything you do under the rug! I let that stupid fashion show slide but today-" Before you can get the words out properly its like something literally clicks in Harry's head. Making him angry as well.

His fingers rake frustratedly through his silky mane, "So that's what this is really about hmm? Why you've been acting so-" He exhales heavily through flared nostrils. You stare annoyed but patiently wait for him to make his point, "For fucksake how many times do we have to go through this? She is just a friend! Ken needed me-"

It's a combination of things. The way he says it and the gall of what he actually says that makes you feel three words short of a brain aneurysm. You explode, "She needed you? Harry, I needed you!" Your chest heaves from the exertion of shouting, "I made an absolute fool of myself that night! That had almost nothing to do with her and everything to do about us! The one fucking time I ask you to put me first, I'm last on your list. I know it's not the Grammy's or the Met Gala but it was important to me."

His head shakes in denial as he forces himself not to roll his eyes again, "Yeh miss things that are important to me all the time Y/N and I never whine about it!"

"If I'm whining about it its because there's a huge difference in not being able to catch a flight across the world at the last minute and not showing up to something on a whim— something I've been talking about for the past three years now!" You yell, so angry that it's actively getting harder to see straight. Apparently the wound had been fresher than you both thought.

"That's not fair," he argues. In his mind the situations were like comparing oranges to apples.

"Exactly." You concede folding your arms across your chest. Getting him to see the error in his ways was something like playing chess. Though the point wasn't to defeat but to enlighten. "How am I supposed to feel when you still don't even seem all that sorry or remorseful about it?"

Defense takes reign over Harry's better judgment as he starts to feel like this unethical argument is not meant for him to win, "Really? Over a bloody office party?!" He scoffs incredulous and somewhat amused at the same time. "I could understand if I did something actually wrong and horrible but this doesn't equate-"

At that another agonizing explosion erupts within and hits hard mentally and emotionally. Starting out as a fit of rage when you slam your hand down on the counter in reflex but rapidly that dwindles down into crushing defeat. It wasn't just the attempt in basically talking to a brick wall but the fact that he didn't want to accept what he did wrong. Maybe ego or even his foolish pride is to blame, either way he just wasn't going to.

Obviously you were wasting your breath but there was just one important fact that your very own pride wouldn't allow you to leave without getting it off your chest first, "Stop calling it that! Stop trying to diminish what it was! Because even if it was a lemonade stand it wouldn't have made the slightest difference — it was important to me Harry."

His gaze passively transfers to kitchen floor and for a few moments you wait for him to say something—anything. But when nothing comes you give up, heading straight to the guest room a total mess. So overwhelmed with frustration and emotions.

(AN: Come share your thoughts with me!xx)

Next Part

[zalrb]

Thoughts on broadchurch S1 and S2?

I thought series 1 was sufficiently compelling with great performances although I did think the way the Latimers were processing their grief to be handled weirdly because it’s not even as if I thought they were numb or that they shut down their emotions, they just seemed oddly fine until the script dictated that they weren’t fine for a specific scene or plot point, there just felt to be a lack of commitment from them especially when you have Olivia Colman right there who does so much with her facial expressions where I would just watch them like, bro did your child die or nah?

And honestly I feel like Broadchurch should’ve probably ended as a single series because there a nice sense of finality at the end and it worked and they gave us a flashback of Joe killing Danny so coming back to series 2 when Joe pleads not guilty, there wasn’t any dramatic tension because we as the viewer knew definitively what happened, and the way they could’ve created dramatic tension they didn’t do even though they claimed they did, which leads to my other thing about Broadchurch.

I think for the most part, shows don’t do a good job in showing tight-knit communities the way they would need to for their plots to work. So what I mean by that is in series 1, the show opens and we get a sense that everyone kind of knows each other in the first episode because Mark says ‘hi’ to everyone and there is a kind of ease there and then you see Olly complain about not really having anything to write about at the newspaper except for community news and then you find out that Olly is related to Ellie and Ellie’s son is best friends with Danny and that’s kind of where the sense of community stops, it’s just enough for the viewer to believe that things like this don’t happen in that town but it doesn’t really give a character to Broadchurch, you know? Like when I watch True Blood and I see Bon Temps, I know the character of that town, I know that everyone goes to Merlotte’s, I know the kind of people who go to Merlotte’s and live in this town, there’s a character

and the show does a really good job in indicating that they all know each other,

it’s not just the core 4 or 5, the town is kind of suffocating because just everyone is in everyone else’s business.

Even Stars Hollow, there’s a character to Stars Hollow, it’s this quirky white little town with their town hall meetings and lack of boundaries and everyone knows each other

to the point that when Luke and Lorelai break up there is an actual effect on the town, they put up ribbons

when Rory and Jess start dating everyone is watching them to have a passionate kiss.

With Broadchurch, it’s just a generic coastal tourist town, we keep hearing about how the death rocked this town, but did it? I have no evidence of that. It’s not even as if Susan’s secret about Nige came out during this investigation and it rocks Nige’s world, they were already in contact before Danny died.

And in season 2, when everyone is talking about how the murder is an open wound for the Latimers and for Broadchurch that Joe refuses to close, I don’t see that, I don’t see a community being torn apart, I don’t see it affecting business, I don’t see a media circus, I don’t see anything that indicates that the town isn’t going on as usual and for the show to create dramatic tension in series 2, we really needed to focus on the town and what Danny’s murder, Joe’s trial and even whatshisface I’m calling him Filch, what his suicide has done. That isn’t there.

Then the Sandbrook case had me like

because when you find out what happened, it really comes across as so you just killed these children just ‘cause, then? Like one thing I thought was done very well was how manipulative and sociopathic Claire was but when it gets to the actual murders, I was like, seriously, this is really what happened? He just came in and kept smashing Lisa’s head against the floor? No. I was like at least have him attack Lee and she tries to stop it and he turns on her and ends up killing her but just coming in and smashing her head against the wall is kind of ridiculous, I can’t even call it a crime of passion.

And then with Pippa, I was like, she was 12 years old I’m sure you could’ve just gaslit the fuck out of her instead. Like yeah I get the whole point is that it was unnecessary but there is a way to do a murder plot where you’re like holy shit, this is what happened, for nothing?? in a way that doesn’t feel like I’ve been wasting my time.

[triggeringthehealing]

revelation

Derek/Stiles | ~2k | G | AO3

Summary: I never hated you. Derek said it like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t blow Stiles’s mind. Of course, right after that bombshell, the pack showed up and the movie night started.

A/N: Written for the @fullmoonficlet challenge - prompt #310: tension

Tense.

It's the only way to describe the atmosphere in the room right now. They're in the loft, where they always seem to be these days, but it's not the same space as it used to be back in Stiles's high school days. It's more polished, livable, looks less like a battlefield than it used to back then.

The loft is not anyone's living space anymore though. It's like a clubhouse, a place where the pack and all its extended members come to hang out. Which is precisely why they're all here now, with a movie playing on the massive TV screen that everyone pitched in for some time ago.

And the air feels thick and suffocating, at least to Stiles.

He's not the same restless teenager that he was back when, but right now he is having flashbacks to those days. His mind is spinning and running around and dragging him from one corner to another. He's tapping his fingers on his thigh to let out some of that energy and to relieve the tension. But the thing is that he's about ready to either jump out of his skin or to say something. Because holy crap is he ever trying to process the conversation from just before everyone else got here.

---

"I didn't hate you. I still don't hate you."

Derek is looking at Stiles with the most sincere expression in his face, with a softness and fondness that is unfamiliar. At least to Stiles, who vividly remembers the permanently closed off face and the "stay away" vibes that Derek used to radiate when they first met. This is nothing like that.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Stiles asks because he doesn't understand. Sure, he and Derek struck up a friendship at some point, but Stiles has always been convinced that it was only because he was attached to Scott's hip. He hasn't talked to Derek in several years -- not since Derek got into a car after the war with hunters and drove off into the sunset.

"I wasn't very fond of you when you got me arrested, or for some time after, but I never hated you," Derek says. "If anything, I thought we were friends now."

"Dude."

"Or at least close acquaintances," Derek adds, looking a little disappointed. "That's what I was assuming. But if even that is too much, then that's fine. I'll deal."

"What do you mean that you'll deal? I didn't even think friendship was on the table, let alone anything else," Stiles tells him, feeling a little hysterical. "Is there anything else on the table?"

--

Of course the pack showed up before Derek managed to respond. So now Stiles is sitting on the couch and staring at the screen without watching the movie and his mind is reeling. The air continues to feel thick and he starts wondering if it would be super rude to leave right now.

There's also the fact that he's absolutely sure that no one else in the room feels the tension that he does, that they're all oblivious to the way he wants to jump out of his skin -- something he hasn't felt in years. They're all happily watching the movie and are completely clueless. Except Derek.

Derek looks like his claws are about to pop -- Stiles sees it when he dares to glance in that direction every once in a while -- and there is a distinct flash of color in his eyes that isn't supposed to be there. Again, Stiles notices when he looks at Derek and finds him staring back, like he's trying to read his mind.

I want to know what you meant, Stiles thinks.

Of course, he can't say it out loud, not with everyone else scattered around the seats and floor around them, several people between the corner of the couch that Stiles claimed and the recliner that's always Derek's place during movie nights. But he's craving solitude in a way that he usually doesn't, a one-on-one conversation about what could be and about all the things he'd want and didn't think he'd ever have.

Because Derek's words from earlier reignited Stiles's hopes, lit a fire under the attraction to Derek that was the gateway to exploring his sexuality and eventually settling firmly on bisexual. The words were an echo of those that he used to dream of hearing, the ones he hoped for years ago and for a long time after. It's only recently that he made himself accept that they would never happen.

And yet...

Stiles glances over again and bites his lip when Derek's eyes are already turned to him, when he finds that neither of them are following the movie. He squirms on the couch when Derek doesn't look away, when his eyes flash with the red that he's gained back since the war ended.

"Oh my god, would you sit still," Jackson -- who's sitting next to him -- groans in Stiles's direction. "Didn't you grow out of that?"

"Sorry," Stiles mutters, genuinely apologetic not because his movements are distracting Jackson but because he got called out on being like this.

"Go walk it off or something," Jackson suggests.

Stiles has a quick retort on the tip of his tongue but then he realizes that Jackson's idea is good. That maybe walking away is the answer right now, even if it's only to head out to the balcony and try to work through all the thoughts that are whirling in his head. He throws one more glance at Derek as he gets up and circles around the couch, then he heads out to the side door, taking a deep breath the moment the cool air hits his face.

He shuts the sounds of the movie out by closing the door and replaces them with the muted noises of the town below. They're far enough up that he can't hear anything clearly and that alone -- the fact that everything sounds like he imagines a blurred artwork would -- is helping already. His mind is still spinning, sure, but 's easier to sift through the newly acquired information this way.

I never hated you.

Stiles spent too long being wrong about what people thought about him, how they felt about him. Hell, he misjudged his father's feelings, not that it was surprising for a kid dealing with grief and with his dad's way of coping at the same time. He was wrong about more, but he'd been absolutely sure that at the very least right at the start of the werewolf chaos, Derek did genuinely despise Stiles. Not so much later on, of course, when they struck up what could be seen as an alliance, if not friendship.

But this sounded like something else. These were words that were used to say that the person felt the complete opposite instead of the assumed. So did Derek actually like him? And if so, in what way? And why had he never said anything?

"Communication issues," Stiles mutters. "We could all probably write books on those."

There's a creak behind him, the noise of the movie for a beat, then silence again, but Stiles knows he's not alone anymore.

"I think there are enough books that will tell us how dumb we've been," Derek says quietly from behind Stiles's back. "It's not like we'd write anything that hasn't been written yet."

"True. But clearly just reading wouldn't help," Stiles mumbles, still looking at the town instead of turning around. "Also, listening in is not fair."

"I wasn't trying to," Derek says. "I wanted to make sure you're not trying to scale the wall to get away."

"If I wanted to leave I'd have used the front door."

"Except scaling the wall would nicely redirect questions from everyone else," Derek points out.

Finally, Stiles turns around and feels the corner of his mouth tugging. "You're starting to think like me," he tells Derek. "I don't know if I should be proud or worried."

Derek gives him a pointed look and then shrugs his shoulders.

"So, you're here for a reason. Is it because of what I said?"

"No."

"Lie."

"Again with the unfair things," Stiles grumbles. "Why do I have to be friends with walking lie detectors? It's very inconvenient."

"I didn't listen to your heart. I just know your lying face," Derek tells him.

"I don't have a lying face," Stiles protests.

"Wanna check with your father and Scott about that one?"

It's a challenge and Stiles could if he wanted to. He'd lied to both of them more than he liked to admit and neither knew all the smaller lies that Stiles told through the years. There were fewer since college, but the ones during his high school years were plentiful and varied.

It's also a distraction from the topic they were on and Stiles is half tempted to continue in the new direction. But there's also temptation to resolve the tension he feels.

"Okay, yes, it's about what you said. What the hell, Derek?"

He didn't plan on sounding angry, but he's frustrated from trying to figure it out on his own and he wishes that they'd had this conversation years ago.

"I never thought you liked me," Derek says, leaning against the wall by the door, out of sight of anyone who's bother looking through the huge windows.. "Back at the start, I dismissed you as a kid who didn't know what he was getting himself into. Then I was pissed because of Laura."

Stiles winces because that's one thing he still feels like apologizing for, though he already did several times.

"But you turned out to know pretty well what you were getting yourself into, eventually," Derek continues, ignoring Stiles's reaction. "I really did not hate you at any point after the Gerard thing."

"Original or 2.0?"

"Original."

"Oh wow. I thought you still couldn't stand me then," Stiles says. "Even the summer when we were looking for Boyd and Erica."

"I know. I didn't think you were my biggest fan and that you just tolerated me because I could help Scott," Derek tells him. "But still, didn't hate you. The opposite, actually."

"You liked me?" Stiles asks and winces again, this time at the way his voice hitches in a way that makes him sound almost hysterical.

Derek nods. "You were still a kid though, but after the Nogitsune--" he says but leaves the thought hanging in the air, unfinished.

"We all grew up pretty fast then," Stiles says. "None of us was the same by senior year."

They both go silent for a little while then, until Stiles's curiosity wins over.

"So why didn't you say anything?"

Derek looks at him and smiles faintly, looking wistful.

"I left, after Mexico."

"I'm aware. You came back."

"And you were with Lydia."

"Ah."

Stiles understand a little. Everyone, Derek included, knew about his feelings for Lydia. About how long he'd been in love with her. How much of a dream come true their relationship was. But that was the past -- they lasted a few months after the big crisis, then realized how much better they were as friends.

"That was years ago," Stiles says. "You've been back here for years, Derek."

"And you didn't show a hint of interest in me at any point," Derek says.

"Okay, lie detector status revoked, you have no idea how to read my face apparently," Stiles tells him. "I spent all those years thinking I'm doomed to an unrequited crush."

"You... what?"

Derek's face is amazing to look at. He goes through several expressions -- shock, confusion, amazement, anger -- before he settles on something that looks like a mix of hope and bafflement.

"Dude, you are why I figured out I'm bi. You're more of an unattainable dream than Lydia ever was."

God, I sound sappy, Stiles thinks, but he lets it go. The words are out, there's no going back. If his guess about where this conversation is going is right, he will never have to.

"So we could have...."

"Done this years ago?" Stiles asks, then he shakes his head. "Yeah, apparently so."

"We're idiots."

"Can't say I disagree," Stiles tells Derek, then he pushes himself away from the railing he was leaning on. "Now, to avoid any further confusion and miscommunication," he says as he steps forward to close the distance between them, "I'm going to kiss you. If you don't want me to, speak now, or--"

Derek chuckles as he reaches forward, grabs Stiles's hand with his own and pulls him in until they're only an inch apart. Then he wraps his free arm around Stiles's waist and tightens his fingers around Stiles's for a beat.

There's no mistaking the expression in his face now, Stiles can read the hope in Derek's eyes clearly. So he closes the last inch of a gap and tilts his head just enough so he can brush his lips over Derek's.

Just like that, the tension he felt all evening dissolves into air and Stiles feels his body and mind relax into the kiss as Derek returns it with enthusiasm.

[koreaboosworld69]

Side Effects~

Prolouge

[An au based off Stray Kids' song "Side Effects" where Chan is struggling with life and one day he does the unthinkable and this is how he'll act after he does what he does. It'll most likely be a bunch of short stories that'll blend into one universe about Chan dealing with each one of his 'side effects'.]

"Wha-

what do you mean you're quitting Stray Kids?!" Felix managed to sputter out at his blonde haired bandmate in front of him.

Utterly dumbfounded, the younger of the two could do nothing except open and close his mouth wordlessly and just ogle at his bandmate. It seemed as if all notion of reality had completely been wiped from Felix's mind the moment he'd heard the shocking, no scratch that, life changing news, the only functioning part left wondering if the person in front of him was actually going to go through with it all.

"You heard what I said Felix!" Chan yelled back at the younger male.

Bitter tears welled up without any warning and stung Chan's eyes with unbearable pain as he forced himself to look up and look right at his face. Look at the hurt, the anguish, the pure grief written on Felix's face as clear as day.

It was only for a split second, but it was enough to shatter Chan's heart into a million pieces. Seeing Felix broken like that, it hurt the very core of his being in a way no amount of words would be able to describe.

Tears threatened yet none spilled out. There was no sudden garbled apology about how he was wrong and he actually wasn't leaving at all. There wasn't even any room for the small possibility that Chan and the rest of Stray Kids were pranking him and now they'd all come out where they were hiding from and say it's just all a joke, calm down Felix!

Chan couldn't regret what he was doing, deep down he wasn't entirely sorry for leaving. He knew Stray Kids would keep going as all 8 of them had the talent to keep it going, he knew all 8 of them were entirely capable and he knew he wouldn't be putting the group in massive jeopardy but probably for the first time since before debut Chan was selfish.

He wanted to do what was best for himself even if it meant ripping a world apart.

"... don't do this to me, please, don't look at me like that Felix."

"TO YOU!? What about the rest of us?? What about the future of Stray Kids, its nothing without you. You're like the glue that binded us together, made us come together as a team, bandmates and now we're more than that, we're family...

... we were brothers."

Felix inhaled a sharp breath as his tears finally fell. One solitary tear rolled down his right cheek and before long he was heaving up body shuddering sobs. As best as his ever juddering hands could allow he put his head in his hands and shut his thick tear filled eyes, just trying his best to make sense of the world in this moment.

His thoughts were as vast and never ending as an ocean, swimming in them Felix realised he could have said a million words to Chan then and there, let all of his pent up anger out since he heard the news in one raging inferno blaze, bash Chan for being insensitive, for being so selfish, just lash out at him for anything and everything he's ever done.

He couldn't.

It became too much in his own thoughts so Felix hesitantly lifted his head out of his hands to come back to the harshness of reality.

Everything blurred in and out focus so he gripped a nearby chair to steady himself and when things finally felt normal he looked up at Chan's face.

Felix took in every detail of his face and the words he was thinking of spitting out earlier vanished into thin air. It seemed like his ability to speak was gone, all he could do was stare, stare intently at Chan's face.

It wasn't the fact that Chan's face was filled with regret and longing that crushed Felix like a tonne of metal bricks, it was the fact that it wasn't.

The fact that Chan had already been beat and pummeled to the ground again by this invisible force, an untouchable enemy that had already bested their amazing leader ten times over.

The fact that Chan was giving up, accepting defeat, after all this time, this, it had won.... and Felix couldn't bear it, he couldn't bear to see Chan like this.

"Chan.... just please don't do this."

"C-can't we still help? The 8 of us? Make everything better for you?"

"I know! We'll, we'll talk to the managers! Allow you to take some time off and get some well earned rest, take a break from the group for a couple days, months or even a whole year if you need it!"

"Just please...anything except leaving entirely."

A fresh batch of tears wavered in both member's eyes as Felix's voice managed to crack a little at the end of his speech of hopeless fantasies.

Felix let the tears spill but it wasn't as fierce as before, not passionate sobs that racked his whole body as before but instead eyes fixated on the floor as silent tears rolled down which made an endless tear track down both his cheeks.

A deep choking feeling had possessed the room at that point, suffocated them as they both realised entirely the feeling of impossibleness that had engulfed them.

It was impossible for Chan to even remotely get better without leaving but Felix never fully accepted that fact. He thought with each passing day Chan looked happier and healthier but all this time he was losing and now it couldn't work, he had to go.

"You have to tell the other members of my departure tomorrow Felix." Chan said looking dead on at Felix's downcast face.

Felix nodded slowly in understanding and gulped but he couldn't help it as his face scrunched up, a similar look to how his face would screw shut if he got kicked sharply in his genital areas.

He opened his eyes and spoke aloud to the older, willing himself to look him in the eyes as he told him his next few questions.

"Why me... why do I have to be the one who tells the other members...?

Was it trainee days, was it the fact that I supposedly receive more popularity according to all those graphs and statistics?"

Then he closed his eyes and tilted his head downward, saying his next words in something barely passable as a whisper.

"Why must you insist I be the one getting put through this torture Chan?"

An eternity passed in silence. Felix kept his eyes closed, head down and just listened calmly to the sound of his own breath repeating, each inhale and exhale repeating in unison. And the 'thud thud' of his heartbeat beginning to pound less in his ears at the newfound state of silence.

Chan stared at Felix, at a face even with closed eyes that still carried so much emotion and feeling with a state of inquisitiveness outruling all, calmly awaiting for an answer for his question.

Minutes ticked by and maybe it was because Chan felt sorry for Felix. Maybe it was because it would be their last opportunity to have a meaningful embrace together. Maybe it was because Chan felt a deep sense of regret bubble up in the pits of his stomach, regret for even making Stray Kids in the first place as he had seen the other go through so much pain but at the same time no because Chan knew deep down inside that without them he wouldn't be standing right here now or even have the chance make such soul binding connections with anyone.

It could have been a million different reasons, ranging from the extremely complex to the flat out simple that provoked Chan to do what he did but he stepped. That step turned into a walk. Then he reached his arms out... and binded Felix into a tight hug.

Felix felt a shift of body weight upon him, wrapping his arms around him. He didn't bother to open his eyes or say anything, this action spoke louder than words for the both of them. All Felix did back was wrap his arms around the others waist and let his head rest on the others right shoulder.

Felix thought it was comfortable and just melted into the others embrace. They both stayed like that, intertwined, just enjoying the others' shared company.

Until Chan spoke softly into Felix's ear, answering his final question that Felix had forgotten all about at this point as he'd been too busy just feeling Chan's presence there and being thankful for this one last hug.

"It was because I trusted you the most."

Felix didn't think a response to any question in his life hurt ever so bad as it had done then. Just when he thought he'd somewhat calmed down he started sobbing and crying violently again, this time into Chan's shirt, his knees bent a little as he couldn't support himself any longer and the only thing that was holding him up was Chan's large figure and embrace. He cried and cried and cried, never stopping. He just wanted to disappear from the world then, to forget it all, to just be him. Lee Felix.

As Felix's tears slowly but surely caused Chan's shirt to stick to his stomach and as he held Felix's figure up tight Chan couldn't process anything. Couldn't find it in him to feel anything or do anything except just be there. This world... he wanted to get away from it himself. Try to get better. He needed to go, face the world on his own. He... he had too.

"It's not the drugs that are causing me to act like this...it's something else. They're kicking in...

the side effects."

[A/N - I know my writing's shit lmao but hope you enjoyed reading either way]

[queenlnss-a]

quinn's feelings on fred's death.

- ̗̀   META  TOPICS.      /      @floredia  &  @waeslie  for  the  kicks      /      always  accepting  !

                    Quinn’s  worst  habit  is,  and  forever  will  be,    bottling  up    her  emotions.  Listen,  if  she  wants  to  make  something  known,  she  will  kick  up  a  fuss  and  scream  about  it  to  the  world.  She  will  let  you  know  and  she  will  be  LOUD  about  it.  

                    Generally  speaking,  it  is  in  her  nature  to  be  PRIVATE.  She’s  a  rather  secretive  individual  by  choice.  Even  if  she  wants  to  talk  about  it,  she  very  rarely  seeks  out  the  right  ears  to  listen  to  her  thoughts  and  feelings    (  …  no  pun  intended  ?  ).    She  wasn’t  taught  to  talk  about  things  and  that’s  how  she  was  brought  up.  You’re  more  than  welcome  to  blame  her  family    (  ‘  welcome  to  the  Fabray  residence.  Please  take  off  your  coats  and  leave  your  bad  feelings  and  negative  energy  at  the  door  !  ’  ),    but  it’s  not  entirely  their  fault  either  and  she  understands  that.  She  let  herself  get  that  way,  and  it’s  hard  to  shake  a  habit  once  it’s  embedded  within  you.

                    More  to  the  point,  however,  she  doesn’t  take  Fred’s  death  well  at  all,  and  there  are  so  many  layers  to  her  grief.    Sadness    is  really  the  emotion  that  affects  her  the  most  because  she  understands  it  so  well.  They’ve  met  many  times  before.  They  are  old  and  begrudging  friends.  It’s  the  one  emotion  she  controls  the  BEST,  but  also  the  one  she  finds  most  difficult  to  overcome  and  acknowledge.  Close  friends  will  notice  that  she  doesn’t  cry  for  at  least  a  month  and  refuses  to  say  his  name  for  even  longer.  She  becomes  rather  STOIC,  in  a  sense,  as  if  she  deceive  herself  into  thinking  she  is  okay  by  not  letting  anything  show,  because  at  the  end  of  the  day,  she  truly  believes  that    it’s  not  her  pain  to  feel.    Despite  him  being  her  friend  and  having  considered  Fred  to  be  like  a  brother  to  her,  she  almost  doesn’t  feel  like  she’s  earned  the  right  to  grieve,  so  she  tends  to  direct  the  COMPASSION  she  receives  to  the  people  she  feels    n e e d s    it  the  most.  

                    Everyone  else  comes  first.  It’s  time  she  put  herself  second.

                    It  doesn’t  necessarily  need  to  be  said,  but  Quinn’s  really  not  that  great  at  facing  things  head  on.  There  are  several  examples  of  her  actively  choosing  to  be  in  denial  in  canon.  She    c l i n g s    onto  the  Cheerios  in  season  one  and  ignores  her  growing  respect  for  the  New  Directions  because  she  believes  the  Cheerios    (  and  by  extension,  the  school  )    will  still  accept  her  despite  being  pregnant  and  knowing  deep  down  that  they  won’t.  She  makes  excuses  for  Biff’s  shitty  attitude  when  the  glee  club  notices  he  wasn’t  paying  attention  to  her  performance  in  season  five.  She  pretends  she’s  okay  with  Finn  still  liking  Rachel  because  she  believes  they  can  get  past  it  even  though  it  grates  on  her  nerves  and  makes  her  immensely  jealous  and  therefore  possessive.

                    There’s  a  large  part  of  me  that  believes  her    natural  state    is  denial,  and  even  though  she  accepted  Fred’s  death  as  fact  —–  because  there’s  no  point  denying  its  permanence  when  she  knows  they’ll  never  get  him  back  —–  she  doesn’t  let  herself  properly  process  it.  She  can’t.  It  hurts  too  much,  and  because  it  hurts,  she  deliberately  pushes  that  pain  to  the  side.  Even  in  canon,  her  overall  arc  is  about  learning  how  to  move  on  from  the  past  and  the  grief  and  trauma  and  look  towards  the  future,  and  while  she  is  rather  exceptional  at  being  realistic  and  understanding  the  difficult  truth,  there  is  always  a  part  of  her  that  keeps  hold  of  it  just  a  bit  longer  than  she  knows  she  should.  I  don’t  think  she’ll  ever  be  ready  to  let  go,  and  in  a  way,  it’s  okay.  It’s  also  a  little  understandable  because  there  was  no  closure  and  she’s  probably  never  going  to  get  any  closure.  It’s  like  having  someone  SEVER  you  from  your  oxygen  tank  in  the  middle  of  the  deep  ocean  and  leaving  you  to  struggle  for  air.  That’s  what  it  feels  like  to  her  at  times  ————–  suffocating,  overwhelming.

                    Also,  I  think  her  rage  deserves  an  honourable  mention  because  it  intertwines  with  her  sadness  and  the  slight  twinge  of    g u i l t    she  feels  after  a  while.  The  anger  that  she  felt  when  she  didn’t  get  to  say  goodbye,  her  FURY  at  the  aforementioned  sympathy  she  gets  from  ex - classmates,  friends  and  peers.  If  sadness  is  her  old  pal,  then  anger  must  be  her  best  friend.  After  a  while,  even  condolences  get  tedious  and  she  becomes  impatient.  Every  piteous  look  and  empty  word  of  support  sent  her  way  brings  her  no  comfort.  It  feels  patronising  and  forced  and  she  grows  to  despise  it  because  most  of  the  people  offering  it  her  way  usually  didn’t  know  him  personally  and  she  sees  that  in  their  eyes.  They  look  at  her  differently  than  the  people  who  did  know  him.  They  talk  about  him  differently,  too,  and  she  always,  always  notices  that.  She  knows  a  lot  of  them  only  associate  her  with  Fred  because  they  realise  she’s  in  a  relationship  with  George  and  therefore  it’s  probably  only  right  for  them  to  approach  her,  too.  They  mean  well,  but  it  gets  on  her  last  nerves.  Again,  it  is  not  her  pain  to  feel.  For  the  love  of  Merlin,  just  leave  her  alone.

[waveridden]

FIC: and you breathe (one breath at a time)

Lovelace goes somewhere warm, and quiet, where nobody has any idea who she is. Nobody, except for somebody who died in space six years ago.

Wolf 359, post-canon. 7.7k. Gen, Lovelace-centric, some implied/background ships. content warnings for some discussion of death/grief and PTSD.

With all my love to @travismcelrcy, who helped shape the ideas.

Read on Ao3 || title lyric

#

Sydney is bright in the summer, a constant barrage of sunlight that slams into Isabel full-force the second she steps out of the airport. It was raining when she left Shanghai. Or maybe she’s still not used to sunlight - not blue light or red light or artificial Hephaestus lighting. Honest-to-god sunlight.

Isabel slips a voice recorder out of her pocket and switches it on. “Note to self,” she murmurs, “double-check which vitamins sunlight is supposed to give you. Just in case that matters.” She doesn’t need to record captain’s logs anymore, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s the fastest way to keep track of things. Grocery lists and memories from the old crew and whatever else is worth hanging onto these days.

She left her suitcase back in Brussels, so it’s easy to wander the streets with nothing but a backpack and a vague recollection of places she should visit. She’s never been to Australia before. She’d only left the country once, before the Hephaestus, and that was to go to Niagara Falls for the weekend with some friends in high school.

(Sam had laughed when she told him, and she’d raised her eyebrows, said “You telling me you traveled a lot, Oklahoma boy?” like it was a challenge. It always was a challenge, and maybe she’d feel bad about it if he’d ever stopped rising to the challenge. If he hadn’t met her every step of the way, until-)

There’s a list of names tucked away in her backpack. She’s been trying to visit people who deserve to know what happened. Kuan’s sisters, who grieved by screaming. Victoire’s mother, who’d cried as Isabel told her in halting French what happened to her daughter. Sam’s family, who barely reacted at all. Like they already knew he was dead.

They probably did know, she supposes. It’s not like it was hard to guess.

Sydney’s beautiful. She tries to imagine Mace in the city as she walks through it, slowly. He’s not from Sydney, of course, he’s from some smaller town. He used to talk about it, but she can’t remember the name of it, and of course his files with Goddard don’t exist anymore. There’s next to no proof that he was ever there.

But he was here. She imagines him squinting in the sunlight, trying to read a street sign. She imagines him pointing at some local business and saying that there, Captain, that’s his best friend’s uncle’s ice cream shop. She imagines him painted bright in the sun, laughing with his boyfriend, pushing a stroller.

Isabel blinks. That one felt less imaginary.

He’s gone by the time she looks back, of course. She’s been seeing ghosts for the last month. All of Kuan’s sisters had his smile. Every tall man with a suit and a carefully disarming smile is Cutter. Hell, she even sees shades of Minkowski and Eiffel sometimes, even though she knows both of them are safe and sound back stateside. She’s used to it by now. She should be used to it by now.

She still goes straight to her hotel room. Bolts the door once it’s closed. Moves a chair in front of the door just for good measure. Good things never happen when the dead start showing up again. She knows that better than anyone.

 #

 Getting back to Earth goes like this:

Goddard debriefs them. It takes weeks, plural, because nobody’s sure what to do with their story. Two of the most important people in the company are currently space debris, and the third doesn’t even remember her own name. And all the rest of them are officially dead.

It’s Jacobi, actually, who’s most helpful in moving things forward. Lovelace gets the impression that it’s because he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, but she has to admit, it’s nice having someone who knows people. Kepler’s name pulls weight, and by extension so does Jacobi’s. It gets things in motion, even with the gaps in the power structure.

The process is also kept completely secret from the public, which they probably weren’t supposed to figure out. Jacobi guesses as much on the second day, snorts and says “it’d look bad for them to be caught in a lie this big,” and that’s supposed to be that. It’s hard to bring people back to life, in terms of paperwork. Probably a nightmare.

But they’re debriefed. They see doctors, who don’t know what to do with Lovelace, human and also decidedly not. They see therapists, who kind of wave Lovelace off because there’s absolutely nothing in their repertoire that could help them deal with aliens. They sit in corporate meeting after corporate meeting where Lovelace tries to focus on getting out and not how badly she wants to rip this company to shreds.

Goddard lets them go on a Tuesday morning. They reach Minkowski’s husband that night, living just outside of Boston, and all of them pile into a house that seems far too empty for one man. Lovelace gets a bedroom to herself. They figure out how to install Hera in the house, because Doug refuses to let her live in a box. She’s up and running by Wednesday morning.

Jacobi’s gone by Wednesday afternoon without so much as a goodbye. It stings, maybe more than it should, but Lovelace has faith that he’ll come back one day. If only because he’s bored.

By the early hours on Thursday she has a list of cities. Shawnee, Brussels, Shanghai, Sydney. She writes and crosses out Moscow a dozen times - even if Selberg was hers he also decidedly wasn’t, and she doesn’t owe that man any more of her sympathy - and does the same for New York City. Who says you can’t go home? Probably other people whose entire families think they died in space years ago.

She makes a second list for good measure. Victoire used to wax rhapsodic about the summer she spent in Iceland, and Kuan had endless stories about visiting cousins in Hawaii. Sam traveled constantly, which she wouldn’t expect from someone from Oklahoma, but he wanted to see the world. Or, no, he felt like it’d be a shame if he didn’t. A shame? An embarrassment? It’s hard to remember his exact words.

It’s hard to remember his exact voice.

Lovelace lifts her voice recorder, brand new, purchased from a RadioShack with a shiny Goddard-issued credit card. “Get back in touch with Canaveral, see if they have any of Lambert’s old logs somewhere. Shake them down if you have to.”

Isabel Lovelace has a valid passport Thursday night. She says her goodbyes on Friday morning, promises to call and hugs Eiffel a little tighter than she should and leaves. She has more ghosts than the rest of them. It’s time to put them to rest.

 #

 The problem, which she learns in Oklahoma, is that as much as she wants to get this over with, she can’t start with the families. She tells Sam’s mother what happened one day, his father the next, and then if she stays in Oklahoma for one more goddamn second she thinks she’s going to suffocate, so she’s in Brussels the day after that.

(“That could just be an effect of Oklahoma,” Minkowski - no, Renee says, when Isabel calls her, now in Brussels and still not quite breathing right. “I mean, I’ve never really been there, but it sounds… like Oklahoma.”

“Maybe,” Isabel allows. “But if I’m going to be here, I should start with the tourist thing, right? Instead of just jumping in with the… bad news.”

“The tourist thing,” Renee echoes, in that voice that means she’s not laughing at Isabel, per se, but she’s definitely laughing and it just so happens that Isabel said something funny. “You mean relaxing?”

“I guess I do.”

“You’ve earned it.”

She has. She’s earned it and re-earned it and the universe probably owes her a full year of not dealing with other people’s problems at this point. “Then maybe I’ll stay in Belgium for a while.”

“Just make sure you call,” Renee says, soft and careful. She never says goodbye, only asks for Isabel to call again. And she always does.)

It takes two weeks in Brussels before she has the stomach to find Victoire’s family. After that she stops over in Moscow for all of two days, just to see the sights, and then it’s three weeks in Shanghai. And of course, by the end of that she’s ready to snap in half, so she takes a week for herself in Thailand to recover.

Sydney is warm, not as warm as Thailand but also sunnier. It’s not quiet, but it’s just her and her ghosts there. And it’s going to take a little more work to track down Fisher’s boyfriend - she knows his name’s Corey, he’s a history teacher, and he lives somewhere reasonably close to Sydney - so she might as well take another break.

She ends up on a beach, one of the quieter ones. It’s a weekday morning so it’s not terribly crowded, just a few families that Isabel makes a point of staying away from, carving out her own quiet corner in the sand. She sets up with a towel and an umbrella and a stack of books that she got from airports and-

-and her phone starts ringing.

Isabel sighs. It’d be easy, it’d be so easy to just ignore it, but the fact is not a lot of people call her. This number isn’t in enough databases to get calls, and it would be… inconsiderate if she didn’t take full advantage of Goddard generously footing all her bills for a little while. Including the bill for international calls.

She smoothly reaches into her backpack, resting a carefully-calculated arm’s length away from her on the sand, and swipes to answer. “You’ve reached the phone of Isabel Lovelace. I’m currently unavailable because I finally got to a real beach where I can relax for a while, so leave a message if-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Hera asks, not sounding sorry at all.

Isabel rests back on her towel. “No, Hera, it’s not. Unless there’s an emergency, because I am halfway around the world right now and can’t help.”

“No emergencies. Thank god.”

She smiles, relaxing a little as she does. “And you’re bored?”

“Horribly.”

“What do you do now that nothing’s constantly going wrong?”

“Not much,” Hera admits. “I’ve been teaching myself new languages.”

“Programming language or human language?”

“A bit of both?”

“Of course,” Isabel says. She thinks idly that maybe she would’ve been sarcastic about that, once upon a time, but now it comes out fond. Indulgent. Hera complained about being in a house and how it was so much smaller than the Hephaestus, but now she has the Internet. There’s only so much complaining she can do with the entirety of human knowledge at her fingertips. “How’s everyone?”

Hera hums. “Minko- uh, Renee- shoot. Is it weird that I’m still having trouble with that?”

“It’s only been two months, Hera.”

“But I talk to her every day.”

“And how many days did you call her Minkowski?”

“More than sixty,” Hera admits. “Okay. Uh, Renee’s looking for jobs, although nobody’s really sure what kind of thing she should look for. Doug’s a waiter now, all the customers love him.”

“And everyone’s in one piece?”

“In one piece.” She says it so proudly that Isabel can’t help but smile. “And Renee’s been helping me practice my French.”

“Do you need to practice?”

“Of course I need to practice, just because I know the whole language doesn’t mean I know how to speak it right.”

“One of these days, you should learn a made-up language. Or make your own.”

“I’ve already looked into making up my own, but it’s not as easy as you might think. It’s kind of a fun side project, it’d be nice to talk to a linguist or something sometime. Figure out how-”

“Lovelace?” says someone, about three feet to her right.

She drops her phone. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming towards her, and these days there’s no way to tell if it’s someone hostile or not. From the other end of the phone Hera says something but Isabel’s hand is already halfway into her bag, where she has a knife waiting for her, and she looks up to see who it is and squints against the sunlight and-

“Lovelace,” says Mace Fisher, like he thinks she’s going to disappear.

Slowly, Isabel pulls her hand away from her backpack and lifts her sunglasses, just as Fisher - it can’t be, it has to be - drops to a crouch, then his knees. His hair’s longer now, curling in loose spirals around his cheeks. He has the same scar down one side of his nose. He’s wearing the most horrific swim trunks that she’s seen in her entire life, and he’s staring, and he’s here.

“Fisher,” she says, and he gulps, and suddenly her eyes are stinging. He sits back on his heels, looking winded, and Isabel remembers her phone. She snatches it up and takes a deep breath. “Hera.”

“Ca- Isabel, what’s going on, is everything okay?”

Is everything okay. Of course, everything’s fine. Just Lovelace and her ghosts again. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I don’t know yet, Hera.” She’s still watching him, of course she is. He looks somewhere off over Isabel’s shoulder, mouths something that she doesn’t bother to try and understand. He must not be here alone. “It’s… complicated.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

“Call us back,” Hera says, voice small. “Just- just to be on the safe side.”

“Of course,” Isabel says, and hangs up. Fisher is still there, so that’s a good sign, probably. If this isn’t real then at least her brain is collapsing all at once. Hell, they have no idea what the sun’s radiation is going to do to her weird alien brain. Maybe long-term exposure induces hallucinations. Maybe this is the last thing she sees before her internal organs turn to soup. It could be worse, she figures.

Fisher’s still staring at her.

“So,” she says carefully. “This… is new.”

“You died in space,” Fisher says. “I don’t know if you heard.”

“No, I’ve been told.” She looks him up and down. She listened to him die, during that meteor storm. They all did. “You… also died in space.”

He snorts. “Apparently not.”

They never found a body. Of course they didn’t, it was deep space, but they never had anything to remember him by, other than what he left behind. “Apparently not,” she agrees, and her voice is a little thicker than she expected. “How about that?”

Fisher swallows. “The others-”

Isabel’s breath catches. None of the others had been home, when she visited. “They- Mace-”

“Oh,” Fisher breathes, and lunges forward. Isabel lets him, reaches out, pulls him in. And he feels real, not like a hallucination, not a ghost. He’s as real as she is and he’s squeezing her like he’s trying to make sure of it, one hand pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Captain-”

“Oh, god, don’t call me captain,” she laughs, and he huffs out something like a sob, warm against the back of her neck. “I’m nobody’s captain anymore, got it?”

“Aye-aye,” Fisher says, and fans one of his hands out on her back. Isabel laughs again and her eyes are still stinging but she’s not crying, she can’t cry until she understands. “What are you doing here, anyways?”

Isabel sits back on her heels, keeping one hand pressed against Fisher’s shoulder. Just in case he disappears. He pulls away too, a little reluctantly, but one of his hands drops to her knee. “I was, uh. Trying to say goodbyes, you could call it.”

“Ah,” Fisher says. “I take it you haven’t been back long, then.”

“A couple months.” She shrugs. “Goddard… wasn’t interested in letting us go.”

Fisher raises his eyebrows. “Us.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Isabel rubs a hand across her eyes, probably scrubbing salt and sand into them, which has to be why the stinging doesn’t go away. “What… how long have you been back?”

Fisher shrugs. “Five years, give or take.”

“So you got back after the first mission.”

“First mission,” Fisher repeats, something like dread creeping into his voice. “Captain-”

“Isabel.”

“If you’re Isabel then I’m Mace.”

Isabel nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s… a really long story. It’s one I can tell you, but-”

“Daddy!” a child’s voice shouts, from somewhere behind Isabel. Mace is on his feet in a flash, so fast that she barely has time to mourn the loss of contact before he’s off and running. It’s just enough to make her panic, so she whips around, climbing to her feet in the process. Her sunglasses tilt dangerously to one side, threatening to fall off, and she manages to settle them back on her face just as she spots Mace again.

He’s crouching low, looking seriously between two kids. Twins, if Isabel had to guess, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. They don’t look anything like Mace, but one of them has the same stubborn mouth, and one has the same honest eyes. His kids, if ever she’s seen them.

Cautiously, she takes a couple of steps closer. Mace doesn’t notice, talking in a low, serious voice to the twins. “Five minutes, alright? Five more minutes on the sand and then we can go back in the water, how does that sound?”

“But Kuan said he’s gonna squish my sand castle,” says the one with Mace’s mouth, and Isabel nearly takes a step back. “And I don’t want him to!”

Mace looks seriously at the twin with his eyes. “Kuan.”

“I’m not gonna squish it,” Kuan mutters. “But Sam said his was better than mine, and that’s not nice. ”

Mace turns back to the other twin, looking exasperated. “Sam-”

“Mine’s better,” Sam protests, but he falters instantly and turns to his brother. “I’m sorry, Kuan. You’re right, it wasn’t nice.”

“I’m sorry I said I was gonna squish yours,” Kuan says seriously. “That wasn’t nice either.”

“Good job, boys,” Mace says, and both of the twins brighten up instantly. It figures that Mace would have the most well-adjusted kids Isabel has ever seen. “Daddy just needs three more minutes to talk to his friend, and-”

“Friend?” Sam demands, and both twins turn to her immediately, with that uncanny perceptive stare that children always have.

Isabel’s hands are shaking. She notices it sort of absently, the same way she notices there’s a man with a sleeping baby lying on his chest watching them intently, the same way she notices that the only clouds in the sky are wispy and light and dreamlike. Like it doesn’t affect her that she’s having trouble breathing.

She glances at Mace, over the tops of her sunglasses, and he nods slightly, so she takes a couple steps forward and drops into a crouch next to him. “Hi, guys.”

“You’re friends with Daddy?” asks Kuan.

Isabel nods. “I am. I used to work with him, a long time ago.”

“In space?”

“Yes, in space.”

“Whoa,” Kuan whispers. “Was he cool?”

“The coolest.”

Mace snorts and nudges her with his shoulder, still as solid and real as anything. “Second after you, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely,” Isabel says, with an exaggerated nod, and both of the twins giggle. “But, you know, it’s hard to measure up to me.”

“Daddy’s cool!” Sam bounces up and down. “This one time, this one time he was making pancakes, and he flipped them in the air!”

“In the air?” Isabel repeats, trying to sound like it’s the coolest thing she’s ever heard. “You know, that might just be cooler than me.”

“Never, Captain,” Mace mumbles, and Isabel rolls her eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t teach kids to roll their eyes, but if they’re living with Mace, they’re probably going to be supernaturally patient. Someone has to teach them. “Boys, we can go in the water as soon as I’m done talking to Miss Isabel, alright?”

“Miss Isabel?” Kuan turns so he’s looking at her and leans in, putting his face very, very close to hers. It takes all her self control not to pull back. Children can smell fear, or something. “Like baby Izzy?”

“Baby Izzy,” Isabel repeats. “Is that… a TV show, or something?”

Kuan giggles. “No, silly, it’s our sister!”

“Sister,” Isabel echoes, feeling like a broken record. They have a sister named Isabel. That can’t be right. She turns, carefully, to look at Mace, who is staring intently at the sand by her feet. “Mace.”

“Middle name’s Victoire,” he mumbles, and meets her eyes, looking sheepish. “There’s not a lot else you can do to remember people, these days.”

She understands. When the world has already mourned and moved on, when Isabel’s mission to say her goodbyes was met only with acceptance and grief that’s still heavy on her skin, there’s not much else to do, other than remembering. He had to grieve already, without her.

“Mace,” she says again, her throat so thick that it hurts to say. She swallows a couple times, until she feels like she can breathe again, and says, “We can talk later.”

“Yeah?” Mace says, and she wonders if he expected her to want to talk to him. He looks so… hopeful.

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “I can… you know, I brought books. I have a cell phone that I mostly understand how to use. I can kill time.”

Mace laughs. “Yeah, those have changed a lot. You want to come in the water with us?”

Isabel has gone swimming once, in the last two months. It was in a Goddard facility, for some kind of fitness check-up. It’d been nice at first, cool and refreshing. Chlorine is one of those things that she’d forgotten, not unlike the exact flavor of potato chips and how to talk to children, and she’d even appreciated the sting in her eyes.

It’d taken eight minutes and forty-one seconds, as per her official Goddard chart, before the panic set in. Before the water stopped feeling like water, and all she knew was that she was floating, and if she was floating she must’ve been back in space, back on the Hephaestus, and if she was on the station then she wasn’t safe, and-

Nine minutes. A new record, said the Goddard tech who was observing her. Most former astronauts don’t even make it to five.

“Maybe later,” Isabel says. As long as her feet are on the ground, she should be fine.

“She can sit with me,” someone says, off to one side. It’s the man with the sleeping baby, still watching them. He has one hand resting on the baby’s back, and he looks relaxed, but his eyes are as sharp as anything she’s ever seen. “If you want.”

Isabel nods slowly. “I think I’d like that.”

Mace reaches out and brushes some sand off one of Isabel’s knees, leaving his hand to rest on her thigh. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Isabel repeats, and looks back at the twins. “Sam. Kuan.” She has to take a deep breath, because fuck, even that is hard to say, isn’t it? How does Mace do it every day? “It was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Kuan says, very seriously. Just like any kid trying to pretend to be a grown-up. It reminds her of Hui, of her Kuan.

“Are you gonna still be Daddy’s friend?” Sam asks. “Because you look like a good friend.”

A good friend. A good captain who lost her crew and barely scraped out with her second crew. A good person trying to say her goodbyes.

“I will be his friend,” she says. It’s too awkward and stilted for a kid but it’s all she can manage. Friends are hard to come by these days.

Mace squeezes her leg and gets to his feet. “Who’s ready to go in the ocean!”

The twins both scream in excitement, and Isabel glances back at the man who is most certainly Corey. “You mind if I bring my things over?”

“Course not,” Corey says, amiable as anything. “Although I hope you don’t mind that I’m going to be asking you a few questions.”

Isabel smiles faintly. None of them talked about Their People Back Home too often, at least not in the first few hundred days, but she still remembers Mace talking about his boyfriend. He used to say Corey was smart. And suspicious. She can see that already.

As soon as she settles in next to him, Corey points out towards the water. “I had to come to Sydney for a work conference. It was Mace’s idea to make a trip out of it and bring the kids, and he’s been wrangling all three of them by himself for most of the week.”

Isabel follows where he’s pointing. Mace is in the shallows of the ocean, each twin holding his hand. Every time a wave comes in, no matter how small, they all try to jump over it. She can hear the twins shrieking and laughing, and Mace laughing with them. “How old are they?”

“They turned four last month.” Corey smiles faintly. “He was self-conscious about the name thing. Originally it was going to be Samuel Kuan, and then we found out we’d be adopting twins.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Of course. My boyfriend comes back from space, from the actual dead, and says he wants to name the kids after the people he lost? What kind of a person would say no?”

Isabel nods, and looks at the baby still asleep on Corey’s chest. “She’s quiet.”

Corey snorts and strokes the baby’s - Izzy’s back, smiling down at her. “Tired herself out screaming earlier.”

“I hear that babies do that.”

“You have no idea.”

“How did he come back?”

“We’re still not sure,” Corey admits, and looks back out towards Mace and the twins. “He says the last thing he remembers is getting knocked off the station by a meteor, and then next thing he knows he’s back on the station two years later with nobody but that doctor of yours there.”

Something cold creeps up Isabel’s spine. “And what did the good doctor do?”

“Lied to everyone who came to rescue them.”

“Lied?”

“Said that there was some kind of misunderstanding, that Mace had been with them the whole time in a coma.” Corey shakes his head. “They made it back to Earth and Selburg disappeared. Mace looks for him sometimes.”

“That’s good of him,” Isabel says, because it is. Even if Hilbert doesn’t deserve a damn good thing anymore. Even if he infected Mace with Decima for the sake of research, for some greater good that turned out to be no good at all. Maybe it was his penance, bringing Mace back to Earth. After all, he knew the theta scenario. He probably knew there was no point in running experiments on an alien.

“You don’t sound like you mean it.” Corey looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Do you know how he came back?”

Isabel exhales. “I do.”

Corey takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to ask you to explain, but Mace will.”

“I know.”

“And be careful, when you do. Whatever it is, he already has questions.”

“What kind of questions?

“Doctors have been saying he’s in peak condition for the last five years. They also keep saying that he breaks some of their equipment.”

Psi waves, Isabel thinks. Psi waves, or alien biology, or one of those other things that Pryce and Cutter went on and on about.

Because he’s like her.

“I’ll be careful,” she says, and turns away from Corey’s eyes, back towards the shoreline. One of the twins jumps too high and crashes to his knees in the water. Mace lets go of his hand, just long enough to scoop him up and balance him on his hip. “I’ll tell him the truth, if he asks, but I’m not going to scare him away or anything.”

“Good,” Corey says quietly. “And I know we’ve never met before, but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Isabel quirks a smile. “Thanks. I’m glad he came back to you.”

“Me too,” Corey murmurs. Mace picks up the other twin now, holding them both carefully, like it’s nothing. Like he was made to hold them. “Me too.”

 #

 Mace and Corey have to leave first, because when you have three kids you need to feed them lunch. They leave Isabel with Mace’s phone number, Corey’s number in case Mace’s phone dies, and a small collection of seashells that Kuan picked out for her.

(“I didn’t get her anything,” Sam whispers, looking absolutely horrified, and then proceeds to dump a child-size fistful of sand on each of Isabel’s thighs. “Is mud good for your skin?”

Mace, who’s reapplying sunscreen on Kuan, takes one look at Isabel’s face and laughs so hard that he has to sit down.)

And then they’re gone, and it’s Isabel, by herself on a beach. Just like she wanted.

The breeze keeps blowing. The air still tastes like salt. The waves keep crashing on the sand. There are still families around, but a few have filtered out, probably to go to lunch or school or whatever else families in Sydney have to do. Maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe they’re just passing through. Maybe she’s just passing through, although she’s not sure where exactly she’ll go after this. She still has that list: Reykjavik for Victoire, Honolulu for Kuan, Sao Paulo and Quebec and Copenhagen and San Francisco for Sam. Disneyland. New York. Boston.

She doesn’t remember getting to her feet, but the next thing she knows she’s standing in the shallows. The water’s around her ankles, lapping against her calves, gritty with sand and salt. It feels good. It’s grounding.

She’s holding her cell phone. Slowly, she punches in the numbers and holds her breath.

Renee picks up on the second ring. “Hey! I was just about to call you, I got a package from Goddard today. Apparently they archived all of your crew’s old logs on analog recorders. Less of a chance of a hacker accidentally finding some of Goddard’s dirty laundry. Hera and Dom are going to try and convert them to digital for you, although you can always come pick them up in person.”

Isabel swallows. The world seems too bright, suddenly. She’s not used to the sunlight, she might never be used to the sunlight again, she spent seven years in deep space and she was dead for three of those. Or maybe she was only alive for two of them.

She remembers Lambert’s voice. Or maybe she just remembers a ghost of it. It’d be another thing, another thing entirely, to have his logs. Or to have him in front of her. The way Mace was.

“Isabel?” Renee says cautiously. “Are you there?”

“There’s a baby here named after me,” Isabel says abruptly. It seems like the easiest entry point.

Renee goes quiet. Isabel takes the opportunity to lower herself so she’s sitting in the water. She’d forgotten what sand felt like, but it’s the kind of muddy sand that’s easy to bury your toes in. She has one foot halfway covered in mud when Renee finally says, cautiously, “We’ve only been back for two months.”

“I know.”

“That’s not enough time for that to happen.”

“She was adopted.”

“Who adopted her?”

“Mace Fisher, from my old crew.”

Another silence. This one only lasts long enough for Isabel to get the toes of her other foot into the sand, before: “Is there some kind of an explanation for this?”

“I think it’s another theta scenario.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m sure of it, because the only other option is that I just vividly hallucinated a two-hour encounter with five people, only one of whom I’d ever met before.”

“Who were the other four?”

“His partner and kids.”

“You never met them?”

“Never had the chance. Kids are all under the age of four anyways. For all I know-” Isabel swallows, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that her voice cracked. For all she knows it was just wishful thinking.

Renee sighs noisily. “Did you look them up on Facebook?”

“What?”

“Facebook. Finding a profile page to see if you were imagining them.”

Isabel blinks. “No.”

“Alrighty then,” Renee says briskly. It’s kind of a comfort: all business, no question of what it means if Isabel is seeing things, just another fact-finding mission. Isabel can hear her tap a few buttons, and then: “Hera, you busy?”

“No,” Hera says immediately. “No, I’m- Isabel! You hung up so fast earlier, was everything okay?”

“I ran into one of my old crew members,” Isabel says, as no-nonsense as she possibly can. Renee’s certainly not fooled, but Hera just might be, if she plays her cards right. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“We’re looking for a Facebook page,” Renee explains. “Or some other kind of social media.”

“Ooooh, finally, something interesting!”

Isabel grins. She can’t see Renee, all the way in Massachusetts, but she can still imagine Renee grinning back at her. “I don’t have a lot for you to go on,” she warns. “His name is Mason Fisher, and his partner’s name is Corey.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Occupation?”

“Corey’s a history teacher, or at least he was seven years ago. Mace was in the military.”

“Anything else?”

“They have three kids, Sam, Kuan, and Izzy.”

“And they live in Australia?”

“Yes. Although I’m not sure where.”

Hera hums to herself. “You sure like to give a girl a challenge, I’ll tell you that. And my first Facebook search isn’t picking up anything.”

Isabel’s heart hiccups in her throat. “Nothing?”

“Not yet, but I started with all the parameters in place and I’m broadening the search as we go.”

“Try the other sites too,” Renee suggests. “Twitter, or Instagram, or whatever people are using these days.”

“I’m already running those too,” Hera says. Isabel knows that tone of voice. It’s the “I don’t want to tell you my systems are failing, but they are” voice. “I’m still not seeing anything. And I’m running Corey with an E-Y, Cory with just a Y, I’m putting K’s in there-”

“Have you tried LinkedIn?” a new voice says. “If they’re trying to fly under the radar, which they very well might be, they won’t be on Facebook, but most professionals are on there these days.”

“Oooh,” Renee says softly. “Good one, Dom.”

“Thank you. Hi, Isabel.”

“Hi, Dominik.”

“Are you still in Thailand?” Dominik asks, sounding completely unbothered by the fact that his wife’s best friend is searching for evidence of someone who might not exist. Isabel likes that about him. He takes everything in stride.

“Australia, actually.”

“Staying in the warm half of the world, I see.”

Isabel snorts. “Yeah, it’s great, it’s always sunny in Sydney.”

“Oh, god,” Renee mutters. “You know, it’s crazy to say this, but I’m still not used to the sun. Like, the actual sun, you know what I mean? Heat that isn’t from a vent, light that isn’t from a bulb…”

“Or a star outside the window,” Isabel adds. “And isn’t blue.”

“Isn’t blue!” Renee snaps her fingers. “I keep expecting everything to be blue!”

“And way colder.”

“God, way colder. And I keep forgetting about gravity.”

Isabel laughs, a little more wetly than she intends, but she can’t help it. “Earlier today I was lying on the beach, reading a book, and I went to put the book down-”

“Oh, no,” Renee laughs, like she’s already figured out the punchline to the joke. Or already lived it out a dozen times over.

“Except, of course, I just let go of it, and it fell-” Isabel smacks her knee with one hand. “Right into my solar plexus.”

Dom chuckles. “Hopefully it wasn’t too heavy.”

“Eh, just an airport paperback. Heaviest thing about it was the main character’s tragic backstory.” She sighs. “Worst part was that I cursed loudly on a public beach and almost woke up a sleeping baby, but-”

“Check your phone,” Hera says suddenly. “Is this him?”

Isabel pulls her phone away from her ear and looks at it. The message from Hera opens on its own, as messages from Hera are wont to do. It’s a professional headshot, much cleaner and more put-together than he’d been on the beach.

“Yeah,” Isabel says, a little winded. “That’s Corey.”

“Awesome,” Hera says, clearly relieved. “Corey Rapp, that’s C-O-R-E-Y, has a LinkedIn profile, thank you, Dominik. He’s still a history teacher at a secondary school north of Sydney. Government records show he adopted twins about four years ago and a daughter last year, like you said. No evidence of a spouse or partner, at least not on the record, but knowing what Goddard’s like, that doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t look like Corey has a Facebook or anything under his own name.”

“Neither do I,” Renee points out. “If anything that makes them smart. Means they’re watching out.”

“Good choice,” Dominik murmurs. Isabel agrees, would say as much if she could remember how to breathe.

Mace is here. He’s alive, more than six years after he died, and he’s also definitely an alien. She’s going to have to tell him. Maybe Corey, too, depending on how Mace takes it. She’s not the only one in the world, and somehow, that’s worse than if she were alone. At least if it were just her she wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

“Lovelace,” Renee says quietly.

Isabel blinks. Her skin is hot. Right. Sunlight. Beach. She’s here. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Hera and Dom left,” Renee says cautiously. “You kinda went dark for a minute there. Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not really.”

“How about things you don’t want to talk about?”

“Oh, there are way more of those, don’t worry.”

“I’d be more worried if there weren’t,” Renee admits. “So. You found your alien crewmate who survived the most unlikely series of events that any human has experienced.”

“You really think that’s more unlikely than what we went through?”

“Eh.” Isabel can picture the accompanying shrug, almost jokingly nonchalant. “It’s gotta be on the list, right? Anything involving aliens is… up there.”

“Oh, up there,” Isabel mutters, and Renee makes a soft noise that somehow sounds like a smile. “How’s Doug?”

“Definitely the most well-adjusted out of all of us.”

“Hera said he got a job?”

“He works the night shift at Olive Garden. Customers love him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Renee says, and then goes quiet, and Isabel feels… bad, for a few seconds. She’d been with Renee and Doug for a while, but what they’d had, the casual trust and the years of determination to survive, was irreplaceable. Doug-and-Renee is never going to be the same as Eiffel-and-Minkowski.

“How about you?” Isabel asks, and then kind of wants to kick herself. That’s not necessarily a better talking point.

Renee hums. “Better than I’ve been. Dom and I decided I can’t go back to the military, what with being legally dead, so I’ve been trying to put together the case against Goddard.”

“By yourself?”

“With Hera, sometimes.”

“So by yourself.”

“Mostly,” Renee admits. “I was going to wait for you to come back, but…”

But this trip was supposed to take two weeks, tops, and Isabel hasn’t come back yet. But she has a second list of places to visit. But now she found somewhere else that she could stay for a while. But you can’t plan on someone who might not come back, don’t you know that by now, Captain?

“I’ll help once I’m back,” Isabel says, which she figures is the most honest thing she can say. When she’s ready she’s going to burn Goddard to the ground. Which reminds her: “Have you heard anything from Jacobi?”

“Not yet.”

“And you haven’t tracked him down?”

“Isabel,” Renee chides. “He’s an adult, he’s not my responsibility, and if his way of handling it is leaving, then I’m not here to judge him for it.”

“So that’s a no,” Isabel says, and grins when Renee groans. “He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I know. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Fisher’s alive,” Renee says, like Isabel could have possibly forgotten. “You’re not the only theta scenario. You’re in another new country by yourself. Take your pick. I have a couple reasons to be worried here.”

And Isabel thinks about it, actually thinks about it. It’d be easy to lie, sure, but Renee would know, and she figures if they’re in this whole space trauma business together she might as well be honest.

She pulls one of her feet out of the sand, sticking it into the water. “I'm coping,” she says slowly. “It’s early yet in the process. I think I might be going through the opposite of the five stages of grief.”

“Is that going through the stages in backwards order or experiencing the opposite of each stage?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thinking you were hallucinating could be a form of denial,” Renee says, far too thoughtful. “Or the opposite of acceptance? Is that how it works?”

“I don’t know, shrinks gave up on me, remember?” Isabel’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she glances at the screen. “Mace is calling me.”

“Then answer!”

“Okay,” Isabel says, and then, “Thank you.”

Renee doesn’t ask what she’s thanking her for. She’s smart like that. “Any time. Time zones don’t matter, just call.”

“I will,” Isabel says. It’s not quite a lie. “Talk to you soon, Renee.”

“Talk to you soon, Isabel.”

Isabel swipes over to answer. “Mace.”

“Isabel,” Mace says brightly. She almost doesn’t catch the note of surprise. “I realized I forgot to ask how long you’re in Sydney.”

“Until I leave.”

“No dates?”

“Well, you know, international travel gets a lot easier when a multibillion dollar company is footing the bill.”

“Huh,” Mace says. “Well, if you’re not busy tonight-”

“Isabel,” Renee says, sounding far too amused, and Isabel almost jumps out of her skin in surprise. “You didn’t hang up on me.”

Isabel frowns. “Apparently not. Did I make it a conference call?”

“You’re still not used to the new phone,” Renee says smugly, which is completely unfair. Phones have changed a lot in seven years, and Isabel is entitled to a few moments of staggering confusion. “That’s okay, you know.”

“Took me a while to get used to it too,” Mace says, in what’s probably supposed to be a sympathy move. “Touch screens and all.”

“You must be Mace Fisher,” Renee says, and Isabel’s breath catches. It’s so outrageously her, making a point of acknowledging that she can hear the person on the other end of the phone. “I’m Renee Minkowski. Former commander of the final mission to the USS Hephaestus Station, which is currently space dust.”

“Can’t say I’m sad to hear about that,” Mace admits. “And Captain, you owe me… so many explanations for all of that.”

“Many, many explanations,” Isabel agrees. “I can pay for drinks too.”

“I’ll leave you two to make plans now.” Renee pauses, and Isabel can feel the smugness from thousands of miles away. It’s strangely comforting. “Isabel, don’t worry, I can hang up on my own.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Isabel says as dryly as possible. “I’ll call you soon, Renee.”

“You’d better,” Renee says, and then there’s a soft beep.

Isabel exhales. “So. Drinks?”

“I probably shouldn’t leave my hotel, if Corey’s alone with the kids, but-”

“Hotel bar?”

“Hotel bar. I’ll send you the address.”

“Let me know when it’s a good time to come.”

“I will.” Mace pauses. “So, we can talk about this later, but…”

“But?”

“Renee, hm?”

Isabel groans. “Mace.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Come on.”

“No, I’m just saying, you sounded happy to talk to her.”

“That’s because I was.”

“Good,” Mace says, sounding pleased. “I have to run now, I just wanted to call and check.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’ll see you tonight, Mace.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he echoes, and then there’s that soft beep again, and Isabel’s alone on the beach.

One of her feet is still buried in the sand. Carefully, she wiggles her toes. The mud squishes between them. It almost tickles, and she can feel some of the sand dissolving in the water. The shallows are still lapping around her, against her hips, her thighs, one hand that she plants in the sand while she cradles her phone in the other.

There was a point where she thought she’d never make it back to a beach. She hadn’t been to many beaches before space, and definitely not many with actual oceans. The Air Force isn’t exactly interested in destination resorts, after all. But here she is. Sitting on a beach in Sydney.

Isabel swirls her hand through the water, letting the sand cloud around her. She never thought she would feel sand again. Or sun. Or the sheer gratitude of knowing that someone else made it out alive. She has another list, one that’s been getting longer: things she’s getting to experience again. Maybe for the first time, depending how you look at it.

Sydney is bright in the summer. There are people waiting for her in Boston, and a list of cities she has to visit. There’s a stack of books on the beach, next to her backpack, underneath an umbrella. She should go back to those and make some kind of progress, or at the very least make sure nobody takes her book before she can finish it.

She stays in the ocean, just a little longer. It’s not every day that she gets the chance.

[breathings-of-the-heart]

Lividness (Draco Malfoy x Reader) Part 1??

(Gif not mine)

Livid.

You were completely, utterly, passionately livid. Every heartbeat that resounded within your burning chest elevates as boiled blood pulsates into your brain– a semi-functioning organ (for the time being) that can only register exactly that. Lividness. No other color aside from red seems to exist, and the pounding in your ears drowns out the rest of the world’s white noise. You shook, completely enveloped, controlled, blinded… by anger. Forgotten are your trusted companions: common sense and sanity, in these sporadic moments, thoughts that have been replaced with neuron signals that consist of:

“THROW THIS! THROW THAT! SCREAM! CURSE YOUR HEART OUT, B*TCH!”

“…Oh, honey, you can do better than that.  SCREAM LOUDER!!!”

The release of such emotion is violent, yet undeniably relieving… but getting caught up with the fatigue is much less so. You were left panting, dizzy, and in a room littered with objects, ranging from cheap knick-knacks, to pillows, your school books to memorabilias. A hole in the wall, too, much to your dismay. Shuffling towards the bed, you sniffle, resting your face in your hands and waiting for the ache in your chest to claim the tears that follow. Tears that don’t ever need to be explained.

Tears that speak for themselves.

You see, for you, it’s all just a three step process. 

The room, littered with a dark aura seemed to blacken, the thickening silence becoming suffocating with the exception of your ragged breaths. With a sudden sickening feeling sinking into your stomach, your brain recovers from its momentary trance and begins to process what had happened. A weak “accio” fell from your quivering lips as you grabbed the nearest box, stuffing all the things you had collected over the past two years that had any relation to Draco Malfoy. You were done. 

Strong certainty found itself reflecting off of your movements as your numb hands stuffed his old Quidditch jersey, scarf, neatly folded into the cardboard exapance. The Championship afterparty in the Slytherin common room where Draco had claimed your first kiss upon his upturned lips seemed to be another lifetime, an illusion that couldn’t seem to shake itself from your mind as you ran your fingers over the grass-stained fabric. Shaking your head, you placed every love letter, card, picture, and gift alongside the other objects, determined not the dwell on their sentimental meanings. Another shuddering breath elicited from deep within your chest as you placed the lid over the symbols of a large portion of your lifetime. 

But this emotional rollar coaster was a cycle. Grief for miss opportunity hardens back into blame, brutality. The eye of the storm passes and infuration becomes intoxicating and dammit. 

You stuff a pillow in your face and scream until your lungs burn, yet it’s not enough relief. Punches fly and scratches leave angry, red marks on your skin as you desperately attempt to let it all out and find relief. 

All because of Draco’s lips when weren’t on yours the nights he “forgot” about your dates. Because of Draco’s lies that became so easy on his conscience that he didn’t have to think twice before spitting them out right to your face. And just Draco himself, who broke your heart so sneakily that you didn’t even realize it was all just built up lividness waiting for the perfect moment of release.

But most importantly, lividness towards yourself for being so oblivious to it all.

“Draco, can we talk?” The distant look in his clouded eyes receded slightly, and with a lazy turn of his head, the albino’s dark circles and sunken cheeks became more prominent. Your heart twisted as you looked down onto the plate on the table in front of him, where his food lay untouched and undoubtebly cold. 

“What about?” he asked, an unenthusiastic grumble accenting the ends of his drawn-out vowels. He gave off an air of subtle coldness that you picked up on with ease, as it had become a common occurance, and your frown deepened. 

“Not here. Please,” you sighed quietly, willing him to understand. The complacent teen stood up slowly before marching out of the Great Hall, not bothering to look back to make sure you followed. Biting your bottom lip, you went out after him, matching his pace as he turned down a corridor into an empty hallway. 

“What is it, (y/n)?” he asked, annoyance lingering in his tone. You were taken aback, a grimace etching its way onto your face as you tried to brush off his obvious indignation. Shaking your head, you looked at your feet, taking a moment to collect your thoughts and ringing your hands together nervously.

“It’s just… you’ve been really distant lately, and there have been rumours going around that you and Pansy–”

“–so you’ve come to accuse me of something?!” Draco interrupted distastefully. “You know, if you wanted to say what’s on your mind, just spit it out! Don’t go bloody pointing fingers!” The sudden raise of his voice flipped a switch, your undying toleration evaporating in an instant.

“Of course not! I just wanted to know what I’m doing wrong that makes you so upset with me all the time!” you said angrily, all patience thinning out. “You’re stringing me along, Draco! I deserve better than that!” 

“If you have the temerity to complain with such passion, just break up with me,” Draco challenged. “I’m not the clingy control-freak in this relationship, so if you did, it would just be a blessing.” The last words that flew out of his mouth were spat out with so much diction that everything else around you stopped. A strangled whimper clawed its way out of your mouth and you hated yourself for sounding so weak. 

“(Y/N).” His tone changed abruptly, reminiscent of the soft way he spoke to you the first months that you were his. For as long as you could remember, it had been your anchor, but it became a foreign sound, for you were long gone. In a place where nobody could bring you back.

“(Y/N), I didn’t mean it.” Your gaze travelled anywhere but his face in a frantic attempt to keep from crying. But that statement was completely false. Draco Malfoy never said anything but what was on his mind. He was never one to eat his words and never one to take back something unless he was forced to. 

You should have known. 

Without missing a beat, you ran past him, drowning out his calls with the strangled cries that occassionaly slipped out. 

A soft knock on the door grabbed Draco’s attention. He half-heardtedly made his way over, turning the knob and lifting his gaze. His heart skipped a beat. 

“(Y/N)?”

You stood a distance away, stone-faced and drained. A large box with cut out handles at the sides was held chest level in your hands and you placed it in his arms silently. 

“I would’ve asked one of your friends to give this to you, but there’s some valuable jewlery inside so knowing them, I couldn’t trust it,” you murmured, no trace of humour in your expression. Draco was silent, still taking you in, indulging in the fact that you were standing in front of him when he’d been trying to get a hold of you for a month now. But his fantasy was quickly broken when he realized what was inside the box. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I cheated and I’m sorry that I lied and I’m sorry that I hurt you,” he managed breathlessly, placing the box down without a second thought and stepping forward to cup your cheeks. You gazed at him with a strained smile that didn't quiet meet your eyes and peeled away his fingers, taking a step back. 

“I know,” you whispered. “But maybe you’ll find someone who’s actually enough for you and treat them right.”

“I don’t want anybody but you.” 

And the cycle continues to circulate, for if he’d realized that sooner, the crippling pain in your chest and barely beating heart would be pushed away for a less painful cause.

…

You were livid. 

[rachelkulagodfrey-blog]

A [MUSIC] Review: My 10+1 Favorite Live Acts From the Last Six Months

Originally posted on January 17, 2019.

Some people procrastinate by online shopping, cleaning, or watching the first season of a Netflix show that truly isn’t worth it (Judd Apatow’s Love stole my time and I want it back).

Others make an Instagram post about how they “just can’t focus :/”, masturbate to a point where it’s almost violent, or complete every single task except for the most pressing one at hand.

I am all of these people. Baked to perfection.

As appealing as all of these options are, my favorite way to procrastinate is watching live musical performances. If I said this was my number one choice because I really love to see what each and every artist can do on their feet, I would be LYING; it’s because I’m broke. Imagining I’m in the actual audience sounds like a cute and affordable outing to me.

I was originally going to write a late post about my ten favorite live musical acts of 2018, but then The Holy Trinity™ a.k.a The Goat Trio (Noname, Smino, and Saba) decided to perform on The Late Night Show with Jimmy Fallon and fuck up my whole plan.

Fucked up my whole plan, but made my whole life.

Here are the 10+1 live acts that have rustled my big and bright feathers in the last 184 days, ordered by upload date:

1. Mac Miller: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

August 6, 2018

I was tabling at my school’s Student Activities Fair when one of my best friends approached me looking like tears were seconds from falling down her cheeks and flooding the fucking campus. Her “I have to tell you something” was followed by what most onlookers would probably describe as an unnecessarily loud processing of the Five Ws and One H of Malcolm McCormick’s death. It probably looked overdramatic, but it honestly didn’t feel that way.

Mac’s placement in my mind shifted in tandem with his style. In his “Knock, Knock” days, he was the weird white kid who Wiz Khalifa seemed to have taken under his wing. I started high school a week or two before “Smile Back” was released. And I was in attack mode after a girl had used up MY oxygen to talk about me not being a “real” Black girl. While 14-year-old-me did put a hex on her soon after, Mac’s anthem of the opposition not being worth my stress set my mind right. Did not reverse the hex, though. Sorry, sis.

His eventual Earl Sweatshirt, Ab-Soul, and Anderson .Paak collaborations reframed the way I thought of him as a creative. I realized how open he was, and how honored he was to share space and thought with a wide range of musical talents. You can hear it in the production of the songs. His NPR Tiny Desk was an elevation of this. His energy was right. Thundercat on bass was right. Watching this performance made me want to bop the shit out of my head but also call all my old niggas and let them know I was suing them for stealing energy I could have put toward studying a cool cat’s artistry. So much love to Mr. Malcolm.

Favorite Moment(s): When Mac laughs at Thundercat’s abrupt tone change during “What’s the Use?” @ 9:10.

2. Rex Orange County performing “Sunflower” live on KCRW

August 14, 2018

I know I’ll get heat for this. But Alex O’ Connor is worth the slack.

In this performance, Rex Orange County looks and sounds like the place where lo-fi, Big Mouth, and driven-over lilacs meet. Doesn’t seem like the most appealing thing that could come out of your speakers, but it’s honestly just one really sweet surprise. And romance may be a capitalist sham, but all I can say is ShamWow! After finding out that he wrote “Sunflower” for his girlfriend of 3+ years, the bridge started to make me feel like someone slipped me a “Would You Date Me?” note in detention. Uncomfortable, but definitely entertained.

Favorite Moment(s): The aforementioned bridge @ 3:02.

3. serpentwithfeet – mourning song (Live on KEXP)

September 11, 2018

Josiah Wise, better known as serpentwithfeet, is one of the greatest storytellers I have ever witnessed. His entire KEXP performance is worth watching to see an immersive experiment in chaos and control using lighting, backtracks, and his voice. Confidence is not something we often associate with grief. In this performance of “mourning song”, he lists all the ways he will allow himself to think and feel through the end of an intimate relationship. Every time I listen to this song, I feel like he actually rips the voices from my head that tell me I am a burden, or that I must hide any part of myself.

I’m not really a church-going girl anymore so I won’t say watching this took me there. But it definitely took me to the Pokémon Center. HP on 255, bitch.

Favorite Moment(s): When he plays around with distance from the mic @ 2:30.

4. 070 Shake – I Laugh When I’m Friends But Sad When I’m Alone

September 14, 2018

My dearest New Jersey babe. The shining star of the 070 Crew, Danielle Balbuena, used to be at the top of my “Anal Sounds Great!” list after the 2016 “Bass for my Thoughts” release. Trevante Rhodes has since stolen her spot.

Shake takes her time with COLORS to sing about her unadulterated thoughts about the negatives that come along with fame, as well as how the perceived positive of always being around people can be suffocating. No matter what life decisions we try to make, no matter what our intentions, we’ll always be criticized. 9/10 times the criticism will come from people who are too scared to live out their own dreams and have decided to try and put their hooks into the dreams of others. I love this performance because she manages to make the sentiment hit relying primarily on her flow, with the beat not coming in until more than halfway through the video.

Favorite Moment(s): The belting at the end. She sounds like Roy Woods and it makes me want a collab.

5. Noname Performs A Three-Song Medley From Her Album ‘Room 25’

October 18, 2018

I am a walking Noname stan account.

I saw her perform during my sophomore year of college, soon after Telefone‘s release. I had never felt so represented in my existential absurdity. She was as wishful as she was uncertain; the last time I had felt that seen was when I heard Paramore’s “For A Pessimist, I’m Pretty Optimistic” for the first time. But you know angsty white people are always doing something, so it didn’t really click the same. I sobbed in the first row while Noname rapped about the effects poverty has on the Black imagination, battling with addiction, and finding the will to fight our own apathy.

In this performance, she gifts us with a three-song medley, featuring “Blaxploitation”, “Prayer Song”, and “Don’t Forget About Me”, three singles from Room 25. Together, the musical collage tells a story about trying to create in a culture that values what we make more than our livelihood.

Favorite Moment(s): The GIGGLE when the music ends before she does.

6. dvsn: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

November 28, 2018

Roy Woods and Majid Jordan were my favorite OVO acts for the longest time. I had heard of dvsn and didn’t really care for the duo at first. I didn’t even know they were a duo until like a week ago.

One night I was at a party that I didn’t want to be at, and I really wasn’t feeling the music. While I waited to sober up so I could walk home, I put on my headphones and started playing my own music. When the beat in “Mood” dropped and Daniel Daley’s vocals came in, I knew it was the beginning of a spiral into a rabbit hole full of fuck nigga energy… Energy to which I am apparently still very open. In this performance, Daley’s falsetto as he sings about not wanting to pull out of his partner is literally the most disarming sound I’ve ever heard. It’s what I imagine the Sirens in the Odyssey sounded like. I’m 100% certain that behind the sunglasses, his eyes are pitch black. Because Satan.

Favorite Moment(s): 6:13 – 6:35. Mother of God.

7. Rapsody, “Sassy” Night Owl | NPR Music

December 4, 2018

RAPSODY IS ONE OF THE MOST UNDERRATED LYRICISTS OF ALL TIME AND I WILL NOT REST UNTIL JUSTICE IS SERVED.

Like… I’ll sleep and all that. But I will be dissatisfied. Known for her home-hitting lyrical additions – Kendrick Lamar’s “Complexion (A Zulu Love) and Anderson .Paak’s “Without You” – Marlanna Evans deserves so much more for the brilliance that went into Laila’s Wisdom. When she was nominated for 2018 Best Rap Album of the Year, she was the fifth female-identifying nominee in the 23-year history of the category. This performance of one of Laila’s singles, “Sassy”, makes me want to bounce through the streets in some high tops. It demonstrates her ability to give us all profound lyrics and pop-off sounds.

Favorite Moment(s): Her dance break @ 2:45.

8. H.E.R.: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

December 13, 2018

H.E.R. had already appeared on NPR Tiny Desk before this performance, but five minutes of listening to her voice were simply not enough. Whenever I listen to one of her songs, I have to listen to two or three more. The cool thing is that she’s not using subliminal messaging! It’s literally just carefully-honed skill and talent! These niggas can’t even spell talent!

The transitions in this video are wild. Seeing how many times Gabi Wilson switches the instrument she’s playing is honestly just really fun. “Focus” is my favorite H.E.R. song, and this performance takes it up three whole notches. Considering the fact that she’s an actual child prodigy, I cannot help but smile seeing her get the shine she deserves; hearing people refer to her as “the girl who covered the Drake song” really made me as upset as the people who fight in the comments under Lebron highlight reels seem to be.

Favorite Moment(s): The back-and-forth between H.E.R. and the two amazing background vocalists @ 16:28.

9. JPEGMAFIA – Thug Tears | A COLORS SHOW

December 14, 2018

I really cannot tell if Barrington Hendricks/JPEGMAFIA/Peggy is the kind of person who hates astrology and everyone who mentions it, or if he consults his Co-Star chart every morning. Regardless, as the sole member of the non-Scorpio Scorpio Fan Club, I love this Scorpio king.

One second into his COLORS episode, I thought my speakers were fucking broken. Twenty seconds in, I thought I was having a stroke. I eventually realized that I was not being Punk’d by the peculiar nigga on my screen, and decided to go back to the beginning and try this shit again.

I became so infatuated with JPEGMAFIA after watching this performance. This may mean that I need to call my therapist soon, but I would argue that my interest stems from the healing power I feel is available in his artistry. While different from serpentwiththefeet’s “vibe”, Peggy presents us with a similar sentiment: being unafraid to display your emotions, whether it be grief or anger, in ways that are not respectable or palatable can shake up a nigga’s psyche. Lord knows this shit had me shook all the way the fuck up.

Favorite Moment(s): He starts off stretching. Definitely didn’t realize how necessary it was going to be.

10. KOFFEE – TOAST (LIVE FROM KGN)

December 23, 2018

I first listened to Koffee when she performed with Chronixx on the Real Rock Riddim. This past November, the 18-year-old released the inspirational fucking BOP, “Toast”. In the song, she speaks to her performances with Chronixx and other key moments in her musical journey as well as the bright future she sees ahead. The song itself has been at the top of my morning playlist; you already KNOW I love to bust an early whine while I brush my teeth. But this performance… it’s magic. You can barely hear Koffee herself with the audience screaming all the words back at her, letting her know they’ve got her back. And with a big ass smile full of braces, you can tell she’s feeling all the love they’ve got to give. Everyone, myself included, is ready for Koffee to rise to the top.

Favorite Moment(s): Her disbelief at the room’s energy at the beginning, and when she brings on the girls to help her sing @ 1:30.

10+1. Noname ft. Smino and Saba: Ace

January 8, 2018

One day, I’ll share the story of how Noname was an instrumental part in my sexual “becoming”. It’s the same story that I shared with her after the aforementioned concert (still so sorry about that, yikes). Until then:

I screamed when I found out this performance was happening. I don’t even think I can put into words how Noname, Smino, and Saba’s performance of “Ace” changed my whole attitude. For the last eight days, my sense of clarity has been… well, CLEAR! I realized how much my hair had grown. I finished grant and job applications. I’ve received great personal news and old, important friendships are being rekindled. They have too much power. I’m tweaking.

All I have to say is that this video ran me a bath, put a glass of wine in my hand, and made me dinner. Enjoy.

Favorite Moment(s): I. Cannot. Choose. (But wow. The way they look at Saba @ 1:56. I’m emotional.)

[floraexplorer]

Three Months as an Orphan, an Ice House and a Search for ‘Home’

In January, I came home to a broken boiler.

After celebrating the New Year in Cuba, I’d spent two straight days flying from Havana to Toronto to London – and I was exhausted. Moreover, I was more than a little worried about how it would feel to be at home at the beginning of this new year.

The first year I’m facing without either of my parents alive.

It’s been three months since my dad passed away, and in that time I’ve had a rude awakening into what my new life looks like. Suddenly I’m the sole person responsible for the house I grew up in: I’m responsible for every physical object which represents the life I once shared with my mum and dad. It’s a huge realisation, and it’s utterly terrifying.

In a purely practical sense, I’ve also been forced into adulthood in the most mundane of ways – something which became rudely evident when the boiler began to flash an ominous red light on December 26th.

“At least it was working on Christmas Day!” my boyfriend said brightly, while I immediately panicked and tried to find a repairman. Luckily my dad, ever the pragmatist, had already paid for a year of insurance cover for his three year old boiler, and the plumber who eventually arrived to check it out told me that the replacement part would be ready in three or four days.

Great news, right?

Except a fortnight later, we got back from Cuba and walked into a freezing house in equally freezing winter temperatures, and so a boiler nightmare began.

The prospect of a month without heating

Over the next few weeks, I had five different boiler appointments which were booked then cancelled at the last minute by the repair company – and my confidence was repeatedly chipped away each time. My vague plan for the first months of 2018 had initially been to slowly and calmly begin ‘Working On The House’: namely, sorting through drawers and cupboards, bagging up unwanted clothes for the charity shop, re-organising the layouts of furniture and knick-knacks, and generally navigating how to find comfort in a space which is suddenly unfamiliar.

Instead, thanks to a mysteriously hard-to-obtain replacement boiler part (and a company who didn’t seem too bothered about it), my house was destined to be bone-cold and virtually uninhabitable for four straight weeks.

So I did the only thing I could. I wrapped myself in every layer of thermal clothing I owned, clambered into bed beneath three thick duvets, and I hid.

What makes a place ‘home’?

In May last year, before we knew my dad was going to die, I’d planned to move to Scotland and live with my boyfriend. Jamie’s been based in Glasgow for the last six years, and I was excited to explore a country I’d always adored but hadn’t spent much time in.

Except that after Dad’s death, the idea of relocating suddenly became much more overwhelming. His house had always represented long-term permanence and security, but now that’s been shaken. Suddenly London, and my life within it, feels acutely vulnerable.

And yet, mere months before, I’d been so keen to leave London! I’d wanted to break out of the city-wide suffocation and breathe properly in the open countryside. I’d wanted to have a fresh start in Scotland. I’d felt ready.

So a few weeks after my dad’s funeral in mid November, Jamie and I drove northwards: up through snow-laden fields and into the Scottish countryside. During a fortnight we visited a dozen properties, some for rent and others for sale, in the hope that we’d chance upon a place we might want to live.

We met most of the owners of these properties, and I was fascinated to see how all these people had decorated their homes to reflect their lives. There was the man with a thimble collection whose children had all emigrated to Australia and who’d hung his garage with Australian flags; the woman who worked for years with a camel rescue centre in Syria and filled her house with green palm fronds; the house with the bright orange conservatory, a gaggle of inquisitive geese, and a cat tunnel dug into the wall.

These families were relocating because of many reasons: illness, old age, an increasing need to be closer to loved ones. Some seemed more resigned than others to be moving on – and I understand why, because leaving a familiar way of life behind you can be terrifying.

But while we were far away from London, I began to have uneasy nightmares about my dad’s house. Each night my mind filled with scenes of break-ins, spontaneous fires, unlocked doors and a confusion of visitors arriving for unexpected house parties.

When I eventually came back to London in December, it was with a bitter sense of relief. I wanted to embrace a new life in Scotland – but I needed to be in my family’s house. After so many years of wanting to keep moving, all I want to do now is stay very still in a place of comfort, and wait for this grief to wash over me.

Life inside an ice house, and a sense of reclamation

Of course, a broken boiler made the grief process a lot more stressful.

Jamie’s job called him quickly back to Scotland, so for four weeks straight, I was suddenly isolated by myself in a strange nothing-space. I spent all my time in a living room stronghold of 10’C, warmed only by two electric space heaters and a hastily constructed fire; my body dressed in leggings and tracksuit bottoms, thick HeatHolder socks, thermal long sleeved tops, a woollen black turtleneck once belonging to my mum, and an Ebay-purchased heavy knit jumper.

Under my multiple duvets, watching my breath mist above my head, I thought long and hard about what this house signifies.

It’s a safe space for me to actively feel my grief at losing both my parents, sure: but it’s also filled to the brim with them. Every picture I didn’t choose to frame or hang on the wall is a reminder of them. Every colour of carpet, every curtain pattern, every lampshade, every decoration is proof that I’m living around their memories.

For better or worse, this house is mine now – and these reminders, which have the ability to be both positive and negative, aren’t going anywhere until I decide they should. And I get the strong sense that part of my healing process is to reclaim this house so it feels like it belongs to me.

So I began to think about lampshades, wall murals, framing my own pieces of art I’ve bought around the world. Changing the curtains. Buying a good mattress for the first time in my life.

And with this thinking came a sense of proactivity. After what felt like months of passive hibernation beneath the covers, I began to actively preserve myself against the cold.

I used towels from my dad’s scarily organised airing cupboard to cover the gaps at the bottom of each door in the house. I spent an evening clumsily sewing up an old sweatshirt of my mum’s, filling it with rice to make a draught excluder.

Copying what my dad did years ago with the draughty front door, I hammered pins into the doorframe of the living room and hung a scratchy mohair blanket to stop any cold air from getting in. My fire-laying and lighting skills improved with every evening’s attempt.

By the time the boiler was finally fixed by a fantastic engineer named Errol, I’d worked out the best methods to preserve what little warmth there was in my house. I’d also begun to understand the myriad of triggers for my grief.  

As Errol stood on his ladder and peered inside the boiler, we talked about what it’s like to lose our parents. Errol’s mum had passed away the year before, and he knew exactly what was racing through my mind.

“You can’t get on with grieving your dad properly,” he said. “Not while you’re freezing by yourself in this house! You’ve really been through the wringer, haven’t you?”

Errol understood why this situation was so upsetting, and why my house felt so strange.

“You need to feel at home here,” he said, waving a screwdriver in his vehemence. “This needs to be your place. It’s your home now – even though you’ve lost your mum and dad.”

This house has always been my home

What does ‘home’ mean to you? Mine may no longer have my family in it – not physical people, at least. But there’s still heating and hot water (occasionally!), and there are all our familiar possessions. Belongings.

This is a place I belong to.

Regardless, sometimes this belonging feels a bit like being under house arrest. I’ve begun to have too many anxieties about a building I wasn’t really supposed to be living in right now. In the same way that I’m fascinated by people’s life stories illustrated in their houses, I’m scared of establishing my own story right here. I’m nervous of creating my own life inside a house which used to hold three people’s lives, intertwined around each other.

But then I remember there are almost thirty years of memories with my dad in these six rooms. Twenty of those years still involved my mum.

And without sounding trite, my parents didn’t raise me to crumble.

They raised me to be strong.

This time last year I could never have imagined where I’d be right now. But it happened. My dad died, and so my world shifted. Now, I’m spending a quiet Christmas Eve in my family house, without any surviving members of my family apart from me. And yet? That shifted world I inhabit is still beautiful. Different, yes – but undeniably beautiful. The dusk sky still shines with ethereal colours dancing through the clouds; traces of seawater still reflect smudges of fading light along the dappled sands, and it’s utterly mesmerising. I’ve been reflecting so much the past few weeks. I know my life has changed forever, but it’s still mine. I’ve spent the last decade since my mum’s death living fiercely: I’ve been experiencing everything I can of this beautiful world, and I won’t let that change. So merry Christmas, folks. The tide might be out in southwest Scotland, but soon it’ll come back to life again. And so will I ❤️

A post shared by Flora The Explorer (@florabaker) on Dec 24, 2017 at 8:29am PST

There’s no doubt that the grief process is going to be hard. I’ve already done it once before, and I’m not looking forward to it. But just like last time, I know that grief at its highest intensity doesn’t last forever. I can get through it, and with some self-care I know I will.

For now, I’ll be living mainly in London, visiting Scotland as often as I feel able, and spending time on short-term pursuits of happiness around the world. London is where my friends and community and familiarity are, whereas Scotland holds the promise of new horizons: a new life, when I’m ready for it.

So. I’ll reclaim this house to be my home. I’ll nurse my grief and regain my strength. I’ll find out what it means to be an adult orphan, and I’ll come to terms with it.

I’m battered, bruised and so very vulnerable – but I’m still here. And that’s a start.

Have you ever felt unsettled about your own home? Does moving house always contain emotional baggage for you? What does ‘home’ mean to you? 

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