#i'm good when i can live my life the way i want to and be healthy

[ekybrini]

slipping through my fingers| JACK HUGHES

— ⟡ summary | in which y/n and Jake childhood best friends who've always had something there for each other. But once jack gets drafted everything changed for both of them.

— ⟡ warnings | none (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 17.8k (GUYS IM SORRY)

— ⟡ gabs note | hiii!!! im so excited to finally start writing again! I apologizer if this seems rushed. also this is EXTREMELY INACCURATE!!! please don't think this is literal, I don't know how some of these things work. also i apologize if this is cringe bc I CANNOT write romance for the life of me. I'm currently on spring break so I'll be trying to take advantage of being able to write a few things! if anyone wants to request or suggest anything don't hesitate to go into my inbox . i'll try to get to it and write it as soon as I can :) after spring break I may be a little inactive as i'm trying to lock in, in some of my classes before the semesters is over (ap econ and living earth are actually kicking my ass)

⟡ slipping through your fingers | jack hughes (jacks pov)

Part two

You've known Jack since you were kids. Backyard games of street hockey, summer nights spent on the lake, and watching him skate around with his brothers. you were always there. best friends through and through. 

The first time you met Jack, you were about 10 years old. You had just moved into the neighborhood and the first thing you noticed was the street hockey that was happening right outside of your house. The kids from the neighborhood were scattered in every direction, sticks raised, yelling at each other. The one who caught your attention right away was the kid with the wild hair, darting around the group with such speed that it was almost impossible to keep up. He made it look effortless. He, of course, was jack. 

You were lonely at first, standing awkwardly by the curb or watching the game through your bedroom window . Jack, always the curious one, had spotted you one day as you were sitting on the curb and skated over with a big grin.

"You gonna watch all day, or do you wanna join us?" he’d asked, not missing a beat, despite being out of breath. his eyes were full of that contagious energy.

You'd hesitated, feeling unsure. “I don’t know. I’m not really good at this... I’ve never really played before.”

"Come on! I’ll teach you," Jack insisted. "It’s easy, you just gotta push the puck this way, and then..." He demonstrated, sending the puck flying past you. "See? Just like that!"

It wasn’t perfect, but you tried. And Jack, always encouraging, cheered you on even as you missed the puck completely a few times. "Don’t worry. You’ll get it. It’s all about having fun."

From that moment on, you and Jack were inseparable. Summer after summer, it was the same routine. Jack, with his scruffy hair and infectious smile, would be the one to drag you out onto the street, even if you were just coming off a bad day at school or feeling a little down.

One of your favorite memories came when you were both about 12 years old. It was a hot, sticky summer afternoon. Jack, as usual, had the game already set up, calling the shots while the other neighborhood kids were pretending to be superstars in a game that felt far more like a chaotic free for all than a real match.

"You in or what?" Jack shouted, holding out a stick. “This game’s going nowhere without you.”

You rolled your eyes, already seeing the sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back. "You know, I was just thinking about going inside and having a popsicle."

"Are you really gonna let me down like this?" Jack raised an eyebrow, grinning from ear to ear. “you promised you'd play after school." 

"Fine," you said with a laugh, grabbing the stick. "But this time, I’m definitely winning."

You didn't win, at least not that day, but you had so much fun trying. Jack was so fast, his little tricks and turns keeping you on your toes, but every time he made a move, you were there to give it your best shot. You kept pushing him, running after the puck until the sun dipped below the horizon, and both of you were covered in dirt and sweat, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

That night, you sat side by side on the dock by the lake, feet dangling in the cool water as you two ate ice cream bars. The night was quiet except for the distant croak of frogs. 

“You were so close to getting me,” Jack said between breaths, a playful edge to his voice. He tilted his head back to look at the sky. “You’ll get me next time. Just wait.”

You chuckled, watching him with a teasing smile. "Yeah, sure, Jack. Maybe when I’m 18 and you’ve forgotten how to skate."

Jack laughed loudly, nudging you with his elbow. “Not a chance. I’ll always be better. But hey, I can teach you some moves if you want.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Teach me how to win, too?”

"Obviously," he said with a grin, though there was a genuine warmth in his eyes. “I’ll make you into a skating legend if that's what you want.”

You didn't know it then, but those summers spent with Jack would become some of the best memories of your life. Even when the seasons changed and the street hockey games moved indoors. Jack’s determination never left. You spent every Saturday watching him at the rink, your nose pressed against the cold glass as he glided across the ice, his stick flashing, eyes full of focus. He was good. Too good, in fact. And with every game, the crowd cheered louder with his dreams growing bigger.

⟡

By the time you and Jack hit your early teens, things start to feel different. It’s not obvious at first just a lingering glance here, a nervous laugh there. Jack’s still Jack competitive, loud, always pulling you into whatever chaos he’s creating. But sometimes, when his hand brushes against yours, or when he looks at you a second too long after you’ve made a joke, it feels like something is shifting beneath the surface. You notice it, even if you don’t understand it yet.

The way he seems to notice you more, how he’s always trying to catch your eye in a group conversation, how his voice drops just a little when he says your name. It’s subtle, and you try to ignore it. He’s your best friend, right? Nothing has changed between you two. You’re still the same, pulling pranks on each other, laughing at dumb things, challenging each other to stupid games on long summer afternoons.

But the moments keep building like when he reaches across the table to grab something and his fingers graze the back of your hand, leaving a warmth that lingers far longer than it should. Or when you catch him staring at you when you’re talking, and his expression shifts just a fraction of something unreadable there for a brief second before he masks it with a grin.

And then there are those times when the air feels too quiet. Like when you’re lying next to each other on the grass, watching the stars, and the silence stretches between you two in a way it never has before. It’s not comfortable anymore, this space. It’s heavy.

You’re 14 when you notice it for real. You’re both sitting on the dock, summer sun dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in a golden haze. Jack’s freshly showered from practice, hair still damp, the scent of soap and fresh air clinging to him. You’re half listening to him ramble on about a play he’s been trying to perfect, his words weaving in and out of the soft, distant hum of the lake’s waves against the dock.

But something in the air is different. It feels thicker. The kind of tension you get when you can’t tell whether the storm is coming, or if it’s already here and you’re just waiting for it to break. You can feel the weight of the evening sun on your skin, but your heart feels heavy, like it’s pounding against your ribs, a rhythm you’re trying to ignore.

“You’re not even listening,” he accuses, nudging you with his knee, and you startle, realizing you haven’t heard a word he’s said for the last few minutes.

“I’m listening,” you argue, even though you weren’t.

Jack raises an eyebrow, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “No, you’re not. You’ve been all quiet. What's up with you?”

You scoff, trying to brush it off. “Me? You’re the one who’s weird,” you tease, attempting to lighten the mood, but your words feel hollow, even to you.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he studies you, his expression more serious than usual. His gaze shifts from your face to your hands, and then back to your eyes like he’s trying to figure something out that you aren’t even aware of.

“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs, leaning back on his elbows, staring out across the lake with a far-off look in his eyes. “Or maybe it’s just us.”

The words hang in the air heavy with meaning you don’t fully understand. You freeze trying to process what he’s said. It isn’t just the words, it's the way he said them. The tone in his voice is softer than usual almost uncertain. There’s something fragile in his eyes, like he’s letting a piece of himself slip past you hoping you’ll catch it, but not quite trusting you to. You don’t know how to respond.

You try to shake off the discomfort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack glances at you, his lips quivering at the edges, but there’s a heaviness in his gaze now. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Just growing up.” He pauses, his voice quieter now almost too soft for the space between you two. He looks at you then, really looks at you his eyes searching for something in yours like he’s asking a question that doesn’t have an easy answer. Something you’re not ready to answer not sure you even can.

You want to say something to reach out and close that space but you can’t find the words. Everything that’s been building between you two feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something unspoken. And the closer Jack gets to this new world he’s creating for himself this future that’s already starting to pull him away from you the more it feels like you’re both standing on the precipice of it.

You don’t have an answer, so you reach over and grab his hand. It’s instinctual, a reflex more than anything else. His fingers slide easily between yours, like they’ve always belonged there. It’s familiar, comforting even. But there’s something different in the way he holds your hand this time. He doesn’t let go immediately like he always does. He holds on for just a moment longer, and in that brief pause, the weight of it hits you.

His gaze drops to your joined hands, and you see a flicker in his eyes something unreadable, maybe even a little vulnerable before he looks back up at you. The quiet between you two stretches longer than it should, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the summer air, or because of the uncertainty that’s silently wrapping itself around both of you.

“I think we’ll figure it out,” you say softly, trying to anchor this moment, even though the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting.

Jack’s smile is small, unsure. It’s not his usual confident grin, but it’s there. Barely, but it’s there. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. 

You don’t know what “figuring it out” means, or if you even can figure it out. All you know is that in this moment, with the sun setting behind the trees and the sound of water lapping against the dock beneath you, everything feels poised on the edge of something you don’t understand.

But you’re scared that the moment you try to reach for it, Jack might pull away.

⟡

It’s late, the fire has burned down to a few glowing embers, and the crickets are the only sound beside the occasional splash of water against the dock. You’re sitting with Jack, your legs hanging over the side, toes brushing the cool surface of the lake. The night is quiet, almost too quiet, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a distance between you that wasn’t there before.

Jack’s usually carefree, his humor quick, his energy contagious. But tonight, he’s different. He’s quieter, eyes lost somewhere beyond the horizon. You’ve known him long enough to know when something’s off.

"Jack, you okay?" you ask, not pushing, just asking.

"Do you ever feel like things are changing?" His voice is low, almost hesitant, and you turn to look at him, your heart skipping a beat.

You nod slowly, sensing that this conversation is heading somewhere you’ve both been avoiding for too long. "Yeah, I’ve been feeling it." You pause, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, you really see him. His face, the way his eyes linger on you, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something more. It’s all so familiar, and yet, everything feels new. "It’s been hard to ignore."

Jack exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath. He leans back, letting his head rest against the wood of the dock, looking up at the stars above. "I’ve been trying to figure it out. For a while now. What’s going on between us."

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest. Your voice is barely a whisper when you respond. "What do you mean?"

Jack doesn’t look at you right away, but you see his jaw tense, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he glances over at you, his gaze intense. "I think I’ve been avoiding it. The way things have felt. I’ve always known you meant a lot to me. But it’s more than that now. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it."

Your heart races. This isn’t just a fleeting moment, this is him, telling you exactly what you’ve been feeling. Your stomach flips as the words finally hit you.

"I’ve been feeling it too," you admit, your voice steady but your pulse thundering in your ears. "It’s different now, Jack. And I can’t pretend it’s not."

There’s a long silence between you two as the words settle in the space around you. You both know it’s out there now the truth that neither of you could avoid forever. The air feels thick, charged with everything you’ve been holding back.

Jack’s gaze softens as he turns fully toward you. He reaches out, his hand brushing against yours. "I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s impossible," he admits, his thumb tracing along the back of your hand. "I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of you as just my best friend. And now I don’t know how to go back."

You feel your breath catch in your throat. This is it. The thing you’ve both been dancing around for so long, the thing neither of you knew how to say. But now, here it is, raw and real.

"I don’t want to go back," you say, your voice soft but certain. "I’ve felt the same way, Jack. For a while now."

"You know, I keep thinking back to when we were kids," he says quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. "Back when things were simpler. We used to hang out, play hockey, talk about everything and nothing. I always thought that was enough."

You smile, remembering those simpler times. "It was enough. It still is."

Jack laughs under his breath, but there’s something different in it. "Yeah. But now... I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about how things feel between us lately. And I don’t know how to handle it."

Your heart picks up a little pace, and you look at him, feeling a shift in the air between you two. It’s subtle, but it's there. His eyes are locked on you now, and the usual teasing glint is gone.

"I think I’ve known for a while," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "That things have changed. That maybe… we’ve changed."

Jack’s gaze softens, and for a second, everything feels like it’s falling into place, like the puzzle pieces are finally lining up. "I’ve been thinking about it too," he says, his voice low. "And I don’t know if I’m ready for this to be weird between us. I don’t want it to be weird."

Your stomach flips at the vulnerability in his voice. "I don’t think it has to be. It doesn’t have to be weird, Jack."

He looks at you for a long moment, and you can tell he’s weighing his next words carefully. He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and that simple touch feels like the universe’s nudge, reminding you that things have always been easy with him. There’s no pretending with Jack. There’s never been any pretending.

"I guess we’ve always been able to figure things out," Jack says, his voice steady now. "And maybe this is just… one of those times."

You nod, your chest tight as you try to put into words what you’ve been feeling for so long. But nothing really needs to be said. This moment, this quiet understanding between you two, is enough.

Jack leans in just a little, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, but not enough to cross the final line. His gaze flickers between your eyes, lingering on your lips before returning to your eyes again, as if he’s waiting for something. The space between you both seems impossibly small, charged with everything that’s unsaid.

You can’t deny it anymore the way your heart races in your chest, the way your breath feels shallow, as if you’ve been holding it in all this time. This moment, this change between you, feels like it could either break everything or put it all back together.

His hand hovers just inches from yours, like he’s unsure whether to close the distance, like he’s waiting for you to decide. The air is thick with the weight of it. You’ve both danced around this for so long, carefully, quietly, but now it feels like everything is teetering on the edge. One move, one step, and it’ll change everything.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Jack’s voice is almost a whisper, his usual teasing gone. There’s something softer in the way he says it, like he’s genuinely asking, genuinely uncertain for the first time.

You laugh quietly, but it doesn’t feel like the teasing kind of laugh you’re used to. It’s shaky, full of nerves. “No... Just a little confused, I guess. Not sure if this is all too much.”

Jack shifts closer, and his hand brushes against yours, the lightest touch that sends a jolt through you. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. He doesn’t look away now, and neither do you. His breath is slow, steady, and in the stillness, you hear his heart beating in time with yours.

“I’m not sure either,” he admits, his voice low. “But I think I’ve known for a while… I don’t think we can keep pretending things are the same. I can’t. And I’m not sure what will happen next, but I know I don’t want to screw it up.”

You swallow, your own uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. Everything that’s been left unsaid finally hangs in the air between you two, heavy and undeniable. The fear of what could change, of what could be lost, and the quiet hope that maybe just maybe it could work.

"Jack…” You start to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. You want to say that you’ve been feeling it too, that you’re terrified of losing this, of messing it all up. But the weight of it all is too much. So instead, you just shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the uncertainty in your chest. “I don’t know what happens next either.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, everything inside you pulling toward him, wanting to close the space between you both. And with that final breath, that quiet understanding, you realize it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be figured out right now.

You lean in the rest of the way, tilting your head slightly, and then Jack’s lips meet yours.

It’s nothing like you expected. It’s soft, hesitant at first, like you both are testing the waters. But it’s real. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. It’s not about the future or the fear of change it’s just about right now, and the way everything feels when it’s just the two of you.

When you pull away, there’s a breathless pause, but it’s not awkward. It’s not forced. It’s just you, and him, and everything that’s been building between you finally making sense.

Jack’s forehead rests gently against yours. His eyes are still closed, and there’s a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I think I could get used to this,” he says, voice low, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You let out a soft laugh, the tension between you both easing, and for the first time, it feels like you don’t need to say anything more. You both know. It’s not perfect, it’s not figured out yet but it’s real, and maybe that’s enough for now.

⟡

It’s almost midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen, the glow too harsh in the dark room. It’s a text from Jack. “are you up?” 

You rub your eyes and sit up the sleepiness fading as you type back. “yeah, what’s up? Are you okay?its midnight.” The dots appear and disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already knowing where this is going. “ want me to come over?” This time, the dots stay. “You don’t have too, just want to talk to you.”

You slip out of bed, grabbing a sweatshirt and slipping on your shoes without even thinking about it. Your house is quiet as you head out the back door and cut across the yard. Jack’s house is familiar, the kind of place you could walk to blindfolded. The back door is unlocked like it always is.

You find him on the couch, the TV on low, playing some old hockey highlights. His head is tipped back against the cushion but his eyes are open dark circles shadowing his face. He looks up when he hears you, his expression softening in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jack says, sitting up.

“You knew I would,” you reply, kicking off your shoes and sitting down beside him. Your knee bumps against his. He’s in sweats and an old usa hockey hoodie, and his hair’s still damp from a shower. He looks tired.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His eyes stay on the screen, but you can tell he’s not really watching. The hum of the commentary blends into the background. You wait, not pushing you’ve always known how to give him space when he needs it.

“I can’t sleep,” he says finally, voice low. His knee bounces restlessly. “I keep thinking about the combine.”

You lean back against the couch, watching the screen as a highlight reel of some playoff game flickers by. “What about it?”

Jack sighs. “Everything. The tests. The interviews. The scouts. If I screw up, it’s going to be everywhere.” His hand runs through his hair, leaving it messy. “I mean, I’ve trained for this my whole life, right? But now that it’s actually here I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to screw up,” you say softly.

Jack lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah? What if I do?”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You won’t. But even if you did it wouldn’t change anything. Not with me.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you, guarded but searching. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, “It’d change everything else.”

You shift toward him, turning so your knee presses more firmly against his. “Jack, you’ve worked your ass off for this. One bad day at the combine isn’t going to erase years of training and games and scouts already knowing you’re good enough.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, his eyes falling to his hands. His thumb rubs absently along the inside of his palm. “Yeah, but what if I’m not enough?”

You don’t hesitate. You reach over, lacing your fingers through his. His hand is warm, his skin rough from years of hockey sticks and gloves. He tenses for half a second, then relaxes into the touch.

“You’re enough,” you say, quiet but steady. “You’ve always been enough, Jack. Even if you didn’t have hockey.”

Jack’s eyes lift to meet yours, wide and a little raw. His thumb grazes the side of your hand, slow and deliberate.

“You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Jack’s mouth curves into the smallest smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. His gaze drops back to the screen, though his hand stays in yours, his thumb running over your knuckles.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t uncomfortable it’s the kind of quiet that feels like home. Jack’s breathing evens out, his knee resting against yours. The highlights on the screen blur together.

“Stay?” Jack asks after a long moment. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

Jack shifts, leaning back against the couch. You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His hand stays tangled with yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a steady rhythm. Slowly, the tension in his body eases.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs. His head tips toward yours, his breath warm against your hair.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you say, eyes drifting shut. “Just remember this. When it gets hard, when the pressure’s too much, remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Jack’s hand tightens around yours, his breath catching for half a second. Then he relaxes.

“I’ll remember,” he promises, voice low and sure.

You smile, your heart steady now as you let the sound of his breathing and the flicker of the TV lull you toward sleep. You know there’s still a long road ahead, the combine, the draft, Jack’s rookie year  but for now, this is enough.

It’s late afternoon when you find Jack on the ice, alone.

The rink is almost empty and quite the kind of quiet that makes the sound of skates cutting into the ice seem louder. Jack’s in a plain grey hoodie, a puck sliding back and forth between his stick blade as he moves through the neutral zone. His head is down, shoulders tense, and even from the stands, you can tell he’s overthinking it. His movements are sharp, almost mechanical like he’s trying too hard to be perfect.

You sit down on the bleachers, the cold from the rink seeping through your jeans. Jack’s been like this all week quiet, short answers, disappearing for extra hours at the rink. You didn’t have to ask why. The NHL Combine is in two weeks. The pressure’s been building, and Jack’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

A sharp slap of the puck against the glass pulls you from your thoughts. Jack’s skating toward the blue line, his stick dragging behind him as he breathes heavily, a little unsteady. He circles back toward center ice, but his stride falters slightly just enough for you to notice.

“You’re overthinking it,” you call out, standing.

Jack glances up, his expression closed off but his eyes soften when he sees you. He coasts toward the boards, resting his forearms against the top. His breath comes out in sharp clouds of condensation.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says but there’s no bite to his words.

You shrug. “Figured you’d need moral support.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drops to the ice. “Not really playing like someone who deserves it.”

You step closer, your hands resting on the edge of the boards. “Jack, you’re allowed to have a bad practice.”

Jack shakes his head. “Not now. Not this close.” His hands flex around his stick. “I can’t screw this up.”

“You won’t.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you. There’s something guarded in his expression the same look he gets when he’s trying not to show how much it’s getting to him. His eyes are dark under the shadows of his helmet.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

You swallow, searching for the right words. “Yeah, I do.”

Jack exhales sharply, his gaze drifting to the ice. He’s quiet for a long time before he speaks again, his voice low. “What if I’m not good enough?”

Your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice. He’s always been confident, cocky, even but this is different. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

You rest your hand over his where it grips the top of the boards. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. “Jack” Your voice softens. “You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. One bad practice isn’t going to change the fact that you belong there.”

Jack’s mouth pulls into a thin line. His eyes stay locked on the ice.

“You know that, right?” you press.

Jack’s jaw tenses. He exhales through his nose and finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. I know.” But his voice is tight, like he’s still trying to convince himself.

You squeeze his hand lightly. “Come on. Take the helmet off. Let’s reset.”

Jack hesitates for a second before unbuckling his chin strap. His hair falls into messy waves as he pulls the helmet off, and you smile despite yourself.

“There’s the Jack I know,” you say softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through the tension in his face. He sets the helmet down on the boards and rests his forehead against the glass, his eyes closed for a long moment. His breath fogs up the glass in front of him.

“Why are you so calm about this?” Jack murmurs.

You smile, even though he can’t see it. “Because I know you. And I know you’re going to be fine.”

Jack’s eyes open. He tilts his head toward you, his cheek pressed against the glass. His gaze lingers on you longer than it probably should. His expression softens, his mouth curving into something more familiar less guarded.

“You always know what to say,” Jack says quietly.

You shrug. “It’s part of the job description.”

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans back from the glass, turning toward you. “And what job is that?”

“girlfriend” you say lightly, even though the words feel heavier than they should.

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before he catches himself. shaking his head slightly. “You’ve been overpaid.”

You laugh. “I don’t know. Pretty sure I’ve earned it.”

Jack’s hand slides from the boards, brushing against yours as he steps back onto the ice. The contact is brief a split second  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

He skates backward, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay?”

You smile. “Always.”

Jack nods, his jaw unclenching slightly. His shoulders relax as he turns and skates toward the far side of the ice. He moves differently now, smoother, looser. It’s not perfect, but it’s him.

⟡

Jack’s in Buffalo for the Combine. He’d been gone for almost a week now, thrown into a blur of interviews, medical tests, and physical evaluations. You’d been following the coverage clips of him flashing across social media, a quick shot of him stepping into the arena or walking down a hallway with other top prospects. He looked calm on the surface, but you knew better.  The absence of him is starting to feel like a hollow ache beneath your ribs. You’ve talked to him every day, quick texts in the morning, rushed calls at night  but it’s not the same as having him there next to you. He’s exhausted you can tell even through the phone but he’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. It takes you a second to realize what’s happening, the glow from the screen sharp against the dark. You blink, rubbing your eyes as you reach for it for the sixth time this week knowing it was a text from Jack “are you awake?”

You sit up, sleep slipping away as you type back. “yeah. What's wrong? it’s late.” The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already feeling the tightness in your chest. “want me to call?” A pause. “I just need to hear your voice.” Jack replied. 

You hit the call button without even looking at his message. Jack answers on the second ring. “Hey,” you say softly. “Hey,” Jack’s voice is rough, low. He sounds tired.

“Did you just finish?”

“Yeah.” He exhales sharply. “Got back to my room like five minutes ago.”

“What happened?”

Jack lets out a humorless laugh. “Where do I start?” His voice is tight, and you picture the way he probably looks right now sprawled out on the hotel bed, arm draped over his eyes. “The bike test was brutal. My legs were shaking so bad I thought I was going to fall off.”

You wince. “That bad?”

“They crank up the resistance until you physically can’t pedal anymore,” Jack says. “I could barely stand afterward.” Your chest tightens. “Jack” he cuts you off. “And the VO2 max test?” Jack groans. “I thought I was gonna puke. I was seeing spots by the end.” You frown. “Did anyone else struggle that much?”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be better than that.” His voice sharpens. “I can’t afford to screw this up.”

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “You weren’t there,” Jack says, his tone edged with something close to frustration. But then his breath catches, and his voice softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt gently. “What else happened?” Jack sighs. “Wingate test. They make you sprint all out on the bike for 30 seconds. My legs were already toast, so I tanked it.”

“Jack” you say once again, getting cut off “And the long jump?” He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I swear I’ve never jumped that short in my life.”

“Did Quinn do better?” you ask carefully. “Of course he did,” Jack mutters. “The scouts loved him.” Your heart aches at the sharpness in his tone. You know how much Jack admires Quinn, but that admiration is tangled up with the constant pressure to keep up.

“And then,” Jack’s voice lowers, frustration leaking through, “they threw me into interviews while I could barely breathe. One scout asked if I thought I deserved to go first overall.” Your mouth tightens. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Another one asked if I think I’m better than Quinn.” You sit up straighter. “What the hell?” Jack mutters “I didn’t even know what to say,” His voice is low and tight. “I think I screwed it up.”

“You didn’t,” you say firmly. Jack doesn’t respond right away. You hear the rustling of sheets, the muffled sound of the TV in the background probably an old hockey game. “I don’t know,” Jack murmurs. “I need to be better.”

“Jack.” Your voice softens. “You’ve done enough. You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. You’re too hard on yourself” Jack’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it “What if it’s not enough?” Your chest tightens. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Close your eyes.” Jack’s quiet for a second. “What?” 

“Just trust me.” 

A long breath. “Okay.”

“You’re on the ice,” you say. “Just you. The rink’s empty.” Jack’s breath steadies. “You’ve got the puck,” you continue. “Skating down center ice. No pressure, no scouts, no cameras. Just you.”Jack hums quietly, like he can almost see it.“You make the shot,” you say. “Bar down. Clean.” Jack exhales. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And you don’t even need to look, because you already know it’s in.”There’s a long stretch of quiet on the other end of the line. Then, so soft you almost miss it “I wish you were here.”

“I know,” you whisper, throat tightening. “Me too.” Jack sighs, and you hear the rustling of sheets as he shifts. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re not going to find out,” you say, trying to sound light, but it comes out more fragile than you mean it to. Jack’s quiet for a long time. You think he might have fallen asleep until you hear him murmur, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You press the phone closer to your ear, even though it won’t bring him any closer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper. “You’re going to be fine.”

Jack breathes out, low and even. “Stay on the phone with me?”

“Yeah,” you say, curling into your pillow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack’s quiet for a while after that, but you don’t hang up. You stay there, listening to the sound of his breathing as it evens out, until the line finally goes quiet and you know he’s asleep. You don’t hang up. Not yet.

⟡

Jack’s been quiet all morning. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be found, replaced by a tight line of tension in his jaw. He’s been bouncing his knee relentlessly, his leg jittering under the table during breakfast at the hotel. He barely touched his food, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate until Quinn took it away and told him to stop torturing it. Now, he’s sitting next to you on the edge of the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. The hotel room is bright from the mid-morning sun filtering through the sheer curtains, but it feels too quiet  too still  like the entire day is holding its breath.

Jack’s name has been everywhere since the Combine. Every hockey account, every sports network, every mock draft all saying the same thing. First overall. Franchise player. Generational talent. He should be used to it by now, but it feels different this time. Closer. Like the weight of it all is pressing down on his chest. And you feel it too, even from miles away. You saw it during the Combine  the way he tensed when people mentioned the draft, how he downplayed his scores and his interviews even when you knew he’d crushed them. Jack’s always been good at brushing things off, but this feels different. Bigger. Like it’s not just about hockey anymore. It’s about living up to something.

The draft isn’t until later tonight, but the weight of it is already pressing down. Jack’s been working toward this moment his whole life, the moment his name is called, the moment his future in the NHL becomes real and now that it’s finally here, it’s like he can’t figure out how to breathe through it.

You shift closer until your knee bumps his. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Jack’s eyes slide toward you, dark under the shadows of his lashes. He huffs out a breath. “How am I supposed to not think about it?” His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges.

You reach for his hand, your fingers slipping between his. He’s warm always is, but his hand is stiff, tense. “I don’t know. Maybe stop overthinking it.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing along your knuckles. His gaze drifts toward the window, but you can tell he’s not really seeing it. His mind is already at Rogers Arena, already running through every possible outcome. He’s been carrying the weight of this for months the expectations, the pressure, the comparisons to Quinn, to his dad and you know it’s only gotten heavier.

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, his eyes are wide, a little raw around the edges. You offer him a small smile. “You’ve got this.”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And what if I don’t?”

“You will.” You don’t hesitate, don’t even think about it. You just know. Jack’s been skating since before he could walk. He’s trained for this put in the work, put in the hours. He’s ready. Even if he can’t see it right now.

Jack’s gaze stays on you, his brow furrowing slightly. His hand tightens around yours. “I’m scared,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shift closer until your shoulder presses against his. “That’s normal.”

Jack’s eyes darken. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“You are.”

Jack swallows hard, his jaw working. He looks away, his throat bobbing as he tries to steady his breathing. You can feel the tension radiating off of him, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. His thumb rubs absently against the back of your hand.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” you say softly. “Even if you don’t go first. Even if it doesn’t go the way you expect  you’ll still have hockey. You’ll still have me.”

Jack’s breath stutters. He turns his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair. “You mean that?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”

Jack’s hand slides from your hand to your knee, his fingers curling around it like he’s grounding himself there. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the room shifts. The nerves are still there, the pressure, the uncertainty but some of the tension in his face softens. His eyes flick toward your mouth, then back to your eyes. He exhales slowly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you say, just as softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Promise?”

You smile, your hand lifting to his jaw. “Promise.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes for a moment, his hand tightening on your knee. The quiet settles around you both, not the heavy kind, not the tense kind  just quiet.

“Jack?” Quinn’s voice breaks the silence, followed by a knock at the door. “We’ve gotta go soon.”

Jack sighs. He lifts his head, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer before he pulls away. “Yeah, okay.”

Jack stands, adjusting his shirt and brushing his hands down his pants. His gaze flicks toward you, hesitant. “You’re coming with us, right?”

You stand too, straightening his collar. “Obviously.”

Jack’s mouth curves into something close to a real smile, small but genuine. He takes your hand again, linking your fingers as he leads you toward the door.

The car ride to Rogers Arena is quiet. Jack sits next to you in the backseat, his knee bouncing, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He’s wearing a fitted suit, his hair styled but still a little messy at the top. You can tell he’s trying not to overthink it, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

Quinn and Luke sit in the back of the car, phone in their hand, scrolling through Twitter. The whole car feels charged, the anticipation building the closer you get to the arena. When you pull up, Jack hesitates for half a second before stepping out. His hand brushes against yours as you follow him out of the car.

Inside, the energy is palpable. The arena is packed with media, fans, scouts, the low hum of conversations mixing with the occasional burst of camera flashes. Jack tugs at the cuff of his jacket, his mouth pulling into a thin line. His eyes flick toward you.

You slip your hand into his, squeezing gently. “Deep breath,” you say.

Jack’s jaw relaxes slightly. He squeezes your hand back. His eyes linger on you for a beat before he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Quinn steps up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got this”

Jack’s mouth twitches. He looks toward the draft stage, toward the rows of seats, the cameras, the scouts and then back at you. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly.

You smile. “Always.”

Jack breathes out. And this time, when he looks toward the stage, the tension in his jaw fades just a little.

Jack’s heart is hammering. It’s too loud in here the buzz of conversation, the hum of the arena speakers, the occasional burst of laughter from a family. His suit jacket feels too tight across his shoulders, his tie choking him a little more with each second that passes. His name has been circling the draft floor for months, repeated on every broadcast and in every article first overall, franchise player, generational talent  but none of it feels real right now. It feels heavy. Like the weight of the entire league is resting on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He shifts in his seat, his hand resting against his thigh, and feels your fingers slip between his. His head turns toward you automatically. You’re sitting beside him, close enough that your knee is pressed against his. Your hand is steady, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping you until you adjust your hand slightly, your grip soft but certain.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, low enough that only he can hear. Jack breathes out shakily. “Am I?” You smile soft, sure. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack’s gaze drops to the floor, his thumb smoothing over the inside of your wrist. He can feel the pulse there, steady beneath his touch. His heart’s not steady. It’s racing. He doesn’t know if it’ll settle until this is over until he hears his name.

Quinn is watching him. He’s sitting straight in his chair, hands resting on his thighs, but his eyes are soft when they meet Jack’s. “You’ve got this,” Quinn says quietly. Jack’s mouth twitches. He starts to nod, but then Luke leans across from Quinn. 

“Yeah,” Luke adds, his grin lopsided, a little nervous but bright. “And if you don’t, you can always blame it on Quinn.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. 

Jack huffs a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze shifts toward the stage, where the Devils’ management team is already gathering. The nerves coil tighter in his chest. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly. 

You don’t even hesitate. “Always.”

Jack’s eyes soften, some of the tension fading from his expression. He breathes out and shifts closer, his knee pressing into yours beneath the table. He doesn’t have time to say anything else before the commissioner steps up to the microphone.

Jack’s stomach drops. The noise in the arena swells as the camera swings toward the Devils’ table. The commissioner is still talking, but Jack barely hears it over the blood rushing in his ears. His legs feel locked beneath the table. His chest is tight.

“And with the first overall pick, the New Jersey Devils are proud to select from the US National Team Development Program… Jack Hughes.”

Your hand squeezes his.

Jack exhales. He stands on shaky legs as Quinn claps him on the back, Luke grinning wide as he jumps up to hug him. “Dude!” Luke laughs, his arms tight around Jack’s waist. Quinn pulls them both in, his head knocking against Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s laugh comes out a little breathless.

“Go get your jersey,” Quinn says, his voice thick with pride.

Jack’s hand is still locked with yours as he turns toward you. His expression is soft, his eyes dark and bright all at once. “You’re coming with me after this, right?”

You smile. “Try and stop me.”

Jack hesitates for half a second, then leans in. He kisses you quickly  just a press of his lips against your cheek  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once more before he finally lets go and steps away.

Jack walks toward the stage, his heart still pounding but his legs moving steady beneath him. He can feel Quinn and Luke’s eyes on him, your smile burned into the back of his mind. He shakes hands with the commissioner, pulls on the Devils jersey, and lifts the hat onto his head. Cameras flash. The noise swells. His chest is tight again  but this time, it’s not nerves. It’s something else. Something warmer.

He looks back toward the floor, toward the row of seats where Quinn, Luke, and you are sitting. You’re still watching him. Your hand rests against your heart. Quinn’s arms are crossed, smiling like he knew this would happen all along. Luke is grinning wide, already pointing toward the Devils logo on Jack’s chest.

Jack breathes out. And this time, he smiles.

After the photos and the handshakes, Jack ushered toward the media pit. Questions are thrown at him from every angle about expectations, about his future with the Devils, about being a franchise player. He answers them as best as he can, his gaze flicking toward the crowd every so often, searching for you. When it’s over, the team staff directs him toward the tunnel, and he barely makes it a few steps before he hears someone yell his name.

“Jack!”

He turns just in time to see you barreling toward him, arms outstretched. Jack’s barely able to brace himself before you crash into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms come up automatically, locking around your waist. You’re laughing and crying at the same time, your face buried in his shoulder. Jack breathes out, his chin resting on top of your head.

“You did it,” you whisper.

Jack’s arms tighten around you. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You could’ve,” you mumble, pulling back enough to look at him. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly over the hem of your sweater. His chest is still pounding, but this feels steadier somehow. Grounding.

“Hey,” Quinn’s voice cuts in. Jack glances up to see Quinn and Luke standing nearby, Luke practically vibrating with excitement. Quinn’s got that proud but pretending to be casual look on his face.

Luke steps forward first, grinning. “Dude! First overall!” He throws his arms around Jack’s waist, nearly knocking him over. Jack laughs, ruffling Luke’s hair.

“Couldn’t have done it without you either,” Jack says.

Luke pulls back, his smile wide. Quinn rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade. “Congrats, Jack.” He steps in, pulling Jack into a one armed hug and clapping him on the back. “Knew you had it in you.”

Jack’s throat feels tight. He pulls back and looks between Quinn, Luke, and you. His family. His people. His hand finds yours again, his fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct. Your gaze softens, and Jack feels his heartbeat finally settle.

“Come on,” Quinn says, nodding toward the tunnel. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Let’s go.”

⟡

It’s been a whirlwind since the draft. Jack signed his contract with the Devils two weeks ago, and now he’s leaving to New Jersey for rookie camp. Jack’s flight to New Jersey is early. Too early. You’re still wrapped in blankets on the couch when he stands in the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His Devils hat is pulled low over his eyes, casting a shadow across his face. His mouth pulls into a thin line as he looks at you, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

“I should get going,” Jack says quietly.

You push yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you cross the room toward him. “Are you sure you have everything?”

Jack nods, but his gaze stays on the floor. His hand tightens around the strap of his bag. “Yeah.”

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer. Your arms wrap around his waist, and Jack exhales sharply as he melts into you. His chin rests on top of your head, and his heartbeat thrums against your cheek.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur.

Jack’s hand slides up your back. “It’s not like we’ve never done long distance before.”

“Yeah, but” You trail off, the words sticking in your throat. It feels different this time. You pull back, your hands lingering on the hem of his hoodie. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a big NHL star.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jack’s eyes soften. He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “I do.”

You smile, even though your chest feels tight. Jack kisses you softly with a lingering brush of lips  and then pulls back too soon. His hand stays on your waist for an extra second before he steps away, his expression shifting into something steadier, more composed.

“Call me when you land?” you ask.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. “Always.”

You walk him to the door, watching as he disappears down the driveway and into the early morning light. Your chest feels hollow by the time his car pulls away. The silence that follows is heavier than you expect.

You try to keep busy over the next week  spending time with friends, picking up extra shifts but it’s hard to ignore how quiet it feels without Jack around. He calls every night, though, and you fall into a familiar rhythm. Jack fills you in on the details of rookie camp, the fitness tests, the long practices, and the media. He tells you about the other guys, how Nico seems nice, how Bratt’s already chirping at him like they’ve known each other for years. He tells you how much faster the game feels, how much stronger the guys are. You can hear it in his voice, the strain beneath his usual confidence.

“Hard day?” you ask one night, curled up in bed with your phone pressed to your ear.

Jack sighs. “Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I just don't know. I feel like I’m playing catch up. Like everyone’s two steps ahead.”

“You’ve barely been there for a few days, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack says. “But it’s not supposed to feel this hard.”

“You put too much pressure on yourself.” Jack huffs a soft laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “It’s kinda hard not to.” You’re quiet for a beat. Then, “You’re not gonna figure it out overnight.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Jack doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly, “I hope you’re right.” You close your eyes. “I always am.” Jack’s breath crackles over the line. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Jack’s quiet for another moment. “I love you and I miss you .”

Your heart clenches. “I miss and love you too.”

Jack sighs softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

You keep the phone pressed to your ear until the line goes quiet.

Jack calls you after his full day of rookie camp, his voice low and tired through the phone. He sounds exhausted, more than you expected. You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, the phone pressed to your ear. 

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice scratchy. “Hey,” you say softly. “How was it?” Jack exhales a sharp breath. “Brutal.”  

“What happened?”  

“Fitness testing.” Jack huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the Combine but worse.”  You sit up a little straighter. “Worse?”  

“Longer. Harder.” Jack’s voice dips lower. “I thought I was ready for it, but I don’t know.” He sounds frustrated, and that’s what gets you. Jack rarely admits when something’s hard. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say quietly.  “I don’t know,” Jack says again. “It’s not just the testing. The practices everyone’s so fast. So strong. I’m trying to keep up, but it feels like I’m a step behind.”  

You can almost picture him  sprawled across his bed, running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s stressed. Your chest tightens. “You’ve been there for what five days?”  

“ a week.”  

“A week” you repeat. “Jack, you need to give yourself some time.”  

“I don’t have time,” Jack says. His voice sharpens, the frustration cracking through. “This is the NHL. Everyone’s watching.” 

You know that’s true you’ve seen the articles, the highlight reels on social media. It’s a lot for anyone especially for Jack, who’s always carried the weight of expectation like it’s part of his DNA.  

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to figure everything out right away. This isn’t going to be easy it’s not supposed to be. But you wouldn’t be there if you couldn’t handle it.”  

Jack’s quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t know if I can.” You close your eyes, your heart tightening. “Jack.” 

“I’m serious,” Jack says. His voice cracks a little at the edges. “What if I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am?”  

“You are,” you say immediately. “Jack, you’ve been working toward this your whole life. You belong there.”  

“Do I?” 

“Yes,” you say. “And if you can’t believe that yet let me believe it for you.”  Jack doesn’t answer right away. His breath crackles over the line. “What would I do without you?”  You smile faintly, even though your chest aches. “You’d figure it out.”  

“Maybe,” Jack says. “But I’m glad I don’t have to.”  

Jack starts texting you more after that. Sometimes it’s a quick message in the morning on the ice or a random photo of his new locker with his nameplate above it. Sometimes it’s a rant about drills, or a chirp about one of the guys. Jesper seems to be his favorite target. 

Bratt tripped me in practice today. little rat  

What'd you do? you text back.  

chirped him about his hair  

You can’t help but smile. But there are harder messages too.  

Bag skate this morning. Thought I was going to pass out.  

Coach isn’t happy with me.  

Everyone’s so much stronger. 

You know Jack doesn’t say these things to anyone else. With the media, with his teammates he’s steady. Confident. But with you he lets the cracks show. And when he calls you late at night, his voice low and rough, you know that’s when he’s feeling it the most.  

One night, it’s past midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen. Jack.  

“Hey,” you answer, your voice thick with sleep.  “Did I wake you?” Jack asks. “No,” you lie. “What’s wrong?”  

Jack sighs, and you can hear the tension in it. “Nothing.”  You wait. Jack’s quiet for so long you think maybe he’s about to hang up. Then he says, “I just needed to hear your voice.”  

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. “Rough day?”  

Jack’s breath catches. “Yeah.” 

“What happened?”  

Jack’s quiet for another long moment. “Coach ripped into me.”  

You frown. “Why?”  

“Made a bad play during the scrimmage,” Jack says. “Got caught flat footed on the backcheck. Then I missed the net on a breakaway.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you.”  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Jack says. His voice drops lower, almost shaky. “I’m trying. It’s just everything’s so much faster than I expected. I feel like I’m drowning.”  

“You’re not,” you say quietly. “You’re adjusting.”  

Jack’s breath hitches. “What if I don’t?”  

“You will.”  

Jack doesn’t answer for a long time. You hear rustling on the other end of the line, like he’s lying down. “I miss you,” he says finally.  

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”  

Jack’s voice gets softer. “Will you stay on the phone with me? Just for a little while?”  

You slide down beneath the covers, resting your head against the pillow. “Of course.”  

Jack breathes out. “Thanks.”  

You don’t say anything after that. Jack’s breathing evens out eventually, and you think he’s starting to fall asleep when you hear him murmur, barely audible “Love you.”  

You don’t know if he’s even awake enough to remember saying it. But your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.  

“I love you too,” you whisper.

⟡

Jack’s first game in the NHL is at home, and the crowd is louder than he expected. He steps onto the ice at Prudential Center, the Devils logo bright under the lights. The noise is deafening, the kind of sound that hits you square in the chest  and for a second it’s hard to breathe. His legs feel shaky as he skates through warmups, the ice cutting beneath his skates with every push. The energy is electric, but it’s not enough to drown out the knot in his chest. He knows everyone’s watching him, the first overall pick, the franchise’s future. He tries not to think about it but it’s impossible to ignore the weight of it.

You’re watching from Michigan. The game’s on TV in your room, your laptop balanced on your knees. Jack looks smaller on the screen somehow swallowed up by the bright lights and the size of the arena. He’s wearing number 86, and it still feels surreal seeing it on an NHL jersey. He’s buzzing with nerves  you can tell by the way he’s gripping his stick too tightly during warmups. He’s always done that when he’s nervous.

Jack texts you after warmups while the Zamboni is still clearing the ice. “Starting on the second line. My hands are shaking.”

You smile, already typing back. “You’ve got this. Just play your game.”

Jack’s response comes quickly. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You won’t.” You pause before adding, “But maybe don’t sit next to Nico if you do.”

A minute passes before the dots appear again. “Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Jack doesn’t respond, but the small, shaky smile he gives the camera when it passes by his bench tells you he saw it.

The game itself is rough. Jack looks fast, quick on his feet, but the Devils’ offense struggles to keep up. He gets knocked down hard in the first period, bouncing off the boards and coming up wincing. He pushes through it, but you can tell he’s frustrated the way he shakes his head after a shift, the way he skates to the bench with his head down. The Devils lose 4-1, and Jack finishes with a minus-two rating. His line gets hemmed in the defensive zone more than once, and even though it’s just one game, the postgame interviews are already talking about whether he can handle the league’s size and speed.

He calls you after the game, his voice flat. “That sucked.”

“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” you say softly.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Jack mutters. He sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I was minus-two. Do you know how bad that is?”

“Jack”

“Everyone’s already talking about it,” he cuts you off. His voice tightens, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I can’t screw this up” He trails off, his breath shaky.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you say firmly. “It’s one game.”

“It’s not just one game.” Jack exhales through his nose, and you can hear the tension in it. “This is what I’ve been working toward my whole life. And what if I’m not good enough?”

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead to your hand. “Jack. You are good enough. You belong here.”

Jack’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says eventually. But he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

The first few weeks are more of the same. Jack gets pushed around a lot, the physicality wearing on him. He’s getting hit hard, knocked off the puck more than he’s used to. He’s fast, but the guys he’s playing against are bigger, more experienced. He’s trying, you can see it but it’s not coming together the way he wants it to.

Your phone buzzes constantly after games. Jack’s name lights up the screen with texts “Minus-three. Fucking embarrassing.” “I can’t score.” “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

You try to reassure him, but the losses are piling up. The Devils are 0-4-2 to start the season, and Jack’s still scoreless. The media’s already running with it  headlines about whether he was overhyped, if he’s too small for the league. Jack tries to brush it off, but you know it’s getting to him.

It’s late one night when he calls you, his voice quiet. “I don’t know how to fix this.” You sit up in bed, clutching the phone to your ear. “You will.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. “I just” He sighs. “I miss you.”

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s breath hitches. “I hate it here,” he says quietly.

Your eyes burn. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re not doing this without me,” you whisper.

Jack’s quiet for a long time. His breathing is steady in your ear. Eventually, he says, “I just want to come home.”

You close your eyes, swallowing down the ache in your chest. “I know,” you say softly. “But you can’t.”

Jack doesn’t answer, but you know he’s still there. After a while, his breathing evens out, and you realize he’s fallen asleep on the line. You stay there for a while, the phone pressed to your ear, listening to his quiet breathing.

Jack finally scores his first goal two weeks into the season, a breakaway against Vancouver. Quinn’s on the ice when it happens, and you see the way Quinn hugs him against the glass after the puck crosses the line. Jack looks lighter for a moment, his smile big and bright, but it fades quickly after the game ends. The Devils still lost 5-2.

He calls you that night, and he sounds more tired than happy. “It doesn’t matter if we keep losing,” Jack mutters.

“Yes, it does,” you say. “Jack, you scored. That’s huge.”

Jack sighs. “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a second before adding, “Quinn said you screamed when it went in.”

You laugh. “Maybe.”

Jack’s breath softens. “I miss you.”

Your heart squeezes. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time before he says, “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”

You don’t know how to answer that. So you don’t.

⟡

Jack’s rookie season should’ve been exciting. It should’ve been everything he’s worked for. Instead, it’s November, and the Devils are on a six-game losing streak. Jack’s gone nine games without a goal, and the media’s not holding back. Every headline is brutal. Every post game interview is worse. He’s not smiling as much anymore. He’s quiet when you call, sometimes too tired to even talk. And when you visit, it feels like he’s somewhere else entirely.

The last time you saw him in person was two weeks ago. You’d flown from Michigan to see him play in Newark the first time you’d been able to since the season started. Jack had barely looked at you when you met him outside the locker room. His face was tight, his eyes tired. He’d hugged you, but it was quick. Impersonal. And when you sat with his family during the game, you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he carried himself on the ice like the weight of it all was pressing down too hard. He’d been the last one off the ice after the loss, his head down, his mouth pulled tight.

He called you that night late, when you were already back at the hotel and apologized. “I just I’m sorry I couldn’t see you more,” Jack had said, his voice low. He’d sounded exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

Now, it’s almost midnight again, and you’re staring at your phone, waiting for him to call. He hasn’t. You’ve texted twice with no answer. You know he’s probably at home by now, maybe asleep. Or maybe not. He’s started turning his phone off after games. Less noise, he’d said. Less pressure. But you don’t know if it’s helping.

It’s hard to know what to say when you do talk to him. When he tells you he’s doing fine, even though you can hear it in his voice that he isn’t. When he tells you, “I’ll figure it out,” even though you can see him unraveling.

The next morning, you call him before class. He answers on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

Jack sighs. You can hear the sound of him rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah.”

You sit down on the edge of your bed, clutching the phone a little tighter. “Jack”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“You’re not,” you say gently. “You don’t have to-”

“I said I’m fine,” Jack cuts in. His tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard it.

You go quiet. Jack exhales. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just don't know.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. You can hear his breathing over the line, steady but heavy. Finally, he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to fix it alone.”

Jack doesn’t answer. And after a while, the line goes quiet.

The next time you talk to Jack, it’s after another loss. This time to Toronto. Another night of him leaving the rink without a point. Another night of reporters asking him what’s wrong, why he isn’t producing.

“I’m trying,” Jack says, his voice tight. “I’m trying and it’s not, it's not working.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But it’s not your fault. It’s a team-”

“I don’t care if it’s a team thing,” Jack snaps. “I’m the first pick. I’m supposed to be the one fixing it.”

“Jack-”

“I have to be better.” His voice cracks. “I just I don’t know how.”

Your heart aches. You want to reach through the phone and pull him into you. Hold him until the tension melts away. But you can’t. You’re too far away. And Jack’s already starting to pull back.

“You’re not alone im with you,” you say quietly.

Jack doesn’t answer.

You hear him breathe out. Then the call ends.

The worst part is that you don’t know how to help him. Jack’s not letting you in the way he used to. And you can feel it the distance growing between you, like something fraying at the edges. You want to fix it. You want to be enough to hold him together.But Jack’s starting to slip through your fingers.

⟡

After a while, you notice that not only jack started to drift from you, but also your relationship with him. It starts with the little things.

The missed calls. The delayed replies. The way Jack’s voice sounds a little too thin over the phone, his laugh not quite reaching the places it usually does. He’s tired you can hear it even when he tries to hide it.

At first, you don’t think much of it. Jack’s schedule is brutal, and it’s not like he’s never missed a call before. But then it starts happening more often. You’ll text him after a game Proud of you, call me when you can? and it’ll sit there for hours. Sometimes until the next day. Or he’ll call you late, hours after he said he would, with a rushed apology and a tired “I’m sorry, babe. I just passed out after practice.”

You get it. You do.  He’s in the middle of his rookie season, grinding through the hardest stretch of hockey he’s ever played, and he’s under more pressure than he’ll ever admit. But that doesn’t make it sting any less when you see his name light up your phone after midnight and realize you’ve already given up hope of hearing from him that night. 

Or when you do pick up, and it’s not the Jack you’re used to hearing.

“Hey,” you say softly, curling up under the covers. “You okay?”

Jack’s voice is thin over the line. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He always says that. Just tired. Even when it sounds like more than that.

“You played well tonight,” you offer. “Had that sick pass in the second.”

Jack’s breath crackles faintly through the speaker. “Didn’t matter. We still lost.”

“It’s not on you.”

Jack hums. You can picture the way he’s probably lying there  head buried in the pillow, hand resting over his face, the line of his jaw tight. He’s always been hard on himself. But lately, it's gotten worse.

The games aren’t going well. The media’s been tearing into him —first overall pick and only four goals? The disappointment in the headlines is almost palpable. You’ve stopped reading the articles, but you know Jack hasn’t. He doesn’t talk about it, but you can tell from the way he’s quieter now. The way his texts have dwindled from paragraphs to one word answers. 

The last time you FaceTimed, Jack barely looked at you. He was lying in bed, hair damp from his post-game shower, and you could see the crease between his brows even when he wasn’t talking. You tried to make him smile made a dumb joke about how you’d start training to become the Devils' new enforcer but all you got was a faint chuckle and, “Sorry, I’m just-”

“Tired,” you’d finished for him, and Jack had sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

It’s been like this for a while now. He’s slipping  or maybe you’re the one slipping away. You don’t know how to fix it when Jack’s over 600 miles away, and every conversation feels like trying to grasp sand in your hands the harder you try to hold on, the faster it slips through your fingers.  

You’re curled up in bed now, phone pressed to your ear as Jack’s voice filters through the speaker. 

“It was bad,” Jack says. His voice is quiet. Defeated. “I just I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sit up a little, pushing back the tight feeling in your chest. “Jack, it’s not you. The whole team’s struggling right now.”

“Yeah, but” He cuts himself off. You can hear the frustrated exhale on the other end. “I should be better. I was the first overall pick  I’m supposed to make a difference.”

“You are making a difference,” you say gently. “It’s your rookie year. No one expects you to carry the team.”

Jack’s silent for a beat too long. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice sounds distant. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Do you, though?”

His breath hitches. “I just I don’t know. Feels like I’m trying, but nothing’s working. And people are starting to talk, you know? About how maybe I wasn’t ready, maybe I’m not”

“Jack,” you cut in. “Stop.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You’re not a mistake,” you say, because you know that’s what he’s thinking. “You deserve to be there. You worked your ass off for this.”

“I guess.”

“Not ‘I guess,’” you press. “Jack, you”

“I know,” he snaps, and the sharpness of it cuts through the space between you. You freeze, swallowing the knot in your throat. Jack exhales shakily. His voice softens. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

You force a small smile even though he can’t see it. “You’re allowed to be tired.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, but it doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Another stretch of silence presses down between you. You wait for Jack to fill it, but he doesn’t.

“You want me to stay on the phone with you?” you ask quietly.

Jack’s quiet for a second. “No its okay”

“I’ll stay” 

“Okay.”

So you stay. Jack doesn’t say much after that. You can hear the rustle of his comforter as he shifts around, settling into bed. His breathing starts to even out. You stay awake longer than you probably should, listening to the soft sound of him breathing on the other end of the line, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to reach him like this.

Because lately, even when he’s right there, yet he feels so far away.

⟡

It’s been months of missed calls, delayed texts, and half-hearted conversations. Jack’s always tired. Or busy. Or distracted. And when you do talk, it’s like he’s only halfway there like some part of him is already pulling away. You’ve tried not to read into it, tried to convince yourself it’s just the pressure of his rookie season, that things will settle once he finds his rhythm. But deep down, you know better. It’s not just hockey. It’s him. It’s you. It’s the quiet space growing between you, the way it stretches wider with every unanswered text and every empty conversation.

So you book a flight to New Jersey because you need to know if this is still something you can save or if you lost him completely

DAY ONE  

The cab ride from the airport to Jack’s apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The city outside the window passes in a blur of gray and headlights, but you don’t really see it. Your phone sits heavy in your lap, the screen dark except for the faint reflection of the passing streetlights. You tap your thumb against the side of it like you're expecting a message that you know isn’t coming. Jack texted you earlier to confirm he’d be home when you arrived, but that was three hours ago. No follow-up. No “Can’t wait to see you.” No little heart emoji like he used to send.  

It’s not that he’s ignoring you  at least, not outright. He’s busy, you’ve told yourself a hundred times over the last few weeks. Rookie season is demanding. New city, new team, new pressure. He’s adjusting. You should understand that. And you do. You swear you do. But understanding it doesn’t make the silence feel any less heavy.  

When the cab pulls up in front of Jack’s building, you hesitate for a second before stepping out. You’re not sure why  it’s not like you’ve never been here before but the weight sitting low in your stomach makes it hard to breathe. The driver sets your bag on the curb, and you force yourself to pick it up, shoulders tensing under the weight of it as you walk toward the entrance.  

Jack opens the door when you knock. He’s in a plain Devils hoodie and sweatpants, his hair damp like he just showered. He smiles, but it’s thin, barely reaching his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, like he's already tired.  

You smile, forcing brightness into your voice. “Hey.”  

Jack leans down to kiss you, but it’s brief. Quick. Like he’s already pulling away before it starts. His hand finds the small of your back and guides you into the apartment, but it drops as soon as the door closes behind you.  

The apartment looks the same cleaner than you expected, probably because Ellen came to visit last week but it feels off. Like someone came through and rearranged all the furniture just enough to make you notice. Jack’s shoes are in a neat row by the door. There’s a half empty coffee mug sitting on the counter. His phone is face down on the couch.  

Jack sits down on the couch, leaving a noticeable gap beside him. You sit too, trying to close it, but he doesn’t shift toward you.  

“So,” you start, your voice too bright, too forced, “how was practice today?”  

“Fine.”  

Your stomach twists. “Just fine?”  

Jack shrugs, eyes fixed on the muted TV. “Yeah.”  

You watch him for a second, the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hand rests against his knee. Normally, he'd have his arm around you by now. Normally, you’d be tangled together and he’d be rambling about plays and drills and how Nico wouldn’t stop chirping him today.  

But he’s quiet. Detached.  

And you’re hyper aware of the space between you.  

Jack reaches for the remote and starts flipping through channels. His brows furrowed in concentration, but he’s not really watching anything. It’s like his body is here, but the rest of him is somewhere else.  

“Hungry?” he asks after a minute.  

“Yeah, I could eat.”  

“Cool.” He stands. “I’ll order something.”  

And that’s it. He disappears into the kitchen without asking what you want. A minute later, you hear the soft murmur of his voice on the phone.   

You sit there, your heart beating loud in your ears, and wonder why it feels like you’ve already lost him.  

Jack comes back a few minutes later and drops onto the couch, his knee brushing against yours for half a second before he shifts away.  

“Food should be here in, like, twenty minutes,” he says.  

You nod. “okay”  

More silence. The TV hums in the background, the flicker of light reflecting off Jack’s face. You glance at him, hoping he’ll look over at you, but his gaze stays fixed on the screen. His hand is resting between his knees, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the fabric of his sweatpants.  

You clear your throat. “Did you, um talk to Quinn today he was asking me about you?”  

Jack’s mouth tightens. “Yeah.”  

“And?”  

“He’s good.”  

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. The seconds stretch out between you, long and tense and uncomfortable.  

“Jack.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice. “What’s going on?” Jack’s jaw twitches. “Nothing.”  

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”  

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just been a long week.”  

You search his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease in his forehead and you know he’s not lying. But you also know he’s not telling you the whole truth.   

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice soft.  

Jack’s gaze flickers toward you, and for a second, you see it  the familiar warmth, the quiet vulnerability you’ve always known how to reach. His eyes soften, and he looks like he might actually say something.  

But then the buzzer for the front door sounds, and the moment evaporates.  

Jack stands quickly. “That’s the food.”  

You watch him cross the room, feeling the distance stretch wider with every step.  

He comes back with a brown takeout bag, setting it on the coffee table before sitting down. He opens the bag and pulls out containers of food  sushi, not your favorite  and hands you a pair of chopsticks without looking at you. 

You stare down at the food. “Did you know what I wanted?”  

Jack hesitates. “I just ordered something quick.”  

Your chest tightens. Jack always knows what you want. He knows you like avocado rolls, not spicy tuna. He knows you like extra soy sauce on the side and that you don’t like wasabi. But tonight, it’s like he didn’t even think about it.  

You pick at the sushi, appetite gone. Jack eats quietly, his eyes back on the TV. The sound of the game commentator fills the air, too loud, pressing into your skull.  

After a few minutes, Jack stands and starts cleaning up. He takes your barely touched container and tosses it in the trash without a word.  

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  

“Oh. Okay.”  

Jack hesitates in the doorway. His eyes flick toward you, and for a second, you think he might come back, sit down, pull you into his arms, tell you he’s just tired and that everything is fine.  

But he doesn’t. He disappears down the hall, and a minute later, you hear the sound of the shower running.  

You sit there, hands clasped in your lap, listening to the water hit the tile. Your heart feels too big and too small at the same time, pressing against the walls of your chest.   

Jack’s phone buzzes on the table, and you glance at it. A text from Nico lights up the screen:  

Good skate today. 

 You stare at the message for a long time. 

The shower runs in the background, and you sit alone on the couch, feeling the emptiness stretch out around you.

DAY TWO

Jack sleeps with his back to you.  

It’s not the first time, but it feels different tonight. Final. His side of the bed feels miles away, the sheets cool and untouched where his body should be. You lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his breathing. It’s shallow, restless. Every few minutes, he shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight.  

You think about reaching for him, curling up into his side like you always do. Your hand twitches under the blanket, fingers itching to brush over his back, to anchor yourself to the steady rhythm of his breathing. But something stops you. Fear, maybe or just the quiet certainty that if you reach for him, he’ll pull away.  

So you stay still, the space between you cold and unforgiving.  

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night to find him half hanging off the edge of the bed, his face turned toward the wall. His arm is curled beneath his head, his breathing uneven. You watch the rise and fall of his back, the way his shoulders tense even in sleep. He’s not resting, not really.   

You swallow hard and sit up slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. For a second, you think about touching him, coaxing him back toward you. But you don’t. You can’t.   

In the morning, Jack wakes up first. You know this because you hear him moving around the apartment while you lie there, eyes closed, hoping he’ll come back to bed. He doesn’t.  

Instead, you hear the distant sound of water running in the bathroom, the clink of glass in the kitchen. The low hum of the TV. You press your face into the pillow and try to breathe through the tightness in your chest.  

When you finally get up, Jack’s sitting at the kitchen counter with a protein shake. He’s already dressed in workout gear Devils issued shorts and a long-sleeve shirt that fits snug around his arms. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He glances up when you enter the room.  

“Morning,” you say, your voice coming out softer than you meant.  

“Hey.”  

You sit across from him, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. Jack’s gaze flickers toward you briefly, then drops back down to his protein shake. He spins the cup slowly in his hands, condensation trailing down the side.  

You try to find his eyes. “Sleep okay?”  

Jack nods, distracted. He taps his thumb against the edge of the cup. “Yeah.”  

“You sure?”  

“Mmhmm.” His gaze darts toward the window.  

You glance at the clock on the microwave. “What time’s practice?”  

“Ten.”  

“You want to grab coffee after?”  

Jack hesitates. His shoulders tighten. “I don’t know. We’ve got media stuff later.”  

“Oh.”  

You feel stupid for asking.  

Jack stands and rinses out his cup in the sink. His back is to you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding it all in  the pressure, the frustration, the weight of everything this year has asked of him. Normally, he’d tell you about it. He’d talk through it, let you hold it with him for a little while.  

But now it feels like he’s trying to keep the distance intact.  

“You okay?” you ask quietly.  

“Yeah.”  

“Jack.”  

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “It’s just a lot right now.”  

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you.  

Jack’s hand curls over the edge of the counter. His knuckles turn white for half a second before he exhales and grabs his keys from the hook by the door.  

“I’ll see you later, okay?” His tone is light  too light. Like he’s trying to make this feel normal.  

You sit up straighter. “We could go out tonight. Dinner or something.”  

Jack pauses with his hand on the handle. His eyes flick toward you, guarded. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”  

Then he’s gone.  

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet of the apartment closes in around you.  

You sit there for a long time, staring at the spot where he stood. The sunlight spills in through the thin curtains, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor. You think about the way he used to kiss you in the mornings, sleepy and warm, his hand curled over the back of your neck. You think about the way he used to tug you into his chest after a restless night, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your hair.  

And then you think about last night about the empty side of the bed and the quiet wall of his back facing you.  

Your phone buzzes on the table. You grab it quickly, your heart leaping in your chest. But it’s not Jack. It’s a text from quinn  

"Hope you’re having a good time! How’s Jack?" 

You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:  

"Good. Everything’s good." 

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.   

You sit there for a while longer, the phone still in your hand, before pushing yourself to your feet. You grab the half-empty protein shake Jack left on the counter and dump it down the sink. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence.  

It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels later. Your eyes drift toward the bedroom  the sheets still rumpled from sleep and you wonder if you should crawl back into bed and wait for him to come home.  

But you know better.  

Instead, you curl up on the couch and pull the blanket over your legs. Jack’s sweatshirt is draped over the arm of the couch, and you pull it onto your lap, bunching the sleeves in your hands. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer, more familiar.  

you press your face into the fabric and close your eyes, trying to remember the last time he held you like he meant it.  

You think about how he used to look at you and really look at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.  

But that was months ago. Now, when Jack looks at you, it’s like he’s looking through you. Or worse like he’s already decided what happens next.  

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Jack.  

“Practice ran long. Gonna be late.” 

You type out a quick response  "Okay."  but don’t hit send right away.  

Instead, you sit there with the message glowing on the screen, wondering when it started feeling like this. Like you’re holding onto something that’s already slipping away.

DAY THREE

It was worse the next day. The air felt thicker, like it was weighing down every conversation. Jack seemed distracted, his gaze always drifting toward his phone or the TV. When you asked if he wanted to grab lunch, he hesitated for a second before saying, "Yeah, sure," like he was doing you a favor.

At lunch, he kept glancing around, not meeting your eyes. You watched him scroll through his phone between bites of his sandwich. You tapped your nails against the table.

"Jack."

"Hmm?" His eyes didn’t lift from his phone.

"Can you put that down?"

He sighed but set the phone face down. "Okay."

You wanted to ask if he even wanted you here. You wanted to ask why he wasn’t looking at you like he used to, why you felt like a ghost in his apartment. But you swallowed it all down and smiled when Jack forced another conversation about hockey that you could barely focus on.

That night, he sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone again while you sat behind him. You reached out, resting a hand on his back. He tensed.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said quickly.

"You don’t seem like it."

"I’m fine, okay?" His tone was sharp. He stood up and walked toward the bathroom without looking back.

You stared at the empty space he left behind.

DAY FOUR

You woke up before Jack.  

He was lying on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair sticking up in every direction. You watched him for a moment, chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful like this like the Jack you used to know. The Jack who used to roll over and pull you into his arms the second he woke up.  

You shifted closer, brushing your hand over his back. His skin was warm under your fingertips. He stirred, groaning softly into the pillow.  

"Morning," you whispered.  

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at you sleepily, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Morning."  

You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his bare shoulder. He didn’t react. Just sat up and ran a hand through his hair.  

"What time is it?"  

"Almost nine."  

Jack nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I should get going soon."  

"Going where?I thought you had today off"  

Jack stood, stretching. "I do, I'm just going to go workout with some of the guys."  

"Oh." You sat up, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Can I come?"  

Jack paused, looking at you over his shoulder. "I mean it’s just going to be boring."  

"I don’t care."  

Jack hesitated. "I think we’re just gonna grab lunch after. Probably end up hanging out at Nico’s."  

You bit the inside of your cheek. "So you don’t want me there?"  

Jack’s gaze darted to the floor. "It’s not that."  

"Then what is it?"  

Jack sighed. "I don’t know. Just feels like a guys' thing, you know?"  

You swallowed. "Right."  

Jack’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it, checking the screen. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.  

"Who is it?" you asked.  

“Nico," Jack said, texting back quickly. He tossed his phone onto the bed, already moving toward the bathroom.  

You sat there for a moment, heart sinking.  

"I’ll be back later," Jack called over his shoulder.  

"Cool," you murmured. But Jack had already closed the door behind him.  

You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower running.  

When Jack got back that afternoon, you were curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest. He walked in, tossed his keys onto the counter, and sat down across from you. He scrolled through his phone without saying anything.  

You watched him for a moment.  

"How was it?" you asked.  

"Hmm?"  

"Your workout."  

Jack shrugged. "Good."  

"Anything else?"  

Jack didn’t look up. "Nope."  

Your jaw tightened.  

You shifted closer, resting a hand on his arm. "Jack."  

He tensed. "What?"  

You hated how sharp his voice sounded. Like you were annoying him.  

"Do you want to do something tonight?" you asked quietly.  

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t know. I’m kind of tired."  

"Oh."  

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you. "What?"  

"Nothing," you said quickly, even though it wasn’t nothing.  

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up without hesitation. You sat there, heart sinking as he smiled at the screen. He didn’t even notice the way your hand fell away from his arm.  

And that’s when it hit you.  

You weren’t the person he wanted to talk to anymore.  

You weren’t the person who made him smile like that anymore.  

You took a breath, swallowing hard. "Jack."  

"Hmm?"  

You sat up straighter, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. "Do you even want me here?"  

Jack’s head jerked toward you, brows furrowing. "What kind of question is that?"  

"You’re barely looking at me." Your voice cracked. "You don’t talk to me. When you do, it feels like you’re trying to get through it so you can go back to your phone. Just say it if you don’t want me here."  

Jack’s jaw tightened. "Jesus, you’re making this a bigger deal than it is."  

"A bigger deal?" you echoed. Your voice sharpened. "Jack, I flew to new jersey to see you. I’m trying so hard to hold this together, but you’re not even meeting me halfway. If you don’t want this anymore, just"  

"I didn’t ask you to come."  

You froze.  

Jack’s eyes widened, but the words were already out there.  

Your heart hammered in your chest. "What?"  

"I didn’t ask you to come," he repeated, softer this time. His gaze fell to the floor. "You decided to."  

You blinked hard, your throat tightening painfully. "Wow."  

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I didn’t mean it like that"  

"You did."  

Jack’s mouth opened, but no words came out.  

You stood up, shaking. "I can't, I can't do this anymore."  

Jack’s head snapped toward you. "What does that mean?"  

"It means I’m done." Your voice broke, but you kept going. "I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this. If you’re not going to try, then why am I even here?"  

Jack’s eyes darkened. "So that’s it? You’re giving up?"  

You laughed bitterly. "You gave up first."  

Jack’s mouth twisted. "Right. So now it’s my fault?"  

"You know what?" you said, your breath shaking. "Yeah. It is."  

Jack stood up, his eyes hard now. "Fine. If you want to go, then go."  

"That’s it?" You took a step toward him, tears blurring your vision. "You’re not even going to try to stop me?"  

Jack’s eyes flashed. "What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That I love you? You already know that, but it’s not enough, is it?"  

"It’s not enough if you’re not going to show it!" you shot back. "You say you love me, but you act like I’m just here. Like I don’t matter."  

Jack’s expression darkened. "Yeah? Well, maybe you don’t."  

You sucked in a sharp breath.  

Jack’s face paled instantly. "I—"  

"No." You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "You said it. And you know what? Maybe you’re right."  

"Don’t twist this"  

"I’m not twisting anything! I’m done!" Your voice cracked, but you held your ground. "I’m not going to sit here and beg for you to care about me. I deserve better than that."  

Jack’s jaw flexed.  

Your breath hitched. You waited for him to take it back to tell you to stay. But Jack just stood there, eyes stormy, hands clenched into fists at his sides.  

You nodded slowly. "Okay."  

You grabbed your bag from the floor. Jack didn’t say anything as you walked toward the door. Your hand trembled as you opened it.  

You hesitated. Just for a second.  

"Bye, Jack," you whispered.  

Jack didn’t reply.  

You closed the door behind you.  

The flight home feels like a blur. You don’t cry at least not yet  but the numbness sets in as soon as the plane takes off. Jack didn’t text you before you boarded. He didn’t call. He didn’t say anything after the door shut behind you.   

You stare out the window, watching the clouds blur beneath you, but your chest feels hollow. Four years. Gone in a single weekend. Your friendship since you were 10 of growing up together, of loving each other through every awkward phase and milestone  shattered in one conversation.  

You scroll through your phone without really seeing it. His contact sits at the top of your recent messages, the last one marked as read. I’m sorry. He hasn’t sent anything since.   

And honestly, you don’t expect him to.  

Your phone vibrates, and for half a second your heart leaps. But it’s just your mom, checking in. You let the message sit unopened and slide your phone facedown on the tray table.  

When you get home, everything feels wrong. Your room looks the same, but it’s too quiet. No FaceTime calls from Jack lighting up your phone. No goodnight texts. No “Miss you” or “Wish you were here.” The absence is deafening.   

You lie in bed that night, scrolling through old pictures, ones from Vancouver, from Michigan, from all those summers at the lake house. Jack’s smile frozen in time. Your hand in his. Quinn and Luke in the background, laughing at something Jack had said.   

Your chest tightens.  

You think about how easy it used to be how you could sit in silence for hours and still feel connected. How you could tell what Jack was thinking just from a look. How his hand would instinctively find yours without either of you thinking about it.   

But somewhere along the way, you both stopped reaching for each other. Mostly him. 

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Quinn.  

“You okay?” 

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don’t know how to answer that.

“Yeah. Just tired.”  

Quinn’s reply comes quickly. “Jack didn’t mean it.”   

Your breath catches. A hollow feeling sinks deeper into your chest.   

You don’t answer.  

Because the worst part is maybe he did.

[purplesaline]

It's because you've run out of resilience.

Resilience isn't a set thing, it's more like a well and every stressor in your life, whether bad or good, requires you to drink from the well.

The well refills over time so for most people the well never runs dry but when there are too many stressors you can drain all the water from the well and if you need to drink before more water has seeped in you're going to start suffering. When that happens for too long... The metaphor is pretty apt.

Some people start life with pretty shallow wells, others have deeper wells. The good news is that it's totally possible to dig your well deeper! It'll mean drinking more of the water of course so it's a good thing to do when you have lots of reserves and not many stressors. That's things like learning new coping skills such as distress tolerance, mindfulness, radical acceptance, for example.

You can also pour water into it from other sources to tide you over until it refills on its own. Things like making art or crafting, visiting good friends, eating a really nice meal. Basically the self care things. And of course you can try to limit the stressors in your life. Taking care of tasks before they vet bigger, asking for help and accepting it when offered, reducing your responsibilities as much as possible, etc.

I've drained my well more than once and I'm not gonna lie, it can be really, really scary not having the ability to cope with anything life throws at you, even the good stuff. When your down at the bottom licking the walls for any moisture you can find you want to focus on reducing your stressors and getting water from elsewhere. I did a lot of art/craft type things during these periods and was pretty socially solitary save for one or two friends that spending time with energized me rather than drained me. When I went to bed at night I looked forward to working on my project more the next day. I didn't think further ahead than that.

Eventually I was able to white knuckle my way through until my well was filling faster than I could drain it.

Next time you're having a hard time explaining this feeling to a therapist try this "I don't want to die, I just feel like I don't have the energy to keep fighting to live.", or you can just tell them you don't have enough resilience left to cope with stressors. Hopefully they'll be better able to understand what you're going through because yeah, it's absolutely a different thing than being suicidal and it requires a different therapeutic approach.

you ever get tired of living but in a non-suicidal way

[dazed--xx]

Too Far....

Member: Changbin x Reader

Genre: Angst

T/W: Jokes at a friends expense, insecurity, groveling

A/N: I've officially moved and have wifi I'm also in the process of getting furniture and stuff but I'm excited for what the future hold hope you guys enjoy this one wanted to make one basically full of groveling. Also don't mind these little things for a while like the word count I plan to go through and fix everything

When do jokes go too far?

Y/N wondered, as she sat in this diner across from her boyfriend of 4 years best friends who continue to make subtle jestful jabs at her expense. Could it be when the punch line is hurtful? She bit her cheek as she stared at the table as the pair continue to laugh together at an embarrassing moment Y/N when she first met the pair. While Sol-i's beauty was enough to make any woman insecure with her closeness to their boyfriend, Y/N had apologized over and over about her rude remarks when she first met her. Daehyun hadn't been there, yet he speaks about it like he was. Y/N couldn't understand the dynamic of this friend group.

While she knew her boyfriend was the glue that held this group together, she couldn't understand the appeal. They constantly belittled each other and stabbed each other in the back. Especially the pair that sat in front of her at this moment. "I'm just saying though, Y/N you were just so adorable with that little jealous pout on your face" Sol-i states condescendingly. Her hand slowly brushes her brunette locks off her shoulder as she takes a sip of the soda sat infront of her. Daehyun chuckles slightly "I bet it was, especially with her tiny self like what was she going to do?"

Y/N couldn't stand them at this point, no matter when she saw them; No matter what was going on in her life these two just never let things go. "Honestly Y/N, you're kind of lucky you're cute and smart" Sol-i says arrogantly. "Otherwise Changbin would have probably left your adorable ass in the dust by now" she continued with a proud honest smirk on her lips as Daehyun decides to input his own opinion as well, "True, with her temperament it's not like she'd be able to find someone as good as Binnie"

Y/N's eyebrows furrow "Coming from the pair that take turns fucking each other's boyfriends?" Her voice laced with venom "I'm sorry, Sol-i when did you study relationship counseling? Also what about your pathetic crappy relationships that always ends with the guy cheating on you? Do you really believe you have the qualifications to make assessments about me and my relationship?" She growls before turning to Daehyun "And you...a queen who's in fucking denial about the fact that they live vicariously through their best friend and can't stop seducing her boyfriends because that's how badly you wish you were Sol-i? You have no right to make a judgement about me when you both have never once even taken the time to actually get to know me." Y/N's voice was laced with venom as she felt her body growing hot.

The pair sat quiet, bewildered, as Y/N began to grab her things. "What the fuck did you just say to them?" Y/N hears from behind her. Rolling her eyes, as she turns to look at her boyfriend. He stood their with a fire in his eyes as he clenched his fists at his side. His eyebrows furrowed as he glared at her. Scoffing she crossed her arms over her chest and shrugs "You heard me..." Changbin looks even more angry at her nonchalance.

"Did you think this shit was okay?" He questioned trying to maintain his calm.

Y/N scoffs "Of course you're going to defend them"

"Yeah! I'm going to defend them, not everyone is some selfish bitch that can just shit on people the way you do, Y/N. Not everyone would be cool with you talking to their friends like their beneath you"

She stares at him stunned as she jumps up from her seat "I've been telling you for years the horrible shit they've said to and about me!" She exclaims in frustration before stopping herself, feeling no point in explaining herself as Sol-i tries to interject in their conversation. Her voice hesitant and small "B-Bin, w-we may have crossed a li--I don't care shut up and stay out of this" Changbin cuts her off before turning back to his girlfriend who was in the process of grabbing her things. "Yup. Leave....run away like you always fucking do when shit gets hard for you, Y/N."

"I'm not fucking dealing with this shit right now changbin. You want to be an asshole then fine but I'm done" She growls at him as she shoves her purse onto her shoulder and pushes past Changbin and out of the diner door. Changbin stood there confused but resigning to letting his girlfriend calm down a bit then talking to her. Sol-i stared at her friend feeling guilty as she looked at Daehyun who sat there bewildered by the whole situation and how a small simple joke went too far.

Changbin went too far this time...

He felt it in his stomach, he had been torturing himself for the past 6 weeks. That night after the huge argument with Y/N, he had to hop on a plane and go on a 6 week tour. During that time he hadn't heard a peep from his girlfriend. At first he was angry, how could she not even come to say goodbye the next morning? But as the time passed and her responses continue to not come in, he felt worried. Worried about her never responding again. Worried he had ruined things forever with his hot headedness. Worried she was serious about being done...

He couldn't go on not knowing. If things were over he needed to hear it from her. Just the thought alone sent a sharp pain through his chest. He felt so guilty, he'd understand if she did choose to end things but he prayed every night she didn't. He didn't want to--No, he couldn't lose her. So as soon as his feet touched the ground in Korea, he rushed to her apartment. He needed to see her, to hear her voice. He'd never been this desperate for another person's presence as he was at this very moment.

As her building pulled into his view his heart raced with excitement. He was going to see her again. He was going to fix things and let this 6-week bump in the road be just that in the story of the rest of their lives. As he stood infront of her door he felt nervous. What would she say? What would he say? Is she doing okay? His mind raced a mile a minute. He brings his hand up to knock when the door opens and a dressed-up Y/N exits her apartment.

Changbin's heart soars as she stood in front of him surprise etched on her features. "Baby...hey" He breathes out as he stares at her lovestruck. "What are you doing here, Changbin?" Y/N questioned taking a small step back away from him and looking away. Her hands shift behind her back as she bit her plush bottom lip. "What do you mean? I just got back. I thought we could hang out...like we always do" he states hopeful.

Y/N stares at him confused "What? Why would I want to do that?"

Changbin feels his heart crack at her harshness "I'm your boyfriend..a-and I just got back from tour. Didn't you miss me, babe?" He asks sadly as he takes a small step toward her. His hand caresses her forearm and slowly runs down to capture her hand in his. Y/N stares at where they meet.

"You should go home, Changbin."

Changbin stares at her in disbelief "Y/N...Are you breaking up with me?"

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion "We broke up that day before you left for tour" Changbin shakes his head in denial "No. No we didn't...y-you were just mad a-and said stuff you didn't mean like I did" Y/N crosses her arms over her chest as she scoffs "No. I meant it when I said I was done. Your friends were blatantly being rude to me whether they were joking or not I don't care and like I told Sol-i when she reached out to me 'I don't care what you have to say you should have listened to what I had to say instead of being such a dick.' Because you would have known that your friends crossed a line." Y/N states ferociously as she looks away from Changbin. Her arms crossed over her chest as her blood boiled. They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity before a small sniffle pulls Y/Ns attention toward Changbin.

Her heart ached as her stomach sank at the look on Changbin's face. All the color was drained and tears filled his eyes. His shoulders were slumped as his breathing grew rapid. His hands reach out toward her. "B-Baby...p-please, I know I was wrong. Please don't--don't leave me. Don't do this. I'll do anything please give me a chance" he pleads desperately. She stood frozen in shock at his reaction to her words. His hands find hers as he drops to his knees resting his forehead against the back of her hands as his body trembled. "Please! I can change...I was wrong I should have listened to what happened instead of freaking out. I'm sorry please I'm so sorry. We've been together for 4 years please don't throw it away like this" He urges as he continues to sob harshly.

"Changbin...stop okay?

He shakes his head rapidly "N-No" He sobs, his cries growing more and more desperate "Why are you being like this? Why can't we talk about this? Please.." He urges. Y/N shakes her head softly "We should move on...you should be with someone you love. With the way I'm always thrown under the bus with you...I can't trust that I'm that person"

Changbin felt like his soul was ripped from his body at her words. "You are! Baby I love you...I want to be with you. I'm sorry if you feel like I've thrown you under the bus. I should have listened. I'll be better, I can fix this I promise you I can fix this please let me" his voice was laced with guilt and desperation as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Changbin stop...you can't do this here" Y/N states looking around her parking lot hoping no one saw the idol knelt at her feet.

"You think I care about that? Do you think I care if people see us together? Y/N I've never hid you...I love you and I will do anything to make this right please give me a chance...we've been together for 4 years that has to count for something right? We can't just end like this. I'm so fucking sorry" his face was glistening with his tears as he stared up at her like a kicked puppy. "What will I do without you? I'm sorry I was an ass I won't do it again" Y/N felt her heartache at his pain. While his words hurt 6 weeks ago, she could see the pain she was causing Changbin was almost worse.

She felt guilty for doing this to him, she knew she would forgive him eventually so why did she feel the need to dig the knife in deeper to his heart? Maybe it was her way of getting back at him for all his backhanded compliments and insulting jokes throughout the years. But now? She felt sick to her stomach at her actions, how could they move past this? Why did she bring it this far?

As she stared at the tears streaming down his cheeks her resolve began to crack. "D-don't be like this..." she muttered and Changbin looked at her even more hurt. "Y/N, please don't end things like this...I-I'll do anything I didn't mean to hurt you or upset you please just give me a chance..." He sobs as he clung to her hips, his face soaking her shirt as his body trembled. "I'm stupid and terrible at communicating and I don't think I just act most of the time and I'm so fucking sorry please don't leave me...I can be better. I'll never do this again please give me a chance..." he plead as she felt tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I-I'll think about it...."

Taglist: @yangbbokari @lovesunshinefelix @threeopossumsinacoat @isabellah29 @hope-maine @minhwa @tr-mha-fan @whoa-jo @kibs-and-bits @your-favorite-pirate @summercoldstuff @bx-lov3 @multi-fandommaniac @yunho-leeknow @ka0ila @seungminsteddybear @jaquisos @nchhuhi @havenwithleeknow @galaxy4489 @hannahhhhs-things @captainchrisstan @skzfairyyydreamz @kyrennetwork

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

fluff prompt #7 with nico pls!!

Nico is the softest man and I love him omg

Nico Hischier - Fluff prompt 7 - quiet acts of love

WC: 540

CW: none just fluff

Everyone liked to point out how “good” you had it. How you never eve had to lift a finger, Nico was always quick to fix whatever you needed. Didn't need to be broken, really he just wanted to take care of you. His pretty baby had not a single worry when he was around and truthfully he made sure to make life as easy as possible while he was even away. 

You never really noticed it either, it was a comfortable routine. Every sunday, there were flowers on your doorstep (if he wasn't home) or waiting on the counter for when you woke up.

You never had to bend down to tie your shoes, Nico was always two steps ahead.

You never even zipped your own jackets, and anytime you had that special wag jacket, your brain default waited until he saw you. “Oh baby, you must be cold, come here.” Just so he could zip it up and press a soft kiss to your nose. 

Nico wasn’t big on reality tv, that was until he heard you talking to Jack about Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. That first night away, he begged jack to help him get caught up. Once he was home and dinner was ready he plopped down with you next to him and auto pressed play. 

“God, I've been antsy waiting to know what happened with Jen and Zac after Vegas.” He’dnmumble while he chewed.

“Neeks,” your voice laced with confusion. “You don't like reality tv.”

“Nope, but I love you. Truthfully? This is really good. I didn't know momtok was so dramatic.”

You started to notice the smaller things he did for you. Realizing maybe they were right. 

“Nico, can I ask you something?” You asked as you watched him cut an onion after a 10 minute conversation about how you were too precious to be doing that.

He hummed while setting his knife down to look at you.

“Why do you do all this stuff for me?”

He lifted his brow, “what do you mean stuff?” He air quoted around stuff.

“You know, the weekly flowers and tying my shoes even though I'm capable, and zipping all my jackets or buttoning a sweater for me, and throwing my robe in the dryer while I shower or pushing me furthest away from any sort of commotion in public. That kind of stuff.”

He smiled, his face a little flushed and his eyes sparkling. “Cause I love you. I love taking care of you. I love the little pout when you're waiting by the front door like you're missing something and then the sigh when I zip your jacket. I love listening to you when I'm bent down in front of you tying laces while you ramble on about our plans. I love the way your whole face lights up on Sunday morning when you walk into the kitchen and see a vase and a note while i'm handing you your cup of coffee. Most importantly, I love keeping you safe. All that commotion in the real world could be bad and if i can keep your smile on your face and the world away from hurting you? I'm going to, every day of my life.

[erinwantstowrite]

Please yap more about the Psych AU! I just started watching season 7!! Also, who is your favorite character from Psych?

Hmmm well i don't wanna spoil too much... So i guess i'll yap about some general premise stuff?

I should clarify that LoF peter and Psych peter are pretty different backstory wise. I kept the sameish design because i just like drawing peter, but they have some variations between them. Like: uncle ben died, aunt may didn't. she actually gets transported with peter to this alt universe, so she's very involved in this au. i just haven't drawn her yet.

I also chose harry osborn instead of ned because i didn't want every au to be the same. I would have loved writing ned in this au, but he gets a lot of chance to shine in LoF. harry is in more spider-man iterations as peter's best friend and i feel like he fit that shawn and gus dynamic more with peter. (I see them as platonic in most universes.) ((I also see shawn and gus as platonic). in this au, harry and peter met when they were pretty young, sometime after peter's parents died (which would still be when he was around four years old). Norman is a pretty good dad at this time so he helps peter get into a good school so he and harry can have classes together (and also cause he thinks peter deserves a good school too). But harry and norman, over time, end up with a terrible relationship. Mostly caused by Norman slowly slipping into the Green Goblin role. so, he spends a lot of time with the Parkers. After ben's death, harry vows to take care of peter and may both. he ends up being the reason they accidentally find themselves in an alternate universe, but no one is really mad at him about it because May and Peter hit hard times and were about to lose their house, etc. don't want to tell y'all too much because i wanna save it, but that's our basics with backstory and set up

currently, i'm not sure if i want them to start in metropolis and end up in gotham, or start in gotham and end up in metropolis. I kind of lean towards them living in gotham but having a lot of business in metropolis

And by business, i mean that Peter gets into the photography business. He captures photos of all kinds of heroes and vigilantes, and sells them to newspapers for the highest pay. As Peter becomes more sure of his spider powers, he also becomes spider-man but with way more of a journalist vibe. I want him catching crooks in the act and exposing them with the pictures, becoming a mysterious freelance writer/photographer as well as vigilante. You can imagine how Clark Kent and Lois Lane are going to react lmfao

But then you also have the actual premise of the fic itself: Psych. Peter and Harry are both investigating something when they run into someone (at this point in time, i'm thinking Superboy aka Kon-El), and to get out of saying what the real deal is, he pretends to be psychic. Harry is mortified but he decides to roll with it. So now Peter has to pretend to be psychic, and Harry starts up a whole business about it. That means we're getting both of these businesses at once, which will converge that Bats and the Supers both into the storyline.

Why are they putting all this effort in for money? Well, one reason being duh, they need money in this new world. But mostly because it's gonna help take care of May, and they'll also get to start a new life in this alt universe

Also, my favorite Psych character is Gus. I love him so much, he's so stupid and so smart at the same time. Have you heard about pluto?

[verdancy-hime]

It's trying to kill her.

She's trying to kill herself instead.

Her alarm clock says "It's not a fashion statement, it's a deathwish."

The first time you met her, she was yelling at the cars in the road to get her to hit her to buy her a computer. Or was it that she was wearing all different colors of lipgloss around her neck and coming out of a tunnel full of bats and thinking "I am suddenly certain that the best years of my life are all behind me. I am going to kill myself one day." And you thought "that's a weird thing for a second grader to be thinking. Girls usually aren't that depressed until they have tits."

One of them keeps talking about how she moved on and she's healthy now.

The other has been saying over and over that she tries not to think about it because she knows they'll lock her up one day. She knows they made her wrong on purpose. She knows they have been trying to fix her but she won't fix. There's always some battle of wits and will and they all accuse her of being greedy but she always wins and always wonders why they didn't try bribery when bribery always works. She is lying on a floor at a party among a group of beautiful girls and you don't know why you are listening to her say this instead of them. This keeps happening. You will find her next to a girl with a perfect face for this moment, the girl will lick your shoulder blade. You wind up having a conversation about some book you never read and how you would like it based on this movie you mentioned. The other girl crawls into your lap. She walks over to your friend and starts asking him questions. You buy the book the next day. It sits on the shelf for three years after the girl with the face and the lips and the... other assets is gone. There are other girls in the meantime. You don't read it but you don't throw it away. One night you are in a new place and nothing is unpacked and you can't sleep and you can't even look at any more liquor after the last three weeks and here is this book. And on the first page when you open it up, you are reintroduced to yourself that year back then. And you know which girl is the girl who is telling the truth about who she is because she dies in the book. Unmistakably, she dies. And it's not even the end of the story. It's not the point of it. It's like here you are on the night you met and she dies and here you are going through all these miseries that hadn't happened yet when the book was written. And here you are on the next page of your own life.

You know it was her because she wants to. She talks about wanting everything, how to do anything. How to get away with it. How to make ugly things beautiful and evil things good and stupid things smart. but the one thing that never changes is that she stares into a cup or a light for too long, she writes a story, she tells you about things she's done-

You go to admire her for her bravery or what she's done. She can lie and say what she's supposed to say- yes, I know , I'm great. Or she says "people think I'm brave but really I just already have to live with the things they're afraid of. I'm not afraid of losing the things they have because I don't have them. And If I get stuck, I always think 'I'll just kill myself if this doesn't work."

You know it's her because she keeps getting into cars with boys because she thinks maybe one will murder her. And when she realizes they want to take her home and keep her, she stops doing that and starts asking them why they don't love their empty houses. And when she gets urged to make a wish, everyone offers her things she wants but the only wish she will take is "I wish I was dead." And the only way to talk her out of it is to say someone else will also die. And one day, you turn on your TV and it has a girl and it's not her face and it's not her name and it's not her voice speaking in her register and she dies and says everyone else will live if she does it. And one day you, even you, turn on the car radio and here's a song about her sung by someone who looks like her and sounds like her and you don't remember the story about how she read a book about a vampire hunter with a harem and said she didn't like it because the girl always is smug and mean about other women's makeup but a girl named after a legend in Arthurian myth put it in her face when she went out into the snow and walked around screaming for hours when she fell asleep next to a girl her friends tried to set her up with at a party after finding out she was too young and wrapping her in a blanket and talking to her a while. The cute hacker girl with the knee socks she bought her who begged to be turned into a girl and rescued from her parents who wanted to be a boy was giggling with another teenage girl that if you drink rum and diet coke it tastes just like skittles. Neither one of them were wearing any clothes. She went outside and screamed and screamed and screamed and after that night she couldn't sing anymore. Before that she got compliments. Sometimes. So she went inside and this girl named after a boy who went insane and died as a tree after he drank some potion and fell in love with the king's girl handed her a book so she would have something to do other than throw up from crying. Her father used to yell at her for crying so hard it made her sick. She still does it. Singing or no singing, her lungs still do that. Too big for the rest of her. She tells you the only thing she remembered was "you don't give somebody to the monsters." And the rest was just bullshit. And she tells you that she doesn't want anyone else to die when she dies.

And she tells you that she used to talk to this person. One she made up.

So you know it's worse than the time where she lost her singing voice when one day you see her saying there was this cult that she thinks tricks people into exorcising their own souls, they say it's mindfulness and they used to say it was demons they cast out. But what happens if you have too many souls? What then? She says she beat them but they killed her cat, but now her cat brings the souls back. She says now they want to kill her, but that's okay. Because no one else will die with her.

You know the other her is fake because it's immortal, but it writes songs about how it doesn't want to die. Maybe she might develop jealousy or pettiness or insecurity or rage or grief or anything else. She would never give up her death.

But you turn on the television, you go to read a book

And all the monsters aren't monsters, they're just people she used to know.

"What's that even supposed to mean, 'It's not her'? If it looks like her, talks like her, acts like her, thinks like her, thinks it IS her, who's to say that it is NOT her?"

[snoopyhq]

Hi it's me again I'm glad to hear that also I have a request so my request is a Vander x wife reader where reader and Vander are in an argument is not two bad but it's still a little argument and the kids think their parents are going to be in a divorce until Vander and the reader explain that they're not going to be a divorce and it's all fluff at the end what do you think sorry to bother you by the way. 😊

˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ so take your gloves and get out!

type: vander x wife reader

summary: a couple's spat inadvertently has the little ones worried about the future of your family (but it all ends up alright)

word count: 993

a/n: had one of the best days ever with my friends today, i can't even be sad about my bum ass ex anymore. everyone cheer!

Goodnight, Vi. Goodnight, Powder. Sleep tight girls.

You quietly close the doors to the children's room. Once you were certain they were safely tucked in and asleep, you made your way back to the room you shared with you husband.

There was always the faint scent of bourbon in the air, an inescapable thing given that you two ran a bar together. You sink down on the mattress and let out a weary sigh, closing your eyes. A tired smile graced your face as the familiar brush of stubble and soft lips brushed against your cheek.

"Have you thought more about it?" he asks, settling down beside you.

You chewed the inside of your cheek.

"I did. I'm still not happy about it."

He nods, waiting for you to continue.

"They're still so young, Vander, and even if we do end up agreeing about it? Is it safe. What if something happens and we aren't there to help them?"

"I know they're young, and your worries are valid, love. But we can't hold them back forever. They'll be in good hands and living a better life than we can give them here," he replies.

He was thinking ahead for the future. You both want the best for your children, and what Vander was proposing would be the most favorable outcome. You couldn't help but oppose it, even if a deeper part of you agrees. As you mull over your options, the sudden image of your kids floated across your mind.

How tiny they were, swaddled in the layers of threadbare blankets, their small fingers reaching for yours. Powder's watery eyes when she wanted something and knew you would fold. Vi's subtle look to you for approval as she did her best to wrangle her rowdy siblings, especially Milo. Claggor's sweet smile as he hovers around you, always eager to help.

These images sent a sharp pang through your chest, and you found yourself suddenly consumed with a crushing dread.

"No, Vander. We can't let them go to Piltover. Absolutely not!"

You got up, throwing the blanket off. You pace in circles back and forth, shaking your head adamantly.

"No more arguments. I've made up my mind."

"Wait. You can't just give a definite no without discussing it more with me. What's changed?" now he was standing up too, wanting to understand, and you tried not to raise your voice.

It wasn't fair to get so up in arms like this, you knew. You had never believed yourself to be much of the parenting type, but ever since the kids came into your custody, you had developed a fierce protectiveness that extended beyond any realm of explanation. Was this how your parents felt when they had you? You could only hope. They weren't around to ask now, and you were determined to never let the children wonder what you are right now.

You don't remember everything you said next, but you do remember it leading to something heavier. Neither of you could separate personal feelings from the argument, and it got bad. Bad enough that it sent Powder, who had been lurking outside, straight to Vi, panicking about how,

"They're fighting, and Vander sounds so mad," she sobbed. "We're being sent away to Piltover!"

"To Piltover? Are you sure that's what you heard?" Milo scoffed.

"Yes! Why would I lie about that!" Powder shouts, on the verge of completely crumbling.

For once, he didn't have anything mean to say back.

"We could go ask them right now," Claggor suggests, even as the tremor in his voice gives away his belief in the worst.

Gathering up their courage and best brave act, the kids marched to your bedroom and let themselves in. That stopped you and Vander, and you were faced with four little faces, each one unable to look you in the face.

"What's wrong?" you asked, kneeling to be eye level with them.

"If you're going to send us away, at least let us decide where we want to go," Vi speaks. Always the leader.

You and Vander exchanged confused looks.

"We're not sending you away Vi," Vander says gently. "Why would you say that?"

In the background, Milo scowls. I told you so, his body language read.

"I heard you! Vander wants to send us to Piltover," Powder exclaims, her hand tightening in Vi's.

"We'll stop getting in so much trouble. Don't send us away," Claggor blurts out.

What? Oh, no.

You and Vander immediately gathered up the kids, two in each of your arms, and held them close. Whatever harsh words you wanted to exchange with each other could wait. Right now, the precious beings you were cradling were much more important.

"No one's going anywhere. You kids, your dad, or me. We just had to talk about something important, that's all," you explained.

"Talk about what?"

"Something that can be discussed when you're older. We want your input on it too, but it's not time yet."

"So you're not splitting up? Right?" Milo asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

You stifled your laugh.

"No dear, Vander and I aren't leaving you or each other anytime soon."

"Or ever," he adds, kissing you and earning a round of 'eughs' and 'bleh!'.

That's when you finally laughed.

"Ok, that's enough excitement for tonight. Everyone back to you room," you started to escort them out, but none of them budged. Not even Powder, who had let go of Vi's hand and was now standing firm on her own.

"I see how it is," you smiled. "One time only. Come here."

It was a tight fit, the six of you piled onto one bed. There were a flurries of complaints and kicking limbs, but eventually, everyone settled down. You and Vander faced each other while the children slept, sandwiched in between. Safe. Protected.

"We'll talk about it again later," you whisper. "But not tonight."

"Not right now," he agreed.

"Goodnight, Vander."

"Goodnight, love."

[notmorbid]

we could be rats.

dialogue prompts from we could be rats by emily r. austin.

that's the most insensitive thing you could have said.

i never say the right thing.

i wasn't the type of kid who wanted to be a teenager.

there were times i thought i hated you.

maybe if we'd met as adults, things would have been different.

i was the kind of kid who believed toys had hearts and souls.

nothing is ever purely good, is it? there's always a rotten piece.

i'm not depressed. i feel great.

i'm not the same person you knew.

did you feel like you knew me, the last couple of years?

i don't think i've ever been described as 'smart' before.

would it help to hear a joke?

why didn't the skeleton go to the party? because they had no body to go with.

am i getting too morbid?

i have you listed as my next of kin.

do you think i'm being insensitive and gruesome?

just bury me in a garbage bag.

i never really honed being well-mannered, did i?

i think i've accidentally made up white lies that were ruder than the truth.

creeps like us have to stay alive.

we haven't put a label on it.

i think your definition of 'creep' might be different than mine.

say i was abducted by aliens, or something.

are you mad at me? it's okay, if you are.

is my tone making you madder? i bet it is.

i don't plan to haunt you.

____ is like a comic book villain. like a caricature of a bad guy.

listen to people who have different experiences than you do.

you're being an asshole.

we're supposed to examine what's wrong, or it festers.

i used to think i could do anything.

what happened? are you hurt?

do i look normal to you?

the actual experience is never quite what's promised, is it?

it feels like i'm not the target audience for a lot of life.

tell people to fuck off more. take what you want. stir shit up.

everybody knows you.

i feel like i'm still a kid here.

i always cared about you.

everything will be fine. we'll find our way.

it didn't occur to me that not panicking was an option.

i feel sort of reborn.

it's hard to balance being both happy and considerate.

it's kinder to lie sometimes, right?

i'd rather be a pig than a cop. pigs are adorable.

being grown up feels like playing a board game with no instructions.

masks meld onto your face.

let's egg their car.

remember swinging, when you were a kid?

'to thine own self be true', or whatever.

people judge others by their own standards.

i don't remember how i got here.

i feel like i was cast as a character i'm not able to play.

i wouldn't want to live forever. would you?

i'm not sure there's a way to be alive without upsetting people.

inaction is an action.

dying is less scary than growing up.

is this actually happening? am i dreaming?

the trick to lying is to convince yourself.

i don't want you to feel sorry for me.

i feel like i don't know the things i'm supposed to. i feel like i'm pretending.

revolution is about creation, not destruction.

sometimes it's kinder to let people believe they're helping you, even when they're not.

i'd like to see where you grew up.

it sounds like a lot of people want to help you.

do you have people who want to help you?

did you egg my house?

there's no way the moon is a dude. she's got a soulful face. she's gorgeous.

we don't actually get much choice in life, do we?

i think i'm gay.

thinking about _____ sort of knocks the wind out of me.

if i hadn't met you, i'd be a totally different person.

i know i'm unbearable, but what else can i be?

i have a history of bad judgment.

what the hell did you just call me?

i'm not interested in small talk with people who offend or insult me.

i used to believe everyone was good.

i thought everyone felt that way.

did you hear it was on the news?

deep down, we're all who we were when we were kids.

being an adult is about re-finding who you were when you were eight years old.

i don't want to be someone who hurts people. i don't think i was meant to be that.

have you been outside today?

[bellysoupset]

Don't you guys just love when you start writing for funsies and then it turns into a mini therapy session? Anyway, this one is set in the future, as per usual will be in order in the masterlist.

----------------------------

For as long as Giuseppe had known his son, which was all twenty five years of his life, Vince had been stubborn. He wasn't arrogant, at least Beppe didn't think so, but goddammit if the kid wasn't stubborn.

Magda said it was because he had lived as an only child for seven years before being forced to share everything, which made sense, but Giuseppe thought was bullshit, because Ma was just as stubborn as Vince was. If anything, he was simply mimicking his mother.

Today, Vince's eyes were extra sparkly and his cheeks were flushed under the five o'clock shadow prickling his cheeks. Giuseppe didn't think he'd ever get used to the fact his son was just as tall as him and had a beard, urgh.

Whatever, his twenty five year old had a fever, that was a fact. Another fact was that he was vehemently denying it.

Sophia was putting all her stuff in boxes, which was a heartbreak on its own and Giuseppe was doing his damn best of not thinking about that, so his attention was focused on Vince, as he watched the man walk around his sister's room like an obedient puppy and gather all the items she solicited.

He'd be a good husband, Giuseppe snorted to himself, leaning against the doorway as he watched the scene.

"Babbo can I take it?" Sophia raised the leather jacket he had let her borrow four years before and had never seen again since. It was oversized on her, but the way her nails sank on the soft leather was a clear tell she was going to die before returning it.

"Of course, piccolina," he waved off her concerns. Hell, if she wanted to pack him and take him to college with her, Giuseppe was more than willing to go. Across the room, Vince muffled a string of hearty coughs in the crook of his elbow.

"Don't cough on my make up!" Sophia cried out, abandoning the leather jacket on top of her suitcase so she could rush to Vince's side and shove him away from her dresser, "you'll get your germs all over it!"

"I'm not sick," Vin grumbled, which would be a lot more convincing if it wasn't for his raspy voice and red cheeks. Giuseppe bit out a smile.

"You hear that, Soph? He's not sick."

"Yeah, right," Sophia rolled her eyes, "get my boots on the top shelf?"

Vince was stubborn and Sophia was bossy, Giuseppe rolled his eyes, thinking if they had made some big mistake raising them. He watched Vin walk inside of her cramped, not even a real walk-in, closet and start to remove all of the boots.

The repetitive movement of grabbing a pair and then crouching down to plant it carefully on the ground was clearly doing a number on him, as Giuseppe watched his son blink several times as if he was dizzy and gulp down.

"Vince, sit down before you topple over."

"I'm fine," he insisted, continuing at the task, "stop worrying."

"Not worried," Giuseppe shrugged, crossing his arms to his chest and leaning his head against the door. He looked around the room, searching for the trashcan just in case.

"Babbo," Sophia's tone was whiny and telling, "can we order in tonight?"

In other households Giuseppe knew kids didn't ask their parents these things and maybe it was for the best, self sufficient children and all that. However Vince had turned out fine, right?

"There's leftovers-"

"Babbo, per favore," she clasped her hands, pouting, and behind her Beppe saw Vince lean his back against her closet's door, planting his hands on his knees as he took measured breaths.

"What are you thinking? Sushi again?" Alright, maybe he was being a bit of a dick and if Ma was there she'd give him grief, but it was extremely amusing to see Vince's face drain of all color at the mention of food. Not sick, uh.

"Indian?" Sophia perked up, face flushing and a bright smile on, "chicken tikka masala sounds amazing, right?"

He pressed his lips together not to laugh as Vince gagged, silently, "it sounds delicious, piccolina. Vin, what do you want to order?"

Sophia turned to look at him, then let out a frustrated groan, "don't puke on my boots, oh my God!" she almost shrieked, jumping from her bed and rushing to him, grabbing his arm, "what's wrong with you, you're sick, go sit in the bathroom! It's like you're a little kid!"

Giuseppe tried really hard not to chuckle as he watched his 6'4 and wide as a refrigerator son be dragged away by his 5'5, cheerleader built daughter. What a sight.

"Babbo tell him to get out!"

"I am FINE-"

"Vicenzo," enough was enough, Giuseppe decided. Time to act like the responsible adult he was, "smettere," he reached in, so he could wrap his arm around Vin's back, pulling him closer, "c'mon, I'll help you to bed."

"He's like a big fucking baby," Sophia groaned, continuing to kick both of them out and Giuseppe glared at her over his shoulder.

"Be nice, he's sick."

"I'm not sick," Vince repeated, stumbling and almost falling and taking his father with him. Sophia rolled her eyes.

"See, he's not sick," she scoffed, just as Vin let out a groan, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

Fun over, Giuseppe thought, pulling him with all his force all the way to his suite at the end of the hallway. They barely made it inside, Vince falling with the grace of a drunk elephant, bringing the older man down with him as a big wave of vomit splattered inside the toilet, splashing on the seat.

"Fuck-" he gasped, spine curling as he retched again, "ugh..."

"Get it up, piccolino," Beppe sighed, moving so he could cup Vin's forehead, pushing back his curls. Vin was burning up and his father wasn't sure if the nausea was because it was a stomach flu or because of the high fever, "cazzo, Vince..."

"I'msorry," he slurred a burp bringing up more of his lunch. He sounded incredibly pathetic and Giuseppe's heart squeezed, causing him to plant a kiss on top of his son's curls.

"Nothing to be sorry," he promised, "get it out and I'll get you into bed."

"Sophia-"

"Will be able to pack just fine without your help," he rolled his eyes, but Vin shook his head, clumsily reaching for the toilet paper and wrinkling the whole roll as he grabbed a couple sheets and wiped his chin and the ropey saliva hanging from his bottom lip.

"Can't be sick," he groaned, throwing the tissues inside the toilet and pressing his forehead to the porcelain rim, "want to help-Uurp- her..."

Giuseppe was assaulted with a memory, Vince at the age of 10, sick with a sinus infection and crying because he had to stay home while his baby sister got to go to the daycare. Finding Sophia wrapped up in his arms like a teddy bear as soon as she got home.

"I know," he ran his fingers through Vince's curls, "I know it's hard to see her growing up, trust me, I know."

Vin let out another groan, breathing out slowly as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him, "I'm pathetic," he decided, crumpling to the side so he was lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom and could press his heated face to his father's lap. Giuseppe let out a sigh at the position, not one bit happy that he hadn't managed to get him into bed before the collapse, but still he only shuffled around so they were more comfortable in the cramped space.

"Well, I think you might just get that from me," he teased, causing Vince to muffle a chuckle against his thigh, which morphed into a coughing fit. He rubbed his son's back, wondering if he should holler for Soph to get the first aid kit, since he clearly wasn't gonna move, "that's fine, growing up it's good, Vin," he pressed the back of his hand against Vin's heated cheeks, "one day you'll be trapped by your kid in the cold bathroom floor."

"I'm not trapping you," Vince grumbled, but instead of moving away, he only squirmed so they were pressed closer, "we're cuddling."

"Uh-hum," Giuseppe smiled, "cuddling, just like you're not sick."

[fandoomrants]

I agree so much with your post on The Prank! Honestly, I think people who always center on it when they want to write Wolfstar angst have to be pretty young, and they don't know anything other than highschool. Because if you want to write really good Wolfstar angst, the first war, suspecting each other was the spy, it's literally there and it's way juicier! But maybe, especially really young people, don't really feel confident or comfortable writing about young adults

THIS.

First of all, I'm so glad people are actually agreeing with me! Again, I get why it's so used, and I don't mean to offend anyone. I myself have things written that include it, just because it's a canon compliant piece and it's simply part of their canon story.

However, I totally agree with the other opportunities to write wolfstar angst. Especially the spy thing! I mean, that's so much better for angst because the stakes are higher.

One is literally a stupid thing that happened while they were still mostly kids, and kids do things like that all the time. I was once so fed up with my best friend at high school that I literally begged my mother to move schools. It's so in the past now. It literally got fixed like a week or two later but it was the biggest drama of my life nack then.

But the war... Now this is a whole another story. They're older, their lives are at stake, etc. I can't imagine how hard it must be to suspect that one of your closest people (no matter romantic or platonic) could be the reason your life is endangered, let alone the reason for some of your closest people to actually lose their lives.

There's plenty of wolfstar angst that can be written for their time post-PoA too. Yes, they do embrace and team up against Peter almost immediately but this doesn't mean there aren't literal years that kept them apart that need to be discussed at length. Not just the twelve years Sirius spent in Azkaban but even before that, as they suspected each other.

However, most people seem to prefer not to focus on this because they're in their 30ies and "not as interesting" or simply too old or something, but that's a discussion for another day.

As for the confidence of people, I think most people in the fandom are pretty young, yeah. So it makes sense they'd write about their school years. And that's totally okay. I think school years are especially important because this is literally the moment we form as people. I personally adore the fandom because of the strong exploration of friendships and relationships it has created/taken from canon.

But I still think there are plenty of other things that can be explored too.

[annispillowfort]

trigger warning for mentions of self harm and abuse

My Favorite Way to Say Sorry

Why do I want to be hurt?

Is it because it feels like home,

like the splintered walls I grew within,

where love was a bruise

pressed into my skin,

and silence the anthem of the unknown?

Is it because it’s all I know,

this choreography of ache and atone?

The hands that shaped me taught me well,

their fingers tracing the edges of hell,

whispering lessons in a voice so low:

You are fragile, but you endure.

You break, but you belong.

Pain is love’s most loyal song.

Is it because it’s all I’m ever good for,

to bend and twist beneath the weight,

to carry their sins like a weathered slate

scrubbed clean, only to be marked once more?

They wrote their love in words of fire,

etched in shame, carved in desire

to mold me soft, to mold me small,

to need the pain, to crave it all.

Is it because it feels right?

The jagged comfort of familiar fights,

the heavy warmth of tears that stain

like rain that never truly cleans.

I know this script, this shadowed art—

it threads through the chambers of my heart,

a melody I hum in the dark, alone,

longing for a touch that turns to stone.

Or is it because it’s my favorite way to say sorry?

To kneel before the ghosts of glory,

to bleed forgiveness at their feet,

to call it love when we repeat

the rituals of guilt and pain,

the cycle turning, again and again.

The hands that hurt, the hands that heal,

both feel the same, both feel real.

And so I stay, and so I cling,

to the ache that love and pain can bring,

asking why, but knowing no end,

only the familiar, only to bend.

phew...

hitting the post button on this was hard, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now because i was debating whether to share this or not.

i think this is my magnum opus. for years and years i sat across from therapists trying to put into words how i felt. and i think this is it. the rawest and closest i've ever gotten to voice the ache that settled in my bones long before i could even spell my name.

i guess what i want to say is: if this poem resonates with you- i'm sorry. i'm so so sorry. you didn't deserve this and it's so unbelievably unfair this happened to you. it's not fair that other people in your life fucked up so horribly that you're left with licking the wounds they left.

but you deserve to live, not just surviving with the continuous metaphorical and sometimes literal blood loss.

so please... take care of yourself. be kind and patient. you deserve it. you always did.

if you're reading this: i love you. and i'm rooting for you.

lots of love,

anni

(send from pillowfort)

[overnightheartbeats]

"Wow, you seriously are in urgent need of getting a life." Now, Ezekiel was just teasing, it all came from a good place, but it's not anything Nate hadn't heard before. He had been messing with Nate about his moping ways since the second week of school. "I know, sorry man. Not really," he answered with a shrug. His ego was in perfect shape, because his sense of pride had never really been tied to his family name. "I don't care for the family empire and the glory. I have enough bloodthirsty family ready to make a play for the position when my parents step down. I could be convinced to help out here, for a while, before the world calls me again."

Zeke noticed the grip on the reins, but didn't comment on it. For now. Listening to his friend talk about this was essentially him receiving a new chapter on a story he had not had an update from in years. It was so odd. "People really only get defensive to hide something, or they really are clueless, but indignant with the accusation." He had seen a lot of that back home. "Well, you shouldn't feel guilty. You did what you could then. You know her much better than I do," obviously. Zeke had only sort of seen her from across the patio, but that said nothing of a person. "If her personality's like that, denying and gaslighting, then yeah she's messing with you big time. Or, there was a disconnect. It's not like you gave the letter to her directly." The mention of his mom made him tense up slightly, only because the stories he heard made the woman sound like his worst nightmare personified. "You really believe that, or is your mom getting in your head and wearing you out?" Business mode. Damn. "She's gone? Damn, that's weird. For what it's worth, if this is all you got, it might be enough to finally snap you out of her. Right? I mean, you're just living on old, dusty memories at this point. It's not like seeing her was enough of an impact to have you moping for the next ten years."

Because too much time has passed, and...that's all I really have. You know I still do. Moving on is ridiculously useless. I always have the hardest time telling you things, because you never let it slide. Then again, maybe that's why I write to an advice columnist, off topic. But, yes I did say that I wanted to know the reasons. I might be pulling the plug, because it hurts Javi. It hurt to get told off by him, and it's not that I wouldn't want him or the drama. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to keep going against the current. It feels like all my time with him has been marked by that, fighting against. I don't want to do that again. Too late, I'm mad..and sad, and everything in between. At least I don't need to see him for a few days, should help. You are too kind Javi, she should hear you out. It is her choice to accept it or discard it, but listening to you is the least she could do after leaving you. Maybe you can write her a very strongly worded letter, or advice column. I could even enlist you to write one to my ex as well.

Typing out letter just made a humorless chuckle escape her, shaking her head at herself. That's what she wanted to get to the bottom of. A letter.

"You know what? You may be right. Can't tell you myself since I can barely remember my dreams." No urgency to return to that life. Ah, if only he hadn't been dragged back into it. "I envy you sometimes. Isn't that a blow to the ego? That it hasn't crumbled without you there? You can always help out here."

He released a sigh and held the reins a little tighter. "Defensive she got. Which, sure. I get but also she was the one who broke my heart. Why am I feeling guilty when that letter was in her house and she never came to the station. But, she made it seem like I was lying. Repeated five times there was no letter." he shrugged. "Or stupid man as my mom used to say. I don't know man, what if my mom was right and her being the way she was, opened our eyes to know it wouldn't work out. She went into business mode. Left the hacienda in a huff. Said she'd send the papers for me to review and be done."

What makes you so sure the other thing is gone? Do you still love him? Didn't you say you wanted to know the reasons? It seems like you are pulling the plug prematurely. If you really don't want him or this drama he brings then cut it here but make sure it isn't because you're mad.

I'll have no choice. If she doesn't want to hear me out then I can't make her. No matter how much I tell her to. It is up to her. It has always been her choice.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Introducing... Barbara Heimer

for consideration at @simsinfinitylt Austin's Bachelor Challenge

NAME: Barbara "Barbie" Heimer (she/her) AGE: Young Adult (24) LIFE STATE: Human ORIENTATION: Bisexual. EA has a way of resetting my sims to its defaults, so she should have both men and women as sexual and romantic options, no preferences. HOME WORLD: Del Sol Valley TRAITS: Cheerful, Genius, Kleptomaniac, Nosy, Good Manners, Compassionate, Headstrong, High Self Esteem, Shameless, Dauntless - plus a few others from the satisfaction points redemption store. ASPIRATION: Chief of Mischief CAREER: Officially, nepo baby and party girl. Unofficially, hacker extraordinaire.

read more

Yes, that's me! No, the one on the left. I mean, they're both catches for some slightly older people (and unlike my parents, their faces still actually move), but I'm the one applying.

All of this is off the record, right, from one Watcher to another? (And if it isn't, weeeell, it's amazing how the Sims 4 and the spaghetti coding that comes with it can shred your system...)

Well, my mother's some big shot casting director, and my father is a businessman who made his money through means that aren't illegal strictly speaking, but will not exactly earn him the Simitarian of the Year award. Why are there so many industries where it's good to be bad? Ugh.

But anyway, i'M n0t liKe OthEr NePo BAbIEs. Barbies? Sorry, I just had to. I may keep up the sunny party girl exterior, and sure, I genuinely enjoy that life. Once the sun goes down, however (or as the sun rises with my hours, more accurately?), as well as one of Del Sol Valley's most wanted bachelorettes, I'm most wanted... as a hacker! And likely by law enforcement too, which just shows that they're not on the side of the little people, as I use my powers for good!

Sure, I don't come cheap but I work fast. And I will pick up work pro bono, so to speak, if something really sketchy is going on. That sizeable donation Victor Feng is making to No Sim Left Behind? Moi, all moi. And he can't cancel it now because it would be too bad for his PR. So sad.

And this right here is my bestie, Kayla Flemming. She didn't like me at first (I can be too much for some people, even though I am "just right") but I helped her out by scrubbing some unfortunate photos out of existence (and bankrupting the creep responsible) so now I have the best personal trainer in the business!

"RUN BARBIE, RUN - DO YOU THINK THE COPS WILL GIVE YOU A BREATHER?!?" "Yeah maybe that doesn't come under my rights, no..."

(Kayla Flemming, redefining Tough Love 50 burpees at a time...)

And that's it from me! I may be a little mischievous and sometimes take a joke too far, but I enjoy people and I'm nice. Just maybe make sure I have my macchiato before approaching me in the morning (Marcus Flex is my favourite barista!)

WATCHER NOTES

Outfit pics below! You don't have to include the second everyday one (the Moonlight Chic jacket and shorts) - I just wanted to have an even three in each row or it would have driven me crazy 😊 And yeah, the Haley from Stardew Valley references are deliberate.

cc: sunglasses, hairs, genetics (including non default eyes), makeup, earrings (everyday + formal), bracelet and beret. i couldn't find the city living beret anywhere in my cas so if you'd rather, sub barbie's out for that one

Oh and since halfway through I realised that she needed a darker shade of eyes so they wouldn't be overwhelmed by her hair (if I don't use that shade of blonde for Barbie, then when will I 😅), I've included an unedited close up of her in cas.

Let me know if you want her and I'll DM you a simsfileshare zip!

[hel7l7]

I still don't ever feel like I'm good enough

[lunarharp]

fwee top 5 things i had fun with this year :-)

[rintinningvt]

Started watching the Bayverse movies with my besties and... Are we just too gay for these movies??? Admittedly we only finished the first two and got through a quarter of the third, but the second one was such a drag to sit through at times and it probably doesn't help that we do NOT care about Sam that much. I hope that there is a character arc for him in the rest of the third movie. Because so far he has not been fun to watch in that one. He just comes off as a slight manchild to me, like... I can see why he would be frustrated with where he is in life but the way he acts with others and lashes out does not help him in the slightest. I do have to admit though that seeing him go to Cybertronian Heaven in the second movie was the funniest part for me and my besties lol.

I'll just hope that the other guy in the next movies will be at least a bit more interesting. Doesn't even have to be a good guy, just an interesting guy for me lol