#one thing that does suck about art month is often having to end up with stuff I'm not fully satisfied with

[fadebolt]

"Perhaps I reminisce because I cannot go. Perhaps I cannot go because my memory traps me here."

I had to travel for quite a long time today, so I unfortunately couldn't refine the third day drawing as much as I wanted to. However, I think it's a decent first attempt at an Ancient, and figuring out a design was pretty fun.

[cloudyluun]

The Cost of Keeping You | ceo!harry

Summary: Working for Harry Styles—CEO of Styles Enterprises and unofficial tyrant of the twentieth floor—was never Y/N’s dream. But rent waits for no one. She can handle his cold glares, biting remarks, and soul-sucking silence. Until one day, she can’t. After a brutal insult that hits too close to home, Y/N walks out with her head high and her heart bruised. Harry? He pretends not to care. Until he does.

Now, months later, Harry finds himself unraveling in the quiet she left behind—and he’ll have to decide if he’s ready to face the mess he made… and the woman he might’ve lost forever.

A/N: This fic (based on this request) is for the girlies who love their men mean, miserable, and emotionally repressed 💅 If you’ve ever daydreamed about quitting your toxic job with a dramatic one-liner and having your jerk of a boss realize he’s in love with you months later? Yeah. This one’s for you.

Pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and prepare for CEOrry to suffer

Word Count: 6,6k

Warnings: 

Verbal/emotional mistreatment in the workplace (from Harry)

Power imbalance (acknowledged & explored)

Burnout / stress / overwork

Angsty emotionally stunted man

Soul-crushing insult that will make you gasp and clutch your pearls

Groveling (delicious)

Optional heartbreak depending on chosen ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

She never planned to stay this long.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stopgap while she figured things out. Rent in the city wasn’t kind, and freelance gigs didn’t always pay on time. When she landed the executive assistant position at Styles Global, she told herself she’d give it six months. Just enough time to build some savings, maybe line up something closer to her skill set. Something less soul-sucking.

That was two years ago.

Now, she moved through the sleek glass hallways like a ghost in heels, always present, always poised, and always one misstep away from being on the receiving end of another of Harry Styles’ famously cold tirades.

To the rest of the office, he was a legend. A force of nature. They called him “Hurricane Styles” behind his back, though most were too afraid to say it above a whisper. He had built the company from nothing, turned every risk into a win, turned bloodless strategy into an art form. Investors adored him. Board members feared him. And employees? They tried not to make eye contact.

She knew the rules. Never speak unless spoken to. Never offer ideas—he’d either steal them or shoot them down just to remind you who had the power. And never, ever expect gratitude. Harry didn’t say thank you. He said “Fix this.” He said “Again.” He said “Why is this taking so long?”

She’d learned early on not to take it personally. The key was to treat it like weather. Unpleasant, unpredictable, but not about her. She could withstand a storm. She just hadn’t realized how long this one would last.

By month three, she had his routines memorized—his preferred coffee order (black, no sugar, 8:04 a.m. sharp), how he liked his reports formatted (12-point font, single-spaced, no cover page), the names he forgot during meetings (which was most of them). She kept his world running so smoothly that no one noticed the machinery behind it.

That was the way he liked it.

Still, some days, she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly disappearing. Her friends stopped inviting her out after she bailed on too many Friday dinners. Her fridge was stocked with takeout containers she barely remembered ordering. She ate lunch at her desk, dinner on the train, and sometimes forgot breakfast entirely. Sleep came in fits. Her eyes were ringed in fatigue, her jaw clenched more often than not.

But she showed up. Every morning, polished and precise, like clockwork.

And Harry treated her like she was interchangeable.

“This font is wrong,” he’d say, flipping the folder back toward her without looking up.

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“Well, it’s wrong now.”

He never looked her in the eye unless he was correcting her. He never said her name unless it was followed by a command. Some days, she wondered if he even knew anything about her beyond what was in her HR file.

But she didn’t crack. Not outwardly. She met his coldness with calm, his dismissals with measured silence. Let him feel like he had the upper hand. That was how you survived here. She wasn’t trying to win him over. She was just trying to stay standing.

That morning started like any other. Rain slicked the pavement outside the 52nd Street building. She beat him to the office, as usual, lights already on, coffee already waiting. She sat at her desk just outside his door, skimming through emails, flagging the ones that needed his attention, deleting the ones that didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Another meeting pushed back. She adjusted his calendar accordingly.

“Morning,” came a voice from behind her.

She looked up. Theo, one of the junior project managers, stood there holding a report.

“Hey,” she said, managing a small smile.

He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, I think you might actually be a wizard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” he said. “The guy’s a nightmare, but you—you handle him like it’s nothing. You’re the only one who can.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. “Trust me. It’s not magic. It’s caffeine and pure survival instinct.”

“I still think you deserve a raise. Or hazard pay.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned back to her screen. But the compliment—simple, sincere—sat heavy in her chest like a secret. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something nice to her in this building.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Theo straightened instantly. “Morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just walked past them, into his office, and shut the door with that sharp, final click that always made her stomach knot.

She went back to work. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then—

“Y/N.”

His voice, clipped and cold.

She stepped into his office, notepad in hand.

He didn’t look up from his screen. “Why did I just overhear you chatting with one of the junior staff?”

She blinked. “He had a report you needed to see. He also—”

���—was wasting your time,” Harry cut in, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were unreadable. “You’re not here to make friends.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until they stood a few feet apart.

“If this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her notepad, her schedule, her entire existence, “is your best, then maybe you should stick to fetching coffee. You're not irreplaceable.”

The words landed like a slap. Not loud, not violent—just surgical in their precision. She stared at him, willing herself not to react. Not to flinch.

Instead, she swallowed hard, nodded once, and left the room.

Back at her desk, she sat perfectly still.

It wasn’t the first time he’d belittled her. But this one felt different. It wasn’t just that he was cruel. It was that he’d said it so easily. As if she was nothing. As if all the late nights and early mornings, all the silent sacrifices, all the ways she kept him afloat… meant nothing.

And he hadn’t even thought twice.

She worked through lunch. Didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. Just kept her head down, her expression blank, her hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

He thought she was replaceable.

He was going to find out how wrong he was.

The next morning, she arrived at her usual time—fifteen minutes before anyone else. The office was quiet, still soaked in early dawn light. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. She sat at her desk, logged in, and started moving pieces around on his schedule like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Her spine was straighter. Her eyes sharper. She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Anger was too loud, too hot. What she felt was colder, deeper—an indifference blooming like frostbite. She had nothing left to prove. And for the first time, she could see the finish line. She just hadn’t decided when she’d cross it.

Harry didn’t notice at first.

He breezed in just before 8:15, late by his standards, muttering about a traffic delay, waving off the coffee she still—out of sheer habit—had waiting for him. She took notes in a meeting, filed reports, arranged travel for a business trip he wasn’t even sure he wanted to take. It was routine, rote. The same grind she’d mastered over the last two years.

But Harry wasn’t stupid. And despite his best efforts to act otherwise, he noticed things.

He noticed that she didn’t offer him her usual rundown of the day’s meetings. Didn’t preemptively print the documents he’d need before his 10 a.m. Didn’t even ask if he wanted lunch or if she should push back his next call when the morning ran long.

Instead, she moved like a ghost—silent, efficient, detached.

And it irritated the hell out of him.

By the third day of this quiet withdrawal, he found himself pacing behind his desk after everyone had gone, a file open in front of him that he couldn’t bring himself to read. His office was too quiet. The desk outside his door was empty. She’d left promptly at five, like clockwork. No late-night filing, no quiet hum of her music spilling from her earbuds, no light footsteps when she brought him coffee after hours just because she knew he hadn’t eaten.

It wasn’t just her silence. It was her absence, even when she was still here.

The power imbalance he’d once leaned on so comfortably had shifted. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

So, naturally, he got meaner.

It started with nitpicks. “This margin is off.” “You didn’t bcc the right name.” “I said tomorrow, not Thursday.” All minor things—some imagined—but each said with increasing venom.

She didn’t react. Not really. Just fixed it and moved on. Which made him feel even more off-balance.

Then came the mistake.

It wasn’t even a big one. A slide title on the wrong deck. A single date typo buried in a footnote. But it was during a high-stakes pitch meeting—one he was already on edge about. The room was packed: department heads, a few investors, his second-in-command, and of course, her. Standing just to the side, laptop in hand, managing the screen.

He was presenting. She was supporting. It was a rhythm they knew by heart.

Until her voice broke in, gentle but confident. “Just to clarify, that figure includes Q3 projections, not finalized Q2 numbers.”

He turned slowly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mentioned the quarterly report. I just wanted to clarify—”

“I know what I said,” he snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like you have any authority to speak in this room.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

She stared at him. The warmth drained from her face like a switch had flipped.

He wasn’t done.

“You’re here to run slides and take notes. Not to correct me mid-pitch. If I wanted your input, I’d have asked for it. Stick to what you’re paid for.”

She said nothing. Just nodded once and backed off.

The presentation ended five minutes later, stiff and awkward. As the room cleared, he caught a few sidelong glances, a few too-quiet murmurs. But he didn’t care. He was still buzzing with that adrenaline of dominance, the way he always did after asserting control. It was familiar. Automatic.

But when he stepped into his office and saw her already there, standing near his desk, arms folded, expression unreadable—something in him pulled tight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“I just corrected the slide title,” she said. “You had the wrong quarter listed. It wasn’t to embarrass you.”

He shrugged, brushing past her toward his desk. “Then maybe next time you’ll think before you speak.”

She didn’t move. “You know, I’ve put up with a lot. The mood swings. The condescension. The hours.”

He looked up, something cold flashing behind his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is.”

Her voice was steady. Calm. But there was a crack in it now—a fracture held together by sheer will.

He smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “Do you really think you matter here? You’re just another name on the payroll. Don’t mistake necessity for value.”

That was it.

The final blow.

And this time, she didn’t swallow it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She laughed.

It was soft at first. Disbelieving. Then colder, darker—a sound pulled from some place buried deep inside her. It startled him. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. Hadn’t seen her smile, not for real, in even longer.

“You know what, Harry?” she said, her voice low and tired and done. “I hope one day you realize what you lost. Not because I want to be missed. But because I want you to feel it. Just once.”

She reached for her badge. Popped it off. Placed it on his desk like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She walked out of his office without another word. Past the desk she’d kept too tidy for too long. Past the glass doors. Past the stunned stares of a few late-working staff who turned just in time to see the ghost of Hurricane Styles’ assistant walking away with her head high.

No notice.

No drama.

Just a clean break.

And Harry, still behind his desk, still holding that last insult in his mouth like poison, realized something too late:

He’d finally broken her.

But she wasn’t the one who was going to pay for it.

He was.

Harry’s POV

He told himself he didn’t care.

Said it out loud, even. In his office, to his reflection, to the empty silence that used to hold her soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of papers being filed. He shrugged when Mitch asked what happened, rolled his eyes when Sarah from HR hinted they should reach out—just in case she had any materials to hand over. He waved it all off.

“I’ll find someone better,” he said flatly, sipping the wrong coffee made by a temp who had no idea he hated hazelnut. “She wasn’t indispensable.”

But the lie sat sour on his tongue.

The first week without her was logistical chaos. The temp assistant—two years younger and painfully eager—couldn’t read his tone, couldn’t keep up, and worst of all, kept asking questions. Dumb ones. Obvious ones. Ones she would have known before he even opened his mouth. The schedules were off. Calls missed. A client dinner was double-booked and he had to personally call and apologize.

He hadn’t made a personal apology in years.

By Friday, he’d snapped three pens in half and raised his voice more times than he could count. He barked at the intern for misprinting a memo and nearly slammed the door on Mitch when he came in with a project update.

The tension he used to wear like armor suddenly felt suffocating.

He lasted exactly six minutes in his office on Monday before storming out. The blinds were still half-drawn the way she always left them—just enough light, not enough glare. Her chair was pushed in, perfectly aligned with the desk. Her spare cardigan was gone, but the scent of her lotion still lingered faintly in the air. Clean. Subtle. Warm.

It punched something in his chest he didn’t know was tender.

He moved into the boardroom instead. Set up camp there like a child refusing to sleep in his own bed after a nightmare.

By week two, everyone knew not to mention her name.

He still caught himself pausing at 11 a.m., waiting for the sound of her humming while she filed. She used to hum the same tune when she was stressed—always off-key, always quiet. He never commented on it, never even acknowledged it. But now the silence grated.

So did the coffee.

He tried to make it the way she used to—just once. Burnt the beans. Stained his shirt.

The spiral was slow but steady. Every little thing reminded him of her. The seat in the elevator she used to lean against when they left late. The branded notepad she always carried, filled with tiny, organized handwriting. The pen she once borrowed and never returned—still in his drawer, chewed at the tip, because she had the annoying habit of biting pens when deep in thought.

And then there were the flashbacks.

The kind that crept up when he least expected them—sharp, vivid, unforgiving.

There was the day he’d come in with a migraine, growling at anyone who dared breathe too loud. She hadn’t said a word. Just dimmed the lights, closed his door, and left a cold compress on his desk. He never thanked her. Never even looked up.

Another time, she brought him soup. Chicken and rice. From some little place two blocks over. He hadn’t eaten all day, his voice was raw from back-to-back calls, and when she placed the container down with a quiet “It’s not a big deal,” he’d snapped.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She hadn���t argued. Just nodded and walked out. But she never brought him soup again.

He should’ve said something then.

He didn’t.

Three weeks after she left, he found her coffee mug still in the back of the cupboard—white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle. She used to joke that it was her lucky cup, and if it ever broke completely, she’d “take the hint and leave.”

He nearly dropped it.

Instead, he placed it back on the shelf like it was glass-thin, like it could still be salvaged if he just didn’t touch it too hard.

It was around week four when the real punch came.

He wasn’t even looking for it. He was on a news site, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding the stack of files he couldn’t bring himself to organize because no one was around to nag him about deadlines. And then he saw her.

It was a photo embedded in an article—some small piece about a new start-up shaking up the tech world. He wouldn’t have clicked it normally. But her face was there, radiant and easy, mid-laugh. Candid. Honest.

She was standing outside a building he vaguely recognized, arm looped with another woman, both of them holding champagne flutes. The caption said she’d joined the company as their new operations director.

Operations director.

She hadn’t just moved on. She’d leveled up.

And she looked...happy. Not performative, not polite—genuinely alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her eyes weren’t dull. She wasn’t tired. She was free.

That was when it hit him.

He didn’t just lose his assistant.

He lost the one person who gave a damn.

The one who saw him—flaws, fury, all of it—and still showed up, day after day. Not because she had to. But because, at some point, she’d cared.

He used to believe fear was the best motivator. That respect was earned through intimidation. That keeping people at arm’s length meant control. He thought he was untouchable.

But the echo of her laugh still lived in these halls.

And her absence was loud enough to shatter glass.

The days dragged after that. He stopped snapping at people—not because he felt better, but because he didn’t feel anything at all. His office was cold. Clinical. The chair outside his door stayed empty most days, the temp too afraid to sit there for long. The entire floor felt off-balance, like the center of gravity had shifted and no one could quite walk straight.

Every time he saw her picture in that article, he stared at it a little longer.

He kept it open in a background tab.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

But it was also the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because if she could move on...then maybe, maybe there was still a sliver of something he could hold onto.

Maybe redemption wasn’t off the table.

But it wouldn’t come easy. And it wouldn’t come fast.

He’d burned that bridge with a blowtorch.

Now the question was whether there was anything left to rebuild.

The first text he sent was short.

Harry: I’m sorry.

No punctuation. No context. Just two words, tossed into the void of read receipts and silence. It stayed unread. A gray “Delivered” glaring back at him from his phone screen for hours, then days. He told himself maybe she changed her number. Maybe she didn’t see it. But deep down, he knew better.

The second message came two days later.

Harry: I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was angry. At myself. Not you.

Still nothing.

Then came the email. He drafted it at 2 a.m., sitting in the same boardroom he’d commandeered as his cave ever since her departure. He read it over twenty times before sending.

Subject: I owe you an apology.

“Y/N,

I’ve rewritten this a dozen times. Nothing feels like enough. I was wrong. About a lot.

You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You weren’t just efficient, you were essential—to the company, yes, but also to me. I just didn’t realize it until you were gone.

I miss your steadiness. Your patience. Your fucking humming that used to drive me insane and now echoes in my head like a ghost.

I said things I regret. Things I can’t take back. But I need you to know—you mattered. You mattered more than I ever let myself admit.

If nothing else, let me say this to your face. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll give me five minutes.

H”

It bounced. Full inbox.

She’d blocked his email.

The next step should’ve felt like a line crossed. But he was already halfway through the wreckage of what he’d ruined—what was one more dent to the ego?

He showed up at her apartment building. Waited outside like a fool with a takeaway coffee and a note in his pocket he didn’t dare hand over.

She didn’t come out.

He tried again. And again.

Once, he saw the curtain shift. A shadow behind the glass. But the door never opened. She never came down.

He stood there for fifteen minutes longer than he should’ve, heart in his throat, hands freezing around the paper cup. And when it became clear she wasn’t going to face him, he tucked the note under the doormat and left without looking back.

He never found it there again.

Still, he couldn’t stop.

He checked her company’s press page obsessively. Memorized every project announcement, every update. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was thriving. There was a confidence in her posture that hadn’t existed when she worked for him. Like she finally had room to breathe.

It should’ve made him happy.

Instead, it gutted him.

The opportunity for confrontation didn’t come until six weeks later. It was an industry networking mixer, full of self-congratulatory execs and overpriced cocktails. He wasn’t planning to go, but Mitch had dragged him out—said he’d been a recluse long enough.

He hadn’t expected her to be there.

She wasn’t even in the main ballroom when he saw her—she was out on the terrace, standing by the railing with a drink in hand, backlit by soft string lights and city glow. Her hair was pulled up. Her dress was simple, but elegant. Understated power.

She looked…whole.

For a moment, he froze. Thought about turning around. Maybe he should’ve. But then she turned slightly, laughing at something someone said beside her, and the sound cracked something open in his chest.

So he walked.

His heart thudded with every step. His palms were damp. There were a thousand versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head, but now, with her just a few feet away, he couldn’t remember any of them.

She noticed him before he could say anything. Her smile faded, her gaze hardening into something unreadable.

He stopped a foot away, gave her space. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“Harry.” Her voice was calm. Unmoved. The ice in her drink clinked as she swirled it slowly.

He waited. Nothing. No warmth. No invitation.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I was awful to you,” he said finally. “I don’t even know where to start—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You said everything you wanted to the day I quit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.”

It landed like a slap. Clean. Honest. Brutal.

She took a sip of her drink and looked past him, like she was already bored with the conversation. He could see the shift in her—the absence of the girl who used to hesitate before speaking, who used to shrink under the weight of his moods. That girl was gone. This version of her stood taller. Spoke clearer. Didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of needing you. Of how much I depended on you. I pushed you because I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “So you punished me because you couldn’t manage your own emotions?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t see it then. But I do now.”

She stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he added. “I’m not asking for things to go back to the way they were. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. That I miss you. That losing you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Something flickered across her face—small, fleeting. A crack in the armor. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You miss the way I made your life easier. The way I knew your schedule, your moods, your coffee order. You miss the convenience.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I miss you. The person. The presence. The way you gave a shit even when I didn’t deserve it. The way you challenged me without ever raising your voice. The way you—” His voice broke. “The way you saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.”

A beat of silence.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that if I worked hard enough, stayed long enough, you’d see it. That you’d see me. Not just as an assistant, but as a human being.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“But I realized,” she continued, “that the problem wasn’t my effort. It was your inability to recognize value unless it screamed. I had to break to get your attention.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her glass. “I’m not angry anymore, Harry. I’m not bitter. I just… don’t want to go back to a place that made me feel small.”

“I don’t want that either,” he said. “If there’s even the smallest chance… I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to get the old dynamic back, but to build something better. On your terms.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him.

And for the first time, he saw the cost. The weight she’d carried. The cracks she’d had to seal on her own.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready,” she said. “If I’m ready.”

“I know.” He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “But I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, small and measured.

He left her there, under the soft lights, the night cool against his skin.

For the first time, he didn’t walk away with answers. But he walked away knowing something had shifted.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The days that followed were quiet. Not the suffocating kind he’d grown used to, full of silence and unanswered messages, but the kind that forced reflection. He didn’t try to contact her again. Not right away. He didn’t loiter by her building, didn’t send another desperate email. He’d said his piece. Now, he had to prove he meant it.

That started with his own house.

Literally.

The place was a mess—not just physically, but emotionally. It still looked like it belonged to the version of him she’d left: sharp edges, cold surfaces, and schedules that ran tighter than his jawline used to. So he changed it. Started small. New photos on the wall—ones that weren’t just boardroom snapshots and event galas. He framed one of the office holiday party she’d organized three years ago. The one where she wore a ridiculous headband with blinking lights and somehow still managed to look composed.

He made space in his days that didn’t revolve around profit margins and investor calls. Therapy twice a week, no excuses. He started having actual conversations with his team. Not just directives. Not just performance reviews. Real check-ins. The kind he used to think were a waste of time.

He showed up. And not in the grand, dramatic gestures he might’ve leaned on before. No flowers sent to her new office. No extravagant apologies. Just quiet, consistent effort.

And slowly, word got around.

Mitch mentioned over lunch that she’d heard. That someone on her team had passed along the news—Harry wasn’t the same. He didn’t snap anymore. He listened more than he talked. And most shocking of all, he’d started mentoring junior staff.

“It’s not a magic trick,” Mitch had said, half-smiling. “But people are noticing.”

Still, she didn’t reach out. And he didn’t expect her to. He wasn’t owed anything.

So he focused on what he could control.

Then, one afternoon in early spring, a message arrived. Short. Neutral.

Y/N: Can you talk?

He stared at it for five minutes before replying.

Harry: Anytime.

They met at a quiet café halfway between her office and his. It wasn’t a date. She made that clear in her tone, her posture, the space she kept between them. But she’d come. And that was something.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, sipping her tea.

“I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

“I didn’t reach out because I needed space. I still do. But I’ve been watching. And I see the work.”

He nodded, unsure if it was his place to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything changes,” she added. “But I want to see if… maybe we can start from zero. Slowly.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever pace you need.”

They didn’t talk much that day. But the door had opened.

Over the next few weeks, they found a strange new rhythm. Occasional texts. Brief lunches. No talk of the past unless she brought it up. He learned to follow her lead, to listen without trying to fix or justify.

It wasn’t easy. He’d built his career on control, on always having the answer. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was trust—raw, slow-growing, and fragile.

One afternoon, she visited his office. Unannounced.

“I was nearby,” she said, though the tremor in her voice hinted at something deeper. She looked around. The space had changed since she’d last seen it. Softer lighting. Fewer screens. A photo of his niece on the shelf, grinning with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a pause.

“I had to.”

“For you?”

“For me. But also because if I hadn’t, I would’ve lost everything. Not just you. Myself.”

She nodded slowly, then held out a folder.

“I’ve been working on something. A proposal.”

He blinked, surprised, then took it. Her name was on the first page. Director of Strategic Initiatives.

“This isn’t you asking for your old job back,” he said, flipping through it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s me offering to build something with you. As equals. Or not at all.”

He smiled then. Not the smug, closed-lip smirk she used to hate, but something softer. More real.

“I’d be lucky to have you.”

“You’d be smart,” she corrected.

He laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did she.

The official announcement went out a month later. She’d accepted the position—but not in his division. She’d have her own team. Her own budget. Full autonomy. And he made it clear, in both the press release and the internal memo, that her success would have his support, not his interference.

Their collaboration started professionally. Emails, strategy meetings, pitch reviews. But something unspoken lingered beneath it all. A current. A history neither of them dared touch—until the night of the fundraiser.

It was raining. Of course it was.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a high-profile event, black tie, every reason for her to avoid it. But then she walked in.

Black dress. Hair down this time. Calm, confident. She scanned the room and found him almost immediately.

Later, when most of the guests had filtered out and the ballroom was half-empty, she found him on the balcony, staring out into the storm.

“I used to think rain was bad luck,” she said, stepping beside him.

He turned. “And now?”

“I think maybe it just… washes away the noise.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then finally, voice low, he said, “I meant it. Everything I said. That day.. I still mean it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him, eyes searching.

“You’re still a bit of a hurricane, Harry.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me be the one to rebuild what I tore down.”

She studied him. The vulnerability. The steadiness he hadn’t had before.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“I know. You never did.”

“But I might be ready to build something. Not because I miss what we had. But because I see who you’re trying to become.”

“And who are you?” he asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Someone who won’t settle. Not for less than mutual respect. Not for silence when there should be honesty. Not for anything less than real.”

“Then I’ll meet you there,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

The moment stretched.

And then, under the city lights and the steady hum of rain, she stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t assume. Just waited.

She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. Her kiss was gentle. No heat or desperation. Just truth.

When they pulled apart, she smiled—small, certain.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But it means I see you. And I believe you see me now too.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

“I always did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to show it.”

She touched his hand, lacing their fingers briefly before stepping back.

“Start with showing up,” she said. “Keep doing that. Day by day.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow. He was standing beside her.

Present.

Ready.

This time, they’d build it right.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[kyoshithewriter]

Water from the Moon. (Part two)

Warnings: angst, mild mention of smut (18+)

Wc: 3k.

A/n: more of a filler chapter kind of thing if I’m being honest. Part 3 will be the final part for sure though. Enjoy?

Taglist: @amirawrah @virgilsgurl @beauty-gurl

The humidity clings to her like a second skin. The pink mini fan fights valiantly to cool her down, the blades whirring noisily with the effort. But the little thing is no match for the Spanish sun. Being back after little over a year feels surreal, but Mahina feels that she has given herself ample time to get over it. She had immediately changed her number when she moved to London, and blocked every single one of their social media accounts. The only person that had any access to her was Brianna and her friend was mindful enough to not trigger any memory of him. She won’t deny she feels horrible for disappearing on Jayden like that, he was innocent and she knows the man loves her like a sister. But she didn’t want to risk seeing a social media post with him like he does so often. She didn’t want to risk his name being brought up in conversations so she’d spiral all over again. But now she’s ready. She can finally think about him without feeling her heart pit to her stomach. It took several tense, heavy therapy sessions. Some days she was just numb, and others she felt raw. Like an exposed nerve being poked over and over again. She got there though. The last few sessions where he was brought up felt more conversational rather than a catholic confession- free of tension, free of anxiety, free of shame. A notification from her phone pulls her from her thoughts. A hand comes up to shield the unrelenting sun from her eyes; dark shadows dance across her vision before it adjusts again. Her taxi is here. Mahina looks up just in time to see it park along the curb outside the airport. The woman almost breaks into a dance when she sees the misted, rolled up windows that promise air conditioning.

“Thank heavens.”

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

Brianna’s eyes are as wide as saucers. She stands unmoving for a few seconds, dragging her eyes from the top of her braided head to the tips of her baby blue polished toes. Mahina giggles as her friend suddenly launches herself in her arms.

“You didn’t say you were coming, you cunt.” Brianna’s voice is muffled against her neck.

“Are you crying?” Mahina inquires incredulously.

“The hell I am! I haven’t seen you in almost two years.”

Mahina rolls her eyes at her friend’s antics.

“You visited me six months ago in London, Brianna.”

“Well, throw me in prison for missing my best friend.”

Brianna rolls her wet eyes then playfully glares at her.

“I missed you too, Bri.” Mahina mutters truthfully.

“That’s more like it. Come.”

She follows Brianna inside her apartment. The walls are now painted a muted blue instead of white like it was before; but that’s the only thing different about her space. The same three seater couch remains smack dab in the middle of her living room. The same abstract paintings are scattered about the walls, even the very scent of the apartment is the same. A hint of citrus and something she can only describe as uniquely Brianna.

“How long are you staying?”

“Until the end of your art exhibition.”

“You came all this way and you’re staying a whole week just for me?” Brianna is teary eyed again.

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I?”

Brianna crushes her into another hug.

“It’s just that… with everything that happened I didn’t expect… I wouldn’t have held it against you, you know? But I’m happy you’re here.”

Mahina relaxes in her embrace, basking in the comfort of being in her arms.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Um… I invited Jayden and he invited the others… so you know…”

Mahina sucks in a deep breath that fills her lungs to their capacity. “I figured and I’m prepared. Therapy has been helping a lot.”

“I’m so proud of you; you’re absolutely glowing too. Have you um… did you get a chance to hear from Jayden before you went ghost?”

Mahina clears her throat loudly; “Um, no. I saw that he and um… they both called when I landed in London but I just couldn’t. I blocked them both immediately. I’m sorry, I know Jayden didn’t deserve it but I needed to get away from it all.”

Brianna nods with a contemplative look on her face.

“I get it. It’s okay. Jayden has a girlfriend now; you’ll meet her later at the exhibit.”

“Wow, are you sure? I was honestly beginning to think he might be gay or something.” She tries to joke but Brianna barely cracks a smile.

“Not that- I didn’t mean that it would be a-”

“I know what you mean, Mahina. You’re too precious to be any kind of phobic. I was surprised he finally started dating too.” Brianna found out why the day she left though. Her heart ached for her brother those first few months after her friend moved. Jayden was so heartbroken he had to take time off from the pitch for weeks.

“Oh okay. Well um, I need a nap. I’m jet lagged and your show is in a few hours.”

“Yes. I’m sick of you wanting to leave every event early because you can’t stop yawning in a corner.”

Mahina rolls her eyes but she doesn’t deny it. She’d be lying if she tried to.

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

The gallery is buzzing by the time Mahina arrives. Brianna had to come in a lot earlier to oversee the set up and to ensure everything was in place. Mahina is maybe an hour late but nobody has to know. Her nude dress is bodycon and brushes along her calves. It’s also backless and reveals the gold chains that adorn her waist. They match the bracelet that clings to her upper right arm as well as the thick bangles that clink along her wrists. Her braids are piled in a bun atop her head and also decorated with little gold trinkets.

“You’re lucky you’re sexy or I’d raise hell because you’re so late.”

She embraces her friend in a brown flowy dress that shows off her ample cleavage. Her hair is straightened and pulled in a high ponytail that shows off her cheekbones and bold makeup- the complete opposite of Mahina’s soft glam look. Brianna shoves the champagne flute she was holding in her hand.

“Those heels are gonna kill your feet; there’s hardly anywhere to sit.”

Mahina eyes the four inch gold sandals on her feet in trepidation.

“Come though, let’s just get the awkward reunion over with now. I didn’t tell them you were here so be prepared for the looks you’re about to get.”

Mahina’s heartbeat spikes a little before reluctantly settling again. Brianna loops their arms together and leads her to the middle of the open spaced gallery. Jayden sees them approaching first and the way his eyes bug out of his head would be comical if she didn’t catch the shorter figure with locs just beside him. He hasn’t looked up, not until Jayden yells.

“Mahina?!”

The man keeps his gaze on her as he breaks away from the small group. She smiles hesitantly as he approaches; the look on his face gives nothing away. She’s not sure how she’ll be received. He pauses right in front of her.

“Hi Jayden. Long time no see.”

In lieu of responding, Jayden reaches to pick her cleanly off the floor and spins her around a few times. Mahina giggles in pure glee.

“Jayden, stop!” She tries to whisper quietly, noticing they’ve gotten some attention from others nearby. He gently sets her back on her feet.

“Sorry but, Luna… what the fuck. I missed you.”

His eyes are shining with something she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Sorry for disappearing like that. I… I was going through a lot and needed some time for myself.” She explains bashfully.

“Fuck, Luna. I won’t say I wasn’t upset but I’m glad to see you again.”

A smaller woman suddenly appears, hugging at his waist as she forces herself to his front.

“And who is this?” Her smile is tight around the edges.

“Oh, um, Mahina, this is Sofía… um my girlfriend. Sofía, meet Mahina- Brianna’s best friend. We grew up together.” Jayden rubs at the length of his neck awkwardly.

Mahina can’t help the way she stares at the woman. The resemblance between them is a bit uncanny. Sofía is a few inches shorter and a bit slimmer, her eyes a bit more almond-like in shape but that’s about it. If you told Mahina this woman is related to her in some way she would believe it.

“Nice to meet you.”

The woman grips her offered hand with a little more force than necessary.

“Likewise.” Her voice is thick with a Spanish accent.

“Come, say hi to the others.” Brianna urges with a twist to her mouth.

No matter how many times Mahina claimed she was ready to face him again; seeing him in person almost throws her for a loop. He’s dressed in a black satin top with a plunging v-line that shows off his sculpted chest. Her favourite part about his outfits are his jewelry. He chose silver tonight. It shimmers on the pendant sitting delicately against his sternum and on a few of his fingers. Mahina greets everyone else, feeling his eyes on her skin the entire time. Those big, brown eyes that made her weak in the knees. Makes. Still do.

“Nice to see you again, Jules.” She keeps her tone as casual as possible, and unlike the others, she doesn’t offer her hand in his direction.

“Likewise, Mahina.”

He’s shameless with his perusal of her. He looks- no- studies every inch of her face. Eyeing each feature one by one; then his stare scorches the column of her neck, then down the length of her dress to her very feet.

“You look beautiful.” He says unabashedly, like he just told her the time.

Her heart stutters a bit. “Thank you.”

The tension ripples between and spreads among the group like something infectious.

Brianna clears her throat loudly. “Well! Thank you all for coming. Most of my pieces are abstract paintings as you all know; but I have been dabbling into small sculptures and a bit of realism recently. All my pieces are labeled with little backstories that provide context or inspiration. Enjoy.”

Brianna pulls her away from the group by the crook of her elbow.

“I need to go greet some important people. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Of course. I’m here to admire all your beautiful work and that’s what I intend to do. I know this is something you’ve been working on since you graduated and I’m proud of you.”

Brianna’s cheeks tinges a little pink.

“Well, I have a brother who’s a very famous athlete who sponsored most of it and pulled a lot of important potential clients.”

“And still, this is all you. Nobody sat and poured over these canvas for months. Nobody helped you craft these ideas and bring them to life. This is all you and I’m proud.” She grasps one of Brianna’s hands to give her a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t make me cry my makeup off.” Brianna’s voice trembles a little and they both giggle airly.

“Now go talk to some people and see if you can sell some of these pieces or get commissioned for thousands of euros. I need to be shaking my ass in a yacht in Monaco soon.”

Brianna cackles and nods before turning to leave.

Jules pounces like a predator the minute Brianna is out of sight; but Mahina is no longer prey. She pretends not to notice him as he saddles up to her side. Her skin tingles from his proximity, but she ignores it.

“I meant it, you know? You’re beautiful; belle comme une œuvre d’art”. (Beautiful as a work of art).

“Yeah, you’ve already said that. Saying it French won’t make it more flattering.” Lie. They both know that him talking to her in his native tongue is her weakness. He’d made her come so hard that she cried just from whispering French filth in her ear while she humped his clothed leg like a dog in heat. It was embarrassing but so so good.

“I would tell you a hundred times if I could. Even if you’re tired of hearing it.” His whisper is almost a caress on her shoulder.

She takes a deep breath to collect herself before turning to fully face him.

“Is there something you want, Jules?”

The man scratches at the hairs on his chin, looking away from her briefly. His eyes drift back to her even though he’s clearly tense. Almost as if he can’t stand not staring for more than a few seconds.

“I called you. You just… left and I called and you didn’t answer. You blocked me everywhere.”

She eyes him like his very presence offends her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen, I know the last time we spoke was unpleasant bu-”

“Unpleasant????? I told you I loved you and you… you broke my fucking heart, Jules. Unpleasant???? Seriously?” She hisses, mindful to keep her voice just between them.

“Bébé, I’m so sorry. There’s a lot you don’t understa-”

“I’m not doing this with you. Not here. Not tonight. Not ever. Stay the fuck away from me.”

She plasters a small smile on her face when she notices Jayden eyeing them from across the room. Mahina tries not to cry as the feelings she thought she overcame all come rushing back at once. Overwhelming. She feels even worse when she notices the crestfallen expression on his face—his eyes are glistening and he blinks rapidly, looking everywhere in the room except at her for the first time since he saw her tonight. She spins on her heels and walks away from him; like she should’ve done years ago.

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

Mahina tunes out the noise and makes her rounds throughout the gallery. She admires every painting- the bright lively ones that are clearly inspired from their time in Florida with tropical fruit trees, to the heavier ones that Mahina can tell are from the moments where her friend was feeling really down— unsure if the direction she was taking in art was the right one for her future. The sculptures are very beautiful too, nobody would’ve ever guessed she only started recently. Mahina is sipping from her flute when she suddenly pauses, eyes zooming in on a particular painting. “An Ode to the Moon,” is written in pretty cursive on top. The painting is abstract and has a dark blue background; there’s a smattering of bright white; it looks like the moon in the night sky but it also can be interpreted as the figure of a woman. A drop of white bleeds from the un-structured face. Beneath it, a group of stars seem to almost dance even though the painting is still, all except one particular one that’s stood away from the others almost solemnly. Mahina’s breath stutters as she eyes the little note beside the painting:

“She controls the tides, and impacts the very weather. She gives her all to keep us grounded, yet her love is overlooked and under appreciated. But there are others who value her importance, the moon will always have worshippers no matter how few or how silent.”

“Mahina, are you okay?”

Mahina’s breath hitches in surprise. She swings her gaze in Jayden’s direction and her heart squeezes at the concerned look on his face.

“Um, yeah… I’m fine. Why’d you ask?”

“Because you’re crying, Luna.”

She reaches her hand up to touch at her cheek.

“Oh.” It’s said in genuine surprise. She didn’t realize she had tears wetting her face.

He offers a pocket kerchief in her direction. She takes it to dab at her tears, trying not to smudge her makeup. Mahina sees him eyeing the painting intently in her peripheral vision. He sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Brianna is talented. Not only in art, but in holding grudges.” He states softly with a soft laugh.

“She hasn’t spoken a word directly to Jules since you left and he deserves it. This painting accurately represents you. She loves you; even more than I do and I didn’t think that was possible.”

A low ringing starts up in her ears, the pace of her heart picking up.

“I- what?”

“Not in that bullshit ‘like a sister way’ either. I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think. But I didn’t want to scare you away. I thought the separation after I moved would’ve…” he swallows like there’s a fist sized rock stuck in his throat.

“But no.”

Mahina’s eyes stay glued to the words on the wall.

“the moon will always have worshippers no matter how few or how silent.”

Jayden. Brianna knew.

“Jayden… I-”

“I know. You love Jules.” He says bitterly.

She opens her mouth to deny but he shakes his head.

“Please don’t. I know why you left. I knew what was going on between you two. I got drunk and broke down and confessed to him one night after you two started hooking up. I begged him to stop, begged him to not date you until I had the courage to at least confess. He tried his best, but you, Luna… You’re so… irresistible aren’t you? He couldn’t stay away and I don’t fault him. I knew he already liked you a lot but he promised anyway. How he handled your confession was childish; but he was trying to… honour my request as best as he was able to. And for that, I owe you an apology, Mahina. I’m so sorry.”

Jayden hurries to wipe the tears off his face before he leaves her in front of the painting. Stunned. Confused. Angry. Relieved.

[cabensonsgirly]

I'm Gonna Pack My Things and Leave You Behind. (18+)

Content: Angst, mentions of ptsd, happy ending dw, mentions of smut, religion

Word Count: 7944

Read Here

He hadn’t fled, not really. He had said his goodbyes, sealed with a tender, lingering kiss to her forehead and a silent I love you. That was enough, wasn’t it? Why stay when all that would happen is their hearts would ache, the cracks splitting into canyons that could never be filled? His heart was not a vase nor a piece of porcelain that could be repaired with kintsugi. He had seen what happens when Band-Aids cover wounds that haven’t been treated; they fester, the infection spreads, and soon everything is sick, and the only cure is radical treatment. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes he’d seen so many times before. So, he left.

When he closes his eyes, he still remembers how soft and warm her skin felt under his lips. But of course, with remembering such tenderness, he too remembers the way her eyes glistened with tears, the way her hand reached out for him in a silent plea for him to stay- to change his mind, to try just one more time. Why couldn’t he stay? He had seen her grow so much, blossom into such an incredible leader and advocate, a privilege he was so lucky to obtain. But he too had changed, although as he kneels at the altar of his new local church, his rosary clasped tightly in his hands, he wonders if he had turned into some kind of invasive moth, not the butterfly he so desperately tried to be. A moth and a butterfly could never work. A saint and a sinner could never work. Everyone knows what would happen, the saint would pay for the sinner’s deviance and then too fall from grace. Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice as payment for sinners, he did not want his love to suffer the same way.

He presses the beads to his lips before standing up, bowing his head once more then turning to leave the place he often sought refuge when his apartment felt too much like prison. He returns his beads to his coat pocket, his thumb running over them as he walks the pavement back home. His heart aches at that. He calls it home when talking to his mami, but it isn’t really home, is it? His heart does not feel content there. The walls, although adorned with tasteful pieces of art, shelves full of books he’s collected and awards and knick-knacks he’d kept after his abuela passed, felt lifeless. The plants, although thriving, seemed plastic, like he’d gone to the dollar store and picked out the cheapest ones he could instead of what he actually did, which was spending months researching which ones would improve the air quality of his apartment. No matter how long he spends there, it would never feel like home.

He hangs his coat up on the hook in the hallway, smoothing it out with his hands before stepping out of his shoes then heading through to the lounge where he goes to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a scotch. It wasn’t his favorite brand; he couldn’t bring himself to drink that anymore as it reminded him too much of her. Even now when he thinks about it, he can picture them sitting next to one another on the couch with her feet in his lap with a drink in one hand, his other resting gently on her leg as his thumb brushes softly against it. The way the alcohol always tasted sweeter when close to her, her laugh filling him with a warmth that nothing else could replicate, not even his mami’s tamales could hit the spot but he wouldn’t dare say such a thing to her face. He sucks back a mouthful of liquor, closing his eyes as he wills the tears to stay in his tear-ducts and not spill onto his cheeks to travel the same path they had many times before. He didn’t want them to find home in his beard because he knew he couldn’t find it in himself to wash away the reminder as each tear contained his love for this woman, a memory of how things used to be, how things could have been had he chosen to do something different. He runs his hand over his beard, smoothing down the bristles that stick out- he only trims when it becomes unmanageable, and even then, he has to force himself not to think about what he was getting rid of. The last hairs falling into his sink that his love had touched, it was too painful to think of.

He refills his glass, returning the stopper to his decanter before taking his glass with him to the lounge. His stomach rumbles as he sits on the couch, another sound he has grown to ignore most of the time. He reaches for the remote and turns his tv on, flicking through the channels until she appears, doing what she does best- advocating. Her voice is powerful, he can feel the hairs on his arms stand to attention, and he even leans forward so he can hear her better. A small smile tugs at his lips, “Look at you soar,” he whispers, the corners of his eyes creasing with adoration, “Look at you fly.”

He rests his hand against his heart, feeling a warmth spread through him as he sees her again. Love never really goes away. No distance has changed that, nor time. He picks his glass up and drinks the liquor, and of course- of course it tastes sweeter, he can pick up on the undertones, the subtle vanilla notes, the sweetness of toffee on the tip of his tongue, and fig coming through, all erasing the usual burn as it works its way down his throat. His eye catches a glimmer when a camera flashes so he pauses the news and gets up, moving closer to the screen so he can get a better look. The air gets sucked from his lungs, the glass nearly falling from his fingertips when he sees it, the necklace sitting on her chest front and center. It had been months, why hadn’t she taken it off? Why didn’t she take it off? His grip on the glass tightens, his hand shaking through sheer force. He clenches his jaw, hating how tears fall freely onto his tan cheeks, running their way through the paths they’d carved previous times, “Why didn’t you take it off?” He almost pleads. “Why couldn’t you make this easier?”

That wasn’t fair of him to say, and he regrets it as soon as the words leave his lips, his features dropping as he shakes his head, “Why didn’t I stay,” he adds, going back to the couch where he resumes the news, it quickly catches up to where she was now answering questions posited by the reporters. He watches her skillfully answer questions and deflect others that were borderline inappropriate, the muscle in her jaw tensing briefly- a sign she was trying hard to remain calm and not give a well-deserved tongue lashing to the journalist. Then a question comes truly from left field, “Are you still close with disgraced former ADA Rafael Barba?” His love falters, a flicker of pain washes over her face, her lips turning down slightly. She sucks in a breath, blinking rapidly as to force the tears to remain in her now glistening eyes as she ends the press conference, thanking them for their time as she heads off stage.

He reaches for his cellphone, unlocking it and going to his contacts before pausing, his thumb hovering over her number. It wasn’t his place anymore. It wasn’t his place to check in with her, to make sure she’s doing okay. He sits back, brings his glass to his lips as he finishes his drink, his eyes still lingering on her profile picture. He should have deleted her number when he moved because he often found himself late at night, laying in bed just staring at the picture of her, wishing she was there with him in his arms.

He sighs and turns the screen off, getting up before he makes his way through the apartment to his bedroom where he’ll bury himself under his thick sheets in an attempt to escape the reality he had made for himself. At least in the darkness he wasn’t at risk of reaching out to her, instead, he was trapped with pictures of her seared into his eyelids, haunting him. To be loved by her, though, wasn’t to be haunted. To be loved by her was to know how free Ikarus felt flying so high, so close to the sun. To know what beauty Michelangelo felt as he painted the ceiling on the Sistine Chapel, how close to heaven he was in that moment. He removes his clothes, leaving them discarded near the laundry basket before climbing into bed, pulling the covers over his head. Now he knows that flying too high, too close to the sun only means your wings will fail and you will fall.

He turns his phone on under the covers, checking her Instagram as he did on long nights. She was only posting pictures of meals she had eaten, flowers she found beautiful, and silly poses with friends. She seemed happy in those photos, a smile was on her face as she laughs, but he knew better. Of course he did. He knew that when she truly smiles, she gets crinkles on her nose, and the creases on the corners of her eyes become more pronounced. He had spent so much of his time tracing her features softly with his fingers, following the curve of her smile lines, the dip of her cupid’s bow, the scar she has on her upper lip after an accident as a child, all such subtle things that most people would overlook. Like her exes had overlooked in favor of just treating her like a piece of meat who was only as good as her tits and ass. Even thinking about her like that made his skin crawl because she was- is so much more than that. Yet whenever he would stop by her office and catch her explaining the case, he would notice the way her male colleagues would only stare at her breasts, excluding Odafin. It always infuriated him because how dare they do that? How dare they treat her that way when she has worked so hard to become Captain? He knew they’d say, “Oh I can’t help it, you know how us men are.” Because he knew he was nothing like that, so he was vehemently against being lumped in with the rest of the group. He would rather take the claims he was a little twink than puff his chest out and go “Yeah! I love staring at my boss’s tits!”

He takes a breath to calm his rising anger before resuming scrolling through her Instagram. He comes across a photo of the view from a yacht with a candle-lit dinner, a vase on the table with flowers. He remembers that night, and if he closes his eyes, he could still feel the weight of the box containing the necklace in his pocket against his thigh. He had called his friend the week before to see if he could use his yacht, and after a few back-and-forth things where he was mainly bribing his friend with a particularly expensive bottle of wine, his friend agreed to let him use the yacht for the weekend. He had gone into planning overdrive after that, any spare moment he was going to markets to order the finest produce so he could pick it up Friday evening after work on his way to get her. He hadn’t felt so nervous since sitting his Bar exam, and even then, he didn’t feel like throwing up. He had called his mom on the drive in hopes she would help calm his nerves, and she did. “If you’re this nervous, Rafi, it means you are worried about doing a good job. You will make her night, I’m sure. You know how much she likes these gestures. Take a deep breath, and try to enjoy yourself, okay?”

And of course, like the good boy he is, he did what his mom said. He thanked her before hanging up just as he pulled out front of her apartment. He parked the car then raced around to the other side to open the door for her, “You look beautiful,” he complimented and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He shut the door after making sure her clothes wouldn’t get caught in the door before getting in the driver’s side after putting her bag in the back.

The drive was long as the boat was docked in the Hamptons, but neither of them minded. Rafael had held her hand the whole time, both of them just listening to music that played on the radio. A comfortable silence with the occasional, “Oh look at the sunset,” from her. He would always reply with, “It really is beautiful,” but his eyes were only looking at her. The cotton candy sky made her skin glow, dancing across her tan cheeks, catching in the golden streaks in her brown eyes making it look like God himself had carefully weaved in only the finest of gold threads. “Dios mio,” he muttered, a smile on his face as he looked back at the road. His heart had been pounding in his chest, a sensation that one could only describe as having made him feel giddy.

When they had finally made it onto the boat, he had poured her a glass of wine, “You sit and relax, okay? Leave the cooking to me. Put your feet up, admire the view, relax.” He had stroked her cheek affectionately, sealed it with a kiss before he pulled back and tied an apron around his waist. His mami had made sure he knew how to cook because she wasn’t about to let him treat a woman as just a kitchen-maid. As he cooked, he would make sure she would get a taste of the dishes too, along with providing her a little charcuterie board to nibble on while she waited. He loved cooking for people, and he loved cooking for her even more, especially because she appreciated food just as much as he did. She would tell him if he needed to add a little more salt or a touch more acidity, and he would agree. He felt incredibly in tune with her, every suggestion they would say it almost at the same time resulting in the two of them laughing. Rafael would add, “Does that mean you owe me a soda when we get back?” To which she would reply, “I’ll get you the finest bottle of Jarritos, Rafi.”

He had served their dinner on the deck, pulled her seat out for her before he pushed her back in. He sat opposite her, clinked his wine glass with hers, “To a wonderful evening in a beautiful place with beautiful company.”  He smiled and sipped his wine before returning the glass to the table. He struggled to take his eyes off her as they ate, the setting sun danced across the surface of the still water and kissed her skin was just such a glorious sight to him. If he knew how to take better photographs on his phone, he would, he would gladly have filled his phone storage with pictures of her in beautiful lighting, and even more candid moments. Now, that wasn’t to say he didn’t have any photos of her at all, but certainly not the amount he wanted. He didn’t want to take a photo of her and have it fail to capture how he sees her. He longed for the ability to paint her like art gods of old, to see the texture of her soft skin like Van Gogh and his swirls, to see the Holy beauty and power that radiates off her like the artwork that adorns so many churches. He saw it every time he looked at the stained glass in his church, while the sun made the images glow brilliantly, there was still a softness to the art- conveying such tenderness, the way Mother Mary cradled her son’s face just reminded him of how compassionate she is with victims.

While they did enjoy their meal, and she had loved the necklace he gifted her, there was a heaviness that weighed on the two of them. Neither had spoken much about the case, about whether it was wrong or right to want to end the life of a baby who would never know true freedom, never have the ability to play or exist without pain. He could see it in her eyes, the conflict, the pain, and she could see it in his. He had laid some blankets and pillows on the deck so they could lay there and watch the stars twinkle in the sky above, she cuddled in as close to him as she could without climbing into his ribs. He idly drew patterns on her side, “I don’t know if I can continue to do this case, mi amour,” he started, taking a steadying breath so his voice didn’t crack like he knew it would, like it always did when it involved a child, a baby. “I can’t prosecute someone who- who is going through so much pain, so much turmoil. It doesn’t seem fair. We- we are supposed to do real crimes, assaults, rapes, murders. Not this. Not parents fighting over whether to continue watching their little baby suffer or let it pass.”

She had looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed slightly before she returned her gaze to the sky, “It isn’t our decision to make, Rafi. The baby is not a pet, we can’t just put it to sleep when it is suffering. No matter how tough things may be, it is our job, our duty to persevere and ensure justice is served.” She took a breath, “If they had known when she was still pregnant, if the tests had been available, there would have been options they could have taken. But to do so now is- Tantamount to murder, no matter how-“ She shook her head, “It’s- It’s not our decision to make. It is a burden to the parents, an unfair one, one that hurts everyone but hurts them the most. All we can do is make sure they have the support they need no matter the outcome of the trial. I know that whatever you choose to do will be the right decision.”

Rafael looked at her with tears in his eyes, “Mi amour,” he whispered, “Will you still love me if I made the wrong one?” She cupped his cheek softly, her thumb had brushed lightly across the swell of it as she reassured him that she would. They had shared a soft kiss, while she wiped away the tears that fell onto his cheeks. They returned their gaze to the stars above, she told him which constellations were which, sometimes making them up just to see if he would catch on, but of course, when he is so in love, he never felt the need to correct or interject because why would he? Why would he when any sound that fell from her lips was like music to his hears? When any word or string of sentences felt as though Shakespeare himself was speaking to him, or Sylvia Plath or Dickenson. To be loved and to be so thoroughly in love was such a privilege to him. At church he would confess how much he loved her, how it felt almost sinful to be this in love, only to be told by the priest on the other side that a love as pure and deep as his was so far from sin that the angels in Heaven could even hear his words. That they too would play their harps and sing songs about this mortal love.

“I hope,” she said, “That this feeling, this- grief, this darkness does not become too much for you.” Truth be told, it hadn’t become too much for him, but for both of them. The grief that came with the decision he made sent shockwaves through them both that no amount of prayer and penance could fix.

That first night apart, the emptiness in the bed beside him was palpable, it felt as though there was an anchor weighing that side down just to accentuate the fact that he was alone and it was his own doing. He would rest his hand where she had laid and if he held his breath, he could almost trick himself into feeling her hand gently wrap around his and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. He could still hear her voice, in the evenings there was always a slight roughness to it that made him shiver, and she would talk about where they would go on holiday when they were forced to take leave. Italy, Paris, Cuba, Mexico, but it did not matter truly, as long as they had each other that is all that mattered. They would talk about how they hope that one day, there wouldn’t be such a hard battle for victims to be believed, and sometimes they would just talk about the stupid reality programs that were plaguing the tv. Everything she said or did was holy to him. And although it was blasphemous to say such a thing, he would gladly worship at the alter of her, saying prayers between her golden thighs as though she were a God herself.

He always thought he had left to protect her, to save her from further anguish, but perhaps he was too caught up in his own heartache to realize that she had also done it to protect him. She had always done that. Looked out for others when she should have been focusing on herself too. And maybe… Maybe things had just become too much even for her.

That’s what he thought until he saw the pictures of her, but he could tell things weren’t right. He knew that when she was truly happy, the captions to the photos would reflect that, whether it be a flood of emojis or a quote that resonated with her, but now it was nothing like that. Just simple, “Fun with friends,” and maybe she was having fun, but he knew that wasn’t true. Her true joy was unbridled, outshining the sun itself, making grey clouds go away on stormy days. Her love- No, Olivia’s love was something that was uncontained, addictive, pure, Holy. Even on the last night they had spent together, they had assured one another that they would do everything they can to support each other no matter what. It was laying there on the deck of the yacht that he realised now was their way of saying goodbye to one another despite the kiss he would press to her skin the next day.

Now here he was, curled up under the covers like a dejected dog that had been told no to a treat. The alcohol made his head hurt, and on an empty stomach, he knew that any sudden movement would surely make his head spin. While church did fill him with a sense of belonging and community that he had missed since moving, it still did not fill the void he now had within him. He still returned to a lifeless apartment, he couldn’t bring himself to adopt a rescue animal in fear he would make it depressed with his moping, or worse, it would get critically ill and he could not bear to make that decision again. Every time he returned home, he actually prayed for Olivia to be there waiting for him. To see her suitcase by his bedroom door, her shoes tucked in next to his by the front door, and her coat hanging up beside his. He couldn’t stop thinking about her even though every time it hurt him so deeply, filled him with a grief he can’t help but compare to when Holy Mary was grieving the loss of her beloved son.

Olivia. Olivia. Always Olivia. The brunette whose laugh revitalized him, whose eyes he would gladly drown in, whose tongue skillfully empowered everyone around her, or soothed the worries and fears one might have. Olivia, who even on her worst days, was still the most wonderful person to be around. Olivia whose lips felt so soft against his own. Olivia whom he loved.

He wipes his eyes, his cheek feeling cold due to the tears that had cooled on his sheets before startling when his doorbell goes off. He knew it wouldn’t be his mami because she always called him when she was coming over. He pulls himself out of bed, begrudgingly putting at least some pants and a shirt on before going to answer the door. He scratches his beard as he looks through the peephole, feeling what color he had on his cheeks fade instantly. He blinks a few times, his mind going blank as he forgets how to open a door. The bell rings again, the woman worrying her lip between her teeth before she starts to turn to leave. Rafael fumbles with the locks on his door before pulling it open, one word leaving his lips, “Olivia?” What was she doing here? He did send her a text months ago about his new address, but she had never replied. Why would she? Why would she come when that is how they had left things there on the streets of New York City? “Olivia- What- What are you doing here?”

The brunette turns to look at him, almost surprised he answered the door; she looks so tired, her eyes sunken in the way they used to when she was particularly troubled by a case, barely holding on to the life-raft she had crafted herself- a flicker of a smile spreads across her face, a ghost of how she used to be, “I- It’s the anniversary of when you passed the Bar exam,” she says softly, “I couldn’t miss it. I could never miss it.” But she had. She did. But he couldn’t blame her for that, it was a mutual break-up, they were both at fault for missing important events.

“Olivia…” Rafael wanted to push her away because how could they go through all that pain just for her to come back? Without saying anything? How could he let her in when he had hurt her just as much as she had him? His eyes dart to her neck, she was still wearing the necklace, but it was tarnished, like she had never taken it off, not even to shower or polish it. He rubs his bear again, the sharp bristles scratching against the soft skin of his palm as he debates what to do. But at the end of the day, it was Olivia, his Olivia, so, he steps to the side to let her in, closing and locking the door behind her, “I-“

“I know I missed a lot of things,” Olivia says after a while of thick silence, the space between the two of them felt endless but realistically they were only a foot apart. They both made a mistake, they both screwed up by walking away from one another when really they needed that support that the relationship provided. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight more- I’m sorry I didn’t fight more for you, for us. I thought it would have saved us both some grief. I thought- I thought we were both going to drown, and I didn’t want you to sink with me. I didn’t realize in doing that, I’d cast you away.” She looks down at the bag containing a gift for him, a Band-Aid to loosely stick over the wounds she had caused him, but once again, like she had so many times before, she saw something and thought of him. Oh God, God how she thought of Rafael, every moment of every day was filled with thoughts of him. Every time she went to church to pray, he was the first name to leave her lips as she asked for God to watch over those she loved.

When she lay awake at night she thought of him, when she turned on her side to stare at the wall, she would watch the way the lights from the city would glide through the sheer curtains and skate across the wall and remember how it looked as it kissed his skin, catching the silver hairs that adorned him. She couldn’t bare it any longer. “I got you this- I saw it and thought of you,” Olivia says quietly, handing Rafael the bag, “I know- I know it’s late, but- Happy Bar Anniversary.”

Rafael takes the bag, it felt remarkably heavy, weighed down by the time the two had spent apart, the aching in his chest that was left in her absence, the loneliness that had settled in his bones and often anchored him down to his bed for days on end. He goes over to the couch and sits down, Olivia sitting a distance away as he removes the crepe paper from the bag before taking out the small box at the bottom. Inside the box was a pair of cufflinks, the Scales of Justice in platinum, he had always wanted a pair like this but often felt like it was too arrogant for him to get. He carefully removes them from the box and examines them, he loved it, he knew he would because he always loved anything Olivia had given him, “They’re perfect,” Rafael says quietly, “Really nice, Olivia. Thank you.” He returns them to the box, not wanting to try them on right now. He closes the box then just stares at it, it felt weighty in his hands. The room was quiet, all he could hear was the steady breathing coming from himself and Olivia.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry for everything, Rafael. I thought- I thought if I agreed to the break-up, that things would be easier. That I would be happy. I- I tried dating, there were some nice men, but you know- You know how they get when they find out what I do,” she smiles a bit, “Always wanting to know too much about work, about cases, some even- They always got so mad when I ended things. So angry. Said of course a stuck-up bitch like me would do that and wrongly persecute men because that’s all we’re good for. They’d push drinks on me, get pissed I’d turn them down because heaven forbid I want to avoid becoming like my mother. And all I could think whenever I came home was what it would have been like if it had been you on those dates. Those dates gave me flashbacks- triggered my PTSD and made me wonder if the medication even helps because I always feel like clawing my skin off to try and get out of it. That maybe we should have gone to therapy together and talked about what happened, but I was so scared that it would just make things worse. I know that makes me a coward and a fool, but I couldn’t bare the thought of losing you for good. Now I know that isn’t fair for me to say, but it’s the truth, and you deserve the truth after so long of nothing.” Olivia takes a breath, blinking back tears, “All I’m reminded of is all that could have been. That I could have continued winning cases because of you. That I could have been with you. I could have been truly happy, but now- now all I know is grief and heartache, surrounded by sharks that love to see me panic and scared. This darkness that seems to want to suck me in, and the only light that comes through those cracks are when I think of you.”

“Olivia,” Rafael puts the gift to the side, tentatively reaching out to hold his hand in hers, and oh its embarrassing how his heart soars upon feeling her hand in his own once more, “When I think of you, I think of warmth and hope. Nothing about you is dark. You are the sun on the first day of spring, radiant and a beacon. Those men- I’m sorry they did that to you, and I’m sorry it gave you flashbacks. But the meds- Do you feel like they’re helping? You’re still here, you’re still you, so they must be doing something, right?”

“Oh Rafael, you’re so sweet,” Olivia whispers, gently squeezing his hand, and there- there it is, that spark, that little ball of hope coming back to life in the very depths of her soul, the little ball trying to bloom into a beautiful flower that was him. “You’ve always been so sweet to me. You say you’re not romantic, yet you are, you always know what to say to me.” Olivia bites her lip, and he could tell she had been doing it more often due to the scarring on them, “Sometimes- Sometimes I think I’m getting better, and everything feels manageable, but then- then it all comes crashing down around me. There I am in the corner of my room clutching my pistol to my chest as I will the person banging at the front door to go away. It just- Feels like a battle I’ll never win, and the pills, the therapy, are just covering a wound that will keep festering.”

Rafael rubs circles lightly on the back of her hand, running his thumb lightly over her knuckles, “You’re still here, Olivia- You’re still here, so you’re still winning your fight. I know it’s hard, believe me I do. I don’t know how many times I have been to church and prayed and confessed and done penance in hopes it eases the turmoil inside me, but it helps even if it is just for the night. You can get through this.” He smiles a bit, an idea forming in his mind, “I think I’ve got some ice-cream in my freezer, how about we make some banana splits like we used to? Come on-“ He gets up and heads through to the kitchen where he starts rummaging through his freezer for the Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream. He still brought a pint of her favourite flavor because he hoped that one day they would see each other again. He lost count of how many evenings the two of them had made banana splits, saying it was a healthy meal because of the banana even though it was drenched in chocolate syrup and caramel.

“Oh- I don’t-“ Olivia lets out a quiet, nervous giggle as she follows him to the kitchen so she could help. She tried doing this with a friend who stayed the night and they weren’t interested in it, saying it was too unhealthy for them instead of just enjoying it as a treat. “You’ll mush the banana if you keep that up, honey,” the term of endearment slips from her tongue before she could stop herself, but neither of them cared, it felt like things were like they used to be and that is what they both needed right now. She shows him how to cut the banana in the peel before handing him the other so he could do it himself, “We have done this so many times, and every time you would still squish the banana.”

Rafael didn’t have the heart to tell her that he did know how to do it, he just loved whenever she would do it because that meant she was closer to him, close enough for him to smell the faint perfume on her skin, the shampoo in her hair, and the laundry detergent on her clothes, “Silly me,” he chuckles softly, cutting the banana correctly this time. When he’s done, he places it in the bowl, a smile on his face, “Perfect.” And in that moment, the way the evening sun shone through the windows and flooded the space with a heavenly glow made her skin look like gold, and he remembered that was how he had always looked at her- like she was crafted from natures finest gold, and that the sun glimmered in the sky just for him. His Olivia always looks so beautiful, even on the days where she struggled to get up with her mused hair, and slight smile, she still made butterflies come to life in his stomach.

“What?” Olivia asks, doubt returning to her eyes, “What is it? Do I have something on my face?” She brings her hands up to cover herself, but Rafael stops her, gently holding her hands in his, “Seriously, Rafi, what is it? Please- I-“

“Olivia,” he says softly, “There’s nothing on your face. There’s nothing wrong. Just in this lighting- the sun makes your skin look like God himself carved you out of Earth’s finest gold, and it’s so beautiful. You are so beautiful. You always have been.” He brings a hand up to tenderly stroke her cheek, his thumb brushing against it lightly, “They never once said that, did they?”

Olivia dips her head, still leaning against his hand but avoiding eye-contact, she couldn’t, “No- Well- Not as nicely as you did. Just whenever they wanted something. I never believed them when they said it because of the look in their eyes, just this real sleezy look- Like those men we would put in prison.” She worries her lip between her teeth once more, it had been so long since she had felt beautiful and not like a piece of meat, and while she always had with Rafael, she still couldn’t help but doubt it this time because what if he didn’t mean it? What if he was just saying it to make her feel better?

“That was my favorite thing to do, doing that with you. It was always so satisfying seeing them get mad,” he chuckles softly. “Remember when we made one cry because he turned down the plea deal and got sentenced to life? That was great,” Rafael gently tilts her head up, looking into her water-color eyes. “You know, even though you’re likely doubting what I have said, I assure you that I would never lie to you about anything, Liv, never. You know my mami would know, and God would be the one to tell her, then I’d never hear the end of it. So, when I say you’re beautiful and that you always have been, just know that I mean every word of it.”

“I know- I know that deep down, I do, I promise I do, but it’s still hard when the only people who have said that to me lately were just saying it after staring at my breasts. It’s like how you struggle to think you’re a good lawyer- I still remember when you lost a case… You spent so long going through the evidence and your notes as though it would somehow change the decision the jury made, that you’d find some smoking gun and the bullets and be able to bring it to them and tell them they were wrong. I told you- I tried telling you that you are good at what you do, and that I know you did your best, you snapped at me with tears in your eyes because how could I think you were good when the jury had let him off his charge?” Olivia traces his features lightly with her finger, “You hid away in your office as you willed yourself to somehow be better, to will the outcome to change. You refused to eat anything, even when your mom came with tamales. You spent so long in there, and all I could do was ensure you drank, make sure the windows were open, so you’d get some fresh air, and ate at least one tamal.”

It took days before he came out of the hovel he had built, sure he went to the bathroom, but that was it. He didn’t speak a word. The night he came out, she had left the curtains open so he could see the city lights and watch the sunset kiss the sides of the buildings and flood the streets. She had come in with some horchata and fresh churros, and she saw him in all his glory. Olivia had put the food and drink down on the table by the windows before sitting down near him, her fingers idly drawing patterns on his arm, “Hey,” is all she had said with that silly little smile on her face. She knew he would be famished but knew he wouldn’t be interested in eating tamales, so churros and horchata was the safest option that he rarely turned down. Rafael had reached for one of the churros, his hand shaking slightly from the lack of food, and slowly made his way through them, dipping them in the rich chocolate sauce.

“How can you still look at me that way?” He had asked her, “With stars in your eyes, like I’m a good person. I don’t understand how you can do that.”

“Because you are. I will always look at you that way, nothing will change that. That court case won’t change that either,” Olivia replied, sipping her own drink she had brought. “I know you see yourself differently, just like how I don’t see myself the way you do, but please let me tell you what I think of when my eyes land on you, Rafi. I find myself thinking of statues that people carved as offerings to their gods, the stained glass murals that are in the churches we love, and even then, they still wouldn’t capture you. I see caramel skin that chefs couldn’t even make after years of practice, emerald eyes like beautiful lakes left untouched by man because you- Oh you are a rarity, a limited-edition print that stars could only dream of collecting, and you- you are all mine. Your hair is kissed by the stars with flecks of silver scattered throughout that so many look to in the skies above in hopes of finding some guidance. Then your smile, how it makes me feel like the only woman in the world, dazzling me like when we see the gorgeous paintings on the church ceiling. The fire you have in the court room is enough to keep me warm for days after. Never have I met a more passionate, handsome man than you. No matter the outcome, I know, and so do the victims, that you have done everything you can to win. A loss does not detract from that because all it does is show you did all you could.”

Rafael couldn’t breathe, staring at Olivia in shock and surprise that after all these years, she still remembered what she had said to him word for word, and how she managed to seem so serious despite the mess they were making while in the kitchen. Rafael, himself, had remembered that poem too, word for word, and tried reciting it to himself on the days where not even church could lift his spirits, but it never moved him the way it did when she said it. “You remembered,” he said after a while of silence, a small smile tugging at his lips, “You remembered it word for word. God, and does it still fill me with butterflies too.”

Olivia laughs lightly, her true laugh when she was happy, the one that came from deep within her stomach and bubbled out of her throat like the tune of a songbird, “Of course I did. I remember everything when it comes to you: How one of your favorite foods is your abuela’s tamales but you say your mom’s so you don’t get a clip round the ear, how you like peace lilies and begonias, how when you’re craving something you like really greasy tacos from the taco-truck under the bridge near the Bronx, although sometimes you just want a taco bowl from Chipotle and vow I don’t tell anyone you committed such a sin. I remember how you always wanted to adopt a rescue dog from the shelter, how you absolutely hate driving and would rather catch public transport.”

Rafael’s cheeks flush a deep red and his smile grows, “Oh Liv,” he whispers, feeling that little red thread pulling the two of them together once more, just like it had when they first met, although back then he didn’t believe in such a thing, “It’s always been you, hasn’t it?”

“And it has always been you, Rafi. Always.” Olivia cups his cheeks and leans in, their breath intermingling in the small gap between the two of them, she smelled off coffee and peppermint gum she always chewed when anxious.

“Liv,” he whispers, wanting nothing more than to feel her soft lips upon his own once again, “Are you sure?”

“I always am when it involves you,” she replies before kissing him softly, and in that moment, magic felt real again- the spark that travels from her lips to his then through his body, electrifying every single nerve ending in his body. It was cliché, but cliches are only that way because they are true. His hands return to her cheeks, tilting his head slightly so that their lips could fit together better, two puzzle-pieces after being separated for so long still fitting together as though they had just joined- perfection.

Olivia is the first to pull back, her cheeks rosy, "You still using the lip scrub and beard oil? It’s really like kissing a marshmallow and being tickled by candy-floss, your lips and beard are so soft.” She giggles and steals another kiss before putting a dab of chocolate syrup on his nose, her eyes twinkling once more, “Now we match.”

“I do, you know me, Liv, skin-care and beard-care are important.” Rafael chuckles and bites his lip, gently pulling the brunette closer, “Now we match. I think- I think you just gave me a reason to look forward to things again, Liv. Tell me, please, will you stay?”

“I don’t- I didn’t bring any clothes- I only have my bag,” she admits, looking at his hands holding hers, “I don’t want to leave NYC, Rafi-“

“That’s okay, Liv. I just- For tonight at least. You can wear one of my shirts tomorrow, and I-“ His cheeks color, “Have a few of your things you left in my old apartment. Then- If you want, we can- I can come visit you, we can take turns until we feel ready to move in again. We’ll be okay, Liv. You and I- Will make it work, we always will.”

Olivia looks at him, “We will be, won’t we? I- Would like that, a lot, Rafi. Thank you.” She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow I’ll show you around the place, I know it like the back of my hand, oh and the church- Dios mio, it’s beautiful. Oh Liv, I have so much to tell you.”

“And now, Rafi, we have all the time in the world. I’m not going to walk away from us again. Not this time. Not again. I promise.”

“I promise you too, Liv.”

[beefkisser]

Long and sentimental post about TGN incoming!

So I've finally finished all current episodes of The Great North and I have a lot of feelings I want to dump into one post. If you guys don't want to see me putting my metaphorical heart on the table I understand this post may not be for you lol.

General Overview

I just wanted to open this by saying these past few months I've spent getting sucked into this show have been an incredible time. I never expected this silly cartoon to have such an impact on me but at the end of the day I'm SO grateful it did.

There's a lot to get through here so I'm going to divide the contents of this post into 3 parts.

1)The Community, 2)Personal Experience, and 3)What's Next?

Part I: The Community

The community surrounding this show may be relatively small, but I have to admit that it's one of the reasons I've grown rather attached to the show.

This show has introduced me to some of the kindest, coolest, and most creative people on the internet. The passion I see in each and every one of you for such a small fandom really has inspired me to keep creating things. No matter how small the conversation all appreciation of art really does matter.

The fact that ANYONE would listen to some guy calling himself "beefkisser" still has me beyond words, I love you guys so much, thank you for being here and being yourselves.

Part II: Personal Experience

This is probably going to be the sappiest part of this post oh boy.

So I first got into TGN around Late October/Early November last year by some unbelievable series of coincidences and I'm really glad that I did. Admittedly at first my interest was only caught because I saw Beef and a primal part of my brain activates when I see large hairy men, I'm not entirely proud of that being what roped me in BUT-

As I watched more episodes I became helplessly entangled with the positive relationships I was seeing in the Tobin family, each character having their own kind of love to give. I saw a family I wanted to be a part of (hence my self-insert OC lmao) and I truly believe the Tobins had a positive influence on my outlook on life.

I don't normally put my problems out to be seen but TGN caught me at a time when I was dangerously close to falling into a kind of despair I hadn't felt in years (Life can be fucked up, ya know!). TGN really reinforced to me some things I already knew, particularly the idea of your closest family not always being by blood (Thank you Honeybee Shaw-Tobin I love you) and being able to fall back on the people you love when you're at your lowest. I genuinely believe this show had a HUGE impact on me being able to be vulnerable again, and since I've allowed myself to be soft I've never been happier. Even if I'm afraid I think I have it in me to raise people's spirits again.

Above all, TGN has cemented in me my desire to make art that could help other people the way it's helped me.

Part III: What's next?

With Season 5 picking up again soon, I'm probably going to go back to drawing Beef and co. more often. I won't be live-blogging the new episodes but I will gladly discuss them with anyone who wants to!

I'm probably also going to get back to working on my self-insert fanfiction if anyone is interested in that, it's just something silly I make to make myself happy but who knows I might just start posting about it.

Thank you for hearing me out if you've made it this far in the post, it's been a pleasure putting my thoughts out for you!

-Lapis 🐻

[lesbiansanemi]

Blorbo game!!!

3. was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made this character your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

7. what's the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

12. do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

19. when it comes to Blorbos, do you have a type?

30. do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

HIIIII JAYFORD !!!!! :3

I couldn't decide if I wanted to answer these for Akaza or Sanemi, but ultimately chose Akaza because he's who I've been really fixated on recently lmao

3. was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made this character your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

I think I slowly grew to love Akaza more and more to be honest. Of course, I saw mugen train and immediately went "hey this guy is fun also why was that so gay" and then opened ao3 before the credits were even done rolling, but ultimately, I was not insane about Akaza himself at first (I think part of that was because I had not read the manga yet, and only did that a couple months after I saw mugen train and realized I enjoyed renkaza a lot more than just a few day ao3 binge before moving on). Even after I began to appreciate Akaza as a character more, I still don't think I was that crazy for him, and actually, for a long time, I tended to favor Kyo over him (crazy to consider lmao). But I'm gonna say in about the last year and a half or so, I just kept going more and more feral for Akaza and now I love him dearly he is one of THE characters I so genuinely love <3

7. what's the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

I don't think people can do nuance with him to be honest. There is of course the noisier side of the fandom and a very particular type of Kyojuro stan who just vehemently hates him (which, sigh, okay I get disliking him, that's fine, the issue I take is the acting like he was just god awful terrible with nothing tragic or sympathetic about him) The other part of it, which is something I see a lot more often considering the circles I run in and the insane amount of Renkaza fics and art I engage with, is the opposite side of the spectrum where people make him... a much better person than he actually is, for lack of better terms. Like, listen, I love Akaza so much, and I do think he is an extremely sympathetic character, and he obviously never truly wanted the life he ended up with, HOWEVER !!!!! He is objectively a bad person by the time canon is unfolding. Like, he just is. I think there's a specific type of Renkaza fan that just can't contend with that, so they make him too nice, too caring, too quick to change, make him feel bad for all the things he's done and all the people he's killed and ultimately, I don't think he cares. Of course, he would (and does, canonically) eventually. But it takes A LOT to get him to that point, especially if he's still struggling with his amnesia. Hell, even after he gets his memories back, I don't think that is a cure all for his specific brand of awfulness, when that is something else people do with him. Basically, he sucks. It needs to be acknowledged that he's a fucked up person with shitty ideals and a myriad of issues who, yes, has gleefully murdered god knows how many people. "I can fix him" sure but uh, it's gonna take a lot more than just a hammer and a couple nails because oh man.... the damage is intense. He's not nice, he's not caring, he actively enjoys killing people. Even his fixation on Kyojuro is born of obsession and possessiveness rather than anything good or pure. Stop taking away/ignoring/sanding down all his terrible aspects to make him "easier" to love or forgive !!! What I love so much about him (and Renkaza in general tbh, but you can also tie Koyuki back to this, though in a much lesser degree because the context is different) is someone seeing him and deciding he's worth the effort despite how bad and difficult and fucked up he is, not because he's actually a good person who makes everything easy for those around him if you just give him a chance

12. do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

My friends are probably tired of hearing about him.... lmao they're not they're happy to listen to me but I definitely talk about him a lot to them. A couple of my coworkers that I'm closer with have some inkling I really like him though they have no idea the intensity of it because I can be ~professional~ My family doesn't really know about him. They generally just sort of vaguely know the media itself I like, they never remember specific characters and tbh I don't bother to really talk about it with them

19. when it comes to Blorbos, do you have a type?

Yes (I'm on desktop so I don't have emojis but spiritually the crying one is here many times). Akaza. Sanemi. Maki. Shinobu. Shigaraki. Dabi. Toga. (Even Sukuna to a certain degree, though he's not nearly as egregious)..... While some are definitely more extreme than others, I tend to fixate on characters that a lot of people write off as awful (or at least closed off and somewhat unlikable) but in my opinion, are extremely sympathetic, and went through awful experiences that so obviously shaped them into what they became. There are, of course, their own actions to take into account, but in a way, everything has tended to be out of their control, and turning to awful things/coping mechanisms/responses is all that's left. Basically, it's very easy to see how and why they became what they did if you allow yourself to be sympathetic with them. However.... a lot of people tend not to do that because they are either villains (or at least antagonistic, in Sanemi's case), or like with Shinobu and Maki, are women who are not very nice and have many nuanced layers. I've found that most people who really like these characters are the people who indentify with them in some way. People who don't tend to be much harsher on them or cite the bad things they've done as reasons no one should sympathize with them. Wonderful type to have lmfao I should turn this into the team of psychologists who work with me

30. do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

I think so, probably! I would make jokes about how my hyperfixation changes every three years like clockwork (because in the past it has, which I find very amusing) but !! we're approaching four years now and if anything, my kny and Akaza obsession is just getting stronger rather than fading. So it might get to join Doctor Who as the pieces of media that have outlasted the hyperfixation cycles when nothing else has lmao

This was so long....... I talk so much omg....... Anyways, ty Jayford !!!!!! <33 I hope you've had a lovely day

[kekiiro]

2024 Recap post. Uhm, it's kinda basically the same as what I wrote up for newgrounds too. So sorry if you see that post first? I just wanna ramble a little bit about the year.

Before getting super into it, here's my art summary for the year.

I tried some things and learned a bit? So I think I improved a fair bit. Lol. The month of April does not exist. Do not look deep into it.

I'll put the rest of the rambles below this.

2024 was kind of a weird fucking year? In so far as it sucked. This year sucked so unbelievably much. But there was a lot of good too! Haha. It balances out, maybe. I got to see some friends in Philly again this year, that was nice. I hope it can happen again the future, but maybe not. Who knows? I am glad I got to see them again; it was fun.

I only have two resolutions that I'm really willing to share with others. I want to get better at speaking with others. In a meaningful manner, at least. I struggle to actually talk, I feel like the things I say don't make sense often? Or I vomit words. Not very ideal, lol. The second one, I need to become ok with sharing my art and writing more. Stop holding things so close to my chest, maybe. I wont improve if I don't share more often. On improvement, my art has gotten better this year. At least, compared to last year. I need to keep pushing and start making pieces with more complicated backgrounds and larger groups of people. It's kind of silly, but I think the Lancer game I'm in with my friends is encouraging me to do that. We'll see, lol. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Not going to dwell on this super long, because it sucks. There wasn't a really good way for me to write about it more in detail that didn't make me wildly uncomfortable (or read a certain way, frankly.) The second half of this year has been difficult to say the absolute least. it's made it hard for me to want to stick around and do things with others. Or anything, for that matter. I'm getting out of that mind, I think. My epilepsy has been getting worse as time goes on and that certainly has not helped. Like, lol. I've been spending more time at the doctors, and it's for something I need but it's exhausting frankly. And expensive. I hate it. But I enjoy being able to function.

I also lost half my vision, this has decidedly been a nightmare but what I can do about it at this point? I've been getting used to it. Not much else to do other than that. On a sillier note, I've been pirate-maxxing the past few months because of it. Here's a visual aid for those who need one.

Things will be fine in the end, and I am certain of this. I'm lucky, because I have friends who tolerate (most) of my evil plans and schemes. I am insanely thankful for everyone around me. In spite of it all, I am looking forward to 2025!! Things may be difficult, but next year will be good. Even if I have to blow the sun up or something like that. It will be good! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° I hope the new year is kind to everyone. ´･ᴗ･` Thank you guys, and sorry for the massive ramble.

[mcalhenwrites]

I'm sincerely trying to find answers to these questions. I'm seeking advice.

I'm going to start this off by stating that I'm still writing. I haven't quit. I'm not going to quit. This is about sharing. I've had so many people assume I quit writing or only will write for the sake of being a published author. I'll always be writing as long as I'm alive.

And as someone who firmly believes that people can choose whether or not to share their art with the world and no one else gets to decide that, I also believe that it's not wrong to want to have readers. Libraries and bookstores and art galleries and art sites and everything else - we connect to each other through art. It wouldn't exist if everyone just went, "Welp, I made the thing, good for me. Done!" And if someone is going to tell me that I should feel that way, I hope you keep all your writing and art to yourself. If not, I'd consider it a kindness to us both if you don't respond to this post through comments, DMs, or asks. Thank you. ;)

So onto the questions I'm seeking advice on.

How can I overcome the shame of posting writing for about 14 years and still barely getting readers? (But often getting a lot of critique?)

I've been in writing circles, reading and cheering on others, and they read one anothers' writing, but I'm frequently passed over/ignored - and that's the kinder response. I've been told that I'm there for my support only, that I'm not a good enough writer myself, that my characters are all the same.

How does one keep posting links to their published work or AO3 chapters/works, when they never get any likes or reblogs across several websites?

When friends have done nothing but scold them for not being good at PR, when I'm just... I'm a writer, not a businessman. And I am trying, but even popular authors on social media have mentioned that word-of-mouth and boosting of their work on social media has impacted their success? That M*sk taking over one of those sites has negatively impacted their interactions and therefore their sales? (Wouldn't this mean they also suck ass at PR? xD)

Am I supposed to believe I have a chance, when even established authors are struggling?

I don't like myself very much, and I'm ashamed of level of skill, even though I enjoy writing so much I can't help but always want to do it. I can't help but create stories and get excited about writing them down. There are even times I feel like I've made progress. Gotten better as a writer.

But it's so hard not to end up letting other people make me feel ashamed.

It's true I shouldn't listen to those people, but why have they been so many, and why is the positivity always so few and far in-between? Maybe if it was one voice in one-hundred, but what if it's twenty voices out of thirty? What am I to believe then? When even friends clearly have no faith in my works and don't want to be seen associating with it?

I wanted to be a published writer. I wanted to make a little bit of an income on writing, so I'd have reason to do what I love even more.

But I've spent most of my life feeling like a fool who keeps humiliating himself. Who wonders if the truth is that I'm worse at writing than even I'm willing to admit.

I had one story that "took off" on AO3, but even that lost readers by the end, and no one is interesting in anything I have created before or since then.

And that story... I've been editing it heavily and even added chapters, and I'm like, "I should post the new version sometime" but I'm convinced no one even wants it. (And I'd have to do it for free, and I can't afford to do things for free. I just got on medicaid finally and went to a food pantry last week and keep applying for help, and I have to wait until April to see a doctor to get critical help for my multiple health issues that might make my ability to work even harder. I broke down and crocheted stock for a table this month, and the pain in my wrist is excruciating, and the pain my heart that I can't spend half that time making personal passion projects with something I only want to do as a hobby is even more excruciating. So no, not every story of mine can just be churned out for free.)

Anyway, thank you for reading and your time, and if you have legitimate advice/answers/support... I could use it. I could use it more than ever. 

[dreadnotau]

Its been a decent couple of months of productive work, so it's sadly time for a schedule change. I'll be posting pages two weeks apart again. Details provided below if you're curious as to why.

In all honesty there's no big dramatic reason this time around. I've just slowly lost drive to work on Dread Not as often and as thoroughly as I used to be able to. As I said in one of my previous posts (that sounded suspiciously like this one), I want to focus on other projects as well. One of those is my personal art blog, which I've neglected even though I've had art on the backburner that I've been meaning to post for AGES. Kingdomrune is another one of those, where I have shit I could post that I just... never did. Dread Not takes a lot of time and I miss being able to dedicate that time to consuming media instead of just grinding and trying to produce my own. One of the most important things to do as an artist is to broaden your horizons and take in as much art as you can, to diversify and expand what you know and what you can make. But, when all day every day I'm just sitting and drawing my own thing, it's like I have tunnel vision and my creative resources run dry. It's starting to feel weirdly soulless on my end, because I don't feel nearly half the inspiration to make the pages as I did when the big hiatus ended. It's all dependent on time and exposure, and I can only crunch for so long before it starts to feel damaging to me instead of fun and creatively fulfilling.

So what does this mean, practically speaking? Well, for one, I'm spacing out the page upload for the rest of Act 1, as previously mentioned. I'm well aware this will kill the pacing and it'll drag out longer than it theoretically needs to, but I'd even rather that than trying to rush out a page in the Two Days I have free this week (yeah, ONLY two days free out of the ENTIRE week. Don't ask me why it's not even my fuckin' fault this time). If pages become even more scarce than 1 page per 2 weeks, blame it on college. I'm getting new subjects and I don't even know the class schedule yet. Concerning Act 2 though, I'll be changing the structure of the pages from their core. I'll be switching to a different drawing software (probably Krita, suck my dick Photoshop) so it'll take some getting used to. I can't even promise bonus content or anything during the necessary break between acts because of that shift in software happening, I've never done a massive technical move like this. However, it'll allow me to, not only work on Dread Not better, but expand my art overall, so it's definitely worth it. I've wanted to get into animation for YEARS and Krita seems like an okay place to start (the gif on this post WAS made with Photoshop, but shitty gifs are about all I can make as animations in Photoshop). Act 2's style will, predictably, differ heavily from Act 1 and (with how long writing the dialogue alone for it is taking), it might end up being Longer than Act 1, too. Visually, it'll probably be something like cleaned up and coloured sketches, with simpler colour palettes and simpler (big airquotes) visuals overall, and it'll speed up the process and possibly allow me to post more than one page at a time. Possibly. That's not a promise.

I'm sorry if that's disappointing to anyone, but I physically can't make myself continue the current artstyle across all acts. It's just not feasible.

For those curious about the FARTHER future of Dread Not, I have plans to turn Act 3 into a series of fics rather than full comic pages, and something maybe a bit more insane for Act 4. I don't have everything figured out yet, and I don't want to make any false promises or give any grand ideas I won't be able to commit to, since only time will tell how my creativity will flow years from now. If you all want more content from me specifically, again I'm planning on reviving my art tumblr like a half buried zombie, and you'll probably see more there than you bargained for once I actually get into the habit of posting things. If you're mayhaps interested in my original stuff, keep your eyes peeled for a guy called Duro, I might start posting about him some time soon.

As always, thank you for your patience, and apologies again if this news was disappointing to anyone. I'm just one guy and this comic is a titan of biblical proportions. I'll keep you all posted on any further developments and plans for the future! Stay tuned!

[whisperingwisterias]

Sword Art Online and Simulation vs Reality

In watching Eden of the East, the viewer is presented with the idea that when faced with real world systems of unfairness and oppression, the answer is to remove themselves from it, to change the system itself. Takizawa doesn’t want to be a player in Mr. Outside’s game and Saki and the Eden group don’t want to be chained down to Japan’s ruthless workplace cycle—and so they both find their alternative in utilizing their identity as NEETs, free from the system. Sword Art Online, however, does not challenge or try to change the world. Instead, their answer is to escape it, to replace it entirely with a simulation.

In the beginning of the show, the lines drawn between the virtual world and the real world are clear. Before realizing they’re all trapped there, they walk around with avatars that they create themselves, and some use personas that are completely alien to their real selves; their presence in that world is fake and everyone is aware of it. Everyone is also aware that aspects of the game do not correlate in real life: in-game food doesn’t satisfy real hunger, fighting enemies doesn’t put them in any real danger, and responsibilities in the real world still exist and need to be returned to from the game.

However, the further on we get in the show, the more those clear lines start to blur, both for ourselves and for the people trapped there. As months and even years pass by, people begin to embrace their lives within the game, and stop pursuing the goal of reaching the 100th floor and returning to the real world. Asuna comments at one point that out of the 10,000 people that were originally trapped there, only 500 still remain in the front lines trying to make further progress. Kirito and Asuna both reflect on the fact that they often feel like they’ve lived there for their whole lives, and that some days they don’t even think about the outside world at all. People settle into groups and guilds, create and work jobs, find homes, develop military systems, create a full-fledged society, and even forge romantic relationships and marriages—all of which have no actual basis in reality. But to many people, they don’t see the virtual world as less real than the real world, Sword Art Online has become their new reality. We as the viewers get sucked into this delusion too, to the point where any reminder that Sword Art Online is a digital simulation, such as Asuna showing Kirito how she cooks or any of the players pulling up their UI, feels strikingly jarring and out of place.

In the midst of this merging of reality and unreality, Kirito and Asuna pose to us a question: Is it better to conform to and embrace their new reality; or is it better to cling to the real world? Can unreality truly replace reality? Despite acknowledging that they’ve settled into their digital world, they also remain aware of the actual reality of the real world that Sword Art Online doesn’t provide. Like everyone else they also join guilds, they also find homes, they also forge important relationships, but they also don’t stop fighting to make it back to reality. They also never forget to separate their real world selves from their virtual ones—Asuna says in the beginning that she doesn’t want to forget or lose herself by completely embracing their new reality; she and Kirito both want to return to their loved ones who are still waiting for them in the real world; and they both realize that there are still things they want to accomplish in real life that Sword Art Online simply cannot substitute. When surrounded by a fantastical, unreal world, it is Kirito and Asuna who keep us grounded in reality.

In the end, I think that Sword Art Online does an excellent job of showing us that while an escape from reality can provide a sense of relief, it cannot replace the things that are real. Even when immersed in the game, real elements shine through. Their grief is real, their relationships are real, their societies reflect both the good and the bad of real life societies—no one can truly escape reality. This isn’t a bad thing, and in some cases it’s not necessarily a good thing either, and I think that’s the point. The point is that reality is real, and it’s something that cannot be replaced or replicated. Where we go from there is up to us.

[drawnaghht]

SRTUC and the "3D vs 2D" toons

a little animation prediction:

...10-15 years from now, the kids growing up watching things from their parents' handheld devices are gonna be nostalgic for their cocomelon's and will be wondering, "why aren't there any good 3D cartoons like in their childhood??" just like how ppl in each generation have always been nostalgic for the entertainment of their own childhood haha x3

this little anecdote is smth I've slowly kinda realized after thinking abt the whole "3D vs 2D" mindset ppl have about animation in general. i've been seeing a lot of complaining online abt 2D cartoons and indie cartoons in general and I'm wondering.... when will the criticism end? Just 8 months ago, people would have shared the sentiment, "more indie animation! hollywood is starving our artists!" but now from online fans, I see a lot more of the sentiment of "this thing sucks" or in the case of Rise TMNT for example, "we were too late for this show".

People like 2D animation, but any time there's a new show out, people either don't give it a chance (thinking of my old faves, like Motorcity and Sym-bionic Titan, but also many others). Or like with Moon Girl, people seem to ignore it more than talk about it. Is it because it's a Marvel show? it's like the spiritual successor to both ROTTMNT and LMK, but also BH6 a bit?? it's good. animated by Flying Bark (known widely for Rise and Lego Monkey Kid) with supervising director Ben Juwono, story artist on BH6 and Glitch Techs. and there's lots of other cool ppl on the crew

also just, I'm thinking again abt how the 1st reactions from many different fans and viewers in general was so... strong. People reacted so badly to the 3D in SR, and it didn't make much sense to me, because personally, as someone who's seen many animated films and series since Toy Story in 96, it looks better than just "fine". the art direction in the show actually looks great to me. I do notice smaller animation or model/render mistakes but tbh they are so few and inbetween, that usually does not break enjoyment for me when it comes to 3D tv. So a lot of the hate that the "3D style" gets still doesn't make sense to me.

now I see that it's probably bc ppl are still used to 2D being their preference or something they see as better.... and maybe not entirely just ppl being tired of certain 3D rendering styles. A few thoughts...

So alright, it does not look like disney or like Sony artists' work with Spiderverse and later films. "Styles" or approaches to rendering which ppl are used to or have come to expect from all animated features and even animated series now. But it's still unique and strong in its own way. It doesn't look like Trollhunters either, 99 pictures' previous series of works, and I find that a good thing. it's been a long time since Trollhunters was in development to when Samurai Rabbit started 3D development.

The show is stylized in a way where it takes into account the work of all the visdev artists while also juggling the task of making anthro animals look animal-like and cartoony, but not too cutesy or too smooth either. It seems to follow the visdev art a lot. So there are many considerations to balance in the style. They also used many budget-saving methods, i.e. the changing walls of the city so they would have more variety without modelling a lot of buildings, or how scenes were rendered in a way to save time and space. Or cut character's legs off via camera view bc it's not important to see leg etc. So for the result they got on the show, it looks fine and quite often also nice. Again, the art directions saves the show from a lot of the smaller mistakes and ties it nicely together. One thing that did bother me a bit more was the crowd-characters style, both in 3D and 2D. To me they look a bit ugly and like they don't quite go together with the main cast "drawing" style, but again lol, you cannot splurge on everything when you're on a TV budget and imo it's not a huge loss.

I do like however how this show avoids what a lot of videogames do (for good reason), and what some 3D shows seem to also do. Everything looks like it's at the right size. Like the characters and objects/scenery/city they interact with feels tangibe, despite any technical shortcuts mentioned before. It looks really nice to my brain, especially knowing what many of these things look and feel like irl. I also enjoy that they've made the simple choice of making the characters more "furry" looking anthros and "less human" - so they don't feel awkward for having too many human traits and less animal traits. Or like animal heads with human bodies with the wrong proportions. Sometimes these things just work better in drawings and 2D vs 3D. Smart choice to not overly humanize them when they're already walking on their very human-like cartoon legs.

Lol maybe I've just seen much uglier things in 3D than what kids these days are used to. It does feel like with Samurai Rabbit in general, it's another case of a show coming out a bit too late for the changing tastes of viewers now. But then again, if we consider how many of these criticisms are coming from teens, who maybe just have a different taste and preference (e.g. they haven't seen maybe early 00s stuff so they judge all 2D to be superior bc they're tired of 3D? could be anything like that). And the other contingent I see are some older adults in their 30s/40s who are critical of animation in general, or they don't like how it's not a direct adaptation of Usagi Yojimbo. I remember a quote my sibling throws around about fans like these: "and baby food doesn't taste as good as it used to!!!" and I find she is right haha, some people have way too many opinions about shows which are not for them at all. Like, move on and watch something else x3 It seems it was popular with the indended demographic of kids ages 6-11, so, if that's something that helped the show, good. That's nice.

BTW, on that last note, been meaning to say this for a long time, but imo, it's actually good that the show wasn't a direct adaptation. Think about it. How many adaptations have you seen where people don't complain about how xyz part was left out? Or how they didn't capture the essence in their style? Stan and crew worked with what they got from Netflix, and I find that admirable on its own, seeing how Netflix treats many of their animated shows nowadays in general. Not just cancellations, but other things like contract disagreements and changes to a show. It seems with the last 2 years, the halcyon days of Netflix are over. Even though animation was the thing holding the entertainment industry in the US up during the pandemic, it and its workers are treated unfairly by the megacorp, who have also revealed that they're losing money in general. And from interviews and articles, it seems this show also had hard times, in terms of getting an adaptation at all (it was changed and NF asked them to do it about a younger Usagi instead, something like that), so they got the short end of the stick, but dealth with it. When Candie and Doug, the showrunners, were brought on board, they were told that it had to be for a younger audience, so a younger Usagi and the solution was to make a descendant. But that freed the show up a lot more than it would have been before. Now, instead of deciding on what favourite UY story to cut, the crew could instead focuz on making a complete story and rounded characters without stepping on Netflix's toes. It also seems the show had really enthusiastic execs and producers in general. So in the end we got a show with descendants of some of the comic's cast, who just happen to also be like retellings or their own versions of some of these characters (like Chizu and Kitsune for example)

saying all that.... lol if this show does come back, it'll be a while again and 3D preferences and styles would be changed again... I wonder what kind of visual style they would opt for if there was a new series based on Samurai Rabbit or based on other Usagi Yojimbo series, like Chibi Usagi or Yokai Hunter.

there's also of course just the factor that a lot of animation fans might be coming from a different place compared to fans of other media and are a lot more critical about what they watch. Never really been big on liveaction fandoms cuz I only watch liveaction stuff w my family as a fun activity to do, but i get sorta bored otherwise (so personal preference). I do know ppl complain abt their liveaction shows too but... it seems from this far away, much less whiney in some way. Like ppl being used to it and moving. But animation criticism always seems to be coming from an ungenuine or unfairly angry place. I don't know if it's the combo of "nostalgia nerd"-like youtuberisms having an influence on this, or just general negativity, but it's definitely something that's sorta become more boring/annoying to see. If you're critical of everything, eventually you sorta have nothing to criticise, or at least, nothing to enjoy.

but hey, if the general taste preference is still 2D, that's great! that's nice. I also still prefer 2D even if 3D is something I've worked with and something i've become accustomed to in animation in general. I just wonder where this mindset comes from that animated things have to be absolutely-infinitely PERFECT, or else it's not worth the watch.

I've definitely been in this camp of cartoon haters myself in the past... maybe not so much looking for perfectionism, but trying to see things I liked from an adult POV... but thankfully the early 00s we didn't have internet access i my family yet so no one else saw lol. As a kid, I genuinely thought that to be an animator, I have to learn how to be critical of every movie and animated thing I see. But animation brings me a lot of joy even when it's not "objectively" good... I wonder when more people will catch up and see their old mindset from a different point of view. I just find it sad that critics and internet drama seemingly have a much bigger impact on a show's success than say, the actual demographic watching it, or sales or whatever.

Anyway, if you read this far, thank you! I would offer an internet cookie, but it seems so here have a SR! Gen, representing how tired I am after staying up too late to write this haha x3

Anyway, good night, if you like a show or really enjoy it, pls watch it and share the word about it, that seems to do good.

Night!

[imjustabeanie]

Matchup Trade

For @babulejka

Your JJBA match is....Girono!

To be honest I hesitated between the jobroes (gyro and kakyoin. Even polnareff) and at the end you got a jojo AKA Giorno! You two have personalities that are so complementaires….it’s like puzzle pieces. Also I apologize if I do not picture the ballet world correctly/it’s too romanticized.

For your meeting….you were a foreign artist in italy. You came for studies and at first Giorno tried to steal you because let’s be real here. He gave you a flower that he made using his stand. You were so gentle, friendly and cheerful when he did that..he couldn’t possibly ruin that. Especially after he saw the flowers you picked on your way to your dorm. He asked and found out you two had a lot in common. He also likes and admires art (he’d totally own a gallery after becoming the don. Fight me on this). After some talking, he ended up promising to come to your performances in ballet. You didn’t think much of it but weirdly always received a large bouquet of flowers (made with his stand) at every one of your performances. Even the small ones. And months/years later, your professor informed a well-known man was gonna assist the spectacle…yeah it was Giorno. At the end, he invited you for coffee and you two had a good talk. He enjoyed it so much he invited you to an instrumental concert. Giorno is definitely a slow burn type of guy but he is also a very good friend. While yes the friendship started with his scheming, even by sending bouquets, it definitely became more genuine later on. Or else why would he purchase instruments you play and invite you at his house to practice? It was Mista who pointed out all of Giorno out of character actions and after some reflection he accepted that he was in love. He didn’t immediately confess, first he made sure it was reciproque and then he invited you to an unusual date. He organized a picnic inside a big garden surrounded by trees and sculptures. Hell he even cooked some of the things he got you two. You could say he went all out. Giorno way of love is honesty. He told you about his job and his stand and promised to keep you safe and happy, even if you two separate. Yeah what a sap (jokingly)

As you must’ve noticed by now, Giorno is a romantic but private boyfriend. He’s an introvert and quite serious for his work. People can’t believe that a Don like him is with such a delicate and sweet person. But once they catch a glimpse of his eyes when looking at you, even a blind man could realize how smitten he is. Girono was definitely surprised by your dark humor but quite liked it, his is more…blunt if we can say. It does happen that he’s absent from work but always leaves one day per week for you two. This day is basically a big date, it starts by domestic activities like cooking together (he can cook well but sucks at baking) and you teaching him gardening and him cheating by using his stand. And at the end it’s always some type of outing, either at a museum followed by a dinner or just anywhere you want. Giorno also loves to spoil you. He’s a sweet talker who got you to move in with him rather early. You two live in a private villa with a big garden. There are cleaners coming in from time to time but besides the guard outside it’s very private. Ever since getting with you, he accumulated some pieces of art that made him think of you. Also the garden definitely has some mythological sculptures he bought/commissioned. He left all the house decoration to you but left some of his touches, like a music/activities for you room…a dancing room, his office of course and a big library. As someone who didn’t grow up with a lot and who’s often absent for work, he sees the spoiling and gift buying as a way of showing love. His nightmare is to see you hurt/lacking something. Anyways enjoy your sweet fairytale with the don!

Your tokyo revenger match is....Kokonoi!

I highly hesitated between Mitsuya and Kokonoi. Now I think that mitsuya is clearly a match for everyone considering how many times he got picked…So yeah in the end I picked Kokonoi for you! He obviously has a type and I think you fit it rather well.

For your meeting…well I believe kokonoi is the type of rich that engages in a lot of activities in his free time. Even if it’s mostly to get more clients or seal a deal. From golf to horse riding, he tiptoed around them all. But of course, one thing he can’t handle is to be the mockery at one of these activities. He can’t possibly go to a place with a client or friend if he doesn’t at least know the basics right? That’s how I imagine your meeting started. He came to a club to get some initiating/training sessions for horse riding. You were there and offered to help him. You noticed that he always books sessions in secluded places and very early in the morning (I am going with him as an adult. I try to keep it as neutral as possible so you can place it in any timeline). It was very professional and he liked it. That’s why when he needed courses in other sports he also called you. I mean…you didn’t judge him and was very patient with him. With time, your compassionate and kind nature reminded him of his first crush. He couldn’t help but imagine that’s how she’d be when she grew up. A nice lady who enjoys baking and taking care of her garden. Kokonoi started giving you little gifts here and there, inviting you to places and being interested in your hobbies. He started coming to all your dances. He knew he was falling but it was unhealthy…and Inui noticed because after all, Kokonoi did the same with him. Inui helped him snap out of it. He started coming to your outings and while he did see the resemblance, he knew that what koko was doing is hurtful in the long run. After his friend helped him snap out of it, Koko distanced himself not wanting more pain and also to think about his feelings. It started professional and instead of trying to befriend you first, he went for the relationship which was a mistake considering he still didn’t let go of his first love even after all this time. As time passed, Koko started to accept the reality more. While you were similar to her in his mind, you are in reality quite different and with your own interests. He remembers the good time you two spent together and realizes that he wants to give it a shot. But first, he has to confess why he was giving you the cold shoulder. He sent you a letter apologizing and inviting you to a dinner. At the dinner he explained everything, all his wrongdoings and asked if you were willing to give a relationship with him a chance. Well you agreed or else the scenario would end here.

Now that the meeting is over we shall go to how he is as a boyfriend…Do I really need to say that his love language is gift giving? Man just spoils his partner with items, dates, vacations etc. He also loves to take you to social events cuz he can show off the tall goodness by his side that has many talents and hobbies. We all saw his…dubious choice of shoes (he wears heel sandals that’s my biggest culture shock) and with you he just seem to love picking high heels. Because, he is short and sometimes gets insecure about it. Yet it disappears if you give him a hug. Koko is someone who dates to marry. Since he kinda knows you before dating you (and he did a background check) he is not worried that you’re a gold digger. Even if at first, he spoils you to see if you’re gonna turn like that and when he realizes it’s not the case he apologizes with a big vacation (yes that’s why he did that surprise vacation a few months after you started dating). Once he knows you’re the one he pours his heart and soul into building a comfortable future for the two of you. By that I mean he builds a dream house for the both of you and you have a say in every detail of it. He also encourages you to do whatever you want because he will always support you and be by your side. His favorite moments are when he comes home to you and just cuddles while rambling about his day. Domestic moments are his favorite along with surprised and diy gifts (anything you made). When you’re rich the most valuable form of love are time and attention.

Now for the negative aspects…well I already mentioned them in meetings. Koko is very paranoid and stuck to the past at moments and it can reflect. He is also very worried about your health even if you are healthy. He works hard because his biggest nightmare is to lose you because of money (aka let the past repeat itself).

[addictivepsychology]

Day 102

I feel weird today

First day back to work and being here doesn’t feel right anymore,

Not comfortable, not safe, not happy.

So I guess I need a change but change can’t happen for 7 months, so I guess I’ll suck it up and figure it out,

I’m almost done unpacking, cleaning my room and car, getting rid of old clothes and replacing with new ones I need,

Finishing all errands I need to do,

It never ends sometimes

I woke up in my own bed for the first time saturday morning , I haven’t done that in a week,

Peaceful rain , dark room, alone,

Hungover, but that doesn’t matter,

I’ve been drinking quite often again, but I guess that’s fine since I don’t get hangovers nearly as bad anymore,

Since the stomach bacteria got killed,

I couldn’t drink for months with that bacteria, freedom Is finally back,

I told my roommate I’ll probably be drunk for the next two months , which should be fun,

Toxic,

I have so many emotions today that I’m not sure what to do with,

But spiraling is what I do best when I come back from trips,

Getting used to forced emotions and forced smiles, forcing myself to go to bed and wake up in the morning,

Work is a forceful place,

Maybe I’ll finally get a remote job like you told me to,

And do my work from a tent in the woods,

So much to catch up about but how do I put it into words.

I texted hippie and let him know I’m back in town and to let me know when he’s free ,

He said the same night,

But I was on a phone call that I wasn’t going to end,

And the today is my first day back at work,

So no,

But no response ,

I’m not sure how I’m going to feel when I go to see him again,

Dating is weird

Jesus Christ

Tried something new,

Grew up in a shameful household so it might be getting to me,

But I’ve had this issue for years about sexual things,

I get this guilt sometimes,

Which can be from the shame of back then or feeling guilty for dating multiple people,

But that’s so normal, it’s the usual now,

What a fun phone call.

It eases my nerves but also makes me nervous that I don’t know what you look like,

I’m so tired but I have to call you back after that,

You said at 4am, when you have to be up at 8,

You’ve finally crashed from your long and no sleep weekend,

I’m excited to chat with you when you wake up,

No matter what happens,

You’ve helped me so much ,

Being confident and comfortable in myself,

Sometimes I think about why we meet people and what purposes we have,

I can’t thank you enough, for accepting me and being who you are,

Mister blue eyes, blonde hair,

And no eyes

Princess,

You’re so sweet, and so funny.

We are going to plan the next time we see each other,

it feels so far away but I ruin everything close,

So if I want any hope, you’ll be at an arms reach,

Leaving time in between,

Getting to know each other over the phone,

Like I do best apparently,

You ask me to call you, so I do,

Small talk, talk about our day, talk about our past dates,

And wishes we were here, but 7 hours is a good distance,

You say you don’t want to get off the phone,

We don’t have to,

You told your family again that we’ve been dating for 6 years and I’m your fiance,

You said everytime you tell them, their face is priceless,

So I go along with the joke,

I’ve always wanted to be proposed to,

What better way than knowing someone for a week,

What’s more exciting ,

We fall asleep talking about rings,

And wake up with soft good mornings,

But how much do you really know me,

How much do you know where I am or what I’m going through,

But you will I guess,

I just need to let you in more,

How is it that I still don’t know what I want,

Does anyone really know,

There’s so many options,

So many life path possibilities,

How do you know there’s one you’re supposed to go with,

Everything has gray area and many chances at happiness,

I want to do art, get it out of me,

Maybe I’ll paint a little before bed.

I need to get my art stuff back from you,

Why do I invest so much into everyone,

Sometimes I feel I should be more closed off but my emotions are big and I like to express them,

Probably when I shouldn’t,

But I have to forgive myself and hope my words bring people up instead of weigh them down,

I’m so glad I’ve found supportive girlfriends, I’ve been needing it,

I’m so thankful people are brought into my life,

[surohsopsisofclouds]

hiiii i did think of some questions about your art piece if you don't mind answering! also feel free to not answer or basically do whatever you want tbh

did you use any refrences for the poses? and how did you choose the poses (with or without refrences)

who (specifically, if you don't mind me asking) do the colors represent?

also does the font/handwriting style represent anything?

(also the vent art you did a couple days ago about people just kinda being mad in your general vicinity is so real and it sucks that it happened to you)

Thanks for asking! I love a chance to ramble <3

1. Nope! We don't use pose references super often, though we do spend time studying poses occasionally. We chose them based on vibes, tried to go with poses that would get the feel of how we were in those times across, you know?

Highschool -> subconsciously hiding from people & then towards the end closing ourself off from a lot of people. (did... not really realize we were traumatized at that point in time. When hindsight hit us it hit us with a BAT)

Just Moved Out -> Had just had some of the worst 4 months of our life + just moved out & had A Lot to learn about adult life, so we were super stressed and jittery while trying to cheer ourselves on through it and actually figure out who we wanted to be. (still kind of a doormat, but a self-aware one that was trying to change)

2024 -> More settled in our skin, more familiar with adult life with fewer Immediate problems to solve, and a better relationship with our immediate family, a lot more relaxed with healthier coping mechanisms even if there's still a lot to be stressed over. (successfully far less of a doormat, reveling in how far we've come)

2. The colors represent as follows! Dark Blue = Moon, Yellow = Sun, Light Pink = Estrellum, Green = Dream, and Blue = Remy!

Just Moved Out also has tints of Sun's colors in them, to show that towards the end of that whole era Remy stepped down as temp-host and Sun reclaimed her title as host. I think it was earlier this year/late last year that Moon also reclaimed heir title? Bringing us back to the original two hosts after about 3 years break for them!

3. The font/handwriting didn't represent much when we were drawing, mostly just the handwriting styles of each host, but if I were to ascribe any meaning to them it'd be:

High school: We had a bad habit of always putting way more effort into everything than we needed to, that included our handwriting/writing in general! We got bad anxiety even just from small accidental typos or improper grammar.

Just Moved Out: We noticed that habit and started trying to break away from it. Baby steps and purposefully mistyping things occasionally were key! It honestly helps that some of our littles have a hard time typing, it added a positive association with messing up!

2024: We've successfully broken the habit! To the point where sometimes we won't even notice we messed up a word till we already sent it, and even then we'll just shrug it off instead of worrying over it!

(also thanks for the sympathy on that /gen, it means a lot. sometimes art's a good way to work through that stuff, you know?)

[pikawarrior]

Welp welcome back to my random rambles im just gonna talk bout alot of random stuff mainly my stories so here for go lets hope this is understandable

Story/maybe comic stuff

Turning of the orange | The Strawberry Patch - Old soon to be remade/written stop motion strawberry shortcake zombie movie me and my dad were making when i was in elementary schoolish. We unfortunately didnt make it that far since he had to leave often and for long times cuz work, but recently i found my old tablet with all the pics and my notes so rework time baby. Im about to use all my years of angst/horror writing to fuck these bitches up even more

The Butterfly Effect and It's Consequences | The Phoenix Effect -

The Butterfly Effect is my main rottmnt fanfic series. About my little rottmnt oc's (Ame) life and how the gang adopting them into the family changed everything mostly for the better but the bad things kinda got alot worse. Idk been focusing on the phoenix effect more

The Phoenix Effect is kinda an extension of that. Its basically the same thing but adds the cass apocalypse series into it. Basically how future Ame being there also changes things and how oopies mystics powers are hard to control after being half dead in stasis for about 12 years hope Ame does trys to leave to protect everyone from himself only to get kidnapped putting everyone in worse danger also oopies isnt that the super dangerous alien someone accidentally freed awhile ago

The Future Diary - So i watched The Hot Box's video on the anime future diary and well here we are

Another rottmnt oc thing. Ame obtains a diary from his future self being like "hey so the world is gonna end soon here's how i think you could possibly stop that. Pls dont do this all alone ur like 5" and ame decides to do it all by himself.

Got all eight chapters planned out already with two already at stage two (aka fully written out just needs to be edited and stuff). I just dont know how to use ao3 in this sense or how to tag stuff plus i got anxiety so its just sitting in my notes app

Video stuff cuz yes

Currently working on a few more special videos. On my channel ive technically reached 100 videos (i unlisted alot of old ones/never posted a bunch more so technically i reached that months ago but shhh let me have this) plus i got 135 subs now so celebrations are in order. Idk what to say bout this, am making a video using the ok ko ending song idk the name, one is a fake collab a friend made and another is an original meme a youtube mutual/friend by association made. Plus like so mant mini things for my ocs, Dimension and Watcher are gonna get so much development and cute couple moments.

Also everyone else is gonna go through so much trauma my gods its gonna amazing.

Also ive been trying to like voice things, audio quality sucks cuz im working off of my tablet but like ive voice a few of my own videos (only one posted) and like its so fun i wish i had proper stuff to do this so i can do it more

Other art stuff

I got a toyhou.se (its EnviousDeath), pls enjoy these characters and stuff

Im trying to make my art more mess and chaotic while staying clean? If that makes any sense. Still a lover of doing gacha stuff but am trying to branch out more.

Also btw how do people just idk do social stuff like trade characters, comment, and just aaaa idk what am doing i forgot how to do social stuff and also i never understood how to do this type without being awkward as hell

Character stuff

Watcher - *slaps religious trauma onto them* bitch gets sacrificed. Okay okay so Watcher, wasnt always Watcher. Before they used to be Ena a simple kid who was sent away for reasons i havent thought of yet to a church. Blah blah corruption, Watcher gets sacrificed for not falling in line blah blah they were saved and given a second chance.

Dimension - *slaps alot of anxiety and identity issues onto her* bitch got issues. Same as Watcher, Dimension wasnt always Dimension. Before she was Ellie a poor girl hated by her whole town because of the lies their mother spread about them and their father who had left years ago. She only had one friend, Watcher. Somehow they managed to make contact with each other despite being in different universes. Eventually Dimension snapped and went on a killing spree, slowly ripping apart her world in the process because this wasnt supposed to happen (think spiderverse canon events but different ill explain later) with her world crumbling around her, Dimension messages Ena one last time, not knowing Ena was already long gone, and accepts what they assume to be death only to fall into whats basically the anti void from utmv, gets corrupted and became a villain technically more of a multiversal criminal.

(For time and length reasons im cutting this segment short)

Multiverse stuff

OKAY TIME FOR WORLD BUILDING

How does what happened to Dimension's universe work? The way i explained it is like spiderverse canon events but different, but heres the details. Idk how to explain this but bare with me

Imagine each universe as a game in a folder on a computer. Each game has different code, story, art assets basically all are mostly different.

Most games are coded to have very specific story events and when something goes wrong everything breaks. Like take a spaghetti thing of code that shatters the moment you try to do something like trying to talk with an npc while having a status effect and thats how some of these worlds are like. And Dimension's was very much one of those worlds, and her breaking down like that shattered the code of their world and everything fell apart.

Im too tired to continue but my main multiverse is like one big computer own by a game creator who only sometimes knows how to make a stable game

Feel free to ask about any of what ive just ramblef about am always willing to ramble bout my stuff

[dzpenumbra]

8/4/23

I took the day off today. Okay, that's a lie. I tried to take the day off today.

The only work I did was to string the beads, knot between them and add a nifty slipknot to the end so the necklace is length adjustable. I decided to go with black hemp, the beads are a very deep blue that goes almost black along the edges. They don't have a perfect mirror buff to them, some of it seemed to fade a bit, but not nearly as much as the red ones did. I'm not really sure... why that's happening... but it's a thing. Instead of letting the beads sit for a few days to see how time and atmosphere affect their finish, I just strung them. And the final product looks pretty damn cool.

I like these jewelry pieces so much that I would wear any of them, and often do just sorta cycle through whatever catches my eye that day. I don't really think I'd have too much of a problem parting with them... as long as they go to good people... The trouble I have is, as always... how to price my shit.

In fact, the majority of my therapy session today was dedicated to how to price my shit. Which I just clearly really fucking blow at. Because I have dedicated so much of my life to putting value on things other than money and material possessions - like relationships and experiences. I keep calling it a "monastic approach to life". Like... I want nothing more than to just give my shit to people who love it, so they can have something special. Then I'm left fucking penniless and dependent on my shitty family's financial support. It fucking sucks.

My therapist was one of the first to get it himself, to connect the dots and go "man, you really were born a few centuries too late, weren't you?" And I just laughed and nodded. The first time I've ever heard that said by another person where I didn't have to lead them there. Hopefully we can follow up on that, maybe he has some ideas... because honestly? I really feel like most of my life problems would go away if I joined some kind of art community. Like some weird art collective living in studios with like a group kitchen and shit. Or at very least working as an art teaching assistant (or even a professor or guest speaker or something) and having the school take care of my food and board. Like... that would be fucking ideal. Well... the teaching would be less ideal because I'd have to learn how to teach and all that, with the art collective idea I could just really focus on my craft 24/7. I'm curious to see where that idea goes.

But yeah, pricing my shit... I have no idea what to charge for this necklace. This was a second attempt at this process. The red ones were the first, they came out okay. This was a 2.0 with the tung oil and it came out much better. I think it's one of my better pieces. So... here's what I'm not sure about. Since this is entirely hand-crafted. No power tools at all, the raw beads and hemp were sourced, but the rest of the process was entirely by hand. So I dyed them with 15 year old ink, coated them in an organic plant-based sealant, and sanded, waxed and strung by hand. These ones took me over a month. That said... I did have them on the backburner for a bit, but like... the tung oil alone takes 3 days to dry each coat. I put a tremendous amount of time, energy and labor into this piece, especially with the sanding. I don't really know how to convey that in like... an Etsy shop... in a way that doesn't sound gimmicky. And I really don't know what to set as a price point. $40? $80? $120? Where does it get ridiculous? Where do I get greedy? I just don't know. When, with art, the real answer is always "however much the person who must have it is willing to pay".

All that business talk just makes my brain freeze up and draw a blank. I really, honestly, really wish I didn't have to ever worry about that. Which is so alien in America. Most people are consumed with getting attention or making money - fame/fortune/success. And my only real metric for success has been... is the piece happy? Is my muse content? Is the piece where it needs to be? Does it feel complete enough to enter society? And if it does, I celebrate, and attempt to present it to society... and they summarily nod off and change the channel because they have the attention span of gnats and need to see actual crimes being committed in order to keep their attention more than 5 seconds.

So... my big problem is... I'd absolutely love to just make new pieces all day every day. Just new art projects all day long. And that's pretty much my life right now, which honestly... I'm very very lucky. Our society is simply not designed for that. And the only reason I can actually do this is because my deeply unsupportive family are tolerating it until I can support myself. Which is a very odd way of saying "we don't want to support you." Their goal in our relationship is to no longer support me in any capacity. Red flags, anyone? XD So yeah, that's scary enough. Plus, my rent just went up. And the cost of living is... utterly terrifying. So we're living in this super weird version of reality where I try to get a billing issue figured out with Comcast (Xfinity, whatever) and it is literally impossible to speak to a human. They literally do not hire human beings anymore. And, at the same time... it's impossible to be an artist without having another job... So... somehow... society is simultaneously eliminating human resource jobs... while also demanding you work a second career or else you starve to death. Shit is so fucked.

I don't even wanna go down that rabbithole, I know we're all feeling it, I don't even need to say it. Young people? Like... people a generation or two before my Millennial ass... just please do know that this is not normal, it's not reasonable, and you should absolutely be vocal about the situation we're all in right now.

Okay, mini-rant over. I was talking about... how setting my prices and valuing my time monetarily is a requirement in this society. And I'm so fucking bored of talking about this that I'm literally falling asleep. Ugh. Good lord, I'm depressed and trying to live a fulfilling life, can some fucking art supporters out there just like... magically appear and save me from this commercial hellscape? I really don't ask for much...

Welp... therapy today helped. Most of it, at least. We had to go over how I kinda freaked out when my former friend contacted me. And he kinda confirmed that the former friend is definitely acting sketchy. But the part about like... who the fuck do I talk to when I'm freaking out, and how can I get some perspective and grounding on important decisions I'm making... That's a really tough one. I mean this, when I was younger and had "friends" (or so I thought...) I really "didn't want to bother them" with my problems. I would just sorta keep it to myself and avoid things that I was too insecure about. I rarely got second opinions and missed a TON of opportunities because of it. The lesson I thought I was supposed to learn was - get a second pair of eyes on important decisions, but keep in mind the bias of the source. Essentially that I should not let my insecurity or "not wanting to bother" prevent me from taking big leaps in order to accomplish great things in my life.

It turns out... my self-protective insecurity... was unfortunately correct. And now... my brain kinda flails and doesn't know what to do in those times... and then starts slide-showing all the horrific nightmarish ways people I trusted and thought were there to support me had treated me like human garbage when I went to them with like... every day shit.

I even had my therapist say the word today, and it's still echoing in my head even this many hours later. "Gaslighting". And not in the new colloquial way people have kinda been misusing it, as a way of sorta referring to all kinds of manipulative behaviors... I mean classic Gaslighting. Literally convincing a person in extreme isolation who is detoxing alone off of benzodiazepines that he is losing his mind... as a way to justify not being supportive. Both family and "friends", my entire support network at the time, did this to me. It's so fucking hard to process how they can sleep at night.

So... without getting too deep into that, because I can already feel the emotions flooding back and my chest tensing up... When I need a second opinion on something - like a "former friend" showing up out of the blue and wanting to commission work that's not in my field, when I'm suspicious he might be trying to take advantage of me and get free work out of me - I now... often have trauma responses to that. Just the experience of needing help is a PTSD flashback. Fucked, right?

Why? Because I don't have anyone left in my life. It's just me and my therapist. That's it. And our relationship is strictly professional. So I feel absolutely horrible sending messages at a time like that, that's not really what a client-therapist relationship is for. But in some ways it is? Ugh, it just gets so fucking messy.

So... what I'm going to have to do is... just fucking Hail Mary all of those situations. Just sorta... live life without a second set of eyes on shit. Until I manage to make a good friend who is willing to fill that role. And here's the most fucked part.

The Hail Mary approach? That's what earned me the title of "crazy", "manic", "impulsive", "unstable", by my family and "friends". I'm really at the point where I might put family in quotes, too. Me "impulsively" reaching out to tons of people, trying to rebuild my life, coming up with tons of art plans... they viewed that as "crazy". So... they refused to offer me a second opinion based on their judgement that I was "crazy"... and their judgement that I was "crazy" was formed because I took leaps of faith and ambition without getting a second opinion! And they got so deep and hurt me so badly that I just turn into a fucking trembling leaf in the wind when I pull up a blank email to send to a former teacher to see if she is willing to mentor me, or needs an assistant, or if she could help me get integrated into the local art community.

My insecurity says I'm going to "overshare and overwhelm her with a novel, like I always do". My trauma says "you need to get a second opinion, but you'll get hurt if you get a second opinion. It's fire on both sides. You're fucked." All over a fucking cold-call email.

Have you ever stood on a skateboard? If you're brand new to it... the idea of rolling down a ramp on that thing seems like fucking suicide. Like, your knees are buckling and shaking and something inside you literally freezes you in your tracks and prevents you from going, because it thinks you're going to hurt yourself. I wrestle with that every time I skate, to varying degrees. Because, very often, that part of my brain is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

The more you gain experience (XP), the more reference material that part of your brain has access to in order to make that safety judgement. And a lot of consistent successes rolling down that ramp will build a sense of comfort and familiarity with it. The paralysis grip just sorta... vaporizes. And, eventually, it just becomes a natural part of what you do... to the point where you look at someone who is shaking and can't get themselves to roll down the bank... and you struggle to even remember what it was like to be in their shoes. What demon they're actively going up against.

Now... imagine you've conquered that. You can comfortably ride down that ramp, it's second nature to you now. And one summer... you run up and throw your board down and hop on and roll down the ramp and get shot with a fucking sniper rifle. And then when you recover, you go back and face that fear and do it again... and you get shot again. 5 times in a row, this happens. When it's not just hitting a pebble or slipping out... when it's like... losing half your front teeth or hitting your head and almost dying? (I used sniper rifle for dramatic effect, obviously) When it's something really traumatic... especially consistent repeated traumatic events... that shit fucking haunts you, man. It's next level. And I guess some people are just more susceptible to it than others? Idk.

That's a really tough nut for me to crack. The concept of "support". And the subsequent deep betrayal from those in a role that are supposed to have my back. That's a big part of where I'm stuck. And it leaves me in this fucked up place where I can't really get any perspective on big decisions I make in my life. And it leaves me feeling more alone than I've ever imagined I'd feel. Teenage-Loner-Me was a fucking joke compared to this.

It's scary. And it feels like... like it's always going to be like this? Like it's not okay for me to get a second opinion, or ask for help. And that message is... not coming from me, for once. It's coming from the outside. "Your goal is to get to the point where you don't depend on people for guidance in those moments". Really? Since when?

I guess the endgame is for me to be able to Hail Mary again. Like I used to back in college, when I was more emotionally detached and my anxiety was easier to manage. Like I did back in 2019, which spawned this wave of trauma in the first place. I guess the only way forward is to just... put my foot on the board and push, and trust that I know what I'm doing. That I'm not going to get hurt. That I'm not going to embarrass myself and alienate others and lose valuable opportunities that I desperately need.

I mean, when you put it that way... yeah. It kinda is the endgame. It would just be so much easier and less of a living nightmare if I just had one fucking person to like... be there for me to lessen the blow. In any capacity. Proofread a letter? Reassure me in the interim when they haven't immediately written back? -_-

Anyway, enough of that sad shit. Ugh.

I took the day off... ish... I mean this is clearly work. And therapy is work... analyzing this whole complex trauma thing was the very end of therapy, the rest was really good but was pretty overshadowed by this. I finished the necklace, it's awesome. I made a nice dinner and ate in my comfy chair and watched TV, I haven't done that in fucking ages. I watched a behind the scenes documentary from Star Wars Episode 1. It was really cool, I really liked it. And... it's been raining and thunderstorms all day so, yeah... that's about it. Just a quiet day full of nightmarish self-reflection, more labor than I was supposed to do, and a cool documentary.

But the day isn't quite over yet. So I think I'm gonna do some more yoga and take a bath or something. Spa day kinda deal. That could be nice. Maybe get to bed early.

I just wanna say this before I go, because I think it's really important. I often beat the shit out of myself and feel ashamed of my PTSD shit, and my anxiety problems. And that often takes the form of it being "my fault". Mea culpa. Like I just lack the willpower to push through that invisible force that cripples me. Like all of these things that haunt me, from years and years ago, it's "my fault" for holding on to them. I should just "let it go" and let the past be the past. And, in theory... yes... "let it go" is the answer, but... this is not the way. What I really need to keep reminding myself in those moments... is that... it's not my fault. Being a victim of other people, whatever the fuck logic they had to strike me at times when I was most vulnerable, and twist my own mind against me... being a victim was not my fault.

I've heard others refer to this as like... a form of self-forgiveness? But it's beyond that, right? Because... how can you forgive something that was never your fault? I guess we just don't have a word for that. So... it's easy to turn this into rage, or vengeance, or whatever... against the people who did do this. But that obviously doesn't fix anything, it just creates more problems, more suffering. And I think it's much healthier to just let the past be the past in that sense, and correctly allocate the fault off of my shoulders. So... to stop incorrectly blaming myself, to let their mistakes be theirs to learn from, and to try to move forward with that in mind.

I just say this because... I've started to notice that those moments where I flash back... when I try to push through it can often have a sorta chinese finger-trap effect. The more I push, the worse it gets. But if I just acknowledge that I'm feeling echoes from the past, and I decide to act like a fucking friend to myself and say "it wasn't your fault, they were assholes"... it can do really surprising things. Kinda like a yoga thing, where you struggle to get into a pose because you're gripping too hard without knowing you are... so the way to push further into the pose is to... counterintuitively... relax?! Supine Twist comes to mind, for me. I got quite a bit out of it at first, but once I cued in to the idea of getting in position and then on an exhale just letting my body go limp and have my body weight do the stretch for me? It was a game changer.

So yeah, I just thought that was important, since I've been talking PTSD a lot here tonight. On that note, off to do yoga before bed. XD