#that’s if work doesn’t deplete me of my will to live

[chrollohearttags]

the writing bug has bitten me literally a day before my last class starts back lmao

[velaenam]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. when the sky took caleb, all you got back was a folded flag and the echoes of everything left unsaid. you thought that the hardest part would be losing caleb– turns out, it’s learning how to keep living without him.  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – ANGST, swearing, mature themes. loss of life, grief. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. couldn't sleep, so i wrote this in one go. please excuse the inconsistencies. i hope you guys enjoy. i may write an epilogue ^^ — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

11.6k

3 years previous.

“let’s give a round of applause for your valedictorian– caleb xia!”

the sun is brutal, but caleb looks unbothered standing at the podium—uniform crisp, cap tilted just right, smile at ease. he scans the crowd, his face unbroken by the intense amount of bodies that showed up for today’s celebration. the applause fades. the wind shifts. and then he starts his speech.

“i thought flying would be the best thing that ever happened to me.  i trained for it. worked for it. sacrificed a lot to get here. i made a lot of friends– a lot of life long connections. but somewhere along the way, something… better happened.”

his voice doesn’t shake. doesn’t rush, cool and calculated. he glances down at his notes like he needs them– but it’s not his notes it’s his bad drawing of a plane. must’ve gotten the wrong paper on his way here. he clears his throat, very well so improvising.

“i’ve written this speech more times than we’ve flown in the simulations. i wanted to write about everyone that helped pave the way for me, but, you see, the best part of my life didn’t come from the sky. it came from someone who kept me grounded. someone who made sure i never forgot who i was when everything else got loud. she sat through my late-night calls, my stress meltdowns, my terrible ramen phase. and she’s the reason i’m still standing here, sane, intact, and apparently valedictorian.”

there’s light laughter, scattered claps. he holds up a hand. but he’s not looking at his classmates. he’s looking straight at you.

“can you come up here for a second?”

you blink. once. twice.  you point at yourself like an idiot. caleb just nods. still smiling and someone behind you shoves your shoulder gently. “go, go!” you stumble forward, heat crawling up your neck. you can feel everyone watching, whispering, wondering. your heels were the only noise that was heard as it clicked across the pavement. his classmates cheer.

caleb reaches his hand out to help you onto the stage like this is a movie and he’s memorized every line. you lean in, voice low. “what are you doing?” and he doesn’t answer. instead, he pulls a small box from his uniform pocket. and just– goes down on one knee. your eyes widen, lungs deplete of air. the air vanishes. the world stops.

“i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you.  i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. you are the love of my life, and i can’t envision my life without you.…..will you marry me?”

gasps. someone in the crowd yells “holy shit!” caleb’s hand doesn’t shake. his eyes are soft. wide open and waiting for your response. your body was stilled, it was just so mesmerized at this moment. you don’t cry right away. you’re too stunned.  but you nod. and laugh. and nod again. and then tears flow.  you cried at how, despite that this was his moment ,he decided to share it with you– decided to share it with the one he loved the most.

“yes,” you say. then again, louder: “yes!”

the crowd erupts. his classmates lose it. someone sets off a confetti popper they definitely weren’t cleared to bring. caleb slips the ring on your finger and pulls you into his arms, spinning you like the cliché he swore he wasn’t. you don’t care. you’re dizzy. you’re full. you’re his. and for one perfect second,  the sky has never felt closer.

the knock is soft, almost hesitant at first—three measured taps that echo in the hallway like a heartbeat. you’re curled up on your couch, the low hum of the tv a distant comfort, when the sound reaches you. for a moment, every instinct tells you it’s caleb; maybe he’s finally returned, his voice promising that he’d surprise you with flowers and that worn-around-the-edges smile. you set aside the book you were pretending to read, rise slowly, and shuffle toward the door with bare feet and trembling anticipation.

when you swing the door open, the sight that meets your eyes makes time momentarily stop. there is no caleb, no familiar face framed by the doorway– just two military officers in crisp uniforms, their expressions a blend of duty and gentle sorrow. one of them, a woman, taller than the other, offers a respectful nod while the shorter man carefully holds out a small, unassuming box. resting on top of the box is a folded flag, pressed down as if to protect it from the chill of the unknown. the flag’s fabric is soft and worn. it looks reverent. of the highest importance. the most precious gift to be given. its creases speaking of countless memories. you feel a sudden, disorienting numbness replace the hope you’d clung to just moments before.

“good morning ma’am. are you mrs. xia? colonel caleb’s wife?” you steel your nerves, as you give a meek nod. 

the three of you stand there, intensity piling over each other nonstop. your eyes start to water, as one of them start to speak, “we.. regret to inform you..” the man says, voice low, smooth, practiced, “colonel caleb xia-” and that’s when it breaks you. you were about to face the music. face the fact that they’re about to announce that your husband, childhood best friend, the man of your life.. “..-was involved in a flight incident three days ago. a systems malfunction. his aircraft lost contact over the water- and there was no distress signal. search and rescue operations have ceased as of this morning.” 

presumed. lost. presumed lost. presumed. presumed. 

the words echo in your skull like your heartbeat as if it wont sync with the rest of you. the officer keeps talking, and you don’t register most of it. words like sacrifice, and service, feel far away. like they’re happening to someone else. not to you. 

your knees buckled, but your legs don’t give up. your throat is stuck. you couldn’t say anything. the pain that was slowly boiling over as the officer set’s the box down on your coffee table. as she walks past you once more, she doesn’t meet your eyes, but leaves you with one final sentiment, “we.. offer our deepest condolences.” she says gently as they leave. your chilled fingers find their way to the doorknob, closing it gently. 

as the officers walk to their vehicle, they hear a blood curdling scream coming from your house. followed by screams of crying. they tense up, as they head into the car, forlorn amongst each other. 

you stare at the box. the box sits there on your coffee table, untouched and solemn, as if it holds the final echoes of his laughter, the soft echo of his whispered promises, and the bittersweet memory of a love that once soared higher than any runway. in that quiet moment, every fiber of your being is caught between the hope of a return and the harsh, unyielding pain of loss—a loss that is carved into each fold of the flag resting there, a silent tribute to the life that was, and the heart that must now learn to continue without him.

the room feels too big now. it stretches wide and hollow, filled with quiet corners that used to hold his voice. your body is folded in on itself on the living room floor, back pressed to the couch, legs drawn tight to your chest, like curling inward might make the ache stop echoing.

the tv still hums softly in the background, forgotten, casting dim light across the walls that shifts every time the screen changes. none of it feels real. it’s like you’re watching yourself from far away—like you’re not really here, not really in this moment, not really alone.

for a while, you try to pretend it’s not real.  you stare at the floor. you pick at the skin around your thumbnail until it bleeds. you blink too fast to see straight. you wait for someone to wake you up.

but no one does.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until your lips part and the first sob slips out—shaky, strangled, helpless. like your body is trying to warn you that this is going to hurt more than anything else ever has.

your face burns with pain. tears stain your face and neck, as if you have cried for years. your hands tremble at the sight of that fucking flag. that fucking flag that doubles down as a reminder that he was fucking dead. you were slowly unraveling. becoming ballistic. 

your face crumples and the sound that follows is raw. ugly. gutted. you press your forehead to your knees and cry like you’ve never cried before– like it’s ripping something from inside you just to let it out. your shoulders shake. your breath stutters. you grip your sleeves so hard your knuckles ache.

you cry for the stupid way he used to tap on your door in threes.  you cry for the voice that used to call you “baby” like it meant something holy. you cry for the way his arms wrapped around you perfectly, like you were the most priceless item in the world. the way he would wake up early just so he could take care of your daughter without you having to do it first. the silly plans he makes for you when you had a hard day. just to see you smile. you cry for the fact that your baby will never see her father ever again. 

you cry because he promised he’d come back. and now there’s a flag sitting on your coffee table instead.

when the sobs finally slow, you’re left in the quiet aftermath—your body trembling, your cheeks sticky with tears, your throat raw. the room is still. the only thing you can hear is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted static from the tv you forgot to turn off.

you lift your head.

your eyes land on the box again. it hasn’t moved. but something in you has. your heart thuds unevenly as you crawl forward on shaking hands and knees, closing the space between you and the thing that holds whatever’s left of him. you hesitate when you reach it. your hand hovers above the lid, fingers twitching. your breath catches.

you don’t want to know what’s inside.  you don’t want to see the things he left behind.  but not knowing hurts worse. because at least if you open it, part of him will still be here. you press your hand to the cardboard. it’s warm from the sunlight filtering through the window, but the weight of it is cold in your chest.

you let your palm slide to the flag. the fabric is soft, neatly folded, impossibly precise. you wonder who folded it. if their hands were gentle. if they cried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the box.  and with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough,

you lift the lid.

and the world goes quiet again.

your fingers grip the edge of the lid and lift slowly, carefully—like opening it too fast might break whatever’s inside.  the cardboard creaks. the air shifts… and then it’s open.

you don’t know what you expected. maybe you thought it would feel colder. heavier? louder? but it’s quiet. inside are his things. small and simple. personal. they sit still, like they’ve been waiting for you.

your hands tremble as you reach in. the first thing you pull out is his flight jacket—brown and worn, creased in all the places you remember him folding it. the left sleeve still has your hair tie around it. the one he stole from your nightstand. the one you never asked him to give back.

you press the jacket to your chest and close your eyes for a second. it still smells like him. like apple soap, his favorite that he stocked up on at the flea market, and jet fuel and something warm you can’t name. you hold it a little longer before laying it gently on the couch behind you.

next, there’s a ziplock bag. inside is a small flash drive, black with a chipped corner.  You recognize the sticker stuck to the front. his messy handwriting. your name. a little heart next to it.  you don’t touch it yet.

you pull out a small notebook. it’s filled. the cover is creased, the spine soft from being carried around too much. you flip it open to a random page that was sticking out and find his handwriting again—neater than you remember. a list of things he wanted to do when he came home.

go to that lake and teach her how to ride a bike learn to make bouquets for wifey fix the chair in the bedroom or she’ll kick my ass again go on a date. super overdue. 

your vision blurs again. you blink hard. your thumb brushes over the last line, like touching it might make it real. beneath the notebook is a small envelope. no postage. no seal. your name is written across the front in ink that’s faded just slightly at the edges. you set it down gently, like it might explode. every touch made you feel hotter. like you were about to erupt yourself.

and then– at the very bottom– is a photo.

creased. softened at the corners. well-loved. it’s one of you.  you’re smiling, barely looking at the camera, sunlight catching in your hair. he must’ve taken it when you weren’t paying attention. on the back, written in pen:

love of my life. my heart. my once-in-a-lifetime

your tears didn’t give you any time. your hiccups come fervently. you crouched down, your forehead hitting the dark floor, not caring if the impact hurt you in the slightest. your hands balled into a fist– as you slammed down on the floor repeatedly. this was a curse. did you piss off a god? did they want to punish you? you wailed, not caring if neighbors or a passerby hears you. 

the first time he took you flying.

the airfield was quiet that afternoon, touched with golden light and the distant hum of activity. caleb had been pacing near the hangar, hands shoved into his flight suit pockets, pretending he was calm. pretending this wasn’t a big deal but it was. you knew it and he knew it too.

he’d talked about this day for weeks. “when the weather’s perfect, and the schedule clears… i’ll take you up. just us.”  and now here it was– sunlight stretching across the tarmac, barely a breeze, and the world wide open.

“you sure you’re ready for this, lieutenant?” you teased as you approached, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses half-slipping down your nose. “don’t call me that,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “you make it sound so formal.” “you’re about to fly a whole ass plane with me in it, caleb,” you said, grinning. “that’s kindaaa formal.”

he didn’t laugh—not at first. he just stared at you for a second, lips pressed together like he was holding something back. his fingers twitched at his side. not nerves about flying. you’d seen him pilot with calm precision under pressure.

no. this was different.  this was you.

you followed him out to the jet, heart racing. it wasn’t big, but it was beautiful– sleek lines, pale blue paint kissed by sun. the cockpit door was already open.  he helped you up the steps like it was second nature. you didn’t need the help. he still offered.

inside, the cockpit was warm. the leather smelled like old vinyl and the faint smell of caleb’s cologne. you settled into the co-pilot seat, buckling in, glancing sideways just in time to catch the way his hands lingered on the controls—steady, but shaking. just barely.

“you okay?” you asked, quieter now. he nodded, adjusting a dial.  “yeah. just… haven’t done this ….with you before.”

you blinked. “you mean flying?” “no,” he said, turning to look at you. 

the plane hummed to life beneath you. the engine low and alive.

he looked at you like the sky had nothing on you.  like this– being here, with you– was the risk and the reward.

“you trust me?” he asked. you didn’t hesitate.  “always.” and god, the way his face softened. the way his eyes held yours for that extra second, like he was memorizing the way you said it.

then the wheels lifted from the ground, and the sky opened for you both. you looked over at him mid-flight—hands sure on the controls now, wind sweeping against the windows—and thought:

he was never more beautiful than when he flew.

the knock doesn’t wake you.

it’s the doorbell that does—bright and insistent, slicing through the heavy quiet like sunlight through curtains. you stir against the couch, body aching from how you must’ve curled up at some point during the night. your throat is dry. your eyes sting. your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. 

it takes a second to remember. then it all hits. the box. the photo. the letter you still haven’t read.

you sit up slowly, blinking against the light. your hand is still clutching the edge of his flight jacket, twisted in your sleep. you press your face into it once– just once– before the doorbell rings again.

you move on autopilot, feet bare, blanket slipping off your shoulders as you make your way to the front door. when you open it, you don’t expect her. you don’t expect them.

his sister stands there with a soft expression, one hand resting on the shoulder of the tiny girl standing beside her—the girl with his eyes.

your daughter.

you freeze in the doorway, one hand still gripping the edge of the frame. you’re not sure if your face is blotchy, if your hair is a mess, if your grief is still showing like blood beneath your skin. but she doesn’t say anything.

she just offers a quiet, “thought i’d bring her back a little early,” and a soft smile, almost apologetic. like she knows.

your daughter doesn’t wait.  she sees you and beams, eyes crinkling, arms lifting like flight.

“mommy!”

you kneel before you can think, before you can stop the tears that spring up all over again– this time, different. she crashes into your arms with the full weight of someone small and unbreakable, her hair smelling like strawberries and sunshine. you wrap her up. hold her so tightly it nearly hurts. she giggles against your shoulder. “you squishing me.”

“i missed you,” you whisper, voice barely there. “i drew you a picture,” she says proudly. “it has a plane in it. like daddy’s.”

your heart twists. your eyes close. you nod against her hair, swallowing hard.

caleb’s sister steps inside without needing to ask, her eyes scanning the living room, the box still open, the flag still folded, the quiet aftermath still lingering like smoke. she says nothing about it. just rests a hand on your back as you sit with your daughter, fingers brushing through her hair.

“do you want juice?” you ask, voice a little steadier now. “yes! and waffles.” you kiss the top of her head. “you got it, captain baby.”

she runs off to the kitchen like it’s the best morning in the world. you stay kneeling there on the floor for a moment, staring after her. the ache is still there. the hole caleb left behind hasn’t shrunk. but right now, in this soft, impossible moment, it doesn’t feel quite so wide.

because part of him is still here. in her laugh. in her joy.  in the way she runs like she’s never known anything but love.

you feel arms envelope you, like a cocoon. your sister in law pulls you in her arms, her voice trembling as her jaw tightens. “i’m sorry..” she musters as her tears land on your shoulder. she was strong in her own way. she was a rock to you when things went wrong. when you needed help she was there. she hadn’t even found out the news– but from her glance at the folded flag.. she knew… she knew..  she couldn’t even beat around the bush. 

the next day felt like death. 

you wake up in his hoodie. not because you meant to sleep in it, but because at some point in the night, you stopped trying to be strong.

your phone is buzzing. again. and again. you don’t want to check it.  you already know what you’ll see. but you do. thumb slow. screen too bright.

and there it is–  his name. everywhere.

not in headlines, not yet.  but in comments. stories. posts from people you barely remember.

“can’t believe it. he was the best of us.” “my heart goes out to his family.” “rest easy, colonel caleb xia.” “you were so loved, man. you didn’t deserve this.” “sending prayers to his girl and daughter.” “we’ll take it from here.”

the words blur..  you scroll until your thumb aches. you like none of them. you reply to no one. you close the app, but the weight of it stays. he’s gone. and now the world knows it. 

you ignore the messages and missed calls from your family and in laws. you even ignored his sister.

you hear footsteps– tiny ones– padding down the hall.

“mommy?”

you look up.  your daughter is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in her apple pajamas. hair wild. eyes puffy from sleep. she hugs her stuffed rabbit tighter to her chest.  the one caleb bought her.  the one she never sleeps without.

“when is daddy coming back? i’m starting to miss him.. he always makes me waffles when i wake up..”

your breath stops.

she says it like it’s happened before. like it’s normal. like she expects a phone call later. a video. a souvenir. you kneel slowly, legs weak beneath you. your hands reach for hers, steadying even though you’re anything but. “baby,” you say softly. “come here.”

she walks over, all sleepy and innocent, and crawls into your lap without hesitation. she rests her head on your shoulder, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you rock her gently. back and forth. back and forth. and then— you try.

“remember how we talked about how daddy flies really high in the sky?” she nods. her voice is small. “with the big plane.” you breathe in. it hurts. like hell. “sometimes,” you whisper, “the people we love go up so high… they don’t come back down.”

she frowns, brows furrow, in that cute way she does when she doesn't understand. “but daddy always comes back.” you press your forehead to hers. your voice shakes. you didn’t plan this. how do you explain death to a child who still thinks love can fix everything? “i know, baby,” you say. “but this time… he couldn’t. something went wrong. and he had to stay up there.”

“he forgot?” the way her lip trembles nearly breaks you. “no, sweet girl. he didn’t forget. he would never forget us.” she’s quiet for a long time.

“is he… in the stars now?” she whispers. you nod, even though your eyes are full again. “yeah. he’s in the stars.” fuckfuckfuck- you rapidly look to your right, away from her eyes, so you can blink the tears away.

“can he see me?” you nod harder.  “always.”

she buries her face in your shoulder and says nothing. and you hold her like she’s the last tether to your heart. like maybe if you stay still enough, quiet enough, caleb might still be listening.

you rock her gently. back and forth.  the morning sunlight spills across the floor.  the phone buzzes again on the counter.  you ignore it. right now, the world can wait. you’re too busy holding what’s left of him.

it was a beautiful day. of course it was.

clear skies. gentle breeze. birdsong carried over the low hills of the memorial field like it didn’t know what today was. like it didn’t matter that the only thing missing from the funeral was the one person it was for.

they called it a ceremony. a tribute–  a celebration of life. as if any of those things made up for the fact that they never found his body. as if a flag folded with precision and placed on velvet could replace the man who used to carry your daughter on his shoulders through grocery stores. as if taps, played too perfectly, could echo louder than the silence he left behind.

you sit in the front row, wearing black you didn’t remember picking. hands clasped tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms. your breathing is slow. measured. because if you breathe too fast,  you might feel it all. and you can't. not here. not now. not for her. 

caleb’s photo sits on an easel beside the podium. he’s smiling in it—smiling like he always did when you were behind the camera, like he was in on the secret that life could be beautiful. you can’t look at it.

the general speaks but you don’t hear him. his mouth moves, his voice low and reverent, but it all feels like it’s underwater. like someone pressed pause on the world and forgot to tell you. your fingers tighten around the small hand holding yours–  your daughter. sitting beside you in a navy blue dress she didn’t want to wear.

she doesn’t understand why there’s no casket. no goodbye.no daddy.

she fidgets in her seat. you glance at her once, eyes glassy, and see that she’s clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

someone begins to read caleb’s accomplishments.  his rank. his record. his honors.  you hear the word “sacrifice.” it lands like lead in your stomach.

your vision blurs, not from tears— but from distance.

you’re floating somewhere behind your own eyes, not really here, not really now. watching your body sit perfectly still while your heart bleeds out across the grass.

and then…

a sob.

not yours.

small. sharp.  your daughter.

“where’s daddy?”

the voice cuts through the speech. the silence after it is instant, jarring. you feel every eye shift.

her bottom lip quivers, hands balled into fists. she stands up, turns to the crowd, and says it again—louder this time, more broken:

“where’s my daddy?!”

your throat seizes. you try to reach for her but your arms feel far away. in a split second– she’s running towards the general.

“why isn’t he coming?!”

your vision breaks.  the disassociation splinters. everything crashes back into you— the sunlight, the wind,  the sound of her crying, the echo of a man they call fallen  but you still want to believe is just late. like he’ll burst out of wherever he’s hiding, and laugh at the sick and stupid joke.

your body doesn’t think, you’re already running towards her as you scoop her into your arms, dragging her back into the chair. her fists beat weakly against your chest, her wailing unmatched. “he said he’d come back!” she sobs. “he promised!”

you hold her so tightly you’re not sure where she ends and you begin.  you press your face into her hair and finally, finally cry. loud. unrestrained. not for the ceremony. not for the image. but because she said what you couldn’t. because she’s five, and she understands the truth you’re still trying not to choke on.

he’s gone.

he’s not coming home.

and you’re still here, letting her cry,  in a world where taps plays for people who never got to say goodbye.

everyone was gone.

they left with soft smiles and casseroles in their arms, careful condolences tucked into envelopes you haven’t opened yet. they whispered, they nodded, they touched your shoulder like grief could be comforted with just enough gentle hands.

but now it’s quiet again. just you, the breeze, the wildflowers at the edge of the memorial field.. and him– or what’s left of him.

your knees are pressed into the grass in front of the stone they gave him. it’s smooth.  too new.. his name carved into it like that makes it official. Permanent.

colonel caleb xia. loving husband, brother, and one hell of a pilot.

“you asshole,” you whisper.

it slips out soft, breathy. your voice cracks around it. you huff a laugh, and then the tears come–again.

“i can’t believe you left me here to raise a mini-you,” you say, rubbing your thumb over the stone . “she’s got your eyes. your smile. your attitude.”

you look up at the stone. at his name.  your chest tightens.

“you should’ve seen her today. she stood up and yelled at a man in uniform because she didn’t understand why you weren’t there.” your voice trembles. “i didn’t know what to tell her. how do you explain to a baby that her father is now a folded piece of cloth and a few medals in a box? a tombstone?” you wipe your face, trying to pull it together, but you’re shaking.

“and i can’t–i can’t do it like you could. i don’t know how to make waffles the way she likes them. i don’t know the airplane sounds you used to do at bedtime. she asked me last night if you still brush the stars with your plane and i–” you stop. you choke on the sentence. then laugh through the tears.

“you’d be so smug right now, wouldn’t you? hearing that. you’d say something like ‘told you she was gonna be a handful just like me.’ and then you'd flash that dumb grin and i’d want to punch you but kiss you at the same time.” you look down at the marble and press your hand over it.

“i miss your voice,” you whisper. “your stupid jokes. the way you used to braid my hair for me.” you look at the stone again, and something crumbles in your chest.. something deep. you couldn’t let go.. you don’t want to. coming to terms with him being gone would be the end of you, and you knew it. this was your soulmate. the soulmate who is now laid down in the ground, never to return, and you had to just.. live on? 

“god, i loved you,” you say.  and now you’re sobbing. “i loved you so fucking much.” you lean forward, forehead resting lightly against the stone. the breeze picks up around you, brushing through your hair, tugging gently at your sleeves. you felt delusional as you think that maybe the tugging was him in the afterlife.. some sort of comfort yields to you.

you close your eyes. you stay like that for a long time. just breathing. just existing in the space where he should still be. “i’ll take care of her,” you whisper finally. “i swear. i’ll make sure she remembers how soft your hands were. how you laughed when she tried to salute you. how you cried when she called you daddy for the first time.”

“but you’re gonna owe me for this,” you add, voice hoarse. “when i see you again, you’re explaining everything.”

you pause. smile, just barely. “and you’re making waffles.”

three days later

the house is quiet. the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something. your daughter’s at school. you packed her lunch this morning with shaking hands and kissed her forehead twice before she ran off with her backpack bouncing behind her. she’s resilient. But she’s tired around the eyes lately. quieter.  you didn’t say anything. she didn’t either. 

you told yourself you’d clean. maybe eat something. instead, you’re here. kneeling in front of the box again. the one that’s been sitting on the floor beside the couch since the funeral. untouched.  you’d meant to leave it closed for a while.  give yourself space. time.  but that never really helps, does it?

you open it slowly, like it’s a wound you’re reopening on purpose. his jacket still smells like him. the notebook still rests inside, half-written. the photo of you is curled slightly at the corners. you press it flat again without thinking.

and then–  the flash drive.

small. black. a little chipped at the edge, but still intact. your name is written on the sticker in his messy handwriting. next to it, a tiny drawn heart.

you hesitate.

then you stand, walk to your laptop, and plug it in. it hums quietly as the screen flickers to life.

two folders appear. one labeled "for you." the other, "for our girl." you click the first one. a single video file. “if something happens.”

your heart starts pounding before you even hit play, tears brimming to life as you read that. you click. and there he is. your breath catches so hard you nearly sob right there. he’s sitting in what looks like the base’s rec room—his hair a little messy, flight suit unzipped just enough at the collar, like he’d rushed to record this. he’s smiling. not nervous. not rehearsed.

just him.“ hey,” he says, and the sound of his voice– god, it hits like thunder. you felt a shock, like the first time you heard him talk all those years ago. “if you’re watching this, something went wrong. and i hate that. i hate that you’re hurting.  but i didn’t want to leave without saying what i needed to. i'm hoping i can delete this video after i come back from my flight.”

you press your hand to your mouth. his eyes are soft. like he’s looking right at you.

“i love you. not just the easy kind of love. not the kind that fades. the kind that roots itself in your bones.  the kind that makes you want to be better, because i get to come home to someone like you.”

you watch him as he pauses, running a hand through his hair. your tears cascading down to your collarbone and beyond. you take deep breaths as you swallow just as hard.

“you made everything make sense. you gave me a life i didn’t think someone like me could have. and our daughter–”

he swallows. his eyes shine just a little.

“she’s the best thing i’ve ever helped create. every time she smiles at me, i think, how the hell did i get this lucky? and i couldn’t wait to give her a brother. or a sister. or both. i wanted more mornings.  more bedtime stories. more bothering mommy while she’s doing her woman stuff.  more late-night snack raids. i wanted it all with you.”

your shoulders shake. tears are spilling down your face, hot and uncontrollable. you don’t try to stop them. his voice keeps going, steady, like it’s holding you.

“if i’m not there– please tell her every single day that i loved her.  that i still do. and that i was trying to come home.”

he smiles, soft and full of everything he never got to say in person. even though he was persistently smiling, you could tell that his eyes glossed. he was trying to hold himself together.

“there’s another file on here. it’s for her. just… in case she ever needs me at night. i love you..”

the video ends. the silence it leaves behind is deafening. you stare at the dark screen, your reflection, then look down at your hand. you sob into your hand for a long time. the kind of grief that splits you apart, the kind that wraps you in warmth and ache at the same time.

eventually, with trembling hands, you open the second folder. “for our girl.” another video. you recognize the cover of the book instantly.

“the airplane that could.”

 her favorite. you hit play. and there he is again.

this time, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the book open in his lap.“ okay, kiddo,” he says, voice soft. “bedtime story, dad edition. you ready? his one’s for brave girls who fly high and land even higher.”

you laugh through your tears, hand pressed to your heart, as his voice fills the house again. reading each word like he’s still here. like he never left. and for a few minutes, he hasn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there.

the laptop screen dims every few minutes and you keep tapping the touchpad to wake it, desperate not to miss a second. your fingers hover near the video file like they’ve made a habit of it already. you watch the story once. twice. three times.

and on the fourth playthrough, you press your palm to the screen. his image is pixelated under your skin. but it’s his voice that gets you.

the way he makes the little airplane’s “zoom!” sounds. the way he laughs when he trips over a sentence and mutters, “she’s gonna call me out for that one.”  the way he pauses after the final line and says, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.”

you rewind that last part. three times. you don’t realize you’ve been crying again until a drop falls onto the keyboard. you wipe it away and sniff, laughing softly—like he’d just caught you.

the sun’s shifted by the time you hear the door open. your daughter’s back from school, jacket half-off, hair windblown from recess. she drops her backpack in the hallway, calls out, “mommy?” you swipe your cheeks with your sleeve. “in here, baby.”

she walks in, still hugging her stuffed rabbit, and climbs up beside you on the couch. her head rests against your shoulder like she’s done it every day of her life.  you close the laptop for a moment.

“can i show you something?” you ask softly. she looks up. her eyes are wide, curious. “is it daddy?” you nod. “he made you something. before… before he left.” her lips press together, and for a second, you think she might say no. but then she nods. “okay.”

you open the file. press play. and you don’t watch the screen this time. you watch her. her eyes light up the second he speaks. “that’s daddy,” she whispers. her hand tightens around yours.

as he reads, she mouths along to her favorite parts. laughs when he makes the airplane noises. leans in when he says, “you can do anything, little flyer. you just have to believe.” you hear her whisper the words with him.  she’s memorized them. and when he finishes, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.” she smiles through tears.

you’re crying again. silent. broken in the most beautiful way. she looks up at you.  “can we watch it again?” you nod.  “as many times as you want.”

and you hit replay. and you both sit there, curled together on the couch,  wrapped in a blanket watching the man you both loved  tuck her into sleep from somewhere beyond the sky.

a few days later

it’s raining. soft and steady, the kind of rain that doesn’t demand anything from you. the kind that just stays. your daughter is asleep—finally. she asked to hear “the airplane that could” twice tonight, and you let her. every word caleb read, every silly sound, every warm pause—it fills her room like he never left. you made tea but, you haven’t touched it.

instead, you sit on the floor of the bedroom in an old hoodie and sweatpants, the box beside you, your fingers resting on the envelope you still haven’t opened.  it’s thinner than you remember. lighter. but it feels like the heaviest thing in the world.

you run your thumb over your name again. the ink is slightly smudged, like he held it for a while before setting it down. and you take a breath– and you open it.

the paper shakes in your hands as you unfold it. it’s his handwriting. no doubt. you’d know it anywhere—slanted, a little messy, confident.

you read:

my girl, my woman, my wife, my life, if you're reading this, something happened. and if something happened, you’re hurting. and god, if i could change that, if i could tear the sky open just to get back to you, i would. i’d do it a thousand times.but this is my backup plan. because you always said i needed one. so here it is. my heart on paper.

your hand flies to your mouth. your eyes burn. you keep reading.

first: i love you. not just the everyday kind of love.  but the kind of love that made me rethink everything.  the kind of love that made base housing feel like a palace, made ramen feel like a meal, made 3am deployment calls feel like they could wait a few more minutes because you were still asleep on my chest. i love the way you laugh. the way you fight. the way you love. i love the way you yell at me from the hallway to get my clothes out of the washer. i want more with you. i wanted more. more babies. yeah, i said it imagine a tiny version of you with my ears–terrifying.  but perfect. i wanted to put another crib in the corner of our room. i wanted to teach our daughter how to ride a bike, and let you laugh at me when i ran beside her like an idiot. i wanted home with you. every version of it. i was gonna ask for the instructor position when i got back.  no more deployments. no more taking off without knowing if i’d come home. i was ready to teach. to stay. because you made staying feel like the only dream worth chasing.

you stop. your vision is too blurry. you blink, wipe your face, your chest heaving. but you keep reading.

but if i don’t come back– promise me something. i know that i told you before that i’m obsessed with you– deeply devoted– and i am. i always will be, and i wanted you to be the same.. but this is different now.. don’t put your heart in a box with my name on it. don’t shrink just to keep loving me. be happy. fall in love again if you want to. raise our daughter to be wild and brave and soft the way you are.and when the house is quiet, and the world feels big and empty, pull out the notebook. it’s all in there. the first day i saw you. the night i almost kissed you but chickened out. the fight we had over burnt toast. it’s messy. real. it’s me.and it’s yours. always yours. —caleb

your hands are shaking. you fold the letter against your chest and sob. not the sharp, sudden kind. this one is slow. broken. like letting go and holding on at the same time.

you reach into the box, pull out the notebook. the leather cover is worn. familiar. you press your lips to it.  you don’t open it. not yet. but you will.

and when you do, you know it’ll be like hearing his voice again. not a goodbye. just a continuation. just love, written in the only language he had left. you stare at your tea that’s been on your table this entire time. it was cold, long forgotten. you look at the window, watching and listening to the rain still hitting against the glass. finally, you look back at the book, tracing the edge of the notebook with your thumb for a long time. just sitting there. the only thing that matters is what’s inside this worn leather cover.

you open it slowly. his handwriting greets you like an old song. the first page is dated 6 years ago. early fall. just two weeks into your first year of college.

september 9 dorms are hell,  someone stole my towel and i think my roommate sleeps with his eyes open.but today i saw her. i don’t know her name. she was in the common room, sitting cross-legged in front of a vending machine like she was trying to make peace with it. said it ate her dollar and she refused to let it win. she had on a nasa sweatshirt that was way too big, and i think she’d forgotten she had a pencil behind her ear. she muttered something about orbital mechanics and kicked the machine. it gave her a snickers. i think i’m in love.

you laugh. it slips out through the tears, a sound you didn’t think you could still make.  a memory rises with it– you, hunched in front of that vending machine, furious and hungry and too broke to lose another dollar and him, standing behind you with a bag of chips and a look on his face like you’d just rewritten the sky.

you turn the page.

september 15 her name is gorgeous. she’s in my aero engineering lecture. i sat two rows behind her and spent half the class trying to think of something cool to say if we bumped into each other outside. i said “hey.” she said “you look like the kind of guy who brags about parallel parking.”i don’t know what that means but i think she’s right.

you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter and ache. god, he remembered every detail. the next few pages are scattered—little notes about campus, sketches of planes, scribbled song lyrics he never finished.  but you keep flipping. page after page of a boy slowly falling in love with a girl he hadn’t even kissed yet.

october 3 she said she wanted to be the kind of woman who builds things that fly. said it with her eyes half-closed, on the roof at 2am, wearing my hoodie like it already belonged to her. i don’t even remember letting her take it, but it looks better on her.  i told her i wanted to fly them. she said, “guess that means we’re stuck with each other.” i wanted to kiss her. i didn’t. i just said “yeah.” i should’ve kissed her.

you’re crying again. you hold the journal to your chest, just for a second. because he wrote these things for himself. but maybe, deep down, he always hoped you’d read them one day.

and now you are. and he’s here again,  word by word, memory by memory– falling in love with you on the page, like he never stopped.

you flip through the journal carefully, the pages worn and full of little smudges from where his hand must’ve lingered. his writing gets a little more rushed as the months go on—like his heart was moving faster than his pen could keep up.

you find it, tucked between two pages. a folded napkin taped inside– faded ink, the logo from that burger place near campus.  and beneath it, a date you’ll never forget.

october 14 – first date i picked her up at 7. i say “picked up,” but we both know i walked across campus in a panic, stopped twice to fix my jacket, and almost tripped on my shoelace outside her dorm. she was already waiting by the door. hair tied back. that stupid nasa sweatshirt again. she smiled at me and i forgot my own name.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the page. you remember it exactly– how he blinked at you for a full five seconds before remembering to speak.

we went to that burger place with the wobbly tables and the jukebox that only plays sad 80s songs. she said she liked the milkshakes there. i said “me too.” i don’t even know how the milkshakes tasted. i just wanted to match her. she talked about stars and i listened like they were falling out of her mouth.

your chest aches. you flip the napkin up to read what’s scribbled underneath.

she drew a rocket on this napkin. i told her it looked like a shoe. she punched my arm. i’ve never felt more in love. after dinner we walked back to campus. slow. like we didn’t want the night to end. she said her favorite part was when i didn’t talk too much. i said my favorite part was when she laughed with her head tilted back. she said that was a dumb favorite. i said i was a dumb guy. and then– she looked at me. really looked. i stopped breathing. in love or terrified? the world may never know.

your heart’s pounding. you turn the page.

she asked me if i was going to kiss her or just stand there looking like a scared intern.i panicked and said “both?” she kissed me. it was fast. messy. perfect. she pulled away smiling.  i didn’t know where to put my hands.  i think i said “wow.” stupidstupidstupid she said, “took you long enough.”

your hands are trembling as you close the journal for a moment, hugging it to your chest.  you can still feel that night. the cool air. the neon lights of the diner behind you. the taste of vanilla shake on his lips. the way he looked at you like you were a miracle he’d never stop believing in.

he wrote it all down.  because even then–  he knew: he knew he’d love you forever.

you flip further into the journal. the entries start to space out a little, scattered between class notes, training schedules, coffee stains. but one page stands out—creased at the corners, the words pressed harder into the page like he couldn’t write them fast enough.

bold letters across the top:

november 17 – I WON.

you smile immediately.

i fucking won. nationals. first place. best time of my life. my lungs are burning. my legs feel like they might fall off.  my hands won’t stop shaking. and all i keep thinking is— she was there. she saw me. her voice was the only one i could hear.

you remember it. you feel it still—your throat sore from screaming, the way your hands ached from clapping, your whole body buzzing with pride.  you were near the front, right by the finish line. you jumped so high when he crossed, you nearly fell over the railing.

she was wearing my jacket. the big one. said it made her feel “official.” i saw her before the race—she blew me a kiss and said “don’t lose. i bet snacks on you.” i think that’s when i knew i had to win. couldn’t let her down. or lose snacks.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the words. he was always like this—charming and ridiculous and so sincere it hurt.

when i crossed the finish line, i didn’t even look at the clock. i looked for her. found her jumping up and down, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling like she wanted the world to know i was hers. i’ve never felt more like i belonged to something.  not the medal. not the track. her. she ran down to meet me after. shoved people out of the way like it was life or death. she threw her arms around me before i could even catch my breath and kissed my stupid, sweaty face. said, “my champion.” i wanted to cry. i wanted to marry her. i will.

you close your eyes. the sound of the crowd still echoes in your ears. his arms around you, shaking from the race, from the weight of it all. how he buried his face in your neck like the win didn’t matter half as much as the fact that you were there. how he whispered, “i did it for you.”

he always did.

december 12 – i said it. i told her i love her. and i meant it so hard i thought my chest might give out.

your breath catches before you even turn the page.

it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. not that night. not like that. we weren’t dressed up. there weren’t candles. it was just us. just the couch.  just a shitty movie playing in the background. she was curled up next to me, stealing all the blankets. hair a mess. feet cold. skin warm. she was ranting about something—some professor she didn’t like, or the terrible sandwich she had for lunch.  and i wasn’t even listening. not really. i was just looking at her. and i thought, god. i love you. and it came out.  just like that. out loud.

your fingers tremble as you turn to the next page.

she stopped talking. just blinked. looked at me like i’d thrown a brick through the window. i panicked.  i froze.  i didn’t even try to take it back. i just said it again. “i love you.”and then, quieter: “i didn’t mean to say it right now. i just—i mean it.”

you laugh—soft, broken, a sound from somewhere deep.  you remember the way he said it.  like it had been sitting behind his teeth for months.

she stared at me for a second. and i swear, my whole life happened in that silence. then she kissed me.  slow. full. like she was trying to memorize me.. sappy... and then she whispered, “took you long enough.”

your chest tightens. your fingers press to the page like touching his words might let you feel him again.

i don’t care how long i live— that moment? that kiss? the way she smiled after? that’s the one i’ll take with me. that’s the one i’ll keep. forever.

you close the journal against your heart.  tears fall in silence. not from pain— not only. but from knowing, absolutely, that you were loved. so fully. so honestly. and that even now, he’s still loving you in every word he ever left behind. your lips tremble as you part your lips, “why’d you have to defend this country you stupid man.. you should’ve just became a fucking scientist or something.” you half laugh half hiccup as you held the journal tighter against you.

after some time you peel from it, readying yourself for the next excerpts.

april 4 – first time. i don’t know how to write this without it sounding like every dumb teenage diary in every coming-of-age movie, but— we slept together. and yeah, it was sex.  but it was more than that. it was her hands in my hair when i couldn't stop shaking.  it was how she made me feel safe even when i felt like i didn’t know what the hell i was doing. i’ve never been looked at like that before.  like i was something worth loving. like i could mess up and still be enough. she kissed my shoulder after and whispered,  “we’re good, yeah?” and i said,  “we’re so good, baby.” and i meant it with every damn cell in my body.

august 28 – the scare. she was late. not by a day. by five. i didn't sleep the whole week. and it’s not that i wasn’t ready—hell, i don’t know if anyone’s ever ready.  but i wasn’t scared of being a dad. i was scared of what it might do to her. of her giving up the sky she wanted for diapers and night feeds and stress.but when she told me it was a false alarm— we just sat in the bathroom, laughing.  half from relief, half from how stupidly close we felt to everything changing. and i think that’s when i knew. if it had been real, i’d have loved that kid so hard they’d never doubt who their father was. because she’d be the mother. and that alone would’ve made them magic.

february 2 – ring shopping, kinda.  okay, okay.  technically i said we were helping james pick out a ring for his girlfriend. technically, that wasn’t a lie. but also, i wanted to see what she’d pick.  what made her eyes light up.  what styles she hated.  what made her whisper, “i could wear something like that forever.” and damn, she did. there was this one—gold, thin band, little oval-shaped diamond tucked in the center. she didn’t even say much about it. just touched the glass in front of it and smiled like she saw a future. our future. i didn’t buy it that day.  but i went back.  and i swear, when the time comes— i’ll put it on her finger like a promise. like everything i am belongs to her.

you didn’t think it would hit this hard.

you thought this one would be sweet. nostalgic. the kind of memory you keep behind glass and smile at when no one’s looking.  but the second your eyes land on the words

your throat tightens. you know this one.

you pull the journal closer, your thumb resting against the page, and you start to read.

may 25 – graduation. i asked her. i was valedictorian.  they called my name last. the applause was loud. i smiled, shook hands, made jokes. i gave a speech. i don’t even remember half of it. because all i saw was her. and i also forgot my speech paper at home.

your eyes sting immediately. you bite down gently on the inside of your cheek—like maybe if you anchor yourself hard enough, you won’t fall apart. you remember where you sat that day. front row.  wearing his jacket even though it was warm out. hands trembling in your lap.

she was front row. wearing my jacket. eyes red from crying. hands clutched in her lap like she was trying not to run up onstage and tackle me.

you let out a shaky breath, tears sliding slowly down your cheek.  it’s like watching a memory through someone else’s eyes—but it’s yours. it always was.

i had the ring in my pocket the whole time. heart racing so hard i thought it would give out. after the speech, i asked her to come up.  she looked confused. nervous. and when she finally walked up there— i dropped to one knee in front of the entire class.

you smile through the tears. god, the way the crowd erupted.  how you covered your mouth and shook your head in disbelief, even though you knew. you always knew.

i said, “i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you.  i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. will you marry me?” and she said yes.

you press your fingers to your lips, like you can still feel the kiss you gave him onstage—fast, breathless, the only answer you could give.  Yes.  a hundred times yes.

i’ve never won anything more important.  not the title. not the speech. her. she’s it.

you close the journal slowly, but your fingers stay pressed to the cover, unmoving.

his handwriting still lingers behind your eyelids. the way he wrote her—not even your name, just her, like it was enough.  like it said everything. and maybe it did. you lean back against the couch, cradling the journal like a heartbeat.  your voice is barely a whisper when you say it out loud.

“you were it for me too.”

you open to the next entry. the page feels heavier.

september 10  – wedding day. i don’t know where to start. maybe with the way her hands shook when she laced them with mine. maybe with how she kept adjusting her veil like it wasn’t already perfect. maybe with the way i saw her walking toward me and forgot how to breathe.

you exhale shakily. your hand lingers on the ink where he pressed a little harder—where he wanted the words to stay loud, like that moment still echoed in his chest.

she looked like sunlight.  like warmth. like she was born to ruin me and rebuild me in the same breath. and god, she did.

you smile through the tears, lips trembling. you remember the way he cried first. you remember laughing at him—softly, not to tease, but because it was so unmistakably caleb to weep like that and pretend he wasn’t.

she made fun of me for crying.  i said, “have you seen yourself?” she rolled her eyes.  and then she promised forever. and i promised it back. with every cell in my body.

your smile was forlorn. you stared at this entry just a bit longer than the others.. eventually you flip to the next entry, dated not long after.

november 14 –she’s pregnant. i’m writing this with both hands shaking. she told me this morning. came into the room holding that little test like it was a secret, like if she said it too loud the moment might disappear. i was brushing my teeth. i almost dropped the toothbrush. and then she said, “you okay?”and i said, “i think i’m in love with you all over again.”

you cover your mouth. you remember the way he dropped to the floor like his legs gave out. how he kissed your stomach before you even had a bump.  how he whispered, “we’re gonna be parents,” like it was something holy.

she kept pacing. said she wasn’t ready. said she was scared.and all i could think was— i get to build a life with her. a home. a child who’s half her, half me.and if this baby has even an ounce of her fire— the world better watch out. …maybe we should name it apple.

your eyes squeeze shut. your hand shakes against the page.

 august 12 –  she’s here. our daughter. i don't even know how to start this. i've rewritten the first line seven times. nothing feels big enough. no words feel like they belong to what just happened. but she's here. our little girl. and she’s perfect. her name sounds different when i say it out loud now.  heavier. real.  it used to be a name we whispered over dinner. a maybe. a dream. now it’s a person. a whole person. and she has my eyes. i swear to god the second they handed her to me— i thought the whole world paused. like even time wanted to watch.

you smile through the tears. your fingers rest over the date on the page, like holding it might take you back to that room—where everything changed.

you flip through more pages, just details of his experiences with your daughter. he was sweet, adoring, and the sweetness may have fooled you if your eyes didn’t land on this page;

february 18 –  i’m leaving in the morning. deployment orders came in. she tried so hard not to cry. held our daughter in one arm, kissed my cheek, told me she’d hold the sky down till i came back. she always says things like that—poetic and steady.  like if she can speak it into the world, it’ll make it true.i wanted to believe her. i do believe her. but i’m scared. not of the mission.  not of flying. i’m scared of missing too much.

march 4 – base is loud. hot. everyone’s tired. i think about them all the time. i have a picture taped to the inside of my locker—one of the three of us on the couch, blankets everywhere, popcorn stuck to our shirts. my daughter’s head is in her mom’s lap.  her mom is laughing. i look like i’ve already won the war. i stare at that photo every morning before briefing. whisper to it,  “i’m coming home. wait for me.”

you flip through more entries, until you get to the last page. you almost didn’t want to read it. head light, breath staggered, the paper felt thinner now. you take a deep breath– or as best as you possibly can, and continue.

may 3 – in case something happens. i need this written down. i don’t know why i feel like writing this now.  maybe it’s just a quiet night.  maybe the wind sounds different. maybe love makes you preemptive. just in case. if i don’t make it home— if you’re reading this—god, i hope you know i loved you with everything i had. from the moment you kicked a vending machine to the day you said “i do.”  from the time you placed our baby girl in my arms to the last voice note you sent before this mission. you’ve been my gravity.  my sky. my reason to fight, and the softness i always returned to. and if i don’t get to hold her again—  tell her i never stopped trying.  tell her she’s brave like her mommy.  and kind. and funny. and too smart for this world. tell her i was hers from the first time i felt her kick. and you. you, baby— live. laugh again. love again. fall asleep in someone’s arms and know that it’s okay. you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky. until you find me again.

his final entry is burned into your mind. the words feel heavier than paper has any right to be.  your hands are shaking. your lips part like you want to say something, maybe to him, maybe to the empty room—  but nothing comes out. just air.  shallow. trembling.

you press the journal to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.  and then it hits. not slowly. not gently. like a punch straight through your ribcage. the kind of grief that doesn’t knock. it takes. your body curls in on itself. your shoulders begin to shake.  and the first sob breaks out of your throat like it’s been waiting days to escape. you try to muffle it— fist pressed against your mouth, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a cry.  but it keeps coming. a second sob. then a third. and then you’re full-on breaking.

you bury your face into the hoodie still stained with his cologne, the one you’ve worn three nights in a row.  your knees draw up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold your heart in place.

you can’t wake her.  your daughter is down the hall. so you cry as quietly as you can. but the pain still slips through.  in your breathing. in the way your body rocks slightly like he used to do when she cried in the middle of the night.  like you’re trying to soothe yourself the way he would’ve done.

you were my forever.  and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky.

your hand presses to your mouth to stifle the next sob, but it still escapes—loud enough to crack through the silence,  not loud enough to wake her.

you whisper his name. once.  twice.  like a prayer that’ll never stop aching.

and then, quieter: “i miss you, caleb. i don’t know how to do this without you.”

you sit there in the dark, with his words against your heart and your tears soaking the only piece of him you still have left to hold. and for the first time in days,  you let yourself fall completely apart. because tonight,  you don’t have to be strong. not for her.  not for anyone.

just for this—  this goodbye you never got to say, and this love that never stopped living inside you.

a few days later

the house is quiet. soft sunlight spills through the kitchen windows, painting the floor in gold. the kind of morning that doesn’t ask much of you, just presence. just breath.

you’re at the sink, mindlessly rinsing dishes that weren’t even that dirty. the journal still lives on the table behind you. closed, but not untouched.  you haven’t opened it again—not yet. you will. just… not yet.

and then— the front door swings open.

“mommy!” your daughter calls, her voice high and full of breathless excitement.

you turn, startled. she’s carrying a basket. no, dragging it, really—too big for her tiny hands, but she’s determined. a woven handle hangs off her wrist, stuffed to the brim with pastel-colored wrapping and little ribboned items peeking through the top.

she marches straight into the kitchen and sets it down with a loud thud.  you blink at it.

“baby… what’s all this?”

she beams, huffing and puffing, “lukey and kiereny’s dad gave it to me at pickup! he said it’s for you!” you freeze. luke and kieren. you know those names. they’re in her class. and their dad— that’s…

you kneel down slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “he gave you this? for me?”she nods hard.  “he said it was to make you feel better. and he said you could call him if you were sad.” you glance at the basket—carefully curated, clearly thoughtful.

bath bombs in calming scents. artisan chocolate. a small jar of lavender honey. a soft-rolled pair of cozy socks.

and nestled between everything, a sealed envelope with your name written across it.

you take it with gentle fingers. your daughter leans against your arm, watching. you unfold the note.

i’m sorry for your loss. i understand how you feel. if you ever need anybody, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.

— sylus

and below was his phone number.

you read it twice. then a third time. short. simple. but it lands softly in your chest like something warm against all the cold. he didn’t overstep. didn’t try to fix it.  he just… offered his hand.

you let out a slow breath, blinking hard. “do you know him?” your daughter asks, looking up at you. you smile—small, tired, but real.  “not really,” you say. 

“but maybe i will.”

[p0orbaby]

Pl plz plz some Leah smut. Like reader has been travelling & leah has been sex deprived & when reader returns leah jumps her x

it’s not quite smut but it’s close enough

oh, and i’m sort of back…

-

You barely get the key in the door before it’s yanked open from the inside, like Leah’s been standing there, waiting, vibrating with unspent energy, and, more likely, unchecked rage. She looks good, which is annoying. Her hair’s slightly damp, and she’s in one of your hoodies—the grey one with the slightly frayed cuffs, the one she always steals when she wants to get away with things.

She stares at you. Not in a romantic, teary-eyed, oh-my-God-you’re-home way. More like she’s assessing the damage. More like she’s calculating just how much she’s going to make you pay for leaving her here alone. Three weeks. Alone. In this house. With only her own hand and a rapidly depleting sense of self-control.

“You,” she says, like an accusation.

“Me,” you say, stepping inside, dropping your bags.

She’s still staring.

“Miss me?” you ask, grinning.

She doesn’t answer, just grabs the front of your shirt, pulls you fully inside, and slams the door shut.

“Three weeks,” she says, voice clipped, already backing you against the wall. Her fingers curl in the fabric, knuckles whitening. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like?”

Leah has never been known for her patience. Not in queues, not in traffic, not in meetings, and certainly not when it comes to you. Three weeks you were gone. A press tour. Obligations. Endless flights, different time zones, hotels with beds that smelled like washing detergent and other people’s lives. Facetimes that never quite felt like enough. She’d lasted the first week with nothing but passive-aggressive texts and the occasional call, voice tight with the kind of restraint that suggested she was moments away from losing her composure entirely. By week two, she was openly sulking. By week three, you were receiving messages like, “I am actually going to die” and “This is inhumane” and “I hope you’re happy, my muscles have atrophied.”

“I was working”

“I had to do yoga.”

You blink. “You?”

“Yes.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “Jesus.”

She exhales sharply through her nose, jaw tight. “Not funny.”

“No, of course not.” You shake your head solemnly. “Very serious.”

She glares at you. “I am not joking. And I had to light a candle.”

This time, you do laugh. “A candle?”

“A fucking lavender one.” Her grip tightens on your shirt. “I’ve been desperate. Like, actually clinically unwell. Do you understand?”

“I think I can imagine—”

“You can’t,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “You’ve been in Italy. Drinking espresso. Eating pasta. Probably wanking in a five-star hotel—”

“Leah—”

“Meanwhile, I’ve been here. Alone. With a shitty vibtator and several cold showers.”

“You act like I was off having an affair,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Leah exhales, impatient, then tilts her head, considering. “Would’ve been less cruel,” she says eventually. “At least then I could’ve been angry instead of just—” She gestures vaguely at herself. “—sexually malnourished.”

She kisses you before you have a chance to respond, her hands sliding up your chest, curling around the back of your neck, holding you there like she needs to keep you still, needs to make you stay. Her mouth is hot and demanding, frustration spilling over, and when she pulls back, she looks just as angry, just as desperate, just as ready to have you ruin her as she was a minute ago.

“Upstairs,” she says, already pulling you towards the staircase.

You smirk. “You’re keen.”

She stops, turning sharply, eyes dark. “Shut the fuck up and take me upstairs.”

[oh-stars]

Recognition

Love is showing up when someone doesn’t ask.

a @steddielovemonth prompt | 1257 words | CW: N/A | Rating: G

“What time will you be home?” Eddie asks, perched on the couch like a bird, elbows on his  knees and sitting on his heels, toes straining under his weight. He feels like a little gremlin, body needing a way to expel all the energy his boring day off built up while Steve’s been at work. 

Steve sighs and adjusts his tie in the mirror by the door. “If all goes well, eight?” 

Eddie groans and falls back, limbs flailing. “If they expect you to go to school after hours, they should at least pay you,” he says, face squished into the fabric. It’s miserable being on different schedules. He’s been working at the plant until the construction is done on his shop, which means weird hours and being completely off rhythm with Steve. He barely sees the man! 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Steve huffs as he smooths down his shirt, walking towards him. He carefully bends over to kiss Eddie’s pouting lips, laughing at him. God, Eddie’s so glad this man is his. He’s too precious to let go. “I’d stay if I could,” Steve says softly. “You know I hate going to these things.” 

Eddie sighs, giving him a small smile as he touches up the few strands of Steve’s hair that were betrayed by his hairspray. “I know,” he says. “I could always come with you.” 

Steve shakes his head, cheeks pink. “Thank you, but you, uh, really don’t want to go to a boring PTA meeting. All they’re going to do is fight over which classroom should get the crayons.” 

“I’d go for you, Steve,” Eddie says. He sighs again and pushes Steve away. “Go so you can get back.” 

“I love you,” Steve says, stealing another kiss before he finally stands up. 

“Love you too,” Eddie says, smashing his face back into the couch. “I’ll be here, rotting away until you return, my sweet knight.” 

Steve shakes his head and grabs his wallet and keys off the coffee table. Then he’s gone, with the rumble of the Beemer and the faint sounds of David Bowie announcing his departure. 

Eddie lasts a whole three minutes before he’s shooting up off the couch and pacing around the living room as he thinks of something he could do to occupy his time. He’s done about as much housework as he could manage for the day, he doesn’t think he could practice anymore today or write at all with how depleted his creative juices feel, and he knows nothing good comes on TV on Tuesdays in early January. 

That’s how he ends up piddling about Steve’s desk. Steve keeps all his papers that need to be graded meticulously organized, with the ones that are fair game for anyone to grade (aka the ones with scoresheets) in the blue folder. On days where Eddie’s brain was too much, when he couldn’t even look at his guitar without feeling pain or pick up his pencil to be creative in any fashion, he needed something to do to get the excess brain energy out. Robin’s much the same way, so Steve started setting aside his pop quizzes and multiple choice tests in the blue folder for either of them to grade if they needed. Otherwise, he’d get to it eventually. It’s mindless enough to calm their brains, they feel good helping Steve, and it helps give Steve more time to focus on the essays and presentations that need more time to be graded. It’s a win win all the way around. 

The blue folder isn’t as full as normal, but there are a few worksheets Eddie can take care of for Steve. He reaches for the sticker book and the purple pen (Steve’s signature grading color) in the mug Wayne gave him that’s an apple with a little worm for a handle that he uses as a pencil cup. That’s when he sees the PTA flyer. It’s jam-packed with information and minutes from the last meeting, but in big, bold letters at the bottom of the flyer, Eddie reads:

Join us to honor this year’s Teacher of the Year, Mr. Steve Harrington, eighth grade English. 

Eddie puts down the blue folder, the pen, and the flyer. He’s still for exactly one minute before his body goes into flight or fight mode. Within ten minutes, he’s dressed in his nice date clothes and his hair is tamed back into a tight bun, threatening to snap the band. 

Time crunch or not, he drives like a bat out of hell. He has plenty of time to get to the school, they live close enough, but he needs to make a few stops first. All in all, he gets there right as the principal is starting the meeting. 

He tucks himself in a corner in the back, watching the whole thing patiently. The problem is, he can’t really see Steve. Eddie cranes his neck and bounces on his toes, trying to find a way to make it to one of the seats in the center of the auditorium, closer to the stage. 

His opening comes after the chorus does a performance, when the parents at the front scurry their students away before the meeting can continue. First off, rude, but it works in Eddie’s favor. Steve’s award is next and Eddie isn’t missing this. 

Eddie slips into the front row as the principal starts shifting gears, whispering to the vice principal as the crowd settles. 

She announces Steve to a polite applause, but that’s just not good enough for his Steve. 

His palms ache with how hard he’s clapping, just shy of letting out a loud ‘whoop’ – and he’d do it if it wasn’t for the pretty way Steve’s face and ears are pinkening up. Their eyes meet as Eddie beams. 

“Hi,” he mouths, trying so hard to not vibrate out of the seat. 

Steve’s smile softens as he gives a wave of appreciation to the crowd, eyes darting back to Eddie. As the principal sings Steve’s praise and when she hands over the microphone for Steve to say a few words, Steve’s eyes never leave Eddie’s. It isn’t until a few of his students get up to speak that Steve finally looks toward the speaker, his shy smile turning into one of pride. Eddie knows he could care less about the words themselves (it’ll be later tonight that Steve will have a crisis and finally let the kind words sink in, where he’ll cower into Eddie’s body and panic over how much these kids trust him), but rather seeing how brave his kids are for speaking to a crowd this big and doing it so well. 

The award is the last part of the meeting, so after another round of applause, everyone is dismissed. Eddie jumps up to meet Steve at the bottom of the stage. 

“You didn’t have to come,” Steve says as he jumps down. 

“I wanted to,” Eddie says. “I’m proud of you,” he adds as he bumps their shoulders together. 

“I’m just doing my job–”

“Stop,” Eddie says kindly, “you deserve this.” He grabs Steve’s hand and gently tugs him toward the exit. “C’mon, I’m taking you to dinner to celebrate.”

“What about my car?” 

“I’ll drive you to work tomorrow.”

Steve’s blush is even stronger up close, but he doesn’t fight Eddie. And it’s an absolute privilege to watch as Steve gets all shy again when Eddie presents him with flowers once they’re at the van, stammering his thanks as Eddie kisses his cheek swiftly. 

--

Ao3 Link

Thank you @lady-lostmind 💜

[oomox-oclock]

There Was A Time:

Previous chapters/ warnings

10. Raw Power:

A/N:

Guys don't kill me, it has actually been a year since I've updated this shit (Whoopsie!)

and since I'm only taking STEM subjects this year my English has depleted and my writing skills and style probably changed slightly

This chapter is dookie so you can slaughter me dw!!

Second Persons POV:

It had been a few weeks after the party and that day at the hospital, your had nausea died down a few days after using the pills you were prescribed, but your head was still filled with the thoughts of Axl’s confession. That stupid cunt. Making you lose focus every day, trying to come to terms that you’re in the past but also present is bad enough, but having to be professional when you live with THE Axl Rose who just so happens to like you. Is very much the definition of hell on Earth. But for this week you had to buckle down and focus, it was finally the time to get the boys in the recording booth and get those sweet demo tracks out and get labels signed to their rock n roll assess and get working on Appetite as soon as possible.

It's the night before they have to make their way to Sound City for their recording, the guys went out to celebrate and drink, as per usual. You on the other hand did not feel like having to handle a hangover and their nonsense when managing them tomorrow. Duff was the only one that stayed home to have a fat cat nap. You swore that man could sleep through a tornado even if it swallowed up the whole house while he was in it. That’s why you didn’t really care to be quiet while you were cleaning and vacuuming the kitchen, even dancing around and singing out the song that was in your head out loud. On certain days where your brain was in more of the future mindset, remembering pop culture references and events from the 21st century, and today was one of those days. Your hands were on a cloth wiping down the counter while your feet stationed on the floor but your legs moving to the choreography of ‘Single Ladies’ in your head. Still remembering every move from muscle memory. The lyrics of the song came out while the beat played in your head. At a point cleaning the kitchen was second thought as the lyrics were spouted “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it” “oh,oh,oh,oh,oh,oh,oh” and so on and so forth. And with spin you stopped in your tracks. 

Duff stood at where the living area began and hallway ended, in long flannel PJ pants, overworn Ramones shirt, his long blonde hair messy from sleep ad his clothes slightly crumpled. But his eyes looked wide awake as the green in them stared at you in bewilderment and slight confusion. You couldn’t tell what thoughts were going behind his eyes. (But I’ll tell you) One, the way you knew a random dance choreography to a song he’s never heard of confused him, but he analysed the shit out of the lyrics that he heard, did you write the song yourself? Was it about him? These questions filled his head. His crush never faded, and this kind of made it more difficult as to him it felt like you were subconsciously telling him to make a move before you were unavailable, but his brain was a bit fried from sleep to rub two neurons together like that. Adding the fact, his brain short circuited when the lyrics ‘Your love is what I prefer, what I deserve’ hit his ears. Upon never having heard of this song and knowing you often help write lyrics for his own songs he (sleepily) deduced that you wrote the song yourself. And now his brain is running a few hundred miles per minute thinking about the implications. You on the other hand are a bit mortified that he just saw you doing whatever that was. He opened and closed his mouth like a guppy for a few seconds before he spoke. “Uh… What was that?”. What was that? The fuck does he mean what was that?  This hoe doesn’t know Beyonce? Is he stupid or an idiot? “What do you mean you haven’t heard of Beyon-…“ You cut yourself off, remembering it’s the 1980’s Destiny’s Child wasn’t even thing yet. A soft inhale and you make up an excuse. “Uh, just a song I heard on a niche radio station once when I was younger… used to do the dance in the living room when I was younger… still remember it I guess?” It wasn’t a total lie atleast. Duff just gave a nod, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with a still slightly bewildered look.

You don’t know how but in the course of the next few minutes you were teaching Duff how to do the dance choreography to Single Ladies. To be quite honest, he did it better than any just dance routine. He was lanky and had virtually no ass but he made it work. The situation went like this: Duff would put his leg up and you would smack it down. “No, it’s hand, hand and leg up, leg down hand, turn this way…” You showed him slow motion, and he stared intently. To try get the dance right of course. Not just watch you. Then he finally go that part right, you showed him how to do the next section. Unfortunately forgetting you were still mopping the kitchen floor and you slipped on a wet spot, but Duff quickly caught you. (Isn’t he just so dreamy). Then for the rest of the night the two of your laughed and giggled and bonded together, dancing together and by the end having a little slow dance in the kitchen before it got interrupted by the drunk men coming back into the house

The next day, thankfully the boys didn’t go to overboard with drinks last time. Izzy kept them in check, sometimes it felt like he was on your side when he did stuff like that, but then he’d go right back to giving you glares and muttering not so PG words under his breath. After the shitty drive to Sound City with Axl’s car stuttering and backfiring with every little rock it drove over, you made it in one piece some what. “When we get famous I’m gonna be the one buying you a new car to replace that ticking time bomb!” Slash shouted to Axl as they walked to the door. “I’m never letting her go, she’s a classic.” He says as he locks the driver door, but it pathetically falls off its hinges and on the asphalt of the car park with a clang. Steven and Slash nearly piss themselves laughing, Axl gives a glare and scowl, Duff looks back at them calling them, “Come on guys, we’re already late to our session because of that damn car, let’s get inside.” Duff said and smiled down at you knowing that you wanted the same thing, and he was kind of trying to impress you with being a responsible type. With a small smile and nod, you all go inside to the recording studio. Walking down the cramped hallway with dim lighting and maroon carpet under your feet, you find the designated recording booth and go in, it’s much bigger than expected. The production booth has a couch big enough for three people and all five of the guys could fit in the actual recording booth with instruments and all, might be a tight squeeze but not that bad. You sit at the producer booth, to 21st century you this looks an ancient relic, but luck 80’s you could make sense of this. You pressed and shuffled dials until you were satisfied as the boys got their equipment set up. 

You pressed the mic button so that your voice resonated into the recording booth they were in. “Alright, which song are we gonna start with first?” You spoke into the mic. And like parrots they all answered differently. “Night Train!” “Move To The City!” “Out Ta Get Me!” “We should start with my song-“ “No idiot we’re not doing that ten minute sad piano shit, this is a rock band, we’re not Elton John!” Great. Not even a second into recording and they’re having bitch fights. “Guys, guys… let’s just go alphabetically…” You speak into the mic again, and sort the papers with lyrics and notes on it. “Damn children…” You say, but luckily the mic is off. You find a paper and press the mic button again, “We’ll start with Anything Goes alright? Sound good?” Axl and Izzy crossed their arms looking away and grumbling while the other three gave thumbs ups. This was going to be a long day… 

For the rest of the session it actually wasn’t half bad, the songs were like second nature to you, but a lot of them were slower and not quite right but you pulled through, you couldn’t just nit pick everything into perfection in a day. However, Axl thought he could. With every argument you tried to dispute from Axl’s side, he didn’t once glance at you and just crossed his arms looking down at the floor and huffing like child. Izzy, who was the one Axl argued with the most, was being hostile and quiet to you as well, but that’s a given because you knew he disliked you (for reasons unbeknownst to you). However the situation was complicated between you and Axl, you knew that it would be awkward and there would be tension, but the way it was handle was making putting a feeling in your gut like your stomach was eating itself. Whenever you spoke into the mic it was just Duff, Steven and Slash answering, and answering on behalf of Axl and Izzy, Izzy’s reaction was a given, but Axl’s seemed very out of place.

Once when they took a small break, you could sigh and creak out your neck from the kinks of stress. You looked to the boys, Duff and Slash just lazing on the couch or floor drinking a beer. Steven moving his toms around and Izzy tweaking his guitar and writing things on his song lyric papers. Axl nowhere to be found. You rubbed your face with another sigh, you had to speak to him. Get this attitude of his under control, or just sort this situation out. You turned to Duff who was sitting back on his hands on the floor. “You seen where Ax went?” You asked him. “Uhm… I think one of the equipment rooms.” Duff responds. You nod and walk out the room, down the maze-like hallways to try find Axl. You peaked in every room you went past, then started hearing a soft piano melody. There he is. And followed the sound of the keys, weaving through the corridors, getting closer. Getting to the room, you stand in the doorway, seeing Axl sitting by a grand piano, his ginger hair cascading over his shoulders and focused but calm expression was… quite gorgeous. His fingers tickling the ivories, you recognised the melody instantly. But you had to speak up and let him take credibility for his own songs. “Beautiful song… when did you write it…?” You say, and Axl looks up, your eyes meeting. He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “A while ago… I got some lyrics, but I can’t get this stupid piano piece right…” He was avoiding the question. You figured it out quickly, ‘November Rain’, the first time you and Axl kissed was when you drunkenly danced in the cold November rain. It was a stab to the gut, having to act like there was nothing wrong, when the realisation dawned that the most beautiful ballad ever written was about you. “Want some help…?” You asked trying to connect with him again and change the subject in your mind. “No. Go away.” Another quick attitude change from him. ‘Fine, today is not the day’ you think to yourself. But soon you’ll have to thaw this out. 

You walked back to the record booth, seeing Steven, Slash and Duff not there. Izzy left. But you did find a note from Steven saying ‘Going to a record store for inspiration be right back. (And Slash needed to piss but there’s no stupid bathrooms in there) -Steven’ You let out a small chuckle and sticks the note back to where it was. You looked over to Izzy, seeing him still writing and tweaking away at his guitar and strumming some strings. You walk over to him crouching down next to him, already feeling the tension from him, but asking the words anyway. “Do you need any help?” He glanced to you for brief moment before looking back at the papers in front of him, and begrudgingly speaking to you but not looking at you. “I don’t know which song to choose to send out…” “Lemme see.” You held your hand out to take the papers and he scoffs and puts them slightly roughly in your hands. He continues to look away, feeling a little awkward that you’re looking over his work. It was like that day when you were sick and you two actually had a nice moment. But the connection on that day felt too weird to act on or talk about, for both of you. “Ah, I remember these ones…” You said and Izzy internally cringes. Mentally he’s gouging his eyes out and the word ‘Oh my god can this bitch shut the fuck up’ is running through his head. “I’m sure you can send in both of them” “Okay yeah but which one for the album?” Damn he retorted with sass and attitude. You told him that ‘Think About You’ was a bit more tame for the public and new audience’s for a debut album than ‘Back Off Bitch’ and reminded him that they could always make more albums one day and add it in.

Following that, after the break, the boys came together again to keep playing. They recorded songs and even made new ones up on the spot. The next few hours were fun and productive, minor arguments, minor setbacks. This was amazing, every felt like it was falling into place. You were proud of them, proud of how far they’re coming and how far they will go in the near future. It was an exhilarating feeling, seeing them like this, feeling that electric talent emanating from them. They had a real raw power and energy that the sponsors will love and the public, in time. But that positive vibe didn’t last long. They started their playthrough of Back Off Bitch. Axl singing the spiteful and angry lyrics. You knew that he wasn’t the one that wrote the lyrics, but the fact that he was looking right at you while he sang the lyrics, made a few heart strings churn uncomfortably. His blue eyes practically pierced through yours and into your soul as he spat out the lyrics, “Face of an angel with the love of a witch” and adding along “It’s such a pity that you’re such a bitch.” And then they finished the recording, but Axl’s eyes were still glaring into yours.

You had enough of the bullshit, professional or not you needed to sort this out, he can’t just jump from “I want you” to acting you’re the scum of the earth for rightfully rejecting him. 

The boys started packing up. You opened the door between the production booth and recording room. “Axl. Outside. Now.” You said like he was bad dog that just shat all over the new white carpet. The rest of the guys went ‘oooo someones in trouble’ but quickly shut up and continued packing up like nothing happened when Axl glared at them, and he followed your lead out of the building.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?”

“Don’t act ignorant.” You crossed your arms as you looked at him and he mirrored your stance. “What? It’s literally my job to sing.”  He says like nothing is wrong, but his tone indicates his frustration and inner thoughts. “Yes, it’s your job to sing. Not behave like a toddler. What is up with this attitude today?” “I don’t have an attitude.” He retorts and his teeth gritting. “Then what’s the problem? I thought we were okay after the hospital. No hard feelings. But today? Telling me to fuck off and intentionally look at me while singing? What’s your deal?”

“What’s your deal with Duff?”

“What…?”

The change in topic through you for a loop, what did Duff have to do with this? You stepped back a bit and your shoulders slumped with a less defensive angry look, and now more confused.  “Answer the question, and don’t you go playing stupid now.” He says more sternly. “I don’t know what you’re on about” Now you’re starting to sound like him, but this time you really didn’t know. “Oh really? Does dancing in the kitchen with him last night ring any bells? Dancing like we did in the park, remember?” Oh… he’s jealous. “That’s not-“ “And sleeping in his room? Out of everyone it had to be him? So, you and I have to be professional but oooh no, Duff gets to have a free pass.” 

“It’s not like that. Duff and I are just friends. And being professional counts for everyone in the band. Not just you.” You say more calmly. He huffs with a scoff and looks away. “Alright… I’m… sorry. I guess I just wasn’t thinking…” He says still grumpily but apologetic none the less.  You flick his forehead as you walk past him back into the building. “You never think anyway” “Hey-!” He tries to rebuttal in annoyance, but it quickly fades with a small sigh, and an infatuated smile comes one his face. He gives a soft chuckle, he really couldn’t stay mad at you forever, and follows you back into the building. All forgiven, but not all forgotten.

[thisisnotthenerd]

Hey there! Saw your FH statistics back in Ao3, particularly the level progressions, and found it very neat! I just wanted to ask since you've mentioned somewhere how campaigns that start at level 1 have a lot more deaths/downs compared to campaigns that don't (for obvious reasons), do you have a list of pc character deaths and/or downs? I believe that all the deaths were due to failed death saving throws, but were there any killed outright deaths? If not, that's completely alright.

And I do want you to know that your stats are very useful for a bunch of people!! A friend of mine and I write fanfic, and having these at an arms reach is super useful, so I just wanted to appreciate your hard work on it! Thank you for making our researching lives easier!

EDIT 1/20: sorry this took so long to answer; i got busy with the start of my semester and only just got to finish this round of stats.

thank you! i’m so glad they’re useful.

as for the deaths, i don’t have a current list, but you’ve inspired one, so here goes:

dimension 20 deaths

this one’s a doozy, so we’ll be splitting it up based on a few things: season, character, and death v. down. i’m not going precisely by episode because it’s easier to summarize like this, but heavier death episodes will be noted.

a down means the character goes unconscious through depletion of hp (not sleep or stun conditions). this doesn’t necessarily mean they have death saves, as sometimes they are brought up before they have to roll them. a death means three failed saves or more than double damage. not necessarily permadeath—the characters may be revivified or resurrected through other means. permanent deaths are counted separately, as they mean new character introductions.

i did this by reviewing the episode transcripts; if there are any inaccuracies, let me know. i'm just covering the core cast seasons for now, as doing the sidequests in the same post would make this incredibly long to read. plus, once those are done i'll have spreadsheet data for all of them.

core seasons

fantasy high: most of the deaths are concentrated into 3 episodes: clash of the corn cuties, the sisterly showdown, and prompocalypse. in all three cases, the fight was above the bad kids' weight class, and they also dealt with hazards that could have been avoided, i.e. jumping on tables, climbing the roof, flying over the battlefield, etc.

at this point, brennan was still rolling death saves for most of the enemies, so over the course of the season, the bad kids saw doreen, ragh, coach daybreak, and biz glitterdew die through death saves. the tiefling greasers all died on impact, so no death saves for them.

fig faeth: 2 downs, 0 deaths

gorgug thistlespring: 2 downs, 1 death (3 failed death saves)

adaine abernant: 3 downs, 0 deaths

fabian aramais seacaster: 1 down, 0 deaths

kristen applebees: 2 downs, 1 death (3 failed death saves)

riz gukgak: 2 downs, 0 deaths

total: 12 downs, 2 deaths

fantasy high sophomore year (including all fh oneshots): fewer downs/deaths this time, though they were still concentrated into a couple of episodes: the row and the ruction, the forest of the nightmare king, and spring break! i believe in you! (part 2). the bad kids dealt with some additional hazards in these fights, including fabian's deleveling, the mindflayer stun effect, the great unicorn, killian, kalina, and arianwen abernant.

if we count gilear, then the count is nearly doubled. gilear went unconscious 2 times, (3 if we count getting caught in the wheelwell of the van), and fully died 3 times (demons at the hotel cavalier, bill seacaster, armor of pride).

fig faeth: 0 downs, 0 deaths

gorgug thistlespring: 1 down, 0 deaths

adaine abernant: 0 downs, 1 death (oneshot by the unicorn)

fabian aramais seacaster: 1 down, 0 deaths

kristen applebees: 1 down, 1 death (oneshot by the unicorn)

riz gukgak: 2 downs, 1 death (knocked unconscious then killed by killian)

total: 5 downs, 3 deaths (8 downs, 6 deaths counting gilear)

fantasy high junior year: the down count comes back up, though there were no deaths at all this season. most of these came just from the ragenarok fight, as the melee fighters all got repetitively knocked out by porter and brought back up by the kristens.

fig faeth: 2 downs, 0 deaths

gorgug thistlespring: 5 downs, all within the last 3 episodes, 0 deaths

adaine abernant: 5 downs, 0 deaths

fabian aramais seacaster: 4 downs, 0 deaths

kristen applebees: 2 downs, 0 deaths

riz gukgak: 0 downs, 0 deaths

total: 18 downs, 0 deaths

fantasy high totals: 35 downs, 5 deaths (not including gilear. it's 38;8 with him).

fig faeth: 4 downs, 0 deaths

gorgug thistlespring: 8 downs, 1 death

adaine abernant: 8 downs, 1 death

fabian aramais seacaster: 6 downs, 0 deaths

kristen applebees: 5 downs, 2 deaths

riz gukgak: 4 downs, 1 death

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the unsleeping city: another finale concentration, with most of the deaths happening in the last couple of episodes. fewer downs than deaths this go around.

ricky matsui: 0 downs, 1 death (questing blade sacrifice)

sofia lee: 0 downs, 1 death (oneshot by american dream)

kingston brown: 1 down, 0 deaths

misty moore / rowan berry: 0 downs, 0 deaths, 0.5 permanent deaths by virtue of the reincarnation ritual (misty died, rowan born)

kugrash: 1 down, 1 permanent death (bagel of all things)

pete conlan: 0 downs, 1 death (power word kill from robert moses)

total: 1 downs, 3 deaths, 1.5 permanent deaths

the unsleeping city chapter ii: the downs/deaths were all either null or tony simos, with the exception of cody.

ricky matsui: 1 down, 0 deaths

sofia lee: 1 down, 0 deaths

kingston brown: 0 downs, 0 deaths

iga lisowski: 2 downs, 1 death (quasi-death; she did not technically die but was held in a place beyond the realm of the living in a state of near-death)

misty moore / rowan berry: 0 downs, 0 deaths

cody walsh: 3 downs, 0 deaths

pete conlan: 0 downs, 0 deaths

total: 7 downs, 1 death

the unsleeping city totals: 9 downs, 4 deaths, 1.5 permanent deaths. cody, despite only being in 1 of 2 tuc seasons, makes up for a third of the downs.

ricky matsui: 1 down, 1 death

sofia lee: 1 down, 1 death

kingston brown: 1 down, 0 deaths

misty moore / rowan berry: 0.5 permanent deaths (reincarnation ritual)

iga lisowski: 2 downs, 1 death

kugrash: 1 down, 1 permanent death

cody walsh: 3 downs, 0 deaths

pete conlan: 0 downs, 1 death

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a crown of candy: a crown of candy gets a lot of flack for being a deadlier season, but that is really concentrated to the first half, because the party just stops going down after a while. they have the most permanent deaths, but only by a small margin.

liam wilhelmina: 0 downs, 0 deaths

theobald gumbar: 0 downs, 0 deaths

jet rocks: 1 down, 1 permanent death

saccharina frostwhip: 0 downs, 0 deaths

ruby rocks: 1 down, 0 deaths

amethar rocks: 3 downs, 0 deaths

lapin cadbury: 1 down, 1 permanent death

cumulous rocks: 1 down, 0 deaths

total: 7 downs, 2 permanent deaths (3 if you count peppermint preston)

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a starstruck odyssey: given the nature of this season, we did not see any deaths, but lots of the crew going down and back up. aurora nebbins goes in this count because she was an active combatant for a significant number of battles. this season breaks from the trend of beginning/finale concentrated downs, with the majority happening during the battle of the brands.

gunnie miggles-rashbax: 0 downs

riva: 2 downs

norman "skip" takamori: 2 downs

margaret encino: 2 downs

sundry sidney: 3 downs

aurora nebbins: 3 downs

big barry syx: 1 down

total: 13 downs, 0 deaths

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neverafter: the extremely deadly season. tpk in the first battle, multiple moments of the party going down and coming up by the grace of goodberries. no permanent deaths, but many transformative deaths. the most downs/deaths for a single season. outnumbers the other single seasons combined.

rosamund du prix: 4 downs, 2 deaths

mother timothy goose: 2 downs, 1 death

pinocchio: 2 downs, 1 death

puss in boots: 3 downs, 1 death

gerard of greenleigh: 3 downs, 2 deaths

ylfa snorgelsson: 2 downs, 1 death

total: 16 downs, 8 deaths

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let me know what you think!

[wildemaven]

Sweet Creature: Chapter Six

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

WC: 4511

Warnings: 18+ Blog; mentions of food and drinks, unwanted touching, self doubt, pining, two dumb dumbs navigating fEeLiNgS, reader has a nickname but has zero descriptive features, fluff, like always please let me know if there’s anything I missed.

A/N: This chapter!! I think it’s just been a week for me, dealing with minimal sleep and a teething babe— I was near giving up on it. But, it’s done! Wrote out a good portion of it and then hated it so I rewrote it and then ending up going in a completely different direction— but I like where it ended up going. Thanks again for all the love and kind words on this series!! Only 4 more chapters to go!! Adding: Thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for beta’ing this labor of love and all her support and help as I write this!

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Main Masterlist

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An endless loop of vivid thoughts frequent your weary mind— starting early in the morning and well into the evening. 

Dieter, his stupid handsome face and the way he has you falling for him, your brain in a constant flustered state. 

You keep mulling over the possibilities of allowing yourself to be vulnerable, open to the idea of something growing between you and Dieter. 

Each alternative has its advantages and risks. 

Leaning into your feelings and granting Dieter access to the thing you’ve spent years guarding, trusting that he will stand alongside you as you fully open your heart to a chance at a future together. 

But what if he doesn’t want the same things as you?? You contemplate if settling for just his friendship is enough, never pursuing the growing connection between you, accepting him in your life but always at an arm's length. 

Dieter’s impending departure has you a mess, your growing feelings for him only making it worse. 

“Are you still there sweetheart?” 

“Yeah— Sorry Mom, I’m still here.” You assured her, finishing up the rest of your makeup as you get yourself ready for the Capri Hotel’s big event. 

“You sound so far away. What’s bothering you?” 

“Ugh. I don’t even know where to begin Mom. None of it’s really all that bad, just a lot at once I guess.”

“Well, I’m here to listen if you need to get it off your chest.” 

Moments like these, you wished she lived closer, missing your kitchen conversations at the end of a long day. No matter how depleted she was after work, she made dinner with a smile and sat for as long as you needed her to, her shoulders always carrying the weight of your heart when needed. 

“Just trying to keep it together most days. School has been busy, end of year things have me drained. Then there’s the whole gallery thing, it has me stressed I won’t be ready for the showing. I’ve finally managed to get a chunk of my pieces painted and prepped— I have like 5 more to do. And I’m sad it’s closing, I only have a few classes left there.” You pause for a moment, you hadn’t intended on an emotional dump when you called your Mom, just wanted to check in and say hello. “It’s all good things though, so I don’t even know why it feels overwhelming, I guess I feel like I’m going to let someone down somewhere along the way.”

“Hmm. Well, I know how hard you are on yourself, but I also know how hard you work— especially when it involves all the things you love. You’re going to get through it all! I believe in you.”

Her voice feels like a warm embrace as it drifts through your phone, the stress already feeling like it has lifted a bit with her reassurance. 

“So, how are things with your guy? Any new things on that front?”

“Well, he’s not my guy.” Chuckling at her abruptness. “I feel like we’re in a good place now— he feels like a close friend that I’ve known my whole life. And the more time we spend together, the more I—“

“The more you what?”

“I don’t even know, Mom. Like there’s these things he does, I don’t know if he’s just being nice or what, but he does these little things that make me so happy. He brings me coffee in the mornings when he drops his niece off at school, leaves little notes for me on the cups— I save them Mom, I have a stack of these coffee cups in my kitchen.”

You hear a muffled hum, her signal that she’s already preparing her response to what you have to share, but allowing you to continue. 

“He came to one of my classes, and you know what he did? He painted a portrait of me— who does that?! And now, we text each other all the time and I can’t stop smiling when his name pops up on my phone, because I can’t stop thinking of him. Then he gave me this cute nickname that makes my insides turn to goo any time he says it and I— I…”

“You love him, don’t you?”

“Yeah— I do.”

*

The air is dry, heat waves dancing across the scorching cement, an array of popular songs blaring from the DJ booth situated on the green lawn adjacent to the hotel’s pool deck. 

The re-grand opening celebration of The Capri in full effect. 

The hotel had been drawing in plenty of guests after the renovation, rooms booked out regularly, a quintessential tourist destination for the small town. Its mid-century design of wood, natural tones and pops of color paired with the sleek modern aesthetic throughout the hotel’s property was beginning to be recognized by many publications, all looking to showcase the hotel’s unique style in upcoming pieces. 

The hotel’s name, big white block letter signage, sits atop the covered entryway. A parked yellow Chevy Deluxe adds to the ambiance of the building’s timeless look. 

Giant palm trees and tropical-esque plants in terracotta pots decorate the grounds of the hotel. Small gardens with intimate seating had been strategically placed for optimal usage. A large lawn space in the back was draped in string lighting and had the perfect view of daily sunsets. The pool itself was a perfect backdrop for a day of relaxing, vintage woven lawn chairs and oversized umbrellas lined each side of the large pool surrounded by lush greenery. 

Dieter was able to snag a chair early on, perks of knowing the hotel owner, the umbrella shade blocking enough of the sun to make the extremely warm weather bearable. 

He’s trying his best to enjoy himself, knowing he’s doing Diem a favor keeping an eye on Wren while she’s running around doing her hotel-party hostess duties, but the growing crowd of guests and invitees feel more overwhelming, reminding him of the elaborate Hollywood parties he’s attended. 

Only a few people have stopped to ask for autographs or pictures, slightly surprised there’s still a fan base that has an interest in him these days. 

“How come they don’t want me to sign their papers? I know how to write my name too!” Wren, her voice tinged with a pouty tone, says from where she’s lounging on her chair next to him. 

“I don’t know, Birdie. Next time, you can sign your name too, seems only fair.”

“Okay. I can draw a heart for them too.”

Wren, satisfied with the compromise, goes back to sipping on her iced lemonade and watching one of her shows on her iPad, zero interest in what's going on around her. 

“How’s she doing?” Diem asks as she sits on the edge of the Wren’s chair, placing another lemonade on the small accent table between the two of them. 

“She’s good, wanted to take a break from swimming for a bit. You, umm— hear from Poppy yet?” 

“Why? You finally going to tell her you’ve got it bad for her??” 

Grateful his sunglasses are dark enough to block the eye roll intended for Diem, he glances over to see Wren still absorbed into her show then back to Diem and whispering a low -fuck off- accompanied with a playful middle finger. 

“She texted me a bit ago, said she was running late, but would be here soon— Oh! Speak of the devil, look who just arrived. I’m going to go say hi and I’ll send her over so you can tell her how much you’ve missed her.” Diem’s menacing voice earns her another middle finger from Dieter, leaving him to greet you properly. 

Dieter catches sight of you weaving through the pack of bodies meandering around the pool, taking in how your face lights up the minute you see Diem welcoming you with a hug, both of you embracing each other as if you hadn'tnd just hung out days prior. 

He’s seen you in your casual clothes outside of school before. Usually a pair of favorite jeans and t-shirt, a sundress sprinkled in on warmer days, but something about seeing you in a bathing suit and shorts has his brain short-circuiting almost instantly. 

Tilting his head forward, his pointer finger pulling his sunglasses slowly down the bridge of his nose. He’s completely taken aback, mesmerized by you, noting every little detail—  your captivating features that make him absolutely weak, every delicate curve so perfectly placed, each flaw you try so hard to hide merely a perfect addition to your allurement. 

The second you and Diem turn in his direction, he’s shaken out of his trance, trying to focus on anything to make his blatant staring seem less obvious. 

“I see an open chair next to Dieter, do you think he’ll mind if I hang out with them?” You point to the open space next Dieter, who is helping Wren navigate something on her iPad. 

Unfortunately, as you say it, you notice a beautiful woman sitting in the lounger you were inquiring about. You try your best to keep the tinge of jealousy concealed, the last thing you want is to draw any sort of attention to your feelings for Dieter at this time. 

“Never mind, I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to set my stuff.” There’s a subtle hint of sadness in your eyes, avoiding watching the women openly flirt with him. 

“Babe, you good?” Diem sensing the shift in your demeanor instantly. Peering back at Dieter to see the interaction he’s having with the woman, who now has her hand on his arm, caressing it as she tilts her head and openly ogles him— her fake laugh is a dead give away that she only sees Dieter for his Star Status and nothing more. 

“Yeah— y-yeah, I’m good.” Forcing a somewhat convincing smile. 

“Hey, I’ve got to go check on catering, make sure everything is running on time and then I’m going to grab Wren for her nap— the last thing I need is a 6 year old meltdown. Don’t worry about her, she doesn’t really seem like his type anyways. We’ll catch up in a bit.” Giving you another hug, letting it linger for a minute, then Diem takes off in the direction of the catering truck. 

You’re left standing there, feeling exposed and alone among a sea of strangers. Nervously scanning anywhere but in the direction of where Dieter and the woman are clearly flirting. You contemplate what an appropriate amount of time to spend here would be, before slipping out unnoticed. 

It reminds of you showing up to a middle school dance, dressed in the new fancy dress you picked out for the special occasion in hopes of seeing the cute boy, who’s name you spent most of the school year scribbling in your notebooks. Only to walk into the dimly lit and poorly decorated gymnasium to see he is with the head cheerleader and they’re both making heart eyes at each in the middle of the dance floor. 

Part of you wants to shrink into the shadows of the crowd, ruminate over the signals you read completely wrong this whole time. Dieter was just being nice, friendly— at no fault of his. You blame yourself for thinking he might have some interest in you, reading into the little details and thinking that you were even his type— clearly far from it. 

An up tempo song blasts through the speakers, amping the tone of the party up and pulling you out of your brief moment of sulking. 

Friends. Just friends. Dieter and you are friends and that has to be enough for you. 

You head in the direction of the open bar, hoping an ice cold beverage will help unburden your angsty thoughts. 

“We should hang out sometime!” Dieter cringes at the advances this random woman keeps making towards him. 

If this wasn’t his sisters hotel, he’d probably wouldn’t feel bad in being harsh and telling this woman to fuck right off. But he doesn’t want to cause a scene, not knowing how she would react to his rejection. 

“Umm, I don’t know— I’ve got a lot going on right now.” Let her down easy. 

“Oh come on! You’re not doing anything, you just got out of rehab— and they’ve got you trapped in this boring town too. I’m sure we could find something fun to do together. I know a few parties are happening in WeHo coming up, I can make a few calls— get some treats to liven things up.” Her hand still fondling his arm. 

He winces at her crass comment, a reminder of why he chose to escape the acrimonious world of Hollywood. 

He doesn’t have a single regret about being here in Ojai either, he enjoys its simplicity and is starting to feel like he could see himself here long term. 

“Look, I’m sure you're nice and all— but I’m not interested.” 

“Okay, well we can do something else then. How about we go back to my room, I’m staying here.” Wiggling her hotel key between her fingers. 

She’s clearly not grasping at the obvious hint Dieter is giving her. 

“No, I’m not interested in your room or you.” He says politely, grabbing her hand and removing it from his arm. 

“What do you mean?!”

“He has a girlfriend, lady!” Wren piped up in Dieter’s defense. 

“Wait! You have a kid? And a girlfriend?”

“No— to both things.” 

“God, rehab made you so fucking boring.” She scoffed, offended by his sobriety and his lack of interest in her. 

“Okay, so what we’re not going to do is that, my niece is right here. You can go now.” 

She didn’t hesitate at his request, grabbing her things and walking away— pretending to be unbothered by the rejection. 

“Sorry about that Birdie. Some people are just—“

“Weird!”

“Yeah, weird. Hey, Birdie?”

“Yeah.”

“I know you think Poppy is— she’s not my girlfriend, we’re just friends. So, let’s maybe not call her that anymore okay?” Although, he likes the way the two words mix together in the same sentence. 

He worries it’s going to slip in your presence, he knows wren means no harm by it, but he would hate for you to feel uncomfortable if you ever were to hear her say it. 

“Mhmm.” Her non-committal response earns her a laugh, fully focused on her show like nothing ever happened. 

Dieter takes in the lively atmosphere around him. Laughter emanating from the party guests gathered in small groups around the pool, a carefree crowd dancing throughout the lawn area, smiles plastered on everyone’s faces— he couldn’t be more proud of Diem and all she has accomplished. 

Readjusting the collar of his colorful half buttoned shirt, Dieter settles back into the chair, letting the sun kiss every bit of his exposed skin. 

“How are things going over here?” Diem quietly asked, pulling Dieter from his ruminative thoughts. 

Diem scoots Wren’s listless legs over to allow room for her to sit down, leaning over she grabs the device from her tiny sleepy hands, Wren’s little head nodding as she struggles to keep her drowsy eyes open. 

“No complaints, looks like you had a good turnout. I’m really proud of you Diem, not just all of this,” His hand pointing around to her accomplishments on display in the form of a successfully running hotel and her well executed re-grand opening festivities. “But with Wren too. I’m glad that I got this chance to be with you both.”

“Don’t go getting all sappy on me—“ Her voice wobbly and soft as she beams at his acknowledgment of her dedication to her work and Wren. “Thank you. And I wouldn’t have been able to pull this off without your help.”

Dieter nods, mirroring her heartfelt gratitude. 

“Have you seen Poppy? I saw you both talking earlier.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate, wanting to know your whereabouts, if you’re okay and why you’re not here— with him. 

“She didn’t make it over?” His brows draw together, shaking his head slightly. Her nose wrinkled at the realization of why you hadn’t come over. 

“What?” 

“She saw you and your— little friend earlier, I don’t know for sure, but she seemed somewhat saddened by it. I’m surprised she didn’t come over though.” 

“Shit! I gotta go. You good with her.” He stands abruptly, an unnerving feeling creeping up from his chest, hoping you didn’t mistake what you saw for anything but an awkward fan interaction. 

“Yeah, go. I’m going to go put her down in my office.” Scooping up Wren’s sleeping frame. “Dieter?” 

He turns back to her calling his name, hands flexing at his side, a nervous tick of his, as he waits for what Diem has to add. 

“You should tell her.” 

He’s not sure why it’s so difficult to find someone in a somewhat enclosed area. His eyes scanning every ecstatic face as he sidesteps through conversations anchored in effervescent exuberance, a stark contrast from his growing collection of spiraling thoughts. 

If he could just find you, explain the situation to you in its entirety. 

Explain how he truly feels. 

How you'rer his first thought when he wakes in the morning, the giddy anticipation of seeing how beholden you are as he hands you the coffee he picks up from the bakery Wren and him stop at before school, how he takes in the way you tilt your head just enough to read the ridiculous notes he scribbles on the sides of each cup, “Have a Brewtiful Day!” “Better latte than never.”—each one extracting the most intoxicating laugh. 

How he looks forward to seeing your face light up at his stupid jokes, never once admitting how horrible you think they are. 

How you’re an added reason for him to want to be sober, never wanting to be on the receiving end of your disappointment in him. He wants that rewarding experience of seeing how proud you are of him. 

And how he wants nothing more than to have you in his arms— morning, noon and night, keeping you as close as he possibly can, terrified that you’ll disappear the moment he lets you go. 

His world seems to come to a standstill, everything he had been working up the courage to tell you, drained from his mind instantly. 

Utterly shattered by the sight of you. 

That smile of yours, paired with a full body laugh, directed at the man standing next to you. Your hand holding the top of his oversized bulging bicep as his large hand gently cups your elbow, leaning into each other as you both exchange words. 

A reality he hadn’t even considered in the time he spent looking for you— you being happy with someone who isn’t him. 

Crushed. 

Confused. 

Broken. 

It’s a dizzying sensation. A chance lost— or so he thinks. 

Rubbing his hands against his shorts, removing the evidence of his anxious response to seeing you wrapped up in what looked like an intimate conversation, his head still in a fogged state of shock. 

He manages to will his body to move from where he’s been standing. His jaw ticks anxiously, surrounded by bodies dancing around his blurry peripherals. Releasing a deep sigh, he looks back to you once more, looking for what he hopes is closure. 

Instead, he catches the moment the man you’d been friendly with, gesturing a goodbye as he retreats from the space he’d been sharing with you. 

Dieter watches the way your expression morphs from bright and bubbly to soft and muted the minute you're alone, leaning against the cocktail table with your face tucked into your shoulder, closing yourself off from everything and everyone. 

“Mind if I join you?” Dieter calmly approaches you, still holding on to the single thread of hope that he didn’t lose his chance. 

“Hey! Of course you can.” Your face instantly lights up at the sight of him, patting the open spot on the table, genuinely welcoming him to be with you. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” 

“What do you mean?” A line appears between your brows, shifting your body to fully face him with one arm still draped over the table top, your fingers casually drawing shapes onto the silky thin table cloth. 

“The guy, I saw you talking to him— looks like he works out, a lot— the man is very hot.” Words fumbling out of his mouth, as he points back in the direction he thinks he saw the muscular guy head in. “I just mean, I don’t want to interrupt if there’s something potentially happening there.”

Your lips pressed together in an attempt to fight off the urge to laugh. 

“What?”

“There was nothing happening there, like at all. That was Dan, he’s a good friend and he comes to classes at the gallery. I’d offer to introduce you two, since you think he’s so hot, but he just got back from his honeymoon— with his equally hot husband. We were just catching up.” 

Dieter winces at your explanation of who the man was, feeling like an idiot for so foolishly assuming you were falling for the guy. 

“Besides, he’s not really my type.” You state boldly with your head cocked to the side, one eye squinting to block the sun rays as you take stock of the way the sunlight tangles in his hair. 

“Where’s your friend from earlier? She was really pretty. You both really seem to be hitting it off earlier.” Keeping your tone neutral, looking down at where your fingers are now pulling at a loose thread on the tablecloth, preparing yourself for how his response is definitely going to wreck you. 

His hand settles next to yours, his fingers nervously tapping onto the hard surface. 

“Actually, I have no clue who she was— didn’t even ask for her name, didn’t want to know it either. Sure, she was pretty and maybe in different circumstances I might have been interested in her… She was pissed though when I turned her down, I actually had to tell her to leave.”

“Really— Why?” Your attention drawn back up to where he’s still studying you, his brown eyes locked with yours, now etched in a glistening golden light from the setting sun. 

He lifted his shoulders in a gentle shrug, taking a deep breath as he looked at you, “She just isn’t who I’m interested in.” 

When you think back to when you were growing up, constantly daydreaming about what it would feel like the moment you realized you were in love, and if it would feel as good to have that same feeling reciprocated back to you, by someone who wholeheartedly felt the same way. 

You decide that this is that moment, and it’s even better than you imagined it would be. 

Dieter’s eyes drift over to the table, his hand slowly inching closer to yours, the light brush of his fingers over the top of your hand is electric, your breath catching as he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours. 

His thumb, tender as it slowly smooths over the ridges of your hand, glancing back to you to make sure that there’s no sign of discomfort in your face— you squeeze your fingers, a silent ‘I’m more than okay with this’. 

A breeze picks up, his hair tousling around as it blows through where you both are standing. You lift your free hand to swipe the hanging curls out of his face, your fingers taking liberty to rake through his downy hair, each curl bouncing back into place. 

“What’s your type then?” It’s menacing the way his husky voice cuts through the steady silence, encouraging you to share with him. 

“Hmm…Tall, funny, sweet, driven, pretty— like really fucking pretty. Also has to answer to Uncle Dude in the presence of a sweet little 6 year old. Know of anyone who might fit that description?”

He nods along as you list off each quality, his eyes lighting up at mentioning good-looking. 

“That’s quite the list.” He quips, your breathy laugh prompting a lopsided grin from him. “So— pretty, huh?”

“Yeah— really fucking pretty.” Your words are drawn out in a sincere manner, noting the way his eyes crinkle a little at the compliment. 

Dieter’s hand nestles at the base of your neck, drawing your body closer to him. His touch potent and satisfying, as he commits to memory the way your skin feels beneath his fingertips, gliding them down your bare spine leaving goosebumps in their wake— his gaze never leaving yours. 

“You’re interested in someone?” The answer seems obvious, but you want to hear it from him. 

“Poppy, you gotta know it’s you—“ He utters earnestly with both of his hands now cupping your cheeks, watching the way your lips part as he leans in closer. “I lo— like you so fucking much Poppy, you’re the only one I’m interested in.”

The way he started to say that he loves you, it feels like you might float away, anchoring your hands on his wrists. Everything tingles in your stomach, he’s so close, his breath fanning over your lips. Your lashes flutter as he slowly angles your face, his nose brushing against yours. 

It’s a whirlwind of energy drifting between both of you, building intensity with each passing second, the finality of the moment bound to be explosive. 

Tiny hairs of his mustache grazing the underside of your nose. The top of his lip begins to settle over yours, it’s pillowy weight slowly meeting your—

*RING RING RING*

“Fuck!” The word vibrates across your upper lip at the vexing sound of Dieter’s phone ringing, offensively interrupting the flow of your almost kiss and urging him to answer it. 

“I swear, if that’s Diem—“ A picture of Diem and Wren lights up the phone screen, his thumb swiping across to accept the call, he stands to his full height as he presses the device to his ear. “Hey, what’s up?… Okay… Yeah…Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute then… Love you too, bye.” Dieter ends the call and shoves his phone back into his pocket. 

The entire phone conversation, his focus remains on you. His free hand never leaves the side of your face, thumb stoking across the warmed apple of your cheek—Your hand still holding on to him, the cadence of his heart-rate is rapid against your palm. 

“Diem?” 

“Yeah, she said Wren wanted to go home. She has to stay for another hour or two, make sure things close out here before she can head home.” He explains, zero annoyance detected in his face. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m perfect.” You say  softly, an airy smile spreading across your face. “What do we do now?”

Dieter takes in your question, so many answers floating around in his mind, but none of them feel sufficient enough at this moment, wanting to properly share everything he’s been feeling without being rushed or interrupted. 

He leans back into your space, his lips pressing a chaste kiss between your brows before resting his forehead against yours. 

“We’ll figure it out as we go.”

Next

[stuck-in-a-forest]

ok y'all, here's the first chapter of the story I'm writing. I haven't really written anything before, and this is very very unedited, so please don't judge. Any advice is apprecaited :]

Chapter 1

[ insert city name ] sprawls out before me. It stretches out so far into the distance, changing from tightly packed and crooked buildings to towering stone buildings as the city changes from broken down and depleted to luxurious and beautiful. It’s nighttime, when everyone is asleep, and the streetlights glitter throughout the blur of structures. I don’t know how long I stand on the rooftops, staring out at the view before Ril bumps her head against my hip, sniffing at my messenger bag. I turn to look at her, pretending to be offended before patting her on the head. Ril is a Manifestation. Manifestations are creatures that form when there is a lot of one specific emotion in one place for a long time. I don’t know exactly what emotion Ril formed from, but when I was looking for a place to live a while ago, I stumbled upon her in an abandoned art shop and decided to move in. Ril and I were fast friends, and now she’s my sidekick for whenever I go on missions.

Anyways, back to the task at hand. I tear my eyes away from the city-scape which will ever fail to enthrall me, and scamper down the roof, Ril right on heels. If you hadn’t guessed, I don’t live in the best part of [ insert city name ]. And by not the best part, I mean the part that never has enough food or jobs or enough of anything. Then there’s the government enforcers, ready to squash any attempt at a rebellion. Their propaganda says Keeping you safe, one step at a timeI. And we can’t forget about the merchants, the rich ones who have plenty of everything, who come down here to set up their carts and shops, ready to pretend to sympathize with the people who work twice as hard as them for half as much. As a 14 year old, I don’t exactly have a steady source of income, so the obvious solution is to steal from the suckups who won’t notice when some food and supplies here and there go missing.

I’ve made it to the central square of this part of town by now, and I shimmy down the side of a building and land softly on the ground. I look over at Ril whose eyes are bright with anticipation. I always grab her a special snack when I steal food, and I think she likes the thrill. 

I grab the lock picks out of my pocket and get to work. It doesn’t take me long. It’s not a tricky lock and I’ve picked this one specifically countless times before.

The lock clicks and I turn the doorknob. The creak the door makes sounds deafening in my ears, but I know hardly anybody is awake to hear it. Ril noses her way in and I follow behind her. We’ve been to this place before and I quickly get to work, grabbing canned food and bread, towels and bottled water from the various cupboards and cabinets. What I can’t fit in my bag, I strap to Ril’s back. She’s strong, and very willing to carry the bulkier things back home. Once I’ve grabbed everything I need, Ril and I walk back out the door, and I lock it behind us. I climb back up the rough brick wall and start to head back home.

The sun has just started to peak past the horizon when I slide in through the sunroof of the old art store, my feet landing on the makeshift loft I’ve made. Ril flops down right beside me. I take off the supplies on her back and she walks away, through the rafters and to her nest of yarn and fabric scraps. I climb down from the loft and store all the supplies in their respective places and take off my glasses, placing them on the small table next to the mirror propped up by the shelves full of a mix of art supplies and canned food, before hanging my messenger bag up on the hooks by the bottom of the loft latter. I like to be awake at night, when it's just me, Ril, and the stars. I close my eyes and slip into sleep.

…

I don’t know how long I’m asleep before Ril wakes me up, nudging me with her snout. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Sunlight streams through the skylight and windows, shooting beams of brightness through the dusty air. I hop out of bed, my feet hitting the concrete floor. I walk over to my mirror where I left my glasses last night. My hair is a mess. It’s cut just above my shoulders, wavy as ever, and, right now, a massive frizz ball. I grab a hairbrush and try and get my hair to behave before slipping my glasses on. Looking back at me is a person with bright blue-green hair and pink eyes.

One of my favorite things about [ insert city name ] is how, despite everything, there’s so much color. The banners made from torn up scraps of fabric. The patchwork of signs advertising everything from knitted sweaters to high heeled boots. And, of course, everyone's eyes and hair, colors ranging from red to purple to silver and everywhere in between. From my limited knowledge about the world a century ago, everybody’s hair and eyes were much less colorful, but I’m not complaining. I love the way my eyes and hair look.

Turning away from the mirror, I approach my dresser which is at the foot of my bed. I pull out the drawers and look at my options. It’s been pretty warm out lately, so I grab a pair of denim shorts, ripped with a good amount of pockets and a canvas tank top. I look down at my watch. It’s almost 12:00 pm, so I grab a granola bar from the supplies I stole last night and shove it into one of my pockets. 

Despite my love for being outside and alone at nighttime, I do still love the city during the day. Bustling with people of every variety, Manifestations trotting throughout the street.

Ril follows right behind me as I climb the ladder to the loft, grabbing my bag as I leave. I reach up and open the skylight before pulling myself out onto the roof. Regardless of whether it’s day or night, I’d still rather be on the rooftops than the street. It’s way easier to move up here, instead of the busy streets.

After 5 minutes of hopping from rooftop to rooftop, I’m back at the central square. This time, I climb down a ladder bolted to the side of the building. It’s not terribly uncommon to walk on the rooftops instead of the street, and I run into other people up here occasionally.

Once I’m on the ground, Ril and I start making my rounds to some of the carts. If you hadn’t already guessed, I love art. I’ve been running low on some art materials back home, and the only places that sell those are other people like me, people who don’t always have what they need. I’m just lucky enough to have the skillset to get it. But I’m not about to steal from people who actually need the money, so I’ve sold some of my stolen food in the weeks previous to gather enough money to buy what I need. 

My first stop is a mobile cart run by a nice older person named Cameron. The name of the cart isn’t very creative (it’s called Cameron’s Art Supply Cart) but the prices aren’t bad, the supplies are high quality, and Cameron is nice to talk to. Before I start talking to Cameron, I look up at the chalkboard hanging from the roof of the cart. Today it says:

Welcome to Cameron’s Art Supply Cart

Talk to Cameron with any special requests for art supplies

Watercolor brushes on sale

He/him

I smile at the sight of the fluttering flag colored with pink, white, purple, black and blue. Cameron is always a good reminder that there’s other people like me. There’s a few people in line ahead of me, so I stand and wait.

“What can I help you with today, Kali?” asks Cameron when I make it to the front of the line.

“Can I have a sketchbook? And… that set of colored pencils.” I say, pointing to a simple set, just red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple.

“Sure thing!” Says Cameron, grabbing my things and handing them to me. I unzip my bag and slide the sketchbook and pencils into my bag and pay Cameron.

“See you later? He asks as I zip up my bag.

“Yeah! Bye.” I call back as I walk away. I’m just about to head to another shop when a building explodes.

tagging: @retic-pithon @in-a-mello-mood lmk if you wanna be added to the tag list

[secretlythepits]

Yesterday, All My Troubles Were So—

—on the surface and loud.

I had a complete breakdown in the morning. I wailed and sobbed for maybe 45 minutes. I used to cry a lot as a teen and in my twenties, but not much anymore. I couldn’t help it earlier and was often accused to making myself cry, but I couldn’t help hold back the flood.

As an adult, I think my energy just stays more inside. I can’t waste it. Crying doesn’t spontaneously bubble forth, even when I am very sad. Am I just too tired? Also, I’m not alone often and the roles I play inhibit emotional free falls.

I am upset that my life feels so hijacked.

I am upset that I have to defer to my husband about choices I don’t feel good about. Basically, I don’t want to do this trip. I think it will be very hard on me and I’m already depleted. But how can I object to a bucket list trip for a dying man? I just think it’s going to be rough and he won’t be feeling good and the kids will be silly and I’ll be the one waking everyone up, finding food for all our meals, prodding everyone along (meaning everyone will be mad at me while I do all the work) and it’s going to be really expensive, which will only hurt me in the long run.

I am sick of having to be the engine in my teens’ lives. (The older one’s at least.) I don’t mind helping. I love it and I love offering emotional support. But I am sick of gathering all the information, nagging, contacting people…. It is time for him to take control. I sort of think he’s trying and this is probably always a bumbling back-and-forth process, but sh-t man, why do I always have to be the bigger person?

My feelings are hurt that my friends and family haven’t reached out more. These last 2 weeks have been really hard and just extra texts would have helped. (Immaturely, I feel like punishing them by not responding to calls or Easter messages. And I hate the fact that I know I will cave and talk anyway. I would like to be more petty than I’m capable of.)— Yeah, I get how weird that is.

I am lime, emerald, and kelly green with envy over how some of my friends are pursuing their dreams and accomplishing their goals. I feel jealous and cheated because I am constantly thwarted. A few friends are doing sort of similar things as I had planned to do and it just hurts that I haven’t been able to make progress. See, I am petty.

My husband recently told me that his family has always judged me for not working full time. I knew this but it was not spoken. He told me that he shut it down. But it did affect my marriage. I hate them. I have not had to deal with them for a long time, but now I do. I could be more standoffish, but that would hurt my husband so I have not done that. I don’t want to hurt him. When he is gone, the last thing I will force myself to do is allow them to come to the funeral.

I am exhausted by—- so many things. I’m just tired, tired, tired. I am overwhelmed with taking on all household, home maintenance, and financial burdens. I don’t want to plan or pay for a funeral, but will have to for my boys.

And that’s why I cried.

This time last year, I was on a South American adventure in Bolivia. It was amazing! It boosted my confidence and self-worth. Part of me thinks that was to bolster myself for what was coming. I knew I would come back and he would get diagnosed stage 4. But it also feels like that time is so far away. It was almost instantly erased.

I can survive anything. I know that.

I just really want to know-know that a happy future awaits me. I am afraid I am living the end of my own life and I will be blocked the entire time I have left. I am 50. My mom and husband are dying at 65. My healthy is not good. It’s ok, but not what it should be.

I can’t say how much I hate my life while my husband is losing his.

So I cried.

[queerbrownvegan]

Ecological wealth is the only wealth that will save us. 🌎📗

So much of Los Angeles’s historical ecologies are being lost. These aren’t just landscapes—they’re living histories of joy, love, and the intricate web of social relationships that foster a sense of community and belonging.

I haven’t had the time to fully process everything that has happened (still happening for others) during the wildfires in Los Angeles. My home, my people, my culture, my roots—though I am a visitor to this land—have become my sanctuary. I write this on top of an air mattress in the guest room of my sister's home.

I am safe. My parents are safe. My brother and sister are safe. All of our homes are safe. But mentally, I’m struggling to find the words to express myself. Writing feels like the only way for me to express both my pain and love for the world.

So many of you have reached out to share your pain, loss, anger, grief, sadness, confusion, and checking with me too. Thank you for trusting me with your stories. And I understand how confusing this time can be for everyone. We all want answers, but we are left with more questions.

Environmental scientists can explain how we got here, but the arts, humanities, and philosophy illuminate why this is happening now. These are the tools that have sustained me—storytelling, spirituality, and creativity. Some have told me to separate these elements from my science work, but I believe they are essential. Science (Western) alone doesn’t always reach everyone. Storytelling fosters care, connection, and understanding.

When people have asked me, what can I do? (Other than sharing materialized resources like GoFundMe, Mutual Aid Groups, and other grassroots initiatives) I say, build ecological wealth now, in our lifetime. Ecological wealth is a cultural framework that values the existence of species, local knowledge, and culture, as well as the economic, intrinsic, and spiritual value of natural resources and ecosystem services.

I am giving up on building generational wealth and shifting my focus to creating ecological wealth. This is a wealth that doesn’t materialize in our hands but instead nurtures the mind, spirit, and heart. It’s a blueprint for the continued wellness and existence of multi-species life on Earth.

Growing up in poverty, the fear of not having enough money was ingrained in me. It shaped how I saw the world, how I lived, and how I related to living systems. My survival was rooted in scarcity and individualism, especially as I navigated higher socioeconomic spaces in my career. Like many immigrant families, we were taught to chase the American Dream—a belief that global capitalism would bring security and success. Even when it comes to disasters like this, I have had to adopt the role of the financial caretaker of my family. I fear sometimes what if I get sick one day, what will happen to my family?

But no amount of wealth can truly protect us. The recent wildfires made this painfully clear. Rich, middle-class, and poor communities alike faced the devastation (though let's acknowledge it takes longer for those in lower-income/middle class to rebuild). Generations who worked to ensure safe, healthy, and loving environments for their families are now grappling with a world very different from the one they planned for.

Perhaps resilience lies not in building traditional generational wealth, but in cultivating ecological wealth. In a world where the economy is crumbling, resources are depleting, and the wealth gap continues to grow, the future must prioritize sustainability and community care. Previous generations of families worked hard and diligently to save as much as they could to buy their first home and to ensure their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would live in those homes, but today the well-being of society (from humans, fauna, flora, and fungi) are in a destabilized state. And it can only sustain so much pain.

These principles are not new, nor revolutionary. Indigenous communities have always (and still to do) abided by these values. They teach us that wealth is not measured in material accumulation, but in the health of our relationships—with the land, with each other, and with the systems that sustain life.

Yet, many of us who navigate this world as visitors—immigrants, displaced peoples, or those raised in systems of extraction—are pushed toward material success over ecological success. We’ve grown up in societies that value individualism over interdependence.

While it’s important to address systemic corruption, climate change, and arson, I recognize that not everyone is immediately receptive to these truths, especially if they hold different political or cultural views. But what if we could offer a reframe before diving into these discussions? What if we began with something relatable, something foundational?

Reframing wealth as ecological might be a starting point that brings us closer together—a foundation for unity, even when we don’t fully agree. It’s a perspective rooted in care, reciprocity, and shared existence.

More than ever, we need storytellers, artists, and creatives to reframe the narrative and meet people where they are—not with fear, but with care. Working-class people already understand the harm caused by extractive industries and they are trapped. They need material resources, safety, and allies who will build with them, not against them. Which means having more uncomfortable conversations in person. Everyone has a different theory of change, and we need them all since there is no magic bullet.

While we address the immediate financial needs of rebuilding communities, we must also reimagine what wealth looks like. Resilience isn’t just about money; it’s about relationships, community, and reciprocity. It’s found in neighborhoods weaving together their resources, labor, and love to build something collectively stronger.

The question is: How can we show up differently? How can we influence others to rethink wealth—not as money or status, but as the health of the living, breathing systems that sustain us?

Our lives are deeply interwoven with the ecosystems around us. Every tree, every river, every gust of wind—these are the true wealth that make life possible. It’s time to reframe our dominant culture and recognize the value of ecological wealth.

The path forward begins with how we see value. Ecological wealth isn’t just about saving the planet—it’s about saving ourselves.

Important Ref:

Los Angeles is on the traditional territory of the Tongva, Tataviam, Serrano, Kizh, and Chumash peoples.

More of this can be found in a written post I wrote back in 2021 with clear citations and inspirations from other scholars.

[skyland2703]

~✨Romance in the Chemistry Lab✨~

Prompts, simply because *I* have apparently had enough lab experience in my life as a chemistry student to make a cute-ish storyline!

The sodium hydroxide at character A's bench is almost depleted, and so, they're at character B's bench to ask for some for the fluoroscein test. This starts happening every time, and character A doesn't ask the lab staff to fill it, instead they keep on circling back to character B to ask for the sodium hydroxide— because they like talking to character B and this is now a good excuse.

Character A's lab partner, Character B, is the most annoying creature on the planet. Messes up every experiment, frequently sets the test tubes on fire, keeps breaking the glass apparatus, spills silicon oil in the locker every three days, etc; character A is fed up, but they know that character B is good of heart, only a little clumsy, so they put up with them, and help them through all the mishaps.

Alternatively, Character A's lab partner is an absolute asshole and makes their life a living hell. Will leave all the work for character A to do, will use their equipment without permission, and lose/break it, always busy chatting with friends and doesn't perform experiments and then blames character A for the failure. Character A decides it is enough, and one fine morning, ends up taking all their stuff to their friend, Character B's lab station, and performs all experiments with them.

Character A and Character B are lab partners, (or maybe, just have lab stations near each other's) but hit it off so well, that they are completely oblivious to the entire lab, and work together in tandem, no issues faced either way, helping each other with the weighing, the pouring, the drying, the tests, making reagents, and everything together. They even sing songs in unison while taking readings and doing titrations— much to the annoyance of the teachers.

Character A getting upset/messing up the experiment when Character B doesn’t show up in the lab

Lab at 7:30. Character A is super sleepy during instructions, and doesn't hear a word, Character B meanwhile writes down all the instructions, and once the actual practical starts, hands Character A all the instructions, and tells them, "alright, this is your headache now. I'll be sleeping in the corner if you need me"

Character A rushed to the lab early morning without any breakfast, and four hours later, they look almost dead. Character B realises this, and sneaks them out of the lab for a little snack. The teachers would not appreciate anyone fainting inside the lab.

Writing the practical report file late at night, on videocall, discussing the week's experiment, and cribbing about how much work they have to do.

Writing the practical report file IN the lab, sitting on the floor, in one of the corners, when they're tired of doing the experiment, because the lab is five hours long, and the professors will not allow stools or chairs. Because they don't. "You're not a physics student!"

Writing little love notes on paper and leaving them pressed under vials of sulphuric acid and sodium hydroxide and nitric acid.

Character A and Character B find themselves stuck in a long queue in line for filtration of a precipitate, and end up talking to each other, realising they have much more in common with each other than just despising the heat in chemistry practicals.

Character A only ever sees Character B in the Lab. Hair bunned up/tied back, always under the safety glasses and lab coats; one day, though, Character A gets late in leaving the lab, and finds themselves leaving along with Character B, who, outside the lab, not only looks completely different, but is an absolutely different personality.

Getting extra chemicals for each other “just cuz” so they don’t have to run back and forth.

Alternatively, dividing the lab work between them so as to get it done faster.

They start sending each other chemistry jokes/reels and things, and that blossoms into late night talks and eventually… falling for each other… and then one of their friends goes “OH so you guys got your chemistry because OF chemistry?!” And nobody laughs at that joke.

Lab practical exams— Characters A and B Hope they get the same practical, so they can cheat on it, by performing all experiments together. BONUS: if they divide the work once again, and A makes all the graphs and takes readings while B carries out the experiment—

I’ll probably come back with more later on, but for now, College Chemistry AUs? Prompts welcome~

[reilliane]

This is my personal obligatory post and apology for my poofing disappearance- if you're not up to read things like these, then feel free to scroll past! Have a good day/night!

—

the poofing, the poofed, and the un-poofing.

TLDR; Bad stuff happened for the entire past year, stopped college just a few months ago to learn the materials myself and market myself in the graphic design industry soon, and got a whole dose of religious epiphany that threw my life around. Wrote in a different account a few months ago to ease and destress without much expectation. Will continue to write albeit there won’t be many updates, had/have to drop original writing plans [right now focusing on a short story for Wanderer, though it doesn’t mean I won’t be able to write for others when I get the time]. May unfortunately discontinue ongoing AUs but will provide a summary for them [I think it’s only Tyranny-?] Will also open writing/art commissions soon, maybe set up a kofi account, but I won’t be ‘gatekeeping’ any content I plan to post. I’m thinking, if ever, it’d only be standalone specials or maybe nsfw [gosh I’m really saying that?] in kofi, buuut that’s just a maybe. Everything else is free to read of course <3 

A really detailed and long [I MEAN IT, MAYBE 1.3-.5K?? WC] exposition under the cut, but of course, it’s optional to read!

PS. I opened my drafts and had one or two finished works there, I will publish those soon. Get ready. Because they’re angst AHAAAAAAAAAA-

PPS. I won’t be able to respond to everyone’s sweet shucking messages in my inbox forgive me But know that I’M REALLY SO TOUCHED YALL I really didn’t think anyone would look for me that much 😭 Someone said I vanished like the avatar and it’s sending me crumpling to the floor.

ALRIGHT STORYTIME LET’S GO—first of all, I haven’t been on Tumblr for so long, nor have I interacted with anyone and coming back,, the web interface bamboozled me.

Anyway- the past year was roooough, like settling in and getting into college.

From the start, my brother and I have known of our depleting resources but couldn’t stop because of our mother’s insistence and my father’s very.. volatile attitude. Double the latter since he has cancer and has been nothing short of cranky and infuriated for the past years—knowing that the money is facing a downward slope because of his expensive medicines and learning that we’ll stop because of it would’ve,, been terribly bad and that's understating the nature of my headstrong, independent, and prideful father.

There were times when he was very somber about his state, but then mad—it was just a really bad time, but my brother and I finally convinced our mom that we had to stop for real a few months ago because money was just tight. Until now we’re hiding the fact from our dad that we stopped under the pretense that we’re only taking one course for the semester :v

We were very lost and torn.

I knew I had to go out and look for a job, but my brother would be doing the same, too—the thing was that we knew our mom couldn’t handle our dad being sick alone, so my brother opted to be the one to find work outside.

I’m learning materials and courses on my own at home, but finding a remote job without a degree is no doubt near unimaginable with how remote setups are almost nonexistent now. The time was just bleak at home, too, my father would ask for bad things to eat that would worsen his health and then blame it all on my mother when he felt body pains and repercussions—it was just BAD, that wasn't all of it, but I digress. Cancer sucks. 

Just a few days ago, I lost my uncle to the same thing, and now there’s an overall family dispute over who gets what and it feels like I’m living a kdrama fever dream [pls get me out hfasjdkfhdsaf]. I don’t recommend it if it’s not romance lmao.

Things were getting so out of hand and I also couldn’t get back into writing or socializing with everyone in my writing socials—but I still wanted to write without the expectation of being able to deliver as I used to. It was a de-stresser for me, so I opened a new account in ao3/quotev and wrote in.. November or December, I think. It was nice, I got to just type away and post and leave it at that.

I think one of the reasons why I didn’t go to Tumblr for that was because I knew I wouldn’t be able to commit to updates, and I love you guys, I didn’t want to say something and promise it’d be given but then nothing. I’ve done it back then and I just, don’t want to do that :(

Despite how heavy and dark the past year was, however, something really unexpected happened—okay here it goes.

As a child, I’ve been taught about Christian doctrine and was brought up to believe in the existence of a God. I didn’t have my heart in it though, of course not, how was I to believe something that I only knew because someone said it to me?? I did attend church out of duty and had a shallow fear of the greater being, but as an authentic believing person? Naw. 

Not until June at least.

I don’t know how to explain it rather I, out of the want to give my mother the chance to go somewhere she wanted to for Sunday, decided to join her for church. I was ready to just daze off and think about some solution to our problems, but then the sermon spoke to me—you know, that feeling when someone is passive-aggressively referring to you in a complaint or something?

It felt like that, only it felt like that message was something I was meant to hear, and boy I couldn’t believe it—neither did my mother [lol]. She told me how shocked she was when I listened throughout the what, an hour and a half of preaching that I usually just dismiss. 

It’s cliche, but my life really changed after that one simple Sunday.

All my tweeeeenty years of living, I’ve asked if God really is real and whatnot and I never got answered until July of 2023. What really cemented my belief in knowing that he is real, is when I decided to genuinely pray—then for seven consecutive days, the Bible would lead me to a page [like just randomly opening a part of the book after prayer] that answered my questions and/or convicted me of something. I'd wake up every day and an event would happen that would answer my confusion and I'd sit in the night thinking 'no way that just happened', but it did. Boy, when I tell you I thought I was going crazy.

Not to mention opportunities such as baptism and ministry suddenly popped my way when I only had the idea in my head and I kept it to myself. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but when it ‘popped up’ more than thrice in a single week, I knew it wasn’t. Think of it as like, the thing in fanfiction when it seemed like the universe was saying something to you. Yeah, I felt that for myself. Mindblowing.

I could go on and on about the other life-changing things that occurred, but this would be so long LOL.

But I never regret coming to faith and accepting Jesus for real that day, and although life is still dark for me these days, the burden feels light. It’s an amazing feeling. He's really changed everything.

I’m not going to force anyone these beliefs—I knew how it felt to be on the receiving end and it could get very annoying, rather I just spoke on it to say how wonderful it was to know him, and it would be nice to let others know about my side in case they'd also take the faith. Who knows?

Also, I think I understand what those people were saying now. Again, I won’t force anyone—just reminding and asking you to try if you want, because it’s amazing. Bombard me in my inbox if you’re interested, but no pushing here, because I’m a firm believer that things shouldn’t be forced if it’s not the right time yet. 

Anyway, that was my source of strength and hope to go through these days—and I believe it’s also the driving force that led me to write this out in.. in Tumblr of all places lol. If someone told me this would happen two years ago I'd laugh in their face 💀

Rather than just getting back into writing and opening my social circle again, there’s that bit in me that wants to say that religious epiphany. That said, I know how diverse everyone is in their beliefs so I’ll say it very tersely that, no, I will not be parading and pushing people to believe this and that—this space is, after all, my space for writing :)

Ah, and nor will I ramble about it like shuck lol, but I will, in private, when prompted. 

With that out of the way, back into writing—I was floored when I first opened Tumblr and saw all the notifications and messages about my disappearance and I could’ve cried, really. It touches me poor heart :sob: and I wanted to thank all of you for such caring messages—I wouldn’t be able to reply to all of them [there were many!

Like maybe more than fifteen or twenty, not even counting the direct messages] but know that I’m very- very grateful for every one of you.

I could crawl out of your screen and hug yall but I won’t because I can’t and it’d throw people off KJHFSADKJFHALJSKDFHA

Life is, again, still hard—and navigating it is still difficult, but I’m managing these days. I can no longer return to my usual days of sporadic updates and teasers lol, but I’m happy to say I will still be writing, though it won’t be my entire focus nowadays. When I open writing commissions for genshin and art commissions, it’d get me going, of course. 

I have to let go of most of my beloved works because I realized that sticking to them would take up most of my time when I need to be out there upskilling and taking initiative to start earning money to support the bills. I still wanted to write though, and in my downtime I even got to watching One Piece and writing a currently on-hold fanfiction for that in Ao3, but fuuully realized that, no, I’m no longer cut out for really long written stuff unless I commit to writing a long piece that would take weeks for it to be published. 

In the end I settled for a single character [wanderer bb] short story that I get into writing without much hassle, and make myself happy, still :) I have ideas for other characters, too, but getting them out to be posted would take longer than usual.

My other AUs, as well, since my focus is just.. God, life, expenses, work, then hobbies. I don’t guarantee finishing them [I think Tyranny? And others, like Smite/Mercy/etc.], but I have in mind to write a summary because I meant it back then when I said the plot was really finished. Sighgisghsighs

Opening art commissions, I’d do that soon—writing, too.

Maybe a kofi account, as well—but I won’t be having any posts I want to be posted to be locked behind some tip or pay. I’m thinking of only adding specials there, specials like, standalone oneshots from an AU, or an nsfw piece. Oh golly, writing that is so beyond me, I think that’s the only reason why if anything is going to be in kofi, it’d probably be the nsfw. I plan to keep this writing blog sfw, still. 

But we’ll,,, we’ll see [dying]

So yeah! That’s.. Everything. For the writing thing, I think I’ll technically just be .. here, lol, with a focus on that story with wanderer. Gone are the 7k worded oneshots, now we’re just around 1.5k unless I commit to the creation. The story is so fluffy too [not angst? Surprising] 

But again, I will write for others eventually—can’t say when, or how, or who, but I will in time. 

I have so many plans in my head about my life, and I’m glad to say going back to Tumblr is a check off the list. I have an original novel in mind, but would you all be interested in such a thing? I don’t honestly know—other than opening commissions, I also plan on a Youtube Channel, but that’s uncertain. A Webtoon for my original plot too is a maybe, buuuut those are just what-ifs. Time will tell!

Those are just my two cents and I don’t regret sharing that—you guys have been with me for so long, even if I don’t really know you all beyond that screen, you all really became a part of my life, too :”)) 

If you reached the end of this post, wow, I’m touched. I hope you all have a good day–oh wait, what do I say? Ah yes.

I wish you all a good mornight [fhkadjsfhiajhgf].

God bless yall sweet people. 

[bestworstcase]

re: talk of Burn, do you have any idea why Yang's aura clearly broke when Neo struck her in V8 (right after activating Burn)? my theory is that perhaps activating her semblance does something like Tock's where it makes her aura manifest more solidly on her body (which is how it can make her hair light on fire) and therefore also, like Tock, means that her aura is more vulnerable. to me this would also explain why Yang would use it as a finisher at first; using it when she's already going to run out of aura makes it, in a sense, less dangerous because she's already gotten most of the other uses out of her aura that she can get.

would love to know if you think this is accurate, or what you actually think is going on with yang's semblance on a mechanical level (if you're interested in that anyway)

first, a general point about aura and aura breaking. the characters’ use of meters has led to a sort of popular fanon that aura works like hit points in a video game, where you have this many and taking damage reduces your HP by a certain number until you hit zero and then your aura breaks; (dark souls splash screen voice) YOU DIED.

i do not think it works that way.

from world of remnant:

aura is a manifestation of the soul, a life force that runs through every living creature on remnant—whether they are a meager shopkeep or a renowned knight. however, what sets true warriors apart from all others is their ability to amplify and control their aura.

aura is the power of one’s soul. it’s guided by emotion, self-knowledge, and spirituality. in its purest form, it becomes a semblance.

defensive aura is not a passive effect. we know this for a fact. in V5, oscar finds it physically exhausting to engage his aura in this way and ren tells him that’s normal—it requires intense concentration at first, then becomes second nature with practice. in V7, jaune’s aura-training demonstrates that recovery, regaining aura once it has been depleted, is a conscious action that can be improved through practice. this is because the “aura level” tracked by those meters is not a measurement of how much aura you have in the tank, as it were, but something like the density of the aura-field you’re pushing outward, or speed of flow, or something along those lines.

(the way i’m handling it in TDT is there’s a hard upper bound to how much aura you can hold in your skin, like a sponge not being able to absorb more water, and what auraleric gauges attempt to measure is % of maximum saturation because everyone’s aura will break around 5-10% saturation even though the amount of aura you have at 100% varies. anything you push out above that threshold is projected as transient bursts of energy and that’s where you start getting into offensive techniques.)

hazel’s phenomenal endurance is noted to derive from his rapid recovery, not the basal amount of aura he has. (he even just shrugs off being impaled.) i believe his semblance gives him an edge here, because it requires concentration to amplify one’s aura and hazel can’t be distracted by physical pain.

which brings me to aura-breaking. it doesn’t happen when the proverbial tank is empty. auras break when you can’t sustain the mental effort of generating enough aura; this might happen because the well you’re drawing from really has run dry (<- think this is what happened to nora with the high voltage door), but it might also be because you’re too tired, or you took a really painful or unexpected hit that shattered your focus, because you’re panicking or furious.

i think tock’s semblance is in the same ‘family’ as hazel’s and ironwood’s in that it puts her into a state of intense focus by blocking out anything that might shake her—with hers being far, far more potent than theirs but so potent she can’t maintain it for longer than sixty seconds, and possibly needs the ticking clock to ‘anchor’ her focus.

(fic stuff again, because tock’s alive in TDT for butterfly wing flaps reasons: sixty seconds is not a hard limit of her semblance; she can and on one occasion did go for much longer. to project an aura field you draw aura out of your reserve, which is the aura that naturally ‘pools’ around your soul; if that runs dry and you’re desperate enough, pushing hard enough, you can wring more aura out of your soul. blood from a stone. it hurts a lot, it will mess you up, and it can do permanent damage similar to what the aura transfer machines do to pietro. sixty seconds is how long it takes for tock’s semblance to drain her aura reserve, rounded down to allow for a margin of error.)

so. yang.

i think, mechanically, when the average person with aura training gets hit, their aura burns up to disperse most of that energy. (<- when they’re swatting gunfire away, the bullets bounce; the energy is reflected.)

but yang’s semblance absorbs energy—which is to say, if you had a ball throwing machine shoot a tennis ball at yang and someone else with equivalent training from the same distance, it would hit yang harder because her aura is less reflective; more of the ball’s kinetic energy flows into her body. then, like a battery, her aura converts that energy into some other form that can be stored.

sort of like dust, in fact. dust has a lot of potential energy, which is released when the material reacts with aura. given the literally explosive firepower yang gains from burn, i think that she’s storing this absorbed energy in the same form as occurs naturally in dust, which would put burn in the same ‘family’ as coco’s hype or arrastra’s equilibrium…

…and would also mean that this statement:

some prefer to use dust in its raw form: elegant, yet destructive. those who choose to wield dust in this state must possess a certain level of discipline to ensure that their resulting powers do not break free of their control.

is true of burn, too. and that tracks with who yang is and how she uses her semblance—even in V1-3, yang takes a more head-on approach to fights and tends to soak up more damage before exploding bigger vs her increasingly nimble and even acrobatic style post-beacon, but her control over those massive volcanic eruptions is immaculate.

the way burn works in general requires that yang be very, very in control of her aura at all times because she needs to balance between absorbing energy to charge up her semblance while reflecting enough to prevent injury, and this is one reason why i think yang is probably the best out of the cast when it comes to using aura. ren might have her beat on the more spiritual, extra-sensory perception side of things, but yang has to keep her focus while getting hit harder than anyone else Because Physics.

and that brings us to neo one-shotting yang’s aura. here is what happens: cinder is gloating from atop a pillar of fire while people scream and run in a panic all around them, and out of the corner of her eye, yang sees a glint of steel and realizes that neo is about to stab her unsuspecting baby sister in the back, she’s too far away, she can’t get there fast enough—burn is, in that moment, a reflex. instinct. she panics and hurls herself in between neo and ruby without even thinking about it because the only thing in her mind is GET TO RUBY NOW.

and that’s why her aura just shatters. it requires concentration—you practice until it becomes instinctive, until you don’t need to think about it, muscle memory. but it still takes focus. intention. yang has incredible self-control and thus incredible control of her aura, but everyone has limits, and hers are “holy fuck that guy stabbed blake” and “neo is going to kill ruby go go go.”

her semblance in itself doesn’t make her defense any weaker—but when she’s terrified enough for burn to activate reflexively like this, her aura will break if she gets hit because she’s freaking out.

[lunasmysteriouspath]

🌙 Do You Protect Your Energy Properly? 💫

I strongly believe that one negative person can drain energy like ten positive people can replenish it. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to come across as pessimistic, but negative individuals deplete energy far faster than positive ones can restore it. So, protecting your energy is just as important as maintaining good hygiene habits. The main question is: how can you build a habit to protect your energy and avoid being drained by vibrationally low people? I will share how I deal with low-energy periods and toxic personalities.

Identify What Drains Your Energy 💫: Think about what drains you the most. Is it your work, your partner, your family, coworkers, classmates, the country you live in, a messy apartment, or something else? Imagine that energy drain as a figure or image. Here are some examples from my life:

What is the point of this exercise, you may ask? The goal is to visualize your negative energy in a simple, ordinary form, just like the triangle in the left of the image. By doing this, it becomes less intimidating and gives your mind the indication that this energy doesn’t control you indeed you are the person who controls it's shape and form. Imagine putting the negative energy into the triangle you literally enervate it. You can put negative energy into whatever form you choose and dispel it. This is a powerful tool in your personal toolkit that can remind you to not forget your mind and willpower have the ability to manage anything. 🏹

2. Create a Protection Bubble 🫧 : Whenever you feel low on energy, imagine yourself inside a bubble filled with divine, bright light energy. This light protects you from dark and stagnant energy.

You will be surprised to notice that everything has its own energy ✨. We are energetic beings who consume and radiate energy differently. I used to believe that if I was kind to someone or patient in a situation, I would receive the same in return. I learned the hard way that good energy from one person doesn’t guarantee the same response from another. You can be completely kind to someone, and they might still respond with rudeness. So, when you’re feeling low, remember to retreat into your protective bubble🫧.

3. Allow Yourself Downtime 🌻: You know those times when you feel like you don’t have the energy to do anything? Allow yourself those moments of complete rest 🐚. On your first free day, just lay in bed, have breakfast there, drink water, read a few pages of your favorite book, watch a movie, or listen to guided meditations on YouTube or Spotify—whatever helps you relax. Your body and mind never give you false signals. It’s essential to allow yourself to unwind for a few hours or even a day; you deserve it.🪷

This topic is broad and rich for discussion, and everyone has different ways of handling it. But one thing is certain: protecting your energy is vital for a healthy mind and body. So don’t underestimate it—take good care of yourself.🌸

🌹I would love to hear about your ways of protecting your energy!🌹

[captainaurora]

Knowing there's a high chance this won't do a single damn thing to the salmonids and they will instantly grow back this amount of eggs to justify the game’s repeated salmon run cycles (especially if we consider how big runs could be recycled) i am having a difficult time understanding what to do with these salmonid munchkins... A single salmon can produce thousands of eggs. For them, only about 2% live. However, we are 12,000 years on from that and salmonids coudlve evolved to be able to produce the same amount with more surviving, or a smaller amount with all surviving. If this holds true for the salmonids, then they do the same, and we aren't considering how time and their new forms (like inkfish becoming inkfish) may have made it easier for them to make it to the next generation, unlike our salmon. And they had 12,000 uninterrupted years to repopulate.

it downplays them slightly yeah but idk this is like. the seventh time now they've done this. I think they just straight up like it. It's hard to tell as they obviously have a culture and all that but due to how the game works, how there will always be a boundless number of salmonids, never truly depleting, thinking too deep into it seems... like a total headache and something that won't end up making any sense, so i rlly do just feel like their existence is the celebration of the cycle of life in a very twisted manner and they are all in on throwing themselves into the flames like this. I like how some people see this as devastating to salmonids but, well, it won't be. most likely. unless Nintendo surprises me years down the line. this is just a happy little quota. nothing more. But then you factor in the magnetic disturbances and we’re back to square one! They may be natural! They may not be! My cod!

so its hard to tell what to do with them in writing or how people with insider knowledge like the NSS view them because they're so weird and impossible to rlly be like any other civilization. They are both a constructed social group but also an intense force of nature. Even the idols do salmon run, and not a single person in this world seems to think twice about Grizzco’s presence. So what’s the end goal? Is there any?

Grizzco and the salmonids are super cool but I would be lying if, to keep the gameplay over lore ideology they have, Nintendo hasn’t made them a total headache. Like whatever I do with them doesn’t have to follow canon but I’d rather it be close to it which means the NSS are useless about stopping Grizzco beyond Mr. Grizz himself which is also something. I don’t know. See the issue? I don’t want to do salmonids wrongly, but how do you even correctly explain them or showcase them in the first place?

[not-goldy]

My heart hurts to hear about your ex. I too gave to the point of feeling depleted, used and empty . I was always the sibling that organized family dinners for family birthdays, special holidays and celebrations. I organized the gifts, using my money to float my brothers & sisters, left often with one of them not paying me back. No big deal I’d think to myself, the important thing was my loved one was happy.

My ex husband was lazy in our relationship, leaving me to organize & buy & ship Christmas gifts to his family out of town, do all the Christmas shopping and wrapping, baking, cooking while raising two kids & working full time in a high stress management position.

I fulfilled every role possible while working full time: wife, mother, maid, nurse, accountant, party planner, yard keeper, cook, therapist and was even scheduling my husband’s haircuts & dental appointments. He was “too busy” and his complaining was so irritating I would simply do it myself.

It was the loss of my health & therapy for my anxiety and depression that I discovered why I was the giver in the relationship, the hand to hold & the one to count on.

I discovered it had to do with my upbringing. My bio brother was angry and resentful after my parents divorce so if I wanted things done, I did it myself. He’d sign his name to the card for the gift I’d purchase & I’d clean the house & do the cooking for birthdays. My single mother would be too exhausted after working 50+ hours a week to support us after my father left when I was 6, my brother 9.

After my monumental effort I was praised, complimented on my thoughtfulness. This feeling of appreciation became addictive and honestly the only time my mother would pay any attention to me. She suffered from depression, low self esteem stemming from my father’s affairs. He ended up getting a single mother with two young sons pregnant and she stuck her claws in, refusing to let go.

After years of my father not coming home at nights he left one day for good. At age 10. I received a phone call from my father I had a sister. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, his visits to see my brother and I were so infrequent we hardly got passed the 20 questions about our school work and were regularly reprimanded for not helping our mother out enough. My mother liked her role as the victim so us kids often filled the role of therapist, best friend and cheerleader when she got really low. The list of chores seemed endless, often cutting into time we should have spent on homework, leaving us to finish late into the evenings or getting up 2 hours early before school. It wasn’t a perfect life but I was happy.

I continued my role of giver, never receiver in my friendships and early relationships. It was who I was, or so I thought.

After years of living in a loveless marriage we divorced, the Catholic Church be damned and I found myself on my own for the first time in many years. I had no interests, no hobbies, no passion. With two grown children with spouses of their own our group dinners moved to restaurants. I couldn’t over extend myself with family dinners, special celebrations with their busy schedules. Out of loneliness I adopted a dog. This eventually led me to volunteering for search and rescue with my canine companion & opened up a whole world of scentwork & tracking.

I became fast friends with one of the instructors and our relationship quickly progressed.

She’s incredibly talented, smart and a take no bullshit, potty mouthed, ball busting bitch. I’d die for her, I love her that much. When I get caught into my family’s drama or they pull their manipulative crap about staying at our place for a vacation, she’s there to help reel me in from over extending myself. It doesn’t happen often, I’m usually fine with setting my boundaries but the occasional weak moment slips through.

I’m still that ride or die friend, considerate and helpful sibling, daughter. I contribute to a point, never more, never less than my siblings. It was a bumpy transition, I won’t lie. My first relationship after my divorce left me resentful and bitter but it was an excellent lesson. People will take as much as you have to offer. They aren’t bad people, simply used to being receivers, telling themselves I am happy when they’re happy, which is true but only to a point. Then come to rely on us, count on us because let’s face it, we’re pretty fucking incredible.

I needed to learn to give less, limiting my time & energy to doing something fulfilling for myself. It happens to be volunteering, which one can argue that I haven’t grown, just simply giving in another way. The difference? This brings me satisfaction & happiness. I’ve improved my searching & tracking skills with my dog which boosts self esteem. The rewards are huge, a child or elderly person with dementia is found. I can rest in the knowledge that my time & energy were well spent. These people needed our team, deserved our help.

I’m not saying this is what your situation is. I am sharing my experiences in case you recognize yourself in some part. My suggestion to anyone who’s the giver in a relationship is to begin giving to yourself. Discover something new about yourself, treat yourself as you have others. Invest some time and energy in making yourself happy. We will always be givers, it’s who we are whether nature or nurture, we’re pretty much who we’re always going to be. Hopefully you’ll find something that reciprocates your energy, whether it be a person or hobby. You deserve to be happy & loved.

With appreciation for your blog & your honesty,

Carolyn

The burn out is real!!!

Thanks for sharing Carolyn.

I've been on here for quite a while and only know a handful of people by name. It's why I used to tag my posts with my name as a reminder to myself and others I'm a person. I am touched Carolyn. I used to read a lot of your messages and laugh my heart out and at a point I was always looking forward to your post till my dms became overwhelming. It felt as if everyone wanted my attention and as you mentioned I'm just drained and exhausted burnt out from giving to others even if it's something as inconsequential as my attention.

That's when I noticed things were that bad between us. I loved her so much and experienced so much anxiety when we had our last fight. Our moots tried to reconcile us and I was so looking forward to rekindling the relationship but I just couldn't bring myself to go in for more neglect stonewalling closed off communication constantly downplaying the impact of her actions on the relationship, playing the victim never apologizing first when they was wrong reducing every argument into whose right or wrong never being as thoughtful making me feeling lonely emotionally exhausted mentally traumatized and drained dealing with her baggage - so your story resonates.

I miss her and wanted her back but I just can't do this anymore not when I feel like myself again without her. It's quiet and peaceful and my brain doesn't feel like someone is pointing a sun death ray at it 247.

And I don't know why our moots keep sending my posts to her. She called and texted and said she was sorry she didn't know I felt that way at all.

I'm losing my mind over here. I think she just has to face the fact she is not the good person she thinks she is.

Your story with your ex husband sounds similar to hers though..... Or may be I just have a type🥲

She was a divorcee with kids. Had a really toxic ex husband and as you mentioned she just had too much to deal with with her ex husband. I knew her before the divorce and though at the time she made me feel and think I was the one pursuing her, in hindsight I think she played me. constantly calling and crying and sharing her challenges in her marriage calling me over because she couldn't stand being alone in the house with her husband- come to think of it she should have called the police like what was I going to do? Yet like a fool I went anyway. I was even babysitting cooking for the kids picking them from school picking clothes for them- they was our kids😭😹

I admired her strength and her resilience and saw her as a mentor of a sort because she had it all from my POV.

Before her divorce she would always use her kids and her husband conveniently as the reason she couldn't give much to me and yet conveniently set them aside if she wanted something from me. She only cared about them when I wanted something from her and gave zero fucks about them when she wanted something from me. That should have been my first red sign.

For instance, when I was sick and wanted her to come visit or wanted to go visit she would say oh my husband is gonna be around or the kids need x or y and i gotta respect my family home so I can't be there for you right now.

Yet sis was fucking me in her husband's bed while the kids was downstairs and what not whenever SHE wanted some smeshy time😵‍💫

Saw her through her divorce tried to be her pillar and support so her world wouldn't fall apart, constantly encouraging her to go for the things she felt too intimidated to try changed jobs for her moved to a new city for her constantly putting her needs first and playing dumb and stupid killed my ego and pride so she could hold on to hers but when she couldn't even bring herself to say sorry to me when she hurt me that's when I knew. Sorry is care and love and she couldn't even do that for me.

Took me too long to realize the pattern but I'm glad I'm free of her- hope they send this too to her😚

Barbara, Carolyn, Gina- I never forget names. Thanks for that very human touch it made this all the more meaningful.