#that's just one of life's contradictions as a whole

[lseazys]

While I understand where you are coming from, I do disagree with the idea that there is no such thing as a fanon character.

Your whole argument that there cannot be ‘one’ fanon interpretation is fundamentally rooted in the fallacy that a character cannot be two things at the same time and have a dimensional personality. Why can’t academically gifted yet hates studying Sirius Black not also be artistic, trans, an egotistical bully and/or dramatic? Characters, especially fanon characterisations, don’t necessarily need to be linear and the more contradictory and morally grey the character is, the more relatable they become, as humans are contradictory and not bound to a singular belief or behavior. Imagine if instead of arguing whether Sirius Black was gay or not, what if we allowed him to be a fluid character, who’s stuck in the crossfire of both identities? and he, himself, is not sure who he is. A general consensus of fanon is reached, when there is room or fluidity and we don’t act as if these are all seperate flat fanon personalities and instead acknowledge it as one big amalgamation filled with subjective and contradictory interpretations.

Moving on to the argument that canon marauders are ‘simply blank canvases’ and have no real personality proposes an incredibly superficial perspective on the marauders and makes it incredibly apparent that you only focus on what’s explicitly said in the text and not what the author wants you to conclude. When discussing what the marauder’s did to Severus in Snape’s worst memory - it’s important to understand the context and to not simply take it at face value - you need to ask yourself - why did the marauders feel comfortable stripping and publicly humiliating Snape? How is their moral compass or lack thereof reflected based on the interactions they have with other people? Why does James not see a discrepancy in him bullying his crushes best friend and why does Lily, in spite of this, see no wrong marrying James? When we ask these questions and use our prior knowledge to fill the gaps and inference, it goes from ‘so, James stripped Severus and Severus called Lily a mud blood’ to ‘James was a rich, privileged and popular boy, who had deeply progressive ideals and believed in equality, however, when he felt that others disagreed with his idealistic values, he had no issue weaponizing his privilege, popularity and resources to unfairly humiliate and assault his less privileged opponents, even if the opponent in question, was his crush’s friend. In fact, that was better for him - because if Severus was gone, Lily would like him back - He saw Severus (for lack of a better word) as a cock blocker. That too an extremist cock blocker, who he was prejudiced against because Severus was a Slytherin. And in his eyes, all Slytherins were blood purists and extremists — and Lily, who herself had prejudice against Slytherins and dark magic, agreed with James’s values but despised his violent actions, hence why she hated him. But once, her friend called her a mud blood, she felt scorned and all to eager to believe that he was an extremist, without proper rationale, and now blinded by her bitter resentment for Severus, she justified James’s actions and believed that he wasn’t wrong for being cruel because clearly empathy hadn’t worked for Severus.’

None of what I said is explicitly stated in the books but none of it can be considered a head cannon either (as a head canon is referred to as anything that is contradictory to canon) because what I’ve done is stop looking solely at a characters actions and instead, evaluate what those actions symbolize both in a real life social settings, assuming that these characters are real, and as a piece of literary fiction. It’s important to note, however, that just because it doesn’t contradict canon doesn’t make it canon, for example I can’t say that Regulus dated Sybil Trelawny because while it doesn’t necessarily contradict canon, there is no canon evidence to base this off of. However, if you are pulling canon events, and analysing the context, character behaviour and the characters social status, you can conclude and deduce aspects of canon.

Because like how, a person can (and usually does) express their emotions through physical actions such as tears in their eyes, crouching down and resisting or being overwhelmed social interaction, the same way a person expresses their beliefs, values and feelings through their behaviour, and therefore can deduce a person's beliefs, morals and feelings through their behaviours.

ppl be posting shit like "I miss canon Marauders"

Babes, there is no "canon" Marauders. Most of the shit ya'll think is canon, are just old headcanons that used to be widespread before other (usually queerer) headcanons gained popularity.

There is so little information about the "canon" Marauders - and even the info we have cannot be trusted because it's usually memories, influenced by a character's bias - that trying to make a somewhat comprehensive character out of the given material is impossible, let alone 4 characters.

Everything is fanon. Everything is headcanon. And that's the beauty of this fandom.

(Ofc my favourite part is when something actually is canon via the books or movies, and people reject it as fanon.)

[darkfictionjude]

Okay so I know this is a touchy subject already especially since certain people have already been bitchy about it before, but sometimes Crowny is genuinely difficult to play as. I feel super conflicted about them since they're the literal personification of "damn bitch you live like this?"

Realistically, progress isn't linear and different people get different results even if they do the exact same thing, but as of now it feels like they aren't really allowed to improve at all. If you study you're still mediocre leaning towards bad in terms of understanding. You try to workout you see absolutely no results, not even the tiniest bit. When it comes to the other characters, it's always one step forward and two steps back. When you give them a hobby or try to get them to pick up a skill they find little enjoyment. When people bother them they barely fight back or even argue, and when they do it's like a sarcastic quip or a grumble at most. By the end, they haven't even made a dent. These don't make them less of a person and it doesn't make them a failure since the world is quite literally out to get them, but it's like they aren't allowed any satisfaction in their life. (Yeah it's been like a month, maybe barely scratching two in the current timeline so maybe this contradicts what I first said about progress but I'm dumb as hell)

It's wild to go from the side quests, backstory segments, interactions with the ROs and then Crown family just for all the hype to fade when there's a segment with just Crowny all alone. I know that there's a reason for why they are the way they are, but I literally have to take breaks from reading their solitary moments sometimes because it seems to drag on. I know things aren't easy in this universe, I know the world is supposed to be cruel and unfair, but like can they at least get a cake for their efforts? Or a hug? Or be able to sleep through one night and wake up well rested?

I hope I'm not sounding like an asshole or a insane here. Personally, they're relatable in a lot of aspects. I may not have had supernatural shit going after me, but I had a lot of issues that many of their experiences brush way too close to. It's just the way it's presented that makes them feel like they're like the random piece of chewy cartilage in an otherwise perfectly cooked steak, unpleasant but I'm gonna eat it anyway.

I literally just wrote a whole ass book complaining, but I at least wanna say I do love your work, Crowny included even if my words seem to say otherwise, and I'm super excited to see what happens in the timeskip since i know this is like JUST the beginning. I'm like seriously praying my tone is coming off the right way if that's even possible. If you read through all this thanks. I'm not gonna hide behind anon because I at least wanna be able to explain myself if this comes across wrong.

but like can they at least get a cake for their efforts? Or a hug? Or be able to sleep through one night and wake up well rested?

Well no 😭😭

And that comes from the fact that they are self loathing, depressed as hell and have virtually no support system while dealing with things that they aren’t mature enough to handle, actually their mental health is getting far worse which is by design

I feel like perhaps some readers have not realized just how depressed crowny is. All the things you described about them finding little enjoyment, etc., are key markers of major clinical depression

I feel also people did miss the fact that crowny kind of exploded in the library they didn’t shut up, they didn’t let it go which I think is a positive because this is the first time they’ve have enough to say “enough”

Sorry but I like my things slow burn 💀 that Halloween party is meant to be a breakthrough for them and I think perhaps it’s been glossed over by some because what happened to James has gotten the most attention and the final moment in the woods. Crowny outed their “friends” for the first ever and fought back against their tormentor in only one single night. James for all his issues did the one thing that broke the camel’s back and pushed Crowny over the edge, all 7 episodes have led to this

Crowny is meant to fall before they come up that’s how I wanted it because realistically someone could not handle all of this without losing their mind. It has barely been two months, Crowny has only seriously hit the main plot in episode 4 which in the current timeline was about 3 weeks ago (from episode 7)

Truly the progress that crowny did make in episode 7 should have taken longer, people with crowny’s issues spend years in therapy before they feel they have the right to fight back.

There’s a reason episode 7 is the midseason finale. It’s not only about the plot but about crowny themself….

Dw you’re tune is fine I can usually tell when someone doesn’t think before they write 😭

[hillbillyoracle]

It has taken a long while for me to understand that right wing religious seminars are just as popular in the Fundie community as leftwing ones are in the (fragmented) liberal Menno community, and because of where I live, we don't have a lot of them. The Bible says a lot of contradicting things, and there are few things that Christians agree on.

But I keep reading your post and I still would like more information, if you are willing. You don't seem to know what we don't know, and you're taking quite a bit for granted as common knowledge.

Here is my question: What is the logic behind the things that aren't in the Bible, and the things leftwing Christians interpret only as metaphors? The interpretation of Revelation that is so incredibly common regarding spiritual warfare on Earth? When and how did the Antichrist come into play? Disregarding what I believe or don't, what does that even mean? What are they talking about? Why are they so deeply afraid to the point of constant war and such legalism? Even things like the Umbrella of Authority I find confusing, because in my church community, everybody is always equal regardless of gender, and women have always held power in the church's history.

The purpose of their getting involved in politics is to assuage fear and enforce their values, of course. But how did we get these values in the first place? I know you were inside of it, so you will never see what it's like for us from the outside, what we don't know about them, especially people who have been persecuted by various forms of fundamentalists for generations but still try to welcome exfundies openly. But I read your post again, and I guess I just need to keep trying.

You don't seem to know what we don't know, and you're taking quite a bit for granted as common knowledge.

100% true. I'm really struggling with it in the conversations I've been in lately and it's something I'm trying to correct so I appreciate your patience.

I also think part of it is a limitation of my current perspective as well. When I've gone line by line and explained things, it usually leads people to become more entrenched in their negative beliefs about fundies which in turn makes them behave in ways that ultimately fuel their whole bit. So that's why I focus on more overarching aspects.

But if you think it'll help, I'll give it my best shot.

Here is my question: What is the logic behind the things that aren't in the Bible, and the things leftwing Christians interpret only as metaphors?

Biblical literalism has been around for a long long time so I can't speak to all of it.

What I do know is that the thread of it that current day fundamentalists in the US at least have ties to started in the late 1800s as a reaction to the rise in prominence of scientific explanations of the world - think Darwin's work, germ theory, and the discovery of the electron and eventually radioactivity.

What this basically lead to was some Christians believing that a scientific view of the world was compatible with religions and some saying that the Bible took precedent over human modes of knowledge. So the "logic" of Biblical literalism in conjunction with the latter idea was that if God's word took precedent over human knowledge, he would make it very clear - very literal for us

Key to this group's understanding of Christianity was the belief in Christ's miracles as literally happening. With the rise of scientific explanations, there was now this whole new language for trying to discredit those miracles and making fun of people who believed they literally happened. They were a favorite punching bag whenever the scientific community had scandals exposed in particular - "Sure we've basically tortured human subjects in the name of science but at least we don't believe Jesus literally healed the sick, can you imagine?" These groups saw this lack of regard for human life and responded by relying more on God's word which they regarded as perfect in a way humans were not - which essentially meant more literalism.

And you can debate that all you like but that's more or less the basis of it to this day, whether modern fundamentalists know it or not. It's this idea that God wants to be known so why would he obscure himself behind metaphor? And the literal meanings of his word come before all other types of human created knowledge because humans are sinful and faulty and his word is perfect.

The interpretation of Revelation that is so incredibly common regarding spiritual warfare on Earth?

So the interpretation of Revelation varies dramatically between fundamentalists churches. I spent my early years in one that didn't place a big emphasis on it but regarded it as literal and in the future. I spent my middle and high school years in one that regarded Revelations as having begun sometime around the industrial revolution and believed it was already playing out slowly but gaining steam (insert steam powered joke).

Spiritual warfare also varies. Some people think it is angels and demons fighting all around us. Some people think it is in the battle of ideas. My early church believed in the former. My later church believed in the latter. The categories aren't exactly neat and tidy unfortunately.

So it's tough to speak to since it's not terribly unified. I would say in general the literal reading of revelations stems from what I wrote about just before this - why could God obscure himself if he wants to be known?

A common belief I ran into was the idea that a purely metaphorical reading of Revelations was born of fear and a lack of faith in the truth of the Bible. It was kind of a litmus test. People who were unafraid to imagine this terrible future and believe it was real and could happen to them in this lifetime were more faithful than those that wouldn't.

I think it makes sense if you remember a lot of people who left mainline traditions left in part due to difficult experiences which church complacency. The urgency of a literal reading of Revelations speaks to them.

When and how did the Antichrist come into play? Disregarding what I believe or don't, what does that even mean? What are they talking about?

The antichrist is a literal translation of a word made up of the Greek roots for anti and Christ. Its in John's letters:

Who is the liar? It is whoever denies that Jesus is the Christ. Such a person is the antichrist—denying the Father and the Son. - I John 2:22 (NIV)

This was the one I heard quoted the most but there are other instances too.

I'm less well versed in how he came to have the lore around him that he has with fundamentalists but poking around it looks like it definitely didn't start with fundamentalists. My guess it is a holdover from before their break with mainline Protestantism that took on a new form when it came into contact with biblical literalism. A figure who is against or put in place of Jesus is common in other denominations, my guess is there was a conflation of this figure with the Beast in Revelations due to similar language being used for both.

But that's a guess.

The big "thing" with the antichrist is said to be positing himself as savior of mankind. That's why scientists and the like often get pegged for it. He's also said to bring a quickening to the end of days.

I'm realizing I'm probably taking a lot for granted here. I'm not sure how to explain the antichrist. He's just a real bad guy and he could be anyone. He's the Red Scare but a literal person.

Why are they so deeply afraid to the point of constant war and such legalism?

I mean I don't know what to tell you there. Life is fucking scary.

One day, I'm laughing with my mom. 24 hours later I'm in a hospital watching her on a ventilator and not recognizing me. That's scary.

One day my body more or less worked and the next day I woke up and my hands were in so much pain I couldn't move them. At 24 years old. That's scary.

Think of all the things you can't control that determine the course of your life - war, famine, disease. That shit is scary.

That's admittedly is my generous response.

That initial fear has been coopted by prominent figures who basically draw the line from more universal fears to anxieties people have about their place in the world and then to things like gender and sexuality - things that can be controlled.

The legalism is as much a way to understand it as it is a reaction to it. It's rooting in this idea that if we were to live in alignment with God's word, much of the terrible things we're experiencing wouldn't be happening (which is false but it's compelling to some people).

Even things like the Umbrella of Authority I find confusing, because in my church community, everybody is always equal regardless of gender, and women have always held power in the church's history.

There's also lots of verses about women needing to be quiet and obey their husbands and not wear certain adornments and the list goes on. While yes, individual women have carved out and held on to power in the church, they're more the exception than the rule when taken over the course of the church's entire history. Which is just to say that women's place in the church in any denomination is complicated.

For instance, look how many fundamentalist women have run for office and won. They're playing to a particular archetype within fundamentalist Christianity as the secondary protectors of the family. They tend to focus on issues relating to children for that reason. They have power but it's within the narrow confines of what a woman should be.

Umbrella of protection can be more "natural law" flavored or more "mystical" flavored. I was in a "natural law" family. And that idea held that obedience to my parents but in particular my father was the model by which I would learn to obey God. If I didn't obey them, then I wouldn't know how to obey God. If I didn't know how to obey God then I would sin and bad things would happen to me.

I knew a handful of people who were in the more mystical flavored version but to be honest I'm not completely clear on how that worked. My impression of it was that I guess the dad as the head of the household was granted a certain measure of power to protect his family but he could only use if they obeyed. And in return he was supposed to only ask for their obedience where their safety mattered not merely on a whim but that's not usually how that played out.

The purpose of their getting involved in politics is to assuage fear and enforce their values, of course. But how did we get these values in the first place?

There's a theological component to this answer and there's a political component.

The theological component has to do with that literal reading of and primacy of the Bible. It's read not only as a description of what's wrong with the world but also how it's supposed to be. Their reading of it emphasizes themes in the New Testament as Jesus being the sacrifice that would restore order to the world. So they in turn see an emphasis on Jesus and order to be key to dealing with what is wrong with the world (i.e. whatever scares them). Part of their view of order also emphasizes family in imitation of the holy family.

The political component is that in the middle of the 20th century, conservative strategists specifically started courting big figures in the fundamentalist movement. Both were eager to get fundies more involved in politics but for slightly different reasons. Fundamentalist leaders saw it as advocating for good and a way to distinguish themselves from mainline denominations which weren't generally that politically active. Conservative operators saw how fired up fundies could get as revivals and similar and wanted to funnel that toward their political aims.

There was a shift in how fundamentalist leaders talked about money in particular during this time, emphasizing it as a means by with to do the work of the lord and a sign of God's favor when earned justly. Conservative messaging to their new base emphasized impacts on families and it's the emphasis they still lead with.

So where outsiders see contradiction, it's generally not seen as contradicting when looking through the lens of protecting and benefiting the family. Guns - allow you to protect your family. Regulations - limit how well you can provide for your family. Immigrants - are a threat to your ability to provide for your family. God came into the world via a particular kind of family and we were supposed to live in imitation of that - hence the opposition to queer people and trans folks.

Obviously I don't agree with that and obviously it's more to do with people just being biased and afraid but that's the underpinning by which those fears get organized into a political system of values that we see playing out right now.

I know you were inside of it, so you will never see what it's like for us from the outside, what we don't know about them, especially people who have been persecuted by various forms of fundamentalists for generations but still try to welcome exfundies openly.

You're right that I don't know it the way you know it. That's for sure.

But I would also point out that I am queer and trans and realized both of these things while still inside the church. I got persecuted from within and I got persecuted when I got pushed out. So while I don't have the intergenerational aspect you speak of, I have definitely been and currently am persecuted by them in my daily life so I have a small insight into what that can be like. It's hell, it really is.

I appreciate you wanting to learn. I hope this post is a little more enlightening. It's the truth as best I know it but I know I'm missing information myself.

[cortex-rampage]

I find the way that BBC Merlin set up Merlin's powers in the first episode to be quite funny. I mean, we see this sort of lanky guy and it is established that he is Merlin and (according to our own common knowledge) therefore he is the most powerful warlock ever. Okay, cool. One might assume that he has come to Gaius to develop his powers, that maybe he's only in the beginning of his magical journey. But instead the exposition shows Merlin, in the pilot episode of this 5 series show, stop time and employ levitation to save someone's life with magic, and then it is announced that prince Arthur is essentially his soulmate, and their joint power will create the most glorious age Camelot has ever seen. Quite an exciting set-up. And then for the rest of the entire show this man who we know possesses TIME-ALTERING POWERS mostly uses them on-screen to do common chores and annoy and prank THAT SAME Arthur. Like that one post said, "All of it's destiny and all of it's his fault." :p

[constantvariations]

Given how Adam's scar isn't stretched or distorted, he was probably branded as a late teen

[musical-chick-13]

I will always be thinking about how, at the end of Decision to Leave, the female lead decides to kill herself in a way that will make it harder to find her body--because this way, the male lead, despite his distrust and complicated feelings toward her, will be more likely to continue thinking about her because he won't know what happened. In some sense, she'll remain a mystery; and in doing so, she might be able to keep her place in his thoughts (and, by extension, his heart).

That's just...that's so fucking bleak, man.

[freakinator]

it feels so wrong to be alive, i should be dead, i Am dead but im not dead im alive and every single day i feel like i should be dead but i already Am dead im a walking corpse and yet im a living human being and it hurts cause i should be dead

(unrelated to my depression, thats a separate thing)

[alchemiclee]

been looking in tags for a few days now to see if anyone else found the whole high cloud quintet and related story to be a bit.....poorly written, nonsensical, contradictory, full of plot holes and loose ends, etc. apparently i'm not the only one. (and i'm not even talking about shipping stuff, because any time I saw someone mad about bad writing, someone always replies to be homophobic and laugh about failed ships. weirdos.) it could have been so good but was thrown into the garbage for the most part (IF you noticed all the plot holes and contradiction. if not, then it's a fine enough story tbh. I expect most people to see it on surface level and not read all the little hidden lore bits and try to piece it together like my autistic brain did. which is ok! enjoy it if you liked it and ignore me 😆)

[apathyfairy]

me at 13: by the time im 30 i will probably be married and maybe have a kid but for sure i will be living in my dream city and have my dream job. and also a lot of money

me at almost 30: i think i will treat myself to a corn dog this weekend

[sk3l3t0n444]

there are no words to describe my orientation at all and its so funny

[slimyenemy]

idk about this math like dw that's the point!

[quietwingsinthesky]

its like. i LIKE ezio!! and ezio wants to avenge his family and save people and destroy the group that led to all this harm!! but i know that he doesn’t!!!! the games keep going and the modern day segments are there and the war does not end with him!!!

ezio thinks he can end this war. and i know he doesn’t.

this is a tragedy.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Also:

William Afton's ending in Five Nights at Freddy's> Xehanort's ending in Kingdom Hearts

Why am I making this comparison? Because the FNAF and KH franchises have quite a few things in common, and one of these things are just how similar their main series villains are.

I'll take William Afton's ghost, in his animatronic suite, being burnt alive as his old friend Henry Emily tells him the deepest part of Hell has opened up to welcome him, so don't keep the Devil waiting over Xehanort getting to pretty much go to Kingdom Hearts heaven with his best friend, who he'd murdered, after he had just murdered Kairi any day.

Both of these characters are child murderers, essentially (I say "essentially," because I know someone will argue that Xehanort leading Ven to the point where his heart was shattered, and he became comatose for a decade+--and would have been much worse off if Sora hadn't helped him--isn't actually murder. But this is a Disney series rated E10+. I imagine they can only do so much. Plus, when he was causing worlds to get blown up in KHI, I feel like those people were dead. And, no: the fact that Sora was able to bring these worlds--and the people--back at the end of the game doesn't make it better), and Xehanort deserved something akin to what William Afton got.

"Oh, but we've learned now that Xehanort had good intentions and he had a sad past."

I don't care! His "good intentions" excuse nothing with the actions he took to get there! And William Afton probably killed Henry Emily's daughter because he blamed him for his own son's death (so he also had a "sad past")... and while you may understand that logic, does it excuse that or anything else he's done? No.

[zend-pixie]

good time for a little reminder that this was a thing from an official interview if i'm not mistaken <3

Warning! Long ramble about Rex ahead!

I've been doing a lot of thinking about this scene. I'll try my best to organize my thoughts!

(heads up: This is operating under the assumption that (basically) everything that happens in the movies is real.)

To begin with, we gotta address the irony of this line... Like, Rex, you do realize that you're just a piece of plastic too, right? And so is Emmet?

But before I look at that, I wanna touch on the line he says right after that,

"You still wanna go back to the Matrix when you know the truth???"

Now, I haven't seen The Matrix, I'll admit to that. But because it's ingrained in pop culture, I know the gist of it.

But anyway, one obvious truth from it is that once you're aware the world is a simulation, you can never really go back completely, not without sacrifice, because you know it's not real.

Now, call me captain obvious, but by his line there, he clearly can't be referring to his time on Undar--because Emmet hadn't experienced that, nor had he understood when Rex told him about it. I'm convinced he has to be referring to the first movie, and their experience in the Realm of the Man Upstairs.

While he was there in the first movie Emmet saw his world for what it was. He saw Finn playing with Benny's spaceship, hinting at the kind of control Finn had over his world. but Emmet himself interacts with Finn himself.

As far as Emmet knows... He's different. He's not under Finn's control. All of his friends? Things made up by a giant unknown creature. But not him.

He knows the nature of his world, but is still happy to rejoin it, so long as he has a place in it...

But then came Undar.

On Undar he sees, yet again, the absolute lack of control his world has. The moment Finn leaves the picture and Bianca takes over, it's as if he never existed in the first place. He doesn't recognize his friends, because the personalities he'd come to know, literally, the people he knew, were completely gone.

It's there that he realizes that they truly are pieces of plastic.

I can't imagine how fucking lonely that must have felt. To see how little your life truly mattered in the universe, that you could be warped and changed without recognition and be none the wiser, to know who you were was as inconsequential as a thought.

As far as Rex knows, he and Emmet are the only Real ones in existence. The only ones that can retain who they are.

Rather ironic, again, when we see how much Rex changes himself.

So when he says "You still wanna go back to The Matrix?" it's more so incredulity that he, as Emmet, ever wanted to go back, that he ever put any value into the world that was nothing but an illusion.

This could also explain why Rex was so quick to turn on Emmet in Undar. Once he saw Emmet wasn't going to change, was never going to give up on his fantasy world, he had no problem seeking to destroy him. In the Realm of the Man Upstairs, knew he would live on, since he's Real. He could get rid of this failure, further cementing himself as Rex, and move on to the next timeline to try again.

It's when Lucy enters the picture and brings back Imagination that things go to shit for Rex. Outside of the Realm of the Man Upstairs they're under the giant beings' control again. What happens here is out of Rex's ability to change.

And, sure enough, Finn has him disappear.

It's just... So, so fucking sad. Can you just imagine how many nights Emmet must have lain awake during those five years, bearing the weight of his knowledge of the entire world on his shoulders? Knowing everything was an illusion?? His home, his friends, Lucy, all just the product of a child's imagination???

No wonder Emmet was able to move on so easily once Rex disappeared.

It really was easier for him to forget the nature of The Matrix and just rejoin it and be happy. Having to deal with the weight of it would crush and mangle him, the way it had Rex.

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

��.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨��𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[centrally-unplanned]

I really enjoyed this video by Angela Collier as someone who is of the "Feynman Bros" generation without being a member of the thing itself. I was of course part of the "XKCD science nerd culture" of the 2000's where he was a valorized figure, but never read any of his books, and generally just wasn't a science person in general so the whole vibe didn't appeal. I certainly noticed the 2010's culture shift where people - rightly so in my opinion - noticed that many of his "anecdotes" were casually misogynistic or harassing. I know both sides of the track here decently well without having any stake in it.

So it was quite shocking to me to learn - spoilers - that Feynman never wrote a single book. Every one of those texts with his name splashed on it is by someone else, and sometimes with quite minimal involvement by him! He had this weird coterie of fans who just loved his stuff so much they collected his anecdotes, recorded lectures, and so on, and made books out of them, often well after the fact. And of course at certain point "cashing in" on the brand took over.

Which leads, inexorably, to the fact that it is a little difficult to glimpse the "real" Feynman, because half of the published stuff is just made up. Surely You're Joking is the exaggerated stories of a 50 year old man trying to impress a 20-something dude with how cool he is, telling tales decades after they happened. I had never read the book, so hearing direct quotes from it of Feynman "pretending to speak a language he didn't and being So Clever he tricked his audience" are just...obviously not true? What the fuck are you talking about??? The best part for me is that the book, of stories from the life of a physicist, never involves...other physicists. It is always random people at a bar or hotel. Because, you know, they can't contradict them? The one time he did name someone, Murray Gell-Mann, in a story, Murray objected on the grounds that it was false and they were forced to change it! You had one job and you fucked it up, person-who-isn't -Feynman-pretending-to-be-Feynman-while-writing-the-book.

This is very much a video in my wheelhouse of cultural history - Feynman is just a guy. His brand, like all brands, is manufactured, and so there is a story behind how it was manufactured & why. I think I can see Feynman's rise as part of the general rise of "nerd culture" that accelerated in the 1980's, and the very deep need to both be "pure" nerdy (something finally dropped in the late 2000's) but also cool, to fight back on the rep. A womanizing scientist deeply appealed at that time, one who can Have It All. The idea of being the Smartest Guy In The Room was admirable, not insufferable. Then times changed, and the whole edifice can be a bit cringe. With, of course, a real person behind it all that one has to sift through to see.

Also, you do sometimes look at the past and go "man, people really did act differently back then". And that is true! But part of that story is that people just felt way more comfortable bullshitting you about it. Makes it a bit hard to say how things really were.