#which is a thing i can do. can most people do that?

[ghostboyravenight]

I’m not gonna lie, the whole “what if a big, hairy trans man started using the women’s bathroom? what are TERFs gonna do then?” thing kinda pisses me off being used as some checkmate, because it insinuates that passing trans men would have any kind of power in that situation. If a passing trans man is forced to use the women’s bathroom, you know what will happen? Security will be called on him, he’ll be thrown out, and he’ll be forced to out himself as trans in order to avoid punishment, which will put an even bigger target on his back. He’s still going to be harassed. He’s still going to be forced into an uncomfortable and potentially dangerous situation, and he probably won’t avoid punishment anyway because the current laws in place are never going to favour any trans person’s defence over a cis person’s.

It also completely ignores trans men who aren’t “big and hairy” and don’t pass enough to be mistaken for a cis man. Non-passing trans men (or even men who look or sound effeminate enough to be suspected) who are forced to use the women’s bathrooms are still at a huge risk of harassment or even violence, especially young trans boys who are forced into their assigned bathrooms at school. Nex Benedict was literally murdered in a girl’s bathroom. Girls and women aren’t these inherently non-violent, peaceful and submissive beings (for one thing, that’s misogynistic). Trans men and boys get beaten up by them too, because most of us pre-T aren’t considered a threat, and we fucking die.

That’s not even to mention the trouble we already have in men’s bathrooms, because if we don’t pass, cis men will interrogate us on whether or not we’re “real men” and then sexually assault us if they discover we’re trans. Corrective rapes that trans men face is not something to be ignored, and I have trans male friends that it’s happened to who are lucky to be alive right now.

Bathroom laws will affect us just as much. The violence that trans women face is something that trans men can also relate to, and both need to be talked about without people categorising all trans men as “big, hairy, strong men able to beat up anyone who tries to threaten them” when that’s not the case like 90% of the time. Acting like passing trans men are just there to make TERFs look stupid, when TERFs are the ones who are violent towards us no matter how much we pass, is just diminishing our experiences.

[notenoughdramaaa]

If you see someone stealing in any way, shape, or form: report it. Theft breaks trust, and no one should be above the law.

It doesn't matter how justified you feel: once you decide that your personal desires override legal and moral boundaries, you begin to erode the very concept of justice. When theft goes unpunished, it sends the message that the rules don’t apply and that’s a dangerous precedent.

If you believe your need entitles you to take something that doesn’t belong to you, you're not only disregarding the law, but also the rights of others. If everyone operated that way, society would break down. Any action, no matter how harmful, could be justified under personal belief (theft, murder, rape, anything). That’s not freedom; that’s chaos. Respect for other people’s boundaries, property, and rights is what keeps society functioning.

Now, let’s talk about capitalism. Contrary to popular belief, capitalism is not designed to keep people poor. It evolved from systems of trade and thrives on competition, which, when properly regulated (again rules being respected) can lead to innovation and societal progress. Think about the internet, medical advances, or everyday technologies. These weren’t just born out of altruism they were driven by market incentives.

Yes, capitalism has flaws. It can lead to inequality, and unchecked capitalism can absolutely harm the most vulnerable. But that’s not the same as saying it’s designed to oppress. If you believe otherwise, I genuinely encourage you to take an economics class. Some people would rather drag the poor down than let the rich rise and that’s just insane.

And finally, an important clarification: justice and equality are not the same thing. People often confuse them, but they operate differently. Equality means giving everyone the same; justice means giving each person what they need based on their situation. Because people come from different backgrounds, treating everyone “equally” is inherently unjust.

We live in a society bound by laws. Whether or not you personally agree with those laws, they exist to protect everyone’s rights not just yours. Your desires do not place you above the law. Understanding justice, personal responsibility, and meritocracy is essential if we want to create a better world.

[obsob]

the uk's supreme court ruling is just the most insane thing ever these people are freaks. not ONCE in any of the bbc articles do they mention at all what they actually mean by 'biological sex' but im guessing they mean pussy . so . u want my big muscular hairy 100% 'passing' ftm bf in ur changing room?? in ur bathrooms?? would that make u feel comfy and safe??????? like they constantly leave out trans men of this argument most likely bc they know what adding them in completely dissolves their entire argument its so funny

and these arguments and "facts" are just not based in any sort of reality at all . like . what? all trans women are actually men and the reason why theyre doing all that is so they can infiltrate womens spaces to assault them? tfw ur a man and u want to assault a women but th door she went through has a little stick figure in a dress on it so u go 'damn' and walk away sadly. like. GIRLS. completely not only just disregarding any statistics that prove this is not in fact happening, or at the very least not happening to the degree they act like it is, but also ignoring the fact completely that women are very capable of assaulting women!! like that happens!!! women are not these perfect untouchable always-the-victim creatures . they're just people!! and all people are capable of evil!! trans, cis or otherwise!! YES men are more likely to assault women than any other group of people, but that is not because they are men and were born with evil in their hearts, its because of the way boys are raised and how normalised misogyny is in our society!!!!! by making everything about biology u completely disregard this fact, which both removes blame from the men who do assault women AND does nothing to help solve the social issues which cause this to happen in the first place!!! girls you are so weird!!!!!!!!

FUTHERMORE! im sorry but if u have intense trauma so bad that you cant spend any amount of time in the presence of man, that is ur problem to heal. you cannot expect the world to mold itself around YOUR trauma and triggers. it is your responsibility to keep yourself safe. just because u dont like something or something makes u uncomfy it doesnt give you the right to just campaign it out of existence sorry !

all my lovely uk trans women ESPECIALLYYYY my poc trans women i love you so so much you deserve the everything and the world is better and brighter with you in it!! one day everyone will see that and it will be a kinder existence for everyone because of it <33333 i love u so so much everything will be okay one day bc we will make it okay i prommy

[weneeya]

falling for you m.list | rules

pairing. one piece x reader

characters. zoro, law, sanji, ace

note. i haven't write with those boys since so long but i'm so back in one piece so be ready to see them! please request with anyone from one piece <3

Zoro

you might be the only one not aware of what is going on between him and you 

he doesn’t care much though, it’s fine by him to stay like this 

he’s always keeping an eye on you during a fight, just to be sure

he knows you can defend yourself well, but he can’t help it 

he lets you steal his food without arguing much, which is weird because he tries to kill Luffy each time he tries 

the crew teases him about it but he brushes them off everytime 

he’s a big shy boy, but he just doesn’t care if anyone knows about his feelings for you

he has a huge soft spot for you and he doesn’t even tries to hide it 

there’s no real realization because he knows why he’s doing this 

he would die for anyone in the crew, but he would definitely burn the world down if you asked him to

Law

realization hits HARD 

he’s not the type to show a lot of emotion, at least he wasn’t until he began to travel with the strawhats

and you? you get him stressed 

he didn’t realize it until robin pointed it to him 

maybe she wasn’t wrong, but no way he would admit it like this 

yes he lets you stay around him a lot, even allowing you to touch him without complaining too much 

and yes you’re always stealing his coat when you’re cold and he doesn’t bother him

but falling for you? no way

he can’t be falling for someone, especially not you 

yet, he can’t take the idea out of his mind since robin’s words 

he notices the way you scrunch your nose when you smile 

or how your face lights up at the idea of visiting a new island 

you’re adorable, and his heart can’t take it 

damn, maybe he’s down bad finally

Sanji

he loves women so much so his behavior isn’t questioned a lot at first 

he’s a simp, it’s not weird that he’s treating you better than anyone else 

until he began to prioritize you over everyone else

even the other girls 

makes your favorite dessert all the time

even asks you what you want to eat and does his best to make it with what he have

nami is the first one to talk about it, and he feels his heart stop at the thought 

is he really in love? like, real love

he’s a romantic guy, that’s it, he can’t be feeling those things 

he can’t, right? 

but the way you’re so gentle with him, never pushing him away when he treats you like the most precious thing on the sea

well, he realizes he might feel something more for you

Ace

the boy is blind, even more than you are 

he’s naturally clingy and touchy with people, a joyful boy 

yet, he seems worse with you 

he always keeps an arm around your shoulder, talking you about his dear brother a lot 

when he falls asleep out of nowhere, it’s usually on your shoulder or even falling on your back

the day he was drunk and put his hat on top of your head? everyone knew it was over 

if anyone tries to tell him about it, he just stays with his eyes open wide in shock 

he blinks a few times, slowly processing the words 

a shrug of shoulders and he just accepts it like this 

fine, perhaps he’s in love, but so what? 

he doesn’t change anything, it just means he can be even closer to you than before

thank you!

[janecafe]

future spouse's pac: reasons why they choose to love you every time

uno - dos - tres

paid readings available here

masterlist

©janecafe 2025

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

₊˚ʚ 𝐔𝐍𝐎 🪅 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

i just wanna be more authentic here. your person is a class that doesn't believe in love, they think it's just human fabricated and imagination well perhaps this may be because they have not yet experienced the feeling of "love". their beliefs and practices affecting their perspectives of what love really looks like. i think they're insecure about themselves and may have a gloomy heart about the topic of affection. so the time they infatuated with you, they will experience many first times. the reason why this person love you so much is that you were the first person to show care for them, it's like a natural characteristics of you.

i think you will work with them, in a project. it will take months for this person to grow feelings and as the time you're gonna know about their feelings, it's also gonna take more time for you to mirror these emotions with them. this seems like a slow burn yet a very assured love. when i say it was their first time to be in love, i speak about--a real love, the feeling is different and because they love you because of you.

the second thing is that you're not afraid to show yourself well despite the hesitation and nervousness you feel inside most of the time. you have this mindset where; "who's gonna do this? i have no one to rely on but myself needs me more". because of this positive aspect it's energizing you to do the task completely. i heard you might be insecure and have a public speaking anxiety but this bright side of your profile always gets you to wake up in reality. although your voice comes out in a full you can feel and hear your heart banging loudly inside when interacting with strangers. i feel that you have a high frequency, you may frequently noticed people at the public, staring at you without any reason. sometimes you felt awkward and embarrassed.

another thing to add to the list is that, despite that you are someone who is quiet and gentle. you have a great humor, i think people who are close to you like your jokes but most of the time these gags are overlay from you telling the truth. its like you are saying what's real behind those. well, this person will love your humour too. you are making them laugh even with their bad days, it makes their cheeks hurt. most of time, people don't understand the two of you because you two are the ones who master of each other's understanding. they love how you try your best understand them in every way possible without judgement this is how they fall deeper to you to the point they are willing to protect you to those people who would try to harm you physically or emotionally.

₊˚ʚ 𝐃𝐎𝐒 🪅 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

ohh, la la la. they be willing to be stripped and get cold for you. love makes them crazy, i think they have a circle where most of their friends are in love in such a way they tell themselves that, "love makes you an idiot and crazy bet i'll never be like that" not until you come and knock the hell out of them. their perception on love turned around like 360°, is indeed make them insane. they feel you are so rare that's why they have a strong feelings for you. even in afterlife, they be willing to chase and make love with you haha. this reading becoming out of the topic, well the thing that makes them choose to love you is that, you give them an unquestionable loyalty.

you show them the best version of themselves which they didn't know before because all this time they think they already reach that--- that they reach the top of themselves. your presence makes a huge difference to them. it's not a big deal, it's neither your fault for them to change but it was their decision. they embrace and love it. another thing is that you are a home and a light, it's like a feeling of waking up that sunlight hitting your face. they love it when you give the best comfort especially when they really need one.

i think they will pursue you in such a very long way and with the time you are gonna them love too. they'll be like; "finally, my happiness choose me". from their expectations and imagination they already love the life that you two were building.

you are their muse of art. the root of their inspiration. the star in the darkest days. they can metaphor you with everything, make you poems with so fondness of words. they're lucky that they are able to love and see you in this lifetime. and the day they will meet you, is the day they will share their wind-gentle love story.

₊˚ʚ 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒 🪅 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

the first thing i heard is that--- you make them marveled in love. they love how you send cute messages whenever they're at work. they think you are the most unexpected thing that happens in their life, they didn't expect you to come and boom their world. you shake things up i swear. they feel that they're bad person and nobody will ever love, they feel that they don't deserve you and their love. but you make them realize that love can make change. love makes you better. they love how patience you are with them and they are so forever grateful for that.

i think you give your best to match their energy and they really do appreciate your efforts. this slaps them that you are the one that they are willing to spend with for the rest of their lives. they want to love you much better than you do to them.

they also love your kisses and hugs. it makes their knees weak. and trust me, they'll try their best to match and give you the best communication. your encouragement and care was the ones they choose to love you every day.

another thing, they appreciate and have a soft spot for you when they take care of them when they are sick. when you make them food even though they don't usually ask for it. although most of the time you make something stupid they realize that you are the person they want for the rest of their life. i considered that their love for you was better and stronger than others.

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which one night changed everything

The atmosphere from the stage was still buzzing in your bones.

You’d just wrapped your sold-out show in New York, the city’s skyline glittering like applause, and the rush of it all—the screams, the lights, the way the crowd had sung your lyrics back at you—was impossible to shake off. So when your manager asked if you wanted to head back to the hotel, you grinned, slid your sunglasses back on even though it was well past 11pm, and said, “I feel like dancing.”

Which is how you ended up here: in a club in SoHo, drink in hand, bass vibrating through your chest, trying to let the night swallow you whole.

Until you crash right into someone.

“Oh, shit—” you blurt, watching your drink spill straight down the front of a tall blonde’s jacket and shirt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

The girl takes a half step back, blinking at the wet mess now soaking her clothes. But instead of freaking out, she just laughs. A soft, breathy kind of laugh that catches you off guard.

“It’s fine,” she says, brushing at the wet fabric. “Honestly. I’ve had worse fouls.”

You blink. “Are you... sure? I literally just baptized you in tequila.”

She smiles then—kind of sideways, kind of cocky—and that’s when it clicks.

You know that face.

“Wait… aren’t you Paige Bueckers?”

She arches a brow. “Guilty.”

You laugh, then clap a hand over your mouth. “God, this is so embarrassing. First time meeting you and I immediately drench you. Nice to meet you, I’m a walking disaster.”

“Well, I like disasters,” she says, grinning. “Especially ones with good taste in tequila.”

You laugh again, this time more relaxed, her tone somehow instantly calming.

“Can I at least buy you another drink to make up for it?” you ask, already half-turning toward the bar.

She hesitates for a second, like she’s about to say no, but then: “Only if you drink it with me.”

So you do. And then one turns into two, and then the crowd starts to feel too close, too loud, too much. She leans toward you, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Wanna find a quieter corner? Or ditch this place completely?”

You look at her, at the little dimple in her cheek, the warmth in her eyes, the way she’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in this club.

“Let’s get outta here,” you say.

The New York night air hits like a wave of clarity. It’s cooler now, streets still buzzing, the hum of late-night taxis and laughter in the distance.

You and Paige start walking, no destination in mind.

“So,” she says, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “You always that graceful with drinks?”

You groan. “Don’t remind me. I swear I’m not usually a hazard.”

“No complaints here,” she teases. “It’s probably the most memorable way I’ve ever met someone.”

You glance over at her. “So you’re saying I made an impression.”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, nudging your shoulder. “You sing and spill drinks. Real triple threat.”

You laugh, heart fluttering unexpectedly. “You were at the concert, weren’t you?”

“I was,” she admits. “I’ve been a fan for a while now. Didn’t expect to end the night wearing your drink, though.”

“Hey, you’re lucky it wasn’t red wine. I’ve ruined tour outfits with that before.”

She smirks. “Good to know. I’ll make a note, don’t let you near wine in public.”

You both fall into a rhythm as you walk, trading jokes and stories like you’ve known each other for longer than the hour you’ve shared. The city fades around you, becoming background noise to the conversation.

She tells you about basketball, how weird fame can feel, how much she misses home sometimes. You tell her about tour life, how lonely it can get between cities, how much it means when people connect with your lyrics.

“Do you ever feel like... even when you're surrounded by people, you're still kinda alone?” you ask, not really sure why you're getting this vulnerable. Maybe it’s the way she listens—like she actually cares. Maybe it’s the tequila. Maybe it’s just her.

“All the time,” she says. “Especially when I’m traveling or doing press. It’s like... everyone's around, but no one really sees you, you know?”

You nod. “Exactly.”

There’s a pause. A comfortable one.

“You’re easy to talk to,” she says quietly.

You smile, glancing at her. “You too.”

You reach the edge of a small park. She gestures toward a bench. “Sit for a minute?”

You nod, and the two of you collapse onto the bench like it’s your own little world.

“So, real question,” Paige says, turning to face you slightly. “Do you always run into basketball players after your concerts, or am I just lucky?”

You laugh softly, “Very lucky. It’s usually just fans and a very enthusiastic sound guy named Trevor.”

She grins. “Trevor sounds like competition.”

“Trust me, Trevor’s happily married. To my lighting designer.”

“Well then,” she says, leaning back, stretching her legs out. “Guess I’ve got a shot.”

Your heart stutters, just a bit.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, playful.

“Yeah.” She turns her head, looking at you with those soft blue eyes. “Would it be crazy if I asked for your number?”

You blink, heat blooming in your cheeks. “No. It wouldn’t be crazy at all.”

You grab her phone and type it in, your name saved with a little sparkle emoji at the end. When you hand it back, she’s smiling like she just won a game-winner.

“I’m really glad I ran into you tonight,” she says, voice soft now. Almost like she’s shy.

You look at her—at the way the streetlight catches in her hair, at the gentle curve of her lips—and your heart does something weird and warm.

“Me too,” you say honestly.

It’s almost 3am when you finally call it a night. She walks you to your hotel, hands deep in her pockets again, the city quieter now.

At the door, she pauses. “Hey. If I text you tomorrow, you’ll answer, right?”

You grin. “I’ll be waiting.”

She starts to turn away, then glances back, her smile small but real. “Goodnight, mystery singer.”

“Goodnight, soaked-in-tequila basketballer.”

You both laugh, and then she’s walking down the street, head ducked slightly, like she’s trying to hide how much she’s smiling.

You watch until she turns the corner and disappears.

And somehow, you already know—this won’t be the last time you see her.

Your phone buzzes the next morning before your eyes even open.

You groan, roll over, and blindly reach for it on the nightstand. One eye cracks open.

Unknown Number: Is it too early to say I miss talking to you?

You blink. Then grin.

Tequila-soaked Paige Bueckers apparently turned into Smooth Paige Bueckers overnight.

You sit up, rubbing your face, the memory of last night rolling in slow and warm—her laugh, the way she said your name, that quiet moment on the park bench. It already feels like a dream.

You text back:

You: I don’t know, Paige. We’ve known each other for, what, 6 hours? This might be moving too fast.

She replies immediately.

Paige: Damn, already getting curved.

Paige: Can I at least take you out before you block me?

You grin, flopping back against the pillows, heart beating a little too fast for someone just out of bed.

You: Depends. What does a Paige Bueckers date look like?

Paige: Lowkey. Chill. Snacks are guaranteed. Good conversation. Great company, if I’m lucky.

You: You’re cheesy. I kinda like it.

Paige: Good. ‘Cause I kinda like you.

You stare at that one for a second too long. Then—

You: Pick me up at 7. No drinks involved this time.

Paige: Deal. No tequila. Just me and my charisma.

She picks you up outside your hotel exactly at 7, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a UConn hoodie that’s definitely too comfortable-looking to hate.

You slide into the passenger seat, glancing at her. “Points for being punctual.”

She smirks. “Would’ve been earlier, but I had to make sure I looked cute enough to impress a superstar.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your smile. “You clean up well, Bueckers.”

“And you,” she says, eyes dragging down to your outfit—just simple jeans and a bomber jacket, but the way she looks at you makes it feel like a red carpet moment, “look... dangerous.”

You laugh, cheeks warming. “This is why you played point guard, isn’t it? All smooth talk and clever moves.”

She shrugs. “I just see the opening and go for it.”

Instead of some fancy spot, she takes you to a rooftop food truck park in Brooklyn that you never would’ve found on your own. There’s string lights overhead, picnic tables, music playing from someone’s speaker, and people just vibing.

You both grab tacos and sit at a table tucked near the edge, the skyline stretching behind her like it’s part of the scene.

“You weren’t lying,” you say, taking a bite. “Great food, good company. You’re off to a good start.”

She grins, chewing thoughtfully. “Glad I didn’t blow it.”

You laugh. “Not yet.”

For a while, you just talk.

About music. About basketball. About growing up with big dreams and trying not to let them crush you. She asks about your first time on stage. You ask about her first time hitting a game-winner. She leans in when you talk about your new album, the one you’ve been pouring your soul into. You listen closely when she tells you about rehab and injuries, how hard it is to sit on the bench when all you want to do is fight.

“You’re more than just your game, you know,” you say, eyes softening as you watch her.

She blinks, surprised. “Not a lot of people say that.”

“Well, not a lot of people really see you, do they?”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you. And then she nods, a tiny smile curling at her lips. “I think you do.”

It’s nearly midnight again by the time she drives you back. She parks in front of your hotel and turns off the engine, but neither of you makes a move to leave.

You glance at her. “So... you planning to ghost me after this?”

Her head whips around. “What? No. Never.”

You smirk. “Just checking.”

Paige looks at you for a second, eyes full of something soft. “Can I be honest?”

You nod.

“I wasn’t planning to go out after your concert. I’m not even a club person. But my friend dragged me out, and… you crashing into me was the best accident of my month. Maybe longer.”

Your throat tightens a little at that. “You’re not too bad yourself, Bueckers.”

A beat passes.

“I wanna see you again,” she says quietly.

You lean in, just enough for her to notice, but not enough to push.

“I’d like that.”

She smiles, and it’s the kind that hits deep. The kind that stays with you.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” she says.

“You better.”

You squeeze her hand before stepping out, heart fluttering stupidly in your chest.

And as you walk into the lobby, you check your phone.

Paige: I already miss talking to you again. Goodnight, pretty girl.

You bite your lip, smiling like a complete idiot.

You: Goodnight, smooth talker. Dream of me.

Paige: I will.

The next morning, you get a text from paige, a very vague one, to meet you at an address. The only thing she told you was to dress as if you were to workout. You questioned her, but all she sent you was he basketball emoji..

You show up in sneakers and sunglasses, trying to look chill but already sweating under the sun and nerves.

Paige’s standing under the chain-link fence, basketball spinning in one hand, the other casually in her hoodie pocket like she’s in some Nike ad. She sees you and grins.

“There she is,” she calls, tossing the ball to you. “You warm up, or should I go easy?”

You catch the ball with a fake glare. “You better go very easy. If I break an ankle, my tour manager will come for you.”

She laughs. “Deal. But only because you’re cute.”

You flush. She doesn’t even try to hide the smile that follows.

She does go easy—at first.

You start off playing HORSE. She nails everything effortlessly: off the backboard, spin move into a jumper, even a ridiculous one-legged fadeaway that makes you double over laughing.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you say between laughs. “You’re good. You’re like... disgustingly good.”

She grins. “Your form isn’t bad. Just needs... you know. A few years of elite training and a God-tier jumper.”

You fake pout. “That’s all?”

She walks over, dribbles behind her back, and then stands behind you, pressing a hand lightly to your back.

“Here,” she murmurs, positioning your elbow. “Relax your wrist more.”

Your breath catches a little at how close she is, how gentle her voice turns when she’s focused. You glance back at her, and she smiles softly.

“There you go. Now try.”

You shoot.

It bounces off the rim.

“Tragic,” you say.

She grins. “We’ll work on it.”

Later, you sit side by side on the edge of the court, water bottles in hand, the late-afternoon sun dripping gold across the pavement.

“That was surprisingly fun,” you say.

Paige nudges your leg. “You didn’t even cry after I beat you. I’m impressed.”

“Oh, I’m crying inside.”

She laughs, head tilted toward the sky, and for a second, the noise of the city fades into background static.

“You ever write love songs?” she asks, voice quieter now.

You look at her, tilt your head. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Anyone ever write one about you?”

You shrug. “I don’t think so.”

She nods slowly. “You should be someone’s muse.”

The way she says it—like it’s already written in her—makes something stir in your chest.

“Maybe I’ll write one about this,” you say, trying to keep it light. “Tequila, HORSE, getting coached on a public court.”

She laughs. “I better get a writing credit.”

You smirk. “You’ll get the bridge.”

The sun dips below the buildings by the time she walks you back to your place. You reach your door, both lingering again like last time.

“This was fun,” you say.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck. “More fun than I expected, honestly.”

You bite your lip. “Is that your way of saying you like hanging out with me?”

She leans against the doorframe, close enough that you can smell her cologne again.

“I love hanging out with you.”

A pause.

“I don’t want this to just be... like, a New York thing,” she says, quietly.

Your heart stutters. “I don’t either.”

She looks relieved. “Good. Because I wanna keep seeing you. And texting you. And maybe... calling you just to hear your voice.”

You smile, stepping a little closer. “You can call. But only if you sing backup on my next album.”

She raises a brow. “Even if I can’t sing?”

“Especially if you can’t. It'll keep you humble.”

She laughs, shaking her head. Then her eyes drift to your lips, and for a moment, the air changes.

She doesn’t kiss you—yet—but she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and murmurs, “Goodnight, superstar.”

And just like that, she’s walking back down the hallway again, hands in her pockets, heart probably racing just like yours.

You’re somewhere between Paris and Berlin when the first wave of really missing her hits.

It’s late. You're curled up on the leather couch in your tour bus, city lights slipping past the window like streaks of gold. The after-show adrenaline is still buzzing in your chest, but it’s quieter now. Less electric. Less... full.

Your phone lights up,

Paige: Hey, superstar, just finished practice. Everything hurts. I’d kill to hear your voice right now.

A smile find its way on your face, heat creeping up your neck. You quickly click on her contact, hearing it ring twice before you see her face pop up on the other side.

“Superstar!”

She looked exhausted but still was excited to hear your voice. You started taking about anything, just wanting to be in the presence of each other even thousands of miles away. 

“Play me something?” she asks, seeing your guitar on your lap.

You strum softly, trying to find the right chords. You made up some lyrics on the spot, something about missing someone in the quiet moments. You could see her eyes starting to close, the weight of the day finally catching up to her, but before she fell asleep, you heard her mumble.

“You’re gonna make me emotional before bed huh? That was beautiful. You always sound like home.”

You let your eyes linger on her face as she falls asleep.The distance grows louder over the next couple of weeks.

She’s in Dallas, grinding through practices and media days, trying to earn her minutes. You’re bouncing from Amsterdam to Rome, meeting fans and filling arenas—but something always feels missing.

At night, you call each other.

Sometimes it’s FaceTime at 1am your time, where she’s brushing out her curls with a hoodie on, sitting on her kitchen floor with a smoothie and sleepy eyes.

Sometimes it’s you whispering in a stairwell, your voice hoarse after a show, as she talks you down from the chaos of being known.

One night, the call turns heavier.

You’re in a hotel room in Madrid, lying on your back in the dark. Paige is on the other end, quiet.

“You still there?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“You.”

Your breath catches.

“This is gonna sound dumb,” she continues. “But sometimes I think about how easy it would be to let this fade. Like, I know the world wants us to let things go when they get hard.”

You stay silent, listening.

“But I don’t want to let this go. Even if it means texting across time zones and calling you when I should be sleeping. Even if I have to miss your shows and you have to miss my games.”

“Paige,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I don’t want to let this go either.”

You hear her exhale on the other end, shaky.

“Okay,” she says. “Then we won’t.”

There’s a pause.

Then she adds, quietly, “When the season starts, I want you at a game. I don’t care if it’s one or five. I just... I want to look up in the stands and know you’re real. That this isn’t just a midnight thing.”

Your chest aches, full of something fierce and warm.

“I’ll be there,” you promise.

A week later, she texts you a photo: her standing on the Wings court in her new uniform. Number 5. Media day.

Paige: I’m officially a pro. Not bad, huh?

You: You look hot. Like, I’d-throw-my-bra-on-the-court hot.

Paige: You’re gonna make my pictures look weird cause you keep making me bush.

You: I will be framing those photos.

Paige: Keep gassing me up.

It’s not easy.

You miss her laugh, the way she casually touches your hand when she’s not thinking. She misses your voice in real time, not just in echoes.

But you keep showing up for each other.

In stolen hours. In blurry video calls. In the voice notes that fill the silence between spotlight and stadium.

And one night, after a sold-out show in Prague, you sit alone on a balcony, phone in hand.

You call her.

She picks up immediately.

“Hey, superstar,” she says, tired but warm.

You look at the sky, at the stars above a city you’ve never been to before.

“I think I’m falling for you,” you whisper.

There’s silence.

Then a quiet, breathless, “Yeah?”

You nod even though she can’t see it.

“Hard.”

You hear her swallow.

“I think I’ve been falling since the moment you spilled that drink on me.”

You laugh, tears springing to your eyes.

“I don’t know how this works,” you say honestly. “But I want to keep trying. With you.”

“I do too,” she says. “We’ll figure it out.”

A pause. Then—

“I love that it’s you.”

You whisper back, “Me too.”

You're in Venice when the song first hits you.

Not the full thing. Just a feeling. A line. A chord progression that won’t leave you alone.

You’re in the back room of a centuries-old venue, sunlight leaking through antique windows, your team buzzing around about stage setup and lighting angles—but all you can hear is the soft melody playing over and over in your head.

“I like me better when I’m with you…”

It slips out under your breath, almost a whisper. You don’t even realize you’ve picked up your guitar until you're already strumming the first few notes, chasing the rhythm that’s been living in your chest since that last late-night call with Paige.

You close your eyes and lean into the feeling.

“I knew from the first time, I’d stay for a long time…”

You hum the lyrics into your phone’s voice memo app, fingers dancing across the strings. You’re not writing for a crowd tonight. Not even for the label. Just... for her.

The next few days are a blur of writing sessions between sound checks and flights. You’re scribbling verses on napkins, whispering melodies into your phone while your head leans against cold hotel windows, everything wrapped in Paige's voice, her laugh, her sleepy texts from halfway across the world.

Paige: Just saw you announced the Italy show. The crowd’s gonna lose it. Wish I could be there.

You: I wish you could too.

Paige: What are you working on? I can feel the writer brain from here.

You: A new song.

Paige: Is it the sexy one or the sad one?

You: Plot twist: it’s the soft one.

Paige: I’m intrigued.

Paige: I like soft. Especially from you.

You don’t tell anyone you’re going to perform it.

It’s still raw. Still new. But something about tonight feels different. The air’s crisp, the square outside the venue in Milan is packed with fans, and your hands are itching to share something real.

So you slide it into the setlist—right before the encore, no announcement, no title.

Just you and your guitar under the lights.

You walk out on stage, soaking in the roar of the crowd, and then let the silence settle.

“This next one,” you say into the mic, “is about someone who makes me feel like the best version of myself. It’s new. It’s honest. Be gentle.”

The first chord hits and you swear your hands tremble.

But then you sing.

“To be young and in love in New York City To not know who I am but still know that I'm good long as you're here with me…”

The crowd quiets. It’s like the whole city is holding its breath.

Your voice wavers slightly when you hit the chorus—because suddenly, you see her.

There. In the third row. Hat pulled low, hoodie on, but you’d know her anywhere.

Paige Bueckers.

Smiling. Eyes glassy. Hands folded against her mouth like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

You falter for half a second, heart slamming against your ribs. She came.

You blink through it, focus, and sing directly to her like she’s the only person there.

“I like me better when I’m with you...”

Your voice breaks a little on the last line. The crowd cheers like they felt it too—but you’re only watching her, and she’s clapping with tears in her eyes, mouthing the words back to you even though she’s never heard the song before.

After the show, you rush backstage, adrenaline crashing through your chest, half expecting it to have been a dream. But she’s there, waiting in the hall.

When you see her, you don’t even hesitate.

You run.

She catches you in her arms, lifting you slightly off the ground like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You bury your face in her shoulder, laughing, crying, overwhelmed.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you whisper.

She pulls back, brushing your hair from your face. “I wanted to surprise you. Took a red-eye right after practice. Nearly missed my connection.”

You cup her face, forehead to hers.

“I thought about you the whole time I wrote that song.”

She smiles, soft and teary. “I knew it was about me the second you started.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “Of course you did.”

“You really like yourself better when you’re with me, huh?” she teases.

“I like everything better when I’m with you,” you say, voice breaking with truth.

She leans in and finally—finally—kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Everything you’ve been aching for since you left New York.

And in that moment, nothing else matters.

Not time zones. Not distance. Not the flashing cameras or the headlines.

Just her.

Just you.

You wake up to warm sunlight spilling through your hotel window and a very real Paige Bueckers fast asleep in your bed, her cheek squished against the pillow, hair a little wild from the night before, one hand still curled against your hip.

You smile.

You don’t move. You just watch her, soaking in the softest version of the girl who once had a tequila sunrise spilled all over her. The girl who now knows every version of you: stage star, sleepy mess, secret romantic.

She stirs eventually, blinking up at you.

“Hi,” she mumbles.

“Hi,” you say back, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “Still real?”

She nods, smile lazy. “Very real. Very jet lagged. But worth it.”

You spend the day wandering Milan like a pair of tourists with a shared secret.

Coffee and fresh pastries at a tiny café. You both try to pronounce cornetto with your best Italian accents and fail miserably. Paige dips hers in espresso and groans like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.

“I’m not going back to Dallas,” she says with her mouth full. “I live here now. I’m gonna play for... AC Milan Women’s Basketball or something.”

“That doesn’t exist,” you laugh.

“It will. I’ll start the team. Just to stay close to you.”

You explore side streets filled with blooming flower stands, boutiques, and locals on vespas. Paige snaps photos of you under every archway and old stone bridge, and you start teasing her about being your personal paparazzi.

“Smile,” she says, lifting her phone. “The light’s hitting you like you’re in a movie.”

“I am in a movie,” you grin. “You’re the love interest.”

She laughs, then slips her hand into yours without hesitation. No nerves. No hiding.

Just you and her.

You’re walking near the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II when you hear the first shutter.

A camera click. Then another.

You glance up and spot a guy with a long lens a few feet away, pretending to admire the architecture.

Then a girl with her phone out, eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, clutching her friend’s arm. “It’s her. That’s them.”

You meet Paige’s eyes.

She squeezes your hand, calm. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I don’t want to hide. We can keep it private but I’d never want to keep you a secret.”

And with that, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek—right there, in the middle of the plaza, with people watching.

@/BasketballUniverse: Is that Paige Bueckers in Milan… holding hands with [Y/N] after their show last night???

@/WNBAUpdates: Paige really said “distance who?” and flew to Italy mid-preseason 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 Love wins 🥹💙

@/concertswithY/N: I WAS THERE. I SAW THEM. She sang “I Like Me Better” and Paige was in the CROWD??!! They kissed after!!! I’m never recovering

@/PaigeBueckersFan69: so this means… that’s HER muse?? she wrote that song about HER???

Later that night, you're back at the hotel, scrolling through the chaos. You see blurry photos of you two on the street, kissing in front of a bookstore, laughing over lunch.

Some are stunning.

One shows Paige holding your hand while you reach up to adjust her sunglasses.

Another shows her staring at you like you hung the stars.

You hand her your phone.

She scrolls through slowly, then looks up at you.

“You okay with this?” she asks. “The noise, the questions, all of it?”

You wrap your arms around her waist.

“If it means I get to love you in the open? I’m good with it.”

She kisses you again, slow and sweet.

“I like me better when I’m with you,” she whispers against your lips.

You smile, because yeah—so do you.

Dallas is warmer than you expected.

The city hums with spring heat and WNBA excitement, the air heavy with the buzz of a new season. Posters of Paige and her teammates decorate downtown walls. There’s a billboard with her face on it just a few blocks from your hotel—smiling, fierce, confident.

You grin every time you pass it.

“She’s so cool,” you whisper like a fangirl to yourself, snapping a photo from the Uber.

She texts you before morning shoot around.

Paige: Today’s the day Kinda nervous Not for the game tho For you seeing me in my element

You: You mean sweaty, locked in, intimidating Bueckers? Yeah I’m shaking.

Paige: Shut up Are you coming to the tunnel?

You: Wouldn’t miss it.

You wait just outside the players’ entrance, baseball cap low, hoodie zipped, trying to blend in even though it’s impossible. The moment someone recognizes you, phones start coming out. You smile politely, taking a few photos, but your eyes keep drifting toward the hallway where you know she’ll walk out.

And then—

There she is.

Hair slicked-back in a bun, jersey crisp, headphones around her neck, and that unmistakable focused look in her eyes.

Until she sees you.

Then she melts.

“Hey, superstar,” she says, walking straight into your arms.

“You look insane,” you whisper, drinking her in. “Like… this is what the billboards don’t show.”

“You nervous?” she teases, hands settling on your hips.

“I might faint.”

She grins. “You better not. I need you conscious so I can wink at you when I hit my first shot.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

She leans in and kisses you—soft, fast, but right there in front of everyone. Phones flash. Reporters murmur. Her teammates whistle.

You don’t care. Neither does she.

She’s yours. And she’s about to light up the court.

You’re in the front row when it happens.

She drains her first three with a signature step-back, and sure enough, turns and winks right at you as she runs back on defense.

You practically melt in your seat.

By halftime, she’s leading the team in points. The Wings are ahead. The crowd’s electric.

You’re hoarse from screaming. Every time she looks over, she finds you. Smiling. Cheering. Clapping with pride in your chest like it might burst.

And she shines brighter every time she sees you.

After the game, you’re waiting in the tunnel again.

She walks out flushed, sweaty, and glowing. Her jersey is untucked, towel draped around her neck, and the second she sees you, her whole face softens.

“You killed it,” you say as she pulls you into a hug.

“I heard you yelling,” she says into your ear.

“I blacked out during the third quarter. I think I proposed.”

She laughs, stepping back, eyes shining. “I might’ve accepted.”

Back at her place that night, it’s quieter.

She showers while you lay in bed, wearing her warmup hoodie, scrolling through social media posts of her game.

Fans are losing their minds.

@/WNBASTanTwitter: Paige Bueckers showing out on her debut, and her girl was court side all smiles?? We are living in a rom-com.

@/BueckersFanClub: She winked at Y/N after that three 😭 THEY'RE SO IN LOVE

@/Y/Nupdates: We saw her perform “I Like Me Better” Now we saw HER be the biggest Paige stan They are ENDGAME.

When Paige comes out of the bathroom, damp hair curling around her cheeks, oversized tee hanging off her frame, you set your phone down.

“Come here,” you whisper, opening your arms.

She crawls in beside you, settling with a content sigh, head on your chest.

“I’ve never felt like this,” she murmurs. “Balanced. Seen.”

You press a kiss to her forehead.

“Me neither.”

“You think we can do this?” she asks. “Your tour. My season. The distance?”

You nod, sure.

“Yeah. Because we’re not doing it alone.”

She lifts her head to look at you, eyes searching.

And then she kisses you like she’s promising something. Something big. Something real.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, limbs tangled, dreams quiet and golden.

And even though your next show is in Berlin, and her next game is in Phoenix, neither of you feels far anymore.

Not really.

Because love doesn’t care about distance.

And you’ve already written the song.

Berlin is electric.

The crowd is wild, the lights intense, the soundcheck rolls late into the night with the hum of neon signs outside your hotel window. You’ve played three shows in four days. Your voice is hoarse. Your body aches. You’ve been pouring every drop of yourself into the music, but no matter how loud the crowd gets—how bright the lights shine—there’s a dull ache that sits just behind your ribs.

You miss her.

You miss her voice. Her dumb jokes. The way she looks at you after a show like you’re magic and made of stars. FaceTime helps, sure. Texts too. But it’s not the same.

Tonight, you're sitting on the floor of your dressing room after the encore, sweating and spent, staring at the same message thread you’ve read a hundred times.

You: I miss you so much it hurts.

She hasn’t replied yet.

She had a team dinner tonight. You don’t expect a quick response. But your throat tightens anyway. Not out of doubt, not out of fear—just longing.

Real, raw, inconvenient longing.

There’s a knock at the door. You don’t look up.

“Can we just—” you start, assuming it’s your manager or a fan service person, “—give me ten?”

Silence.

Then—

“I brought something.”

The voice is soft. Familiar. Your heart slams into your ribs.

You look up.

And she’s there.

Paige.

In a hoodie and jeans, cap low over her head, grinning like the most beautiful problem you’ve ever had.

You scramble to your feet.

“What—what the hell are you doing here?”

She drops her bag and walks into your arms like she’s been holding the motion for weeks.

“Coach gave me a day off,” she whispers. “I booked the flight before I could change my mind.”

You bury your face in her neck, shaking from the adrenaline and disbelief.

“I didn’t think I could miss someone like this,” you breathe.

“Same,” she murmurs. “You sounded a little off the past few nights. Thought I’d come fix that.”

The next day is quiet and golden.

No venue. No schedule. Just you and Paige exploring Berlin with coffee in one hand and each other’s fingers intertwined in the other.

You ride bikes down cobbled side streets. She tries to pronounce German street names and butchers all of them, laughing until she nearly crashes into a pretzel cart.

You eat currywurst from a stand near the Brandenburg Gate, take a ridiculous amount of selfies in front of graffiti walls, and lay in the grass in Tiergarten Park, shoes kicked off, her head in your lap.

“You look good in the sun,” she says softly, squinting up at you.

You brush your fingers through her hair. “You look good in Europe.”

She grins. “I look good when I’m with you.”

That night, she insists on coming to the venue again.

Just to be in the wings. To hear you sing live. To feel the thing you’ve been building city after city.

You don’t tell anyone she’s there.

But when you sing “I Like Me Better”, you glance stage left—and she’s there. Hoodie up, leaning against the wall, smiling like you’re still the most magic thing in the world.

You sing the bridge like a secret just for her.

“Stay awhile, stay awhile Stay here with me…”

You're wrapped up in a blanket, legs tangled, room dim except for the glow of the street lights outside. Paige’s arm is draped over your waist, thumb tracing slow, thoughtful circles on your hip.

“I hate that you’re leaving tomorrow,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” she murmurs. “But we’ll have time soon. The break’s coming. Two weeks with no games. You’ll be off tour by then, right?”

You nod. “I don’t care where we go. As long as it’s you and me.”

“I’ve been thinking…” she starts slowly. “Beach. No cameras. No fans. Just us and sand and sunscreen and me putting your phone on airplane mode.”

You smile sleepily. “That sounds illegal. And perfect.”

She kisses your temple. “It’s a date.”

@/PaigeBueckers: 📍 Berlin ❤️���🔥💙🎤 [Photo: A blurry one of you singing on stage, lit up like a supernova.]

@/Y/Nofficial: Replying to @/PaigeBueckers Who let you in?? 👀

@/WNBAStanTwitter: Paige Bueckers being the supportive girlfriend every artist deserves 🙌 This era is ELITE.

@/concertwithYN: If they don’t get married by 2026 I’m staging a protest

You didn’t ask where you were going.

All Paige said was: “Pack light. Swimsuits. Sunscreen. And don’t bring your laptop.”

Now, thirty minutes after your private plane touched down on a remote Caribbean island—no paparazzi, no tour buses, no practice schedules—you’re barefoot on warm white sand, mouth open as Paige grins beside you like she’s just pulled off the heist of the year.

“This is…” You exhale, spinning slowly to take it all in. “You planned this?”

Paige shrugs, smug. “I’ve had this bookmarked for months. Told myself if we made it through your Europe tour and my preseason, we deserved something stupidly romantic.”

You shake your head, laughing as you walk backward into the ocean breeze, hands up. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. In love with me.”

“Bold assumption, Bueckers.”

She steps forward, hands sliding around your waist, eyes playful. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You pause.

Heart loud.

She tilts her head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The days blur in the best way.

Salt on your lips. Sun on your skin. Paige in a bikini, hair slicked back from the sea, eyes soft like you’re something sacred. You try to read a book in a hammock, but she keeps poking your side until you chase her into the water, laughing like kids.

There’s a private pool. A villa with doors that open right into the ocean. You take turns making breakfast—her pancakes, your espresso—and slow-dance barefoot in the kitchen to whatever playlist Paige throws on.

It’s just you two.

No headlines. No pressure. Just the sound of your voices, and the ocean outside your window.

One night, you’re on the beach—blanket in the sand, wine bottle between you, sky full of stars.

Paige is lying on her side, propped up on an elbow, watching you talk about your next album ideas.

You pause mid-thought. “What?”

She blinks, like she didn’t realize she’d been staring. “You’re just…” She exhales. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding dumb.”

“Say it.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The moment freezes.

Her voice is soft. Unshaken. Like she’s known for a while.

Your breath catches. “Yeah?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah.”

You reach out, fingers brushing hers. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been in love with you since Milan.”

Paige grins—relieved, glowing, golden. She leans in to kiss you, slow and certain, her hand finding the side of your face like you’re her favorite melody.

Later, when you’re curled up in bed, tangled in white sheets, limbs loose from ocean air and confession, she whispers, “You’re my person. You know that, right?”

You smile against her neck.

“Yeah. I do.”

@/randomtourist: Is this… @/Y/Nofficial and Paige Bueckers?? In Anguilla??? They just held hands walking into a beach cafe and ordered smoothies like a damn rom-com I’m shaking

@/Y/Nfanacc: Y’all see this paparazzi-free private vacay?? She’s off tour. Paige is on break. The timing.

@/WNBAStanupdates: If Paige Bueckers shows up to the next Wings game with a tan and a ring, don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Dallas feels different this time.

It’s not just the humidity or the promise of WNBA season in full swing—it’s the key in your pocket. It’s your suitcase by the door. It’s the way Paige slides your duffel next to hers in the closet without saying a word, like she’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“So,” she says casually, walking backwards into the living room. “What’s mine is yours. Except my last few Oreos. Touch those and we’ll fight.”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “You’re giving me a key, but not cookies?”

“There are limits to love, babe.”

It starts slow.

A drawer becomes two. Your toothbrush appears next to hers in the bathroom, and then one day it’s her hoodie on your back while you stir pasta, and she’s setting your favorite mug down beside you before you even ask for coffee.

It’s easy. Too easy.

You don’t fight over decor—you both somehow have the same taste in soft throws, candle scents, and weird-shaped vases. You turn assembling furniture into a full-day event, music blasting, her standing on the instruction manual, you threatening to call Ikea customer service over the six leftover screws.

You crash on the couch that night, covered in sweat and sawdust.

She hands you a popsicle and kisses your cheek. “I’d build a thousand stupid shelves if it means falling asleep next to you every night.”

You mumble around the stick, “You’re such a sap.”

She grins. “You love it.”

You do.

God, you do.

The place is quiet without her.

Not in a sad way. Just still.

You’re curled up on Paige’s couch, her grey hoodie swallowing your body, a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table, and your old, worn leather songwriting journal resting open across your lap. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze and the hum of the Dallas cityscape below. Somewhere, faintly, sirens. A dog barking. Life, just happening.

She’s at practice. You texted her a sleepy “miss you already” when she left this morning, and she responded with a selfie from the gym and a kissy-face emoji that made your stomach twist in the best way.

You flip through the journal lazily, half-looking, until your eyes land on a page you haven’t touched in over a year.

There are only a few lines, scribbled quickly one night after a concert in New York—shortly after you’d met Paige.

You touch the page softly, smile tugging at your lips.

You remember that version of yourself. The one who bumped into her at a club with tequila in your veins and stars in your eyes. The one who had no idea what was starting that night.

Your fingers trace over the half-written lyrics.

“Sweet baby, our sex has meaning Know this time you’ll stay ‘til the morning…”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head. You were so gone for her, even then.

You grab a pen from the side table, stretch your legs out, and start to write.

It’s easy, really. Once you start thinking of her—of her hands on your back after shows, her sleepy kisses on your forehead in the morning, her goofy dancing in the kitchen when you burn toast—everything just pours out.

You don’t write this one like a sad ballad.

You write it like a promise.

“Baby, let me be your woman So I can love you And if you let me be your woman Then I’ll take care of you…”

You underline the last part twice.

Because that’s all you’ve ever wanted—to take care of her. To be a constant in the whirlwind. To be the reason she exhales after holding the world on her shoulders.

You finish the final chorus just as the front door creaks open.

“Babe?” Paige calls, breathless from the stairs.

“In here,” you say, not bothering to hide the smile in your voice.

She rounds the corner, hair tied up, cheeks flushed from the Texas heat, gym bag slung over her shoulder.

She sees your journal and raises a brow. “New song?”

You nod slowly. “Not new… just unfinished. Until now.”

Her eyes sparkle as she leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “Can I hear it?”

You hesitate.

“It’s about you,” you say quietly.

She just grins. “Then absolutely yes.”

You grab your guitar from the wall hook, sit back on the couch, and start to play—voice low, rich with emotion as you sing her song.

“Nothing ever comes easy At least that’s what they say I know I’m not perfect But I’ll love you every day…”

You glance up once.

Her eyes are glassy.

You keep going.

“I swear that I will mean it I’ll say it every day…”

When the final note fades, Paige doesn’t say anything right away.

She just leans forward and wraps her arms around your shoulders, burying her face in your neck.

“You wrote that?” she whispers, voice thick.

You nod, hugging her back.

“I’d write a hundred more,” you murmur, “just to tell you the same thing.”

She pulls back, a little tear trailing down her cheek.

“I already knew,” she says, smiling, “but hearing it like that? Damn.”

You laugh softly, wiping her face gently. “You always get like this when I sing.”

“And you always pretend not to love it.”

She kisses you slow and deep, and when she finally pulls back, she’s grinning again.

“When are you releasing it?”

You shrug. “Maybe soon. Maybe never.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“Because…” you smile, brushing her hair back, “some songs are just for you.”

The lights dim, a single spotlight pools around the center of the stage. You step into it, holding your acoustic guitar close, and perch on the lone stool set out just for this. No flashy visuals. No backup dancers. Just wood, strings, and words that were once for her ears only.

You strum the opening chord, the crowd hushed, breath held.

“Sweet baby, our love has meaning… You stay through all my worst seasons…”

Your voice is gentle, almost like you’re whispering it across a pillow.

You don’t look at the cameras. You don’t even look at the crowd.

You look at her.

Every time your eyes lift, they find Paige. And every time they do, something in your chest softens.

“If you let me be your woman Then I’ll take care of you For the rest of my life, for the rest of yours…”

As the bridge swells, you can see Paige subtly wipe at her eyes. She tries to hide it, like she’s just blinking too long, like she’s got something in her lashes. But you know her. You know every tell.

And the truth is—she’s crying.

Not big, sobbing tears. But the quiet kind. The kind that come when something hits bone-deep. When you realize someone loves you that much.

You play the final note, let it linger.

And then—silence.

And then—roaring applause.

You stand, give a little smile, a nod of thanks. The spotlight fades as you walk offstage.

Backstage is chaos again—handlers talking over each other, compliments thrown your way, makeup artists adjusting things you don’t even notice. But your eyes are on the hallway.

And when Paige finally gets past security, she doesn’t say a word.

She just pulls you into her arms and holds you like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

You bury your face into her shoulder, breathe her in.

“Did it sound okay?” you murmur into her neck.

She leans back just enough to look into your eyes, her own rimmed red and glossy.

“It sounded like everything I’ve never been able to say out loud,” she whispers. “You gave my heart a song.”

You smile, forehead to hers. “It was yours long before anyone else heard it.”

She kisses you quickly—just once, tucked into the corner of the hallway out of view.

@/LateNightTonight: Y/N stunned with a raw, intimate performance of their new single “Let Me” tonight. Not a dry eye in the room.

@/fangirlballer: I JUST KNOW Paige was in the crowd. I JUST KNOW. That was a love letter in song form and she wrote it with her whole chest.

@/WNBAtea: Paige was spotted leaving the studio hand-in-hand with Y/N and looked like she’d just sobbed through the second coming of Mozart. What do you mean this isn’t a rom-com.

That night, you and Paige don’t go home right away.

You find a quiet little diner that’s still open past midnight. Sit across from each other in a booth with fries between you and her fingers laced with yours across the table.

She keeps looking at you like you’re made of stars.

And for the first time in your career, you realize:

You don’t want to sing about pain anymore.

You want to write about her.

The lights of the arena are blinding, the energy nuclear, and the sound? Earth-shaking.

Game 5 of the WNBA Finals. Series tied 2–2. Winner takes it all.

You’re sitting court side at the American Airlines Center in Dallas, legs crossed, hair tied back, and Paige’s #5 BUECKERS jersey draped over your body like a second skin. Customized, of course. Small embroidered initials on the back near the collar: PB + YN. A subtle little secret between you and her.

The game hasn’t started yet, but the tension is thick enough to chew.

You can see her pacing.

She’s got her headphones in, but her body language is loud. Too tight. Too stiff. She’s stretching like it’s routine but you know her—this is nerves.

You wait for the right moment before slipping past security and finding her near the tunnel before final warmups.

She sees you and her shoulders drop just slightly.

“Hey,” you say softly, sliding your hand into hers, grounding her with your touch. “You good?”

She breathes out, eyes flickering over your face. “I will be.”

You tug her in gently, press your forehead to hers in a way that says breathe, baby, just breathe.

“You’re ready,” you whisper. “You’ve been ready. This is your game.”

She nods slowly. “But what if—”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “No ‘what ifs.’ You are Paige Bueckers. You are clutch. You are brilliant. And you’ve worked for this your entire life. There is no one I’d trust more with this moment.”

Paige exhales shakily, blinking fast like she’s trying to hold back the flood. You smile, brushing your fingers over her cheek.

“And no matter what happens,” you whisper, “you already won me.”

That earns you the smallest grin—crooked, warm, hers.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I got this.”

“Damn right, you do.”

You watch her walk back out with a different kind of fire in her step.

And you go back to your seat, clutching your knees, heart already pounding.

The game is tight from the beginning.

Tensions boil. The crowd is deafening.

Paige? Paige is dialed in.

First quarter—three assists, a steal, eight points including a no-look jumper that has the whole bench on their feet.

Second quarter—she gets knocked hard on a drive, pops right back up, grinning, drains both free throws without flinching.

You’re screaming with the rest of the arena. Hands on your head. Heart in your throat.

But it’s the fourth quarter where she becomes something else entirely.

Two minutes left. Tie game.

She sinks a dagger three from deep. Next possession, she steals a pass mid-air and drives it coast-to-coast, finishes with a smooth reverse layup. Crowd: unglued.

Paige: ice cold.

You? Crying. Yelling. Almost fainting.

Final possession. Opponents down two. Clock ticking.

They go for a desperation three.

Paige jumps—clean block.

Ball flies loose.

Buzzer.

Game.

Dallas Wings are WNBA Champions.

The court erupts.

Players tackle each other. Confetti rains down like stars.

And Paige?

She turns in a slow circle—searching.

Then her eyes land on you.

And without hesitation, she sprints across the court, cuts past cameras and chaos, and pulls you into her arms.

She spins you in a circle, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I told you,” you gasp into her ear. “You’re that girl.”

She pulls back, eyes glistening. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did this,” you whisper. “You earned every second.”

Suddenly, the announcer’s voice booms through the stadium.

“And your Finals MVP… PAIGE BUECKERS!”

She freezes, looks at you like she can’t believe it.

You just nod, eyes wet. “Go get your trophy, MVP.”

“Paige, you just won the championship and MVP in your rookie season. How does it feel?”

She smiles wide, wiping sweat and tears from her face.

“It feels… surreal. I’ve dreamed about this forever. But honestly? The best part is knowing the person I love is here tonight wearing my jersey. This win is for Dallas, for the team, for everyone who believed in me.”

Cue crowd losing their minds. Cameras swing to you, stunned in your seat, face in your hands, smiling like your chest can’t hold it all in.

@/paigebueckers: CHAMPIONS. MVP. But the biggest win of all is you in my corner, always. 💙 @/Y/Nofficial, this one’s for you.

@/Y/Nofficial: You blocked a game-winning shot and then stole mine and 20,000 people’s hearts. My MVP. Forever. 🏆

@/fan: YOU MEAN TO TELL ME PAIGE DEDICATED HER FINALS MVP TO HER GIRLFRIEND???? ENDGAME CANNOT STOP CRYING GETTING MARRIED WHEN??

It’s nearly 2 a.m. when you unlock the door to Paige’s apartment—your apartment now, too. Or at least it will be once the boxes arrive.

Your shoes are off before you’re even in the living room. Paige follows you in, still in her Finals Champion shirt, hair damp from a post-game shower and skin still carrying the shimmer of victory.

The silence in the apartment is almost jarring after the chaos of the last twelve hours. The echoes of cheering fans still ring in your ears, but now it’s just the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of hardwood under your feet, and Paige’s breath, steady but tired, behind you.

She drops her duffel bag by the door and sighs like her whole body is unraveling.

You don’t say anything at first. You just turn, hold your arms out, and wait.

She walks straight into them.

No MVP speech. No cameras. Just her forehead against your collarbone and your hands threading gently into her hair.

“I didn’t realize how tired I was,” she mumbles into your chest.

“I know,” you whisper back. “You held it together all night.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

You kiss the top of her head. “You don’t have to now.”

She melts into you.

You don’t sleep right away.

You sit on the kitchen counter while she eats leftover pasta cold from the fridge, and you sip sleepy tea while your voice goes soft and low.

You ask her what it felt like. The game. The title. The moment her name was called.

She shrugs, eyes still puffy, smile barely-there. “It felt… like everything. And nothing. Like a dream I’ve had since I was a kid. But when I looked up and saw you in my jersey? That’s when it hit me.”

You blink slowly. “What hit you?”

She leans in and kisses your knee. “That I’ve already won.”

You press your lips together to keep from crying again.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

She grins, sets her container down, and walks over to where you’re sitting. Her hands go to your hips, her forehead finds yours again.

“So what now?” she whispers.

“Now…” you hum, “we rest.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

She’s sprawled across your lap, her championship ring sitting on the coffee table beside your Grammy.

You trace patterns on her arm with your fingertips.

“Do you ever think,” she asks quietly, “about what it would’ve been like if we never bumped into each other in that club?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d still be singing about heartbreak and tequila. And you’d still be pretending you’re not the softest person alive.”

She grins and leans up to kiss your jaw.

“You saved me,” she says. “In a hundred ways I didn’t know I needed saving.”

“You found me,” you counter. “When I didn’t know I was lost.”

[hylianengineer]

Sometimes I think the hardest part of writing is knowing what normal people DON'T know.

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)

[iclimbtreestofeelalive]

okay, i've been seeing a lot of questions/confusion in the notes of this post, so this is (to the best of my ability) a reblog to hopefully clear up some of it. (if this turns out to be too long, i'll put most of it under a cut). here are the most important pieces of information.

Q: What drug was recalled?

A: This post is specifically about the recall on 1% testosterone gel (brand name androgel) produced by Strides Pharma. This recall affects specific batches of 2.5 gram and 5 gram gel packets. If your t-gel is in a different concentration percentage, was a different gram measurement, was produced by a different manufacturer, or is not in the recalled batch numbers, you're not affected by this recall. (Additionally, since I've seen people asking-- this does not affect injections at all.)

The recall was voluntarily initiated by Strides Pharma (this means that they weren't asked to recall the product by the government, but recalled it on their own). It was recalled due to the presence of benzene. It is a Class II recall, which means that according to the USFDA, the health effects are short-term and generally reversible.

Q: How do I know if I'm affected?

A: First, check the manufacturer of your testosterone gel. If it was manufactured by someone other than Strides Pharma, you are not affected. The next thing you should check is your concentration. This recall is for the 1% gel-- from what I've heard, 1.62% is a much more common concentration for transmascs/trans men.

Next, check the lot number and expiration date-- these can be found both on the box the medication came from and on the individual packet itself. Check them against the images in the original post. If you have one of the affected lots, keep reading for what to do. If you're still unsure, ask your pharmacy-- they should know whether you're part of the recall. Mine sent me a letter by mail telling me that I was part of it, which is how I first found out about it.

Q: What is benzene?

A: Benzene is a chemical which is used in the production of industrial products. It's found in car exhaust, gasoline fumes, and cigarettes-- it's also a well-known carcinogen, banned in the production of medications by the USFDA (This is why it was recalled, by the way-- not because it's flammable/hazardous in other ways. All testosterone gels are flammable because they contain high concentrations of alcohol, like hand sanitizers, which is why they all have warnings on the packets not to light candles or smoke while it's wet.) Most benzene exposure comes from inhalation in manufacturing jobs, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke. In high enough concentrations, over a long enough time, benzene raises your chances of blood disorders and leukemia specifically. As of right now, the FDA doesn't seem to be concerned that the concentration in the t-gel will have long-term health effects.

Q: What should I do if I am affected by this recall?

A: First: if you still have medication from one of the affected lots, do not use it. Don't panic if you've already used the medicine, but if you can avoid it, don't use any more. This is a recall for wholesalers and pharmacies, which means they're only asking for medication to be sent back from the people who sell it, not consumers. If I were you, I would keep the box and take pictures of the lot numbers in the event of a lawsuit or medical issue. If you have any left over, do not throw it out! Call your pharmacist to see about getting a refund/replacement medicine-- you may need to return the unused packets for this.

If you're worried about the recall, or if you're experiencing negative side effects you think are related to it, talk to your primary care provider and pharmacy. A lot of doctors have online patient portals you can ask questions through, free of charge-- take full advantage of that, if you can. Communicate with your doctor that this is something you've experienced, so that if you do have health issues, it's factored in as a possible cause.

Finally, don't panic. It's a frightening and irresponsible lapse in manufacturing safety, but if it's already happened, the best thing to do going forward is stay calm, document it for your own records, and tell your doctor if you have any concerns. Benzene is a chemical that's mostly dangerous in the long-term, and is usually inhaled when it does have adverse affects-- from what I can tell, you've probably had a similar amount of exposure through car exhaust and secondhand smoke.

Q: Am I safe to refill my t-gel prescription?

A: Yes, you should be! It's been recalled at the wholesaler and pharmacy level, so you absolutely shouldn't be getting contaminated medication from your pharmacy at this point. It can't hurt to check just in case, and if they do give you the recalled batch (you can check this with the brand, batch number, and concentration), there's been a mix-up within your pharmacy, and you should tell them before you use it. Otherwise, you should be absolutely safe.

This covers the main questions I've seen popping up. For everyone else who's still curious about other things (how did this happen? what about the other medications on this list? is estrogen also affected? is this a plot against trans men specifically?) please click the readmore! for everyone leaving after this half, xoxo love you all, please read all sources supplied to you in full before you get scared about the recalls. also stop telling everyone to dump all their ibuprofen and medication, it's probably not recalled.

Q: How did benzene end up in testosterone gel?

A: Benzene itself isn't used very often in medications (even besides being banned for use in its manufacturing). It is, however, an ingredient in Carbomer 940, a thickening agent for clear gels. Strides Pharma had been using Carbomer 940 apparently since at least 2023, making the benzene levels too high for the FDA's medication standards. Similar recalls for benzene have happened for acne products and sunscreens-- this isn't particularly unprecedented, but it is frustrating.

Q: What about the other medicines on this list?

A: There are other medication recalls on this list-- they are not due to benzene. This is a list of medication recalls across Washington State for various reasons (as an example: the ibuprofen recall everyone is freaking out about is from September last year, referred to specific lot numbers of the 'Dr Reddy's' brand in doses not typically available for commercial use, and was recalled due to low concentrations of 'unknown impurities'.) It's a good idea to check just in case, but don't get scared just because you saw the name of a medication you use on the list. It may not apply to you! Check the brand, concentration, and batch.

Q: Isn't it weird that this recall is happening for testosterone right after a lot of anti-trans legislation?

A: This one is, to the very best of my knowledge, a complete coincidence. We should keep in mind; androgel isn't actually primarily marketed and used for transgender people. Every mention of the recall I could find didn't mention transgender HRT whatsoever-- it did mention, though, that androgel is mostly prescribed and researched as HRT for cis men with hypergonadism. It's fairly unlikely that, going back to 2023, a pharmaceutical company would intentionally lace their medication with trace amounts of a common chemical in manufacturing, which already has a history of being used in products used on the skin, for the express purpose of (fairly ineffectively) poisoning a small percentage of their customers. Even more unlikely is that they would then blow the whistle on themselves and issue a voluntary recall.

It's understandable to be wary, especially with the current political and regulatory climate. But it's also incredibly important not to fall into a conspiracy mindset. What's much more likely is this: a large corporation, when given the option to either change the formulation of their medicine or make an expensive switch to a safer thickening agent, chose the option that saved them money for as long as they thought they could get away with it. This happens every day worldwide, and is the reason that regulations and safety checks are so important. This isn't a targeted or isolated incident, even though it is genuinely frustrating and frightening that regulations are failing in this way.

Q: I heard that estrogen patches are also being recalled-- am I safe if I use them?

A: Yeah, this has been going around on this post. From what I can tell, this is a misunderstanding-- there was a recall for estradiol patches that went into affect in 2021 that was on the website linked on the original post. The patches expired in 2022, and while the recall is still in affect, I doubt that there are any in circulation (due to being expired), and the reason for recall was 'possibility of defective patch', which I assume means issues with absorption. There's no danger on that front, you're safe!

The other recall I can think of this being in regards to is a more recent recall from this February (linked here) for 0.1% estradiol gel. This recall is for possibly defective packaging, allowing for the ethanol in the gel to evaporate prematurely. This was another voluntary recall that also shouldn't pose any active danger, though you might check to see if you were part of this one, just because it might have lessened the efficacy of the medication.

(Everything after these aren't urgent-- they're just questions/misunderstandings that personally amused me or I felt interested in answering further. I'll probably be a bit more flippant in these, sorry!)

Q: OP and their boyfriend both got letters from their pharmacy about this!!

A: Not true! Only OP's boyfriend did. (I know this because I'm OP's boyfriend! Hi sweetheart, sorry for putting an essay on your post.) Check the notes for images of the letter from CVS, I saw another user reblog it with theirs, too. Sidecast was very sweet and asked if she could put out a PSA on Tumblr since I was upset about the small shock of being poisoned by my medication (which I have since calmed down from). Everyone say thank you!!

Q: How do we know that this source is legit and not AI?

A: You read it with your eyeballs and see that it's from a reliable source, that people have received letters about it from their pharmacies, and that multiple news outlets of varying repute have covered this. Or use Google.

Q: I still feel like this was intentional...

A: You're free to feel that way! It's probably wrong, though, and conspiracy logic is a dangerous thing to get lost in. I recommend looking at it like this: why did this recall happen? Would it actually benefit anyone to do this on purpose? How would it benefit them? Are there any other recalls happening at this point in time? Is this more easily explained by corporate greed and the loosening of regulations? And of course the million dollar question: Would a corporation whose only purpose is to make as much money as possible put themselves on the line for lawsuits and losses (dead people don't buy much medicine) just to possibly take out an *extremely* small percentage of an already tiny group? I personally think that it's very, very unlikely.

Q: Why was only testosterone mentioned in the original post if there are so many other medicines on the list?

A: Because I didn't get a letter for any of the other ones; I only got a letter for the testosterone. Also, the rest didn't have benzene, which was what the original post was about. Also not all of the medication recalls on that list were up to date! Pick your poison.

Q: Why aren't pharmacies contacting people about this?

A: They are! That's how I found out in the first place. But pharmacies aren't infallible-- the recall went out early this month, and I only got my letter on the 16th. The postal service is moving slowly right now, pharmacies are swamped, and recalls are increasing as regulations fall. Frustrating and irresponsible? Yes. Intentional malice? Probably not.

Q: Do not put this on your dick

A: Yeah. I mean, don't put any t-gel on your dick, but this especially. Thanks for the heads up man, very helpful.

In conclusion: OPEN THE LINKS ON THE POSTS YOU REBLOG. DO NOT TRUST WORD OF MOUTH FROM TUMBLR USERS! FACT CHECK AND READ THE SOURCES SUPPLIED TO YOU IN FULL! IBUPROFEN IS NOT GOING TO KILL YOU, READ THE RECALL LIST AND THEIR DROP-DOWN MENUS OR YOU ARE GOING TO FREAK YOURSELF OUT! love you all. xoxo

hey americans there is a recall on testosterone gel because they found benzene in it! please check the lot numbers on your batches, benzene is really not something you want to be rubbing into your skin, also you might be eligible for compensation because this is just insane what the fuck

more on this page:

[sixth-light]

I have had these thoughts bubbling away in my head for like...eighteen months or so now (it will become very obvious why shortly) but the discussion in this post has pushed me to write them down: I think societally we HUGELY underestimate how motherhood for primary caregivers, particularly first-time motherhood, can be a source of vulnerability to radicalisation.

There is obviously huge cultural variance here, but for a lot of cis women becoming primary caregiver to an infant in a capitalist Western society represents a time of immense vulnerability because in general you are:

Incredibly sleep-deprived (which has well-documented knock-on effects for your judgement, mental health, etc)

If you gave birth, recovering from a significant challenge to your physical health (even in the best-case scenario)

Isolated from your previous networks and communities of people in full-time work

Completely separated from the context of your prior career goals and achievements

Under huge amounts of stress to learn how to care for an infant (don't get me started on breastfeeding)

And on top of this, you are also be experiencing a huge amount of messaging about how all this is natural, wonderful, something you're meant to do, something you should love doing, and something that you must do for the welfare of their child. It's a huge amount of pressure and life change even when everything goes right and there's very little cultural space to express negative feelings about it.

Any group of people who offer community, support, and affirmation to cis women in this situation are going to have a really good shot at radicalising them into some very weird and dangerous headspaces and in fact we see this happen all the time - think antivaxxers and TERFs. It flies under the radar because of the hazy positive glow that associates with motherhood and babies and also because we don't take the radicalisation of women seriously I guess because they rarely shoot anybody, but...yeah. It is such a vulnerable time!

[puppppppppy]

horrible truth bomb dropped on my head 20 min ago

[lucabyte]

Taking pride in One's own appearance.

[indica-isbest]

this has always bothered me as someone who grew up as a "gamer girl" in the early 2000s

like we are all well aware that women are conditioned from birth to please men, so why is it so alien that some girls faked being interested in videogames to approach guys?

i was a nerd tomboy who struggled to make girl friends her whole childhood and adolescence and i got super excited about a new nerd girl joining the group only to find out she was just exaggerating her taste for videogames because she liked my friend.

like she did absolutely nothing wrong, this is a common, normal thing that people do all the time. like if you're interested in someone who travels a lot you might offer them a weekend getaway because you know they will more likely enjoy it.

can we please stop scrutinizing what girls and women do and don't do and just accept they're human and capable of pretty much everything men are capable of? like just because we're responsible for less murder doesn't mean the female brain isn't capable of murderous thoughts.

like why is it okay to say "ew this ugly disgusting guy thought a GIRL wanted to fuck him, as if!" ????? i had plenty of crushes on "the most unfuckable guys who have ever lived" and i wanted them to like me back, what does that make me?

i'm sorry you can't comprehend not everyone in high school was trying to fuck the hottest/most popular person, some of us have more nuanced sexualities and a guy who is kind and passionate about his hobby is still a hundred times more attractive to me than a jock that has two brain cells struggling to keep him conscious, couldn't care less about which one is conventionally hotter.

I can’t believe “fake gamer girl” was an actual concept guys thought existed literally the most unfuckable guys who have ever lived were convinced girls were faking being interested in loser nerd hobbies to impress them

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Something something every time Charlie isn’t fighting to be the center of attention, he is always looking around to others to gauge their reactions and silently observing them all something something he is searching for connection, to fit in and be loved but he doesn’t know how to ask for love so instead he gains their attention by acting out in ways he knows they’ll notice and tries to pretend their attention and love are the same thing

[theic-manic]

My ADHD + BPD + Bipolar + a bunch of trauma = forgetting most of my memories involving people but remembering just enough of my trauma to still be funny.

It's weird how I've forgotten entire friendships with people until their name pops up as a social media recommendation and I'm like "oh shit, we knew each other once..."

I also forget bad movies which is great until I go to watch them forgetting why I hated them in until the memory backhands me.

"Oh right! This film sucks..."

However my brain prioritises other concepts.

While I forget the aforementioned, I can recall government policies and legislation for my work, including that relating to my additional roles as a union delegate and workplace health and safety representative.

I also recall a lot of theology and spiritual concepts too although that can be hit and miss.

I will never remember most people's birthdays but I sure as shit can tell you that Surah Taha about Musa (Moses) has parallels with some of the old testament, Archangel Gabriel once made Zechariah unable to speak temporarily when doubted.

I know that cicadas have spiritual meaning in Hellenism and some Jewish lore.

I know that the whole indigo child thing ("empaths", starseeds etc.) is actually anti Neurodivergent Nazi esotericism which might explain why some folk claimed Trump is a lightworker.

I absolutely sucked at remembering tarot meanings given how multifaceted they are until I learned an adhd friendly way to do that and when I was a Muslim I always had to follow a Youtube Video for prayers.

Although I make a great human confessional because I will just forget whatever secrets you tell me since my brain yeets most conversations unless particularly scandalous and interesting.

I would be a great government spy.

You want to torture me to tell you secrets?

Babes, fuck whatever NDA, I signed, I can't bloody remember the secrets you're after anyway!

Worst/best Homeland AU ever

I've learned to just appreciate each moment, in the moment.

seeing people my age talk about how scared they are of memory loss, which they only associate with old age, is so surreal to see as a 24 year old who has actively experienced memory loss for a long time now

there are causes for memory loss besides dementia and alzheimer’s, i hope y’all know that. dissociative disorders, trauma, brain injuries, thyroid problems, even just stress and lack of sleep can fuck up your ability to store, process, and access memory. and that’s just a few of the many causes i can think of off the top of my head right now.

please stop treating disabled people like some scary “other” that you might become only in the distant, decades-away future. we are your age, too. you may become one of us sooner than you know. stop acting like memory loss marks the end of a life, when so many of us have so much living left to do!

[junebuggest]

This!! I can not explain how disheartening it is to be a young teenager, growing up to hear people use phrases about brain injuries and brain damage (another good example I heard once went along the lines of “are you a brain injured imbecile baby”, which was seen as the ‘sickest burn’ or whatever), as a teenager with several brain injuries and a mom with brain damage due to her progressive disability.

I now have not only several traumatic brain injuries, but brain damage from neurological disability as well.

And I tell you fucking what. I never like to toot my own horn much, but I’ve been told many times over, both growing up and recently, that I’m one of the most emotionally intelligent and invested people you’ll meet. My TBIs and other brain damage might’ve heavily impacted my book intelligence and regulation skills, yes. I’ll never be fully the same, especially as we discover more about my neurological condition(s). But I’m one of the most motivated people around, with a skill set to prove it. I may never look at empathy the same way, my brain injuries in combination with my autism skewing me into both hyper empathic and unempathic territories, depending on the circumstances. I may never remember my own birthday with the ease I once did. But tell me yours, and I’ll be there twenty minutes early with an incredibly thoughtful gift.

My mom may never be able to do certain ADLs unassisted. But she’ll befriend you in an instant. Her “good days” may look significantly worse than yours. But you’ll never catch her leaving things unattended to, so long as she’s physically able. My mom may have moments where her thoughts feel like water trying to cling to a slanted surface, where she can’t even remember which of her children are next to her, or which pronouns belong to which kid. But even in those moments, she’ll remember when you tell her your favorite soup, and respond to your concerns with some witty (but slurred) response.

Yeah, there are assholes with brain injuries and damage. Most of us, though, are people trying to work around tricky and difficult brains. Even the people with the most visibly challenging brain damage, who I’ve met, have clung to characteristics of compassion and passion and intelligence despite a world determined to insult and belittle us. Shit, even when I was able to work with people deep into dementia, people were frustrated with their brains, and often disoriented and scared, and still approached me with compassion and wit of their own flavors. From apologizing for their outbursts, to trying to do things on their own out a desire to help take things off the plate for me, to trying to take towels from me to fold. Everyone was kind, even if it presented itself in ways deemed unhelpful. And all of my verbal residence were quick to jump on an opportunity to say something quick-thinking.

Acting as though brain injured/damaged people are typically uncompassionate or stupid is flat out wrong, even if all of us display our smarts and emotions differently. It’s especially insulting to compare us to those who are intentionally, willingly ignorant and selfish. A large majority of us are doing the best with what we have- a slippery, stubborn, tricky and difficult maze of a mind. It may not look the same as your “best”. But that is far from a good reason to deem us these things. Far from a good reason to pick on us for things we can’t work around.

Reminder from someone with actual literal brain damage from a brain injury to stop fucking using "brain damage" and "brain injuries" as a means of describing someone whose opinions you don't like or deem as stupid.

It's ableist and offensive as fuck, and for some reason a lot of leftist people think it's okay to use. I've seen posts replying to right wing racists calling them "brain damaged if you believe this" and "do you have a brain injury? do you not understand X?". Just now I saw a beautiful post about fat people throughout history that was absolutely ruined by opening with "How do we break it to boomers with actual brain damage and nostalgic brainrot..." before continuing to say that fat people existed throughout history.

Brain damage does not make you racist. A brain injury doesn't make you ignorant, or fatphobic, or unaware of history and politics. Stop fucking using my disability as a catch all to describe people you think are shitty. Y'all use it like it's a replacement for how people used to use the R-slur, which shows you learned absolutely nothing about why the R-slur was wrong to use and decided to throw in other disabilities instead. Fuck off and stop doing it.

(And don't do it with other disabilities either, because I know y'all do.)

I know a lot of people with brain injuries. They're smart, and funny, and compassionate. They learn about the world and care about social issues and wish they could go to protests if their disability won't allow them to. Are there right wing people with brain injuries? Sure, absolutely. But they are not right wing because they have a brain injury, and using any disability as an insult is still fucking ableist.

Tldr - stop using brain damage and brain injury as an insult. It's ableist and incredibly offensive.

Love, your local brain injured/brain damaged pal