hi hi! this is my masterlist! this is the place where i get to share all my ideas and written stories to you whether it's to smile, cry, kick your feet, or make your day ☆
"when there is utter emotions, there is endless raw pieces of poetry."
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currently revolving around the jenna ortega universe
what i write: fluff, angst, sensitive topics (smuts undecided.)
who i write: jenna ortega, her characters, melissa barrera, sam carpenter, possibly enid sinclair<3
i don't write male readers! but there will be times i don't specify pronouns<3
request and communicate with me in my inbox! i'll see what i can make!
requests are OPEN, send anything you want according to my guidelines listed above!
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keep in mind there are some requests i skip because i don't have any ideas for or a good plot:), please don't be upset! i want to make sure that i can fulfill requests and make my anons happy.
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please do not take my work in any shape or form, i spend a lot of time and dedication to my writing and i don't give consent for others to take it.
please reach out if you come upon a story that is similar or the same as mine, the only stories that are the same are on my wattpad which is the link i added below!
my wattpad!
- favorites are marked with ♡
angst- ✮
special emojis are mainly just corelated to holiday prompts (halloween, christmas)
jenna ortega:
series:
lead: it's not easy being a theater kid, so when you audition for the lead role and get in, you think you need to know your love interest more. the kisses in the script bring you more butterfly than nerves.
chapter 1
chapter 2 (chapter 3 is most likely discontinued.)
sweet ♡: jenna was planning on relaxing after acting on set, not crush on the pretty sweet girl who served her coffee, you. she hasn't fallen in love in a long time, she needs to get to know you more.
pairing: wednesday addams x shapeshifting!femreader
summary: you get injured, wednesday patches you up.
word count: 750+ (drabble!)
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You were propped on the couch, nose twitching whenever Wednesday pressed her fingers to your cheek to dab a damp towel against it.
It was quiet, minus the times you would wince and she'd tell you to shut up.
You had been reckless, like always, wandering off and using your shape-shifting ability to your advantage to sneak out of Nevermore.
To be fair, you had followed Wednesday into her investigation. She had been quite adamant on searching for the Hyde and trapping it herself. Which, you didn't want to provoke.
She may have been 3 apples tall, but you knew what her capabilities extended to. Danger defined Wednesday Addams. In better words, Wednesday Addams defined danger.
But, your stupid choice had gotten you hurt after Wednesday found you. She let you tag along, albeit reluctantly. The raven's seen you, seen you as many animals to represent the spectrum of emotions you've held back. Which meant you experienced glitches often.
And of course, when the big, sick-eyed creature found you while you and Wednesday were momentarily separated, her expectant look flickered into absolute fear when you began to glitch.
Glitches weren't common among shapeshifters like you. But, you knew that the chances of having them would increase as you abused your ability, which you have been doing for the past few months.
Your mother warned you to rest, bringing you soup and ushering you into bed. She demanded Wednesday keep an eye on you at school, to monitor if you would possibly, and unnecessarily transform within the campus.
But you were easy to get away, and unfortunately, you experienced glitches often, resulting in severe headaches, nosebleeds, and a brief incapability to walk.
You had shoved the Hyde to the side once you found him on top of Wednesday, distracting him for a moment. Stupid decision for your act of bravery, because as soon as you approached Wednesday with a worried look, the hideous creature threw you into a tree, hurting you with his hands on your throat.
Wednesday gasped out, reaching at her throat as she caught her breath, then hurriedly rushed over. She was too small.
You both had a similar amount of strength as you struggled, until you began to thrash, glitching. Wednesday watched as you switched from a wolf, leopard, tiger, wild pig, then eventually-
A bunny. Your nose twitching, legs thrashing. You were the size of her fucking palm.
Jesus Christ. She remembered the look of horror that began to plaster on her face as the Hyde almost snapped your fragile neck right then and there.
Wednesday never felt as terrified as she roughly pulled out her shotgun and pulled the trigger at it's back multiple times.
She immediately caught you when the Hyde dropped his grip on you, holding a twitching, bleeding, and distressed bunny in her hands. She stuffed you into her coat to keep you warm, then ran back to the nearby cabin of Nevermore.
-
Which brings you here, your hair messy, a blanket covering most of your rough frame as you shiver from the cold. Wednesday cranks up the heat from the fire place.
"You need to never do that again, Y/N. I'm being serious. My psychic glitches are already dangerous for me among my family. But this is you. I'm not letting you experience the same."
You let out a breath, watching as she stitches your arm up. "I know. It's just weird. I used to be able to do this without this stupid thing, it's frustrating that I have to actually be worried that I might get myself killed because of this glitching stuff.”
Her doe-eyed irises look up at yours. "If you don't abuse your ability, I won't abuse mine."
You stare at her for a moment. "You won't do that. You lied to me a few times that you wouldn't tire yourself out, then the next day, I find you shedding black tears while convulsing in the bathroom. You have to pinky promise me."
Wednesday looks up at you for a second in disgust, as much as you're the only person she will allow touching, she's still not big on pinky promises, or any affection in that matter.
Then, she sighs and hooks her pinky with yours. "Okay, now stop being a baby and let me fix you up."
When she presses the towel along your shoulder, you let out a pained noise, and she worriedly looks up at you. "What? What? Are you okay? Did I accidentally press too hard?"
You break into a smile, "Got you! You were worried about me. More than you'd like to admit."
She smacks your shoulder as you yelp.
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a/n: hi guys! it's been a while since i last wrote, longer than i'd actually like to admit. i tried so hard to finish a request i gotten a while back, since i was halfway done with it. but i just couldn't, and i thought i lost my motivation with writing all together. but this little writing piece made me realize that it was just the request itself, and i decided to write something that quickly came to my mind.
in the mean time, feel free to send in requests but remember if i can't come up with a solid story line for your plot, i'd likely won't continue with it. no harsh feelings! i just strive to make a story where if it's not like, if im not satisfied, i don't know if other people will be satisfied either!
tysm for being a jenna (specifically vada) writerrrr ahhhhh
aw of course ill try to write more vada fics <33
guys unfornately i cannota type very well becauswe i accidentally tried feeding my bunnies an apple and accidentally cut myswelf so now there is a big piece of gauze on my finger and im not even going to try to correct my writing becauswe its to much work help
helloooo!! i couldnt find anything in ur pinned post abt if you do agere/petre or not but if you do, could you maybe do a wednesday x fem reader where you regress to bunny? (if you know much abt petre) or even an agere one age 1-3? if u don’t know much abt that either my only other request is please keep writing wednesday fics!! you’re amazing!!
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hii! i'm actually not sure what those terms are so i did some research for you! i'm not sure if i would have good ideas if the reader had the headspace of a younger child or bunny, but i would have good ideas if they actually turned into one (like possibly a nevermore ability.) i'd likely write the bunny one since i do think that one of the toddler ones had been written by a past writer, her name was bing! (i miss her fics!)
hii guys! thank you for your requests! i will try to be writing them soon, but school has just started so i'll try to get to them ASAP. if you have any requests just slip into my inbox. remember to be mindful of what you request and keeping in mind that i may not do all the requests sent in likely due to vagueness of plot or knowing i wouldn't be able to carry it out to your expectations :((, guidelines are in my masterlist
After the incident in Woodsboro, there were countless visits to the doctor that Sam insisted Tara to attend. A lot of the time she was sure some of them didn't even have a degree.
Don't even get her started with the therapy sessions.
Mentally, sometimes. A lot of the time actually, Amber carved herself into Tara’s heart with each moment passing. Then decided to carve Tara herself.
Ironic.
Tara’s wounds were healed, yet, just like her scars that would stay, the feeling of doubt lingered every time she met someone knew. Even saying her order to a barista scared her.
She was stubborn, sure. But she was focused, hard-working, enough for her to pass her classes in the 90’s and avoid attention and boyfriends.
Until you walked in, with confidence that stayed humble, not showy.
Not loud.
The kind of look that would always be a little startled from the energy of others, but always loving them for it anyway. Your reputation was good, not in the popular kind way; the kind of way where everyone adored you.
And Tara? She hated it; watching as you clutch the books to your chest as you gave her teacher a sweet smile, swaying your feet up and down as you talk low enough for the teacher to hear.
She always grew up different. Yeah, maybe she liked the same things and same people and do the same stuff, but she never had friends–not like the others around her. She’d meet somebody, glue herself on from one interaction with them that made her believe in anything, then they’d leave, like everyone else in her family.
Maybe it was tradition? But with everyone else, nobody ever stayed, and it hurt to think about once somebody came along her trail.
Mrs. Jennings looked at you with an admiring look, the brunette could tell from the toothy smile she gave you. She let out an exhale, knowing that Mrs. Jennings was one of the most stoic people she knew, and the fact that the trace of that was gone by the time your presence was near?
Tara turns her music up higher.
And then had to turn it down once Mrs. Jennings called her last name, gesturing you to the empty desk next to Tara’s.
She watches how your eyes scan her face, her freckles, the bridge of her nose.
When she watches your eyes meet hers, she sees how your eyes crinkle into a smile.
You slip into the seat next to her, playing with your pencil as you turn to Tara after a moment of silence, “So, what’s your favorite film? Let me guess, you’re definitely a thriller type, horror, maybe. Or oh, definitely something actionish.”
She looks at you, her nose wrinkling. Her arms cross, closing off the barriers by the second. She loved being mean to people, but by looking at you, you were the kind of person that people couldn’t find anything to hate about. So she went with a, “Hi to you too?”
You give her an embarrassed look, moving your hair to the side as you take out your headphones. “Sorry, it’s a film class after all, isn’t it? I just want to know if you’re my crowd of people. I hope we’ve got a lot in common.”
“Based on the movies I like?” Tara says, trying to brush it off, and gives you a curious look in the end, “And well, am I?”
You shrug, watching as Mrs. Jennings elaborates on whatever she was on about. “I don’t like horror. I do like action movies though, and rom-coms. Oh! Have you ever watched 10 Things I hate About You?”
Tara puts down her pencil, “Rom-coms are just reminders that love like that is a superstition and completely absent in life.”
“So you did watch it?”
“What?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m not answering you now that you said that,” Tara says, trying to focus on the blank piece of paper in front of her.
“Well, if you change your mind, it’s Y/N. My name.”
She grumbles, scribbling random words on her notes. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. She’d forget it later, it was something she did so that she didn’t have to meet new people, it showed a lack of interest.
On her paper, she blows off the eraser dust off her desk, scribbling random words, then one on the corner of her paper.
Y/N
-
When Tara saw you sit in the seat beside her the next day once again, same joyful expression as you give her a small glance before sitting and tucking in your hair. You play with your keychain on one of the zippers of your backpack and zip it open, pulling out a DVD and handing it to her.
“The Babadook?”
You blow a raspberry, “No, you silly goose, it’s 10 Things I Hate About You, remember?”
Tara doesn’t take it, “I don’t like romance. Don’t be surprised if I don’t watch it or throw it out.”
“Doesn’t matter, as I always say, if you don’t watch romance, you don’t get romance.” You look back up at her and wrinkle your nose, “I actually never said that before, I just made it up just now.”
She stares at you, rolling her eyes, taking the stupid DVD from your hands. “I won’t remember, I don’t remember these kinds of things.”
“My name. What about that?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I don’t.”
Y/N.
-
By the second week, Tara grows used to your personality. You do have half of your classes together. You help her with her math and English assignments, never asking for anything back. And to Tara, it feels weird. She’s pushing you away, she’s learned what to do to prevent herself from getting hurt. But you keep coming.
It was a free period in your film class, and you decide to sit in the corner with her as the professor rolls a movie. You lie yourself down on the carpet that was probably dirty and look up at Tara, smiling. “I can finally think about what I should cook tonight.”
It peaks her interest as she glances at you, “You know how to cook?”
“Mhm, I started when I realized my brother needed more than just school lunch meals and lazed meals at night.”
“Your parents don’t know how to? Or, work late?”
“No, my mother is out of my life and my dad,” you pause for a moment, scratching your head before shaking what you were going to say out of it, “He just doesn’t have time.”
“Oh,” she looks at your hands, how you grip your knees a little more, how you looked a little more closed-off. “I learned how to cook too, after my father left.”
You turn to her, propping yourself up just a tiny bit, atmosphere lighter. “That makes me want to know you better,” you say after a while, you say, and for Tara, it makes her hope that you two have a lot in common.
The whole period, while everyone watched the movie, Tara learned a lot about you–too much that stuck with her. That you played the guitar, worked at a cafe, had a younger brother you cared for because nobody else in your family “had time”, and that you tried really hard in classes so you could give him the future he needed.
Tara’s stomach churned with a sickening feeling of empathy when you had told her that you volunteered a lot of the time because you wanted to be there and help others for the times your family didn’t.
And how quickly time had passed, because you two had talked about anything and everything.
“I feel like we share a brain,” you say, giving her one of the most genuine smiles she’s ever seen.
“I think we do.”
-
You and Tara have been texting each other almost every day. It used to be summaries for classes, yet it changed into summaries into why the other person was better.
At night, Tara would be in a deep slumber while you’d send her all of the songs that kept you up at night. She’s had her way with your music taste.
Tara watches the TV screen in front of her, she had slipped in a DVD and was staring in front of her.
“Hey, your eyes have a little green in them-”
“Earth to Tara!” Mindy screams at her, shutting off the TV, causing Tara to stare up at her, “What the fuck Mindy? I was watching that.”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Yes, you were talking about..” She awkwardly looks around. “Okay fine, I was distracted.”
The core four were with her, along with Anika, in a deep discussion about something.
“Sorry, I was watching something!” Tara argues, trying to fight the remote out of Mindy’s hand.
Sam, from across the living room, raises her eyebrow, “It’s 10 Things I Hate About You. Tar, you hate romance–let alone rom coms itself.”
Tara sighs, involuntarily rolling her eyes as she sinks into the sofa, “People can have a change of heart. And I’m watching it to prove a point that they are, fucking indeed, ridiculous.”
Her sister raises an eyebrow, giving her an unamused look, “You’re definitely losing. You look almost as immersed in this as when you watched The Babadook. Remind me again why you decided to watch this?” Sam asks, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. “If I remember clearly, this was somebody’s favorite movie? As in the girl you met not too long ago, and seem to be hung up on them for a loooooooonggg time.”
It had taken a few weeks to convince Sam to have you over, as long as she was there to check on you guys at night, if you were ever staying over.
“Oh, I see where this is going,” Mindy chimes in, suddenly putting on a lecture. “Tara’s watching it, taking notes, so that she can create even more conversation with this girl. Meaning a closer bond, or maybe you’d call it a relationship?” The curly hair snorts. “You’re just like my friend, she’s obsessed with this movie. Should I invite her over so the two of you have chemistry? I mean, hooking up in the bedroom or something.”
If it was anybody but you, Tara would’ve said no. “No, I’m not setting my eyes on any girl. Let alone your friends, should I be protecting myself by putting a safety hazard on your head?”
Tara looks at Anika, “Not you, sorry.”
“None taken.”
“Then invite your girl over! Women have no guts these days! If she’s interested, she’ll be here. If you get rejected, oh well, at least you have my friend to watch it.” Mindy says, her voice high. “Unless, I don’t know, you wanna get your mind off of her, that works too.”
“You’re thinking too far. It’s just a girl in most of my classes that happens to have many of the same interests as me.”
“I’m totally inviting her if your girl turns you down or not.”
Yet, you came into her life so randomly and possibly was everything she ever wanted.
-
When the week started and you came into her room for another yap session, Tara realized you were awfully quiet, like unusually quiet.
At first, when you walk near her, she smiles at you and jokes, “Did you happen to accidentally insult your teacher again?”
You give her a small, weak laugh. “No, not today. I should’ve, though,” you say, jokingly, then blink again.
Sitting on the bed, she looks down at you, concerned slightly lacing her voice. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
It’s quiet, before you notice her watching you carefully, trying to decipher you. Lying wouldn’t save you this time. Tara hasn’t known you for long, yet knows how you’re feeling–especially if you’re lying. You break, knowing it wasn’t worth denying it if she knew you like a book.
“It’s just my dad, started the day on a bad foot, took it out on us. Kind of ruined my morning,” you say, wiping your eyes, “Gosh, I’m crying over this stupid shit. He’s always like this, there’s always something I have to do better.”
Tara watches you, she knew how your dad could be from the certain days you came with a quieter presence, eyes lingering too long on your notebooks. His anger used to scare you so much that you felt you needed saving.
She stays quiet for a moment, before scooting closer to you, shoulders brushing against yours, “If it makes you feel any better, I once stole my friends ID to her dorm room to make chocolate chip cookies at 3AM. Put it in the oven, it said to set it to 350 degrees, I put 850 degrees! Burned the whole entire oven down and everyone in the dormitory had to evacuate the building. Completely sober, by the way.”
A small smile cracks on your face, a real one. “That sounds normal for Tara Carpenter,” you sniff, feeling the soft fabric beneath you.
She pauses, “I’ll tell you all my hard moments that ruined my days, even the most sensitive ones. Lately, talking about it makes it easier, but it’s not just talking about it to somebody, it’s talking about it with you. So don’t apologize for getting a little sniffly because I owe you one, and it tells you that you’re being vulnerable.”
You watch her with a slightly amused look as she goes on about her moments. Each one felt different, a stronger feeling, more flickers of vulnerability. And somehow, you made everything feel less terrible the second that you’d listen.
Tara didn’t know how you did it, numbed it.
A lot of people numbed it at first, so she couldn’t feel. It was temporary. But you? You numbed it, and then fixed it, healed it.
She began to admire things she never looked at when passing before, opening up with the things she never thought could heal.
Began to bump her knees into yours, saw the way the light from her window casted against your slightly red-rimmed eyes and pink freckled cheeks whenever she saw you.
The wind whistled softly as you sank into the bed, looking at the time that was already past midnight, 2AM. “Oh, holy shit, it’s late,” you whisper, rolling onto your side as the ceiling fan blows against your hair.
Tara makes room for you, scooting to the corner of her bed as pats the spot next to her. You scooch closer, arms touching as you play with each other's pinkies. “Who do you think will go to sleep first?” You ask, you had already stayed up with her for a couple of hours, and the caffeine you had in the morning was wearing off.
The Carpenter rolls her eyes, hands on her scarred stomach, “I’m tired as shit now that I think about it, I did not feel that earlier, so definitely me. But I’m definitely going to try and stay awake.”
I won't forget the feeling
Of staying up with you
It was silent for a few, comfortable moments, before you turned to her, deep irises looking at her in the dim room. It was that kind of look that people had when they were fully immersed in the person they were talking to.
“We should play paintball, soon,” you say, after a few moments, hugging the blanket closer to you. “You know, in 10 Things I Hate About You?”
Tara grins, yawning. “But I’m for sure kicking your ass by the end of that day that you’ll be shitting paint everywhere you go.” She jokes, after a moment, she rolls on her side to meet your eyes as well.
“Are you free this weekend? Saturday, I mean.” Tara asks suddenly, watching you wrinkle your nose. “My friend wanted to have a hang-out, a party, I think. A small one. Yeah. Maybe, we could bring some copies of movies, have a marathon?”
She watches as you think for a moment, a small, tired smile gracing your lips, until a thought hits you. “Damn it, I can’t,” you murmur, “I have something to do that day, a friend wanted me to hang out with her friends and already told her I was set on going.” You frown.
Tara brushes it off, “No worries, maybe another time.”
Except she would’ve loved to have brought you as a +1 for Mindy to see, show off your beauty, maybe.
You look at her intently, feeling kind of bad that you couldn’t go. Tara wouldn’t have asked you if she didn’t want you to go or if you weren’t someone that she trusted. You scroll on your phone and open Spotify, something you do every night as you shuffle your night playlist, scooting a tiny bit closer to Tara.
Your thumb hovers the song ‘The Blue,’ lately, you feel like it’s hitting a softer spot whenever it comes on. You click on it.
Tara speaks through it, lightly, “I’m surprised you didn’t shit your pants, you drank so much coffee today.”
“Oh trust me,” you say, tiredly, poking her stomach, “I did.”
You close your eyes for a moment, chest rising up and down as you let the comfortable, vulnerable feeling take over you.
“This was the song you sent me the other day, right?” She didn’t need to ask, because she already knew. “One of the songs that keep you awake.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, “How do you remember that?”
“Lucky guess. But you sent me way too many songs.”
I bet I could recite 'em all
I won't forget the feeling
“I’m pretty sure you stay awake because you’re texting me literally all the time at night,” Tara teased, “You’d send me random philosophies and memes you’d find.”
By the time she searched for a response, she found you next to her, fast asleep.
“I win,” she says softly.
-
The sound of laughter filled the house, people gathering to do flips in the pool, card games splattered all around, karaoke upstairs.
Mindy nudged Sam, margaritas in their hands, as they both watched her on the couch, while everybody else was socializing.
“Tara’s usually partying her ass off.”
“She’s sulking because her girl couldn’t make it.”
Mindy sighs, looking at Sam, “Well, Tara hasn’t really trusted anybody after Amber. Maybe this says something, Sam. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tara this happy over somebody, yet so secretive.”
“Well, that’s going to be a pain in my butt if she’s going to act all sad without her presence.”
Chad screams from another room as he wins his card game, “Bullshit! I knew it! I won!”
“Well, I did invite that one girl I talked about the other day. Maybe that’ll get her talking.”
Sam lays back in her chair, setting her glass on the counter, “Yeah, but good luck with that. If Tara is fixated on someone, she’s going to find an excuse to tell someone that they’re boring. You better warn your friend, she’s going to be told she’s too loud, or quiet, or not exciting enough, even if she’s a good person, if she isn’t whoever Tara’s thinking about, she isn’t good enough.”
Tara was supposed to be partying, she should have been slumped over on the floor by now reeking of alcohol.
But she looked slightly disappointed, killing her fun.
Then the door bell rang, Mindy shouting at Tara to get it while she made herself another drink. “It’s the friend I was talking to you about! Maybe she can distract you from whoever has corrupted your mind because she couldn’t make it. Can you get it? I’ll be there in a sec!”
Tara pushed herself off the couch, even if someone had the same interests or looks as you, it wasn’t you.
“I told you,” She groaned, “I don’t want to hook up with any of your stupid-”
Her hand reached up to unclasp the first lock, then pulled it open, smelling fresh air rather than the overwhelming stench of booze. She blinked for a moment, a platter of food being shoved into her face, “Oomph! Mindy! I brought..”
I never could’ve seen you coming
The board was lowered, your familiar face appearing behind it, then your eyes lit up. “Tara! What are you doing here?”
She looks at you for a long moment.
I think you’re everything I wanted
Then her annoyed expression suddenly became nonexistent, brown irises beaming. “Me? What are you doing here?”
Mindy notices in the distance, raising a suggestive eyebrow to Tara’s sister, she knew she proved her point.
She watches as the gears in your brain start to turn, as you register the moment, “This was the hang-out I was talking about you about on Monday.” You say, suddenly giggling at the coincidence, setting your platter down by the counter as she lets you in.
Before she could even respond, another very Mindy-y voice hollered your name, “Y/N, I was just about to call you!” She says, giving you a side hug, ignoring the side-eye Tara shoots at her. You meet her embrace, letting out a little grunt as she shoves a bottle of beer in your chest to mellow you down a bit.
“Meet Tara, the girl I was talking to you about, and Tara, meet Y/N, the-”
Mindy didn’t need to finish her sentence, already seeing the way Tara’s demeanor had shifted just as quickly. “You guys already fucking met? Oh for fucking sake! I thought I was going to play match maker so by the time Tara hooked up with you, I could’ve told her ‘I told you so’ that you were better than the girl she’s been day dreaming about.”
You pop the bottle open, it smelled sharp, strong.
Tara groans, her hands facepalming her forehead as she tries to wipe the flush on her cheeks, “Mindy.”
By that time, Sam’s already grinning, Chad and Anika emerging from the yard.
You raise a brow, “What girl?” You ask, already a third done with your bottle.
“Oh my god, Y/N. Has Tara not talked about this one girl non-stop to you? Remember I told you about her when inviting you here? Like, she’s been rewatching that movie you love for way too long. I’m pretty sure I saw a poster hung up in her room because of it.”
Mindy keeps rambling, “Like, I needed to invite you over at this point to distract her cause at this point, it was full-on obsession–oh!” Then it all clicks, and you stand there giving Tara a grin as Mindy starts cackling her ass off.
“Oh my god! No wonder why Tara changed so quickly when you got here. It’s you! You’re the girl I’ve been talking about! Well, I mean the girl Tara’s been talking about!”
Tara sends Mindy a warning glare, nose wrinkling as her sister and Chad join in. She leaves you alone for a moment, “Sorry, give me a moment, I’ll be back, just stay here,” Tara says softly, before her expression hardens as she pushes the group into a room. You look at her with a curious, and almost slightly worried expression, before she shuts the door gently.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” She hisses, eyes blazing as she sits on the bed with a thud, “Can you guys at least not embarrass her first thing when she comes in? And not to mention, you’re embarrassing me! It’s such a bad first impression.”
Sam’s hand runs through her hair, “She’s cute. And relax Tara, I’m sure she won’t mind her friend who’s currently obsessing over her, to introduce her to her other friends.”
Chad plops on the floor, “Yeah, have her hang out with us, Mindy already knows her. It won’t hurt to get to know her better.”
Tara stands up, “No! That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do!” She exclaims, throwing her hands into the air, “You guys always say something unhinged halfway through the party once you’re drunk off your asses, and I do not want to scare her.”
“Glad to know where we fall.”
“Tara, you know Y/N wouldn’t get embarrassed, I know her. You know her much better than me, and you know she won’t feel any different about you, if she does feel something, she’s like, one of the sweetest people I hang out with.”
Tara did know that you weren’t the kind to judge when it came to serious things.
“Still, can we hold it off till, I don’t know, I know how she’s feeling? It’s kind of sudden. I don’t wanna do something she’s not comfortable with, including meeting more people.”
Her sister’s eyes soften, before she nods and approaches Tara. “Okay. That doesn’t mean I won’t be checking in on you, though. Just let me know if anything happens. I don’t tend to open up to people often, but she seems like a keeper.”
Tara sighs, relenting. “Okay. Thank you.”
And as she opens the door, Mindy whispers, “Just make sure to let me know if she ends up in your bed-”
Sam elbows Mindy as her sister rolls her eyes and closes the door, searching for you. And when she doesn’t see you, she begins to quickly scan the house. She walks outside, calling out your name, before seeing you up on the roof top, looking drunk off your ass. She left you alone for like, 15 minutes.
And of course when she comes back you’re hanging from the roof top like a zoo animal.
She quickly heads upstairs, crawling onto the roof top with you. You looked a little worse from this angle, if she was being honest.
“Oh god, Y/N, hi. Let’s get you inside, don’t want you face planting into the pool.”
You look at her, squinting, before pointing your bottle at her, “But I was just getting comfy,” you protest, words slightly mixing together.
“We can get up here till you’re sober enough not to roll off this roof,” Tara grunts, dragging you inside and onto the bed.
You mumble incoherently as you squirm on the bed while she awkwardly moves her bangs out of her face.
It’s mostly silent, besides the hum in the walls from the music downstairs. You stop squirming for a moment, before you look at her, attempting to look serious. “Did you mean it?” You ask, a little disoriented but functioning, “what you said earlier.”
How was she going to get through explaining while you were drunk?
What is she going to do with you?
-
p.s i was super iffy on posting this cause i feel like there are so many spots i could make better but if i didn't give this to you guys it would take a while for me to post again
Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.
So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.
She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.
Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.
Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.
People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.
Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.
Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.
It was the dream Ghostface scenario.
But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.
"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"
And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.
So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.
But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.
She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.
It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.
She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.
"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."
Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."
Sam blinked. "Just no?"
"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"
Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.
It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.
So she tried again.
"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"
"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."
Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.
Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."
Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."
"But you've never met her?"
"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."
Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"
Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.
Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"
Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"
"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"
Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."
"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"
"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"
Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"
"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"
Sam didn't answer.
Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."
"And you think she's the answer?"
"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."
Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."
Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"
"That's not what I—"
"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."
Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.
She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.
She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.
So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.
It was with Tara. With you.
Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.
Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.
But it didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.
After that, it just... continued.
One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.
She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.
"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."
She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.
Sam hated how familiar it sounded.
She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.
But she didn't like it. Any of it.
Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.
"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.
"What does that mean?"
Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.
But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.
"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."
Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.
Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.
And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.
And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.
Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.
But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.
The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.
The door was open an inch.
Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.
Just familiar.
Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.
Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.
It just looked easy.
Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.
Sam's jaw clenched.
She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.
It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.
Too comfortable. Too fast.
You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.
Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.
There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.
But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.
She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."
It didn't matter.
She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.
Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.
You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.
You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.
"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"
She didn't take it.
"I'm just here to pick up my sister."
The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.
There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.
You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.
"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."
That was when Sam felt it.
The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.
Sam hated it.
She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.
Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.
She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.
Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.
"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."
"Traffic was light."
Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.
Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.
You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.
Sam watched all of it.
You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.
Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.
Sam didn't believe that for a second.
Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"
"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."
"No, Monday's good."
You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."
And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.
The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.
She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.
"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."
Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.
"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.
"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."
"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."
Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.
It wasn't jealousy.
But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.
The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.
Then she started talking.
Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.
Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.
Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.
"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."
Sam didn't respond.
She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.
And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.
Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.
And this time, it wasn't going away.
The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."
At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.
But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.
You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.
It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.
But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.
Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.
You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.
She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.
And then there was that afternoon.
Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.
Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.
But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.
When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.
But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.
"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.
Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."
Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."
Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"
"Like what?”
"You know what."
Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.
From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.
A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.
She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.
And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.
You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.
A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.
It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.
She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.
Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.
You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.
You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."
You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.
None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.
What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.
It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.
But it was something else. Something worse.
It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.
That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.
She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.
She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.
But she already knew how that would go.
They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."
And then you had entered the picture.
And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.
But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.
It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.
Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.
You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.
Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.
"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."
Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.
But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.
"You let her come here?"
Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."
"You didn't think to tell me?"
"I didn't think you'd care."
That part stung most of all.
Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.
And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.
Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.
But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.
Because Sam didn't trust anyone.
Not really. Not anymore.
Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.
She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.
So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.
You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.
That was the worst part.
You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.
Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.
So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.
And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.
She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.
And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.
Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.
She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.
And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.
Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.
She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.
She saw it coming.
She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.
You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.
And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.
Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?
She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.
So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.
Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.
No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.
And Sam didn't know what it was yet.
But she was going to find out.
Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.
And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.
She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.
And today had been hell.
The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.
By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.
All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.
But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.
It was you.
There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.
Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.
Of course Tara had invited you over again.
Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.
Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.
She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.
Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."
"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."
You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."
She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.
She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.
Because there you were again.
In her space.
In Tara's space.
And Sam could already feel what was coming.
The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.
She headed straight for the sink.
The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.
Of course.
Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.
Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.
One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.
"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.
"Fine," Sam muttered.
She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.
But she couldn't not.
Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.
And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.
She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.
No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.
And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.
That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.
It made something snap loose in her chest.
She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.
Her stomach twisted.
Because she knew she wasn't being fair.
But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.
And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.
Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.
You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.
She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.
She wanted you gone.
"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"
Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.
Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"
You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."
Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.
"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."
Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.
Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."
Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.
So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."
Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."
You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.
And that made Sam's chest clench.
Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.
And Sam couldn't fucking take it.
The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.
"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”
You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.
"Or is this really just tutoring?"
The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.
Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.
"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."
Your throat tightened.
Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"
"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."
A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.
This was thick. Charged.
"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.
But she wasn't done.
"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"
Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.
"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"
Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."
Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.
"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."
You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.
"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"
Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.
"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"
That one echoed. That one stuck.
You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.
But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.
"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."
And then, silence.
Still and tight and ugly.
Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.
And now it just sat there between you all.
Burning.
That was it. That was the one that landed.
Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.
And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.
She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.
Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.
Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.
Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY
___
Everything shifted after that night.
You hadn't raised your voice.
Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.
You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”
Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"
But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.
"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."
Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.
"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.
You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”
And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.
The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.
"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."
Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.
Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.
"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."
Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.
"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"
"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."
"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."
"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"
Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."
And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.
Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.
And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.
A week passed.
Tutoring didn't happen.
There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.
But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.
Still — she noticed.
She noticed everything.
She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.
She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.
And Sam could connect the dots.
Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.
You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.
And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.
Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.
She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.
But she thought about it.
At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.
She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.
And Tara wasn't letting it go either.
She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.
Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.
It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But it was punishment.
And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.
Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.
Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.
Sam thought Tara would get over it.
And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.
But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.
Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.
And the sessions started again.
No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.
Still good for tonight?
Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.
yeah. of course.
And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.
But it wasn't the same.
Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.
You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.
But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.
You were her tutor. That was it.
And Tara noticed it right away.
The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.
By the second session, it was a pattern.
You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.
Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.
But it was obvious something had changed.
And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.
"Did something happen?"
You looked up, caught off guard.
Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.
She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.
Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"
And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.
"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."
Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.
"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."
Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."
You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.
Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."
That caught Tara off guard. "What?"
You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."
Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"
"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."
But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.
And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.
"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"
"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."
Tara blinked. "What?"
You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."
And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.
Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.
You didn't want to come over anymore.
You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.
"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."
She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.
But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.
Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.
So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.
That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."
Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"
And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU
Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.
And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.
But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.
And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.
And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.
Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.
Tara could feel it.
And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.
She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.
But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.
She took it as confirmation.
You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.
And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.
So she started paying attention.
Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.
She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.
And she'd just... paused.
Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.
It didn't mean anything.
Except it did.
Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.
It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.
To make sure.
To be sure.
To prove she was right.
Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.
That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.
And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.
So she followed.
Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.
But because she knew something was wrong with you.
And she needed to see it for herself.
At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.
But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.
You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.
You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.
Just... distant.
Like you were only halfway there.
It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.
You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.
Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.
By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.
You were just... sad.
Moving through your day like a ghost.
And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.
So she buried it.
Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.
And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.
"Errands."
"Walked around a bit."
"There's this new place opening on 9th."
"Needed some air."
None of it true.
But all of it necessary.
Because she had to be right.
Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.
Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...
She wasn't sure she could live with it.
So she kept watching.
Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.
The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.
She just needed to see.
You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.
You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.
That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.
You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.
You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.
That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.
But she didn't stop following you.
She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.
And that's when she saw it:
In loving memory of Harper L/N
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece
★ November 20 2002
✞ April 23rd 2021
More than anything we could've wished for.
She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.
It hit her like a punch to the ribs.
Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.
You'd just seen her.
Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.
Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.
But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.
She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.
And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.
Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.
So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.
And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.
But she couldn't.
She tried.
She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.
But it didn't pass.
Days went by, and it stayed.
It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.
And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.
Sorry.
After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?
It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.
Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?
Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?
Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.
And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?
It pissed her off. All of it.
She didn't want to care.
She wasn't supposed to care.
But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.
And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.
But Sam always had the same answer.
You don't know what people are.
That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.
But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.
Harper.
She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.
So yeah — she wanted to apologize.
Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.
But the chance never came.
She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.
But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.
And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.
She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.
So she tried something else.
"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."
She said it again the next time. And the next.
Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.
But every time, it ended the same.
You were "in a rush."
Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.
And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.
But she didn't believe it.
She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.
And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.
She couldn't blame you.
But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.
And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.
When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.
But she was.
She was waiting for you.
She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.
You saw her before Tara did.
Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.
Tara clocked her a second later.
"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."
Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."
You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.
Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"
You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."
You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.
"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."
You both looked at her. Tara blinked.
"Why?"
"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."
Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”
"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."
Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."
"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."
That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"
"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."
Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.
And that was all Sam needed.
"Go wait in the car."
Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.
Then it was just you and Sam.
And that silence — it hit hard.
You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.
Sam didn't waste time.
"I was wrong," she said.
Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.
"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."
You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.
"Thank you."
That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.
And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.
Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.
She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.
But you hadn't.
You forgave her like it was easy.
Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.
And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.
The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.
The way Tara always texted you first.
The way you never asked for anything.
The way no one else really said your name.
She hadn't seen it before.
Now she couldn't unsee it.
And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.
No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.
Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.
She didn't ask what was said.
And Sam didn't offer.
But the silence was lighter than usual.
That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.
So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.
She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.
You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?
She tried to let it go.
But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.
You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.
Small things.
After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.
Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.
"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.
So she did.
And it didn't stop there.
Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"
Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"
Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."
"You want her to come?"
"I don't care."
But she did.
Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.
Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.
You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.
And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.
She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.
She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.
And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.
It wasn't about proving a point anymore.
It wasn't about earning forgiveness.
She just... liked you.
More than she should.
And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.
And that... made her angry.
Because she wasn't supposed to like you.
That wasn't what this was.
You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.
And then Tara had said it.
"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"
Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"
"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."
Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.
"It's not weird. I'm being polite."
"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.
"I'm trying," Sam snapped.
Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."
And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.
So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.
You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.
"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.
You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.
"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."
You blinked. Confused.
She kept going — because stopping would be worse.
"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."
You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.
Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."
Sam's chest tightened.
"I just didn't want to get in the way."
She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.
"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."
You nodded. "Okay."
Another silence.
Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.
She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.
Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.
"Thank you," you said.
Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.
But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.
She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.
She just... did.
And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.
She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.
She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.
She wanted to know you.
That was it.
Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.
And you — you changed too.
Gradually. Carefully.
It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.
One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.
You said yes.
It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.
She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.
At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.
"Get home safe," you murmured.
"You too," she said, like it was habit now.
You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.
She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.
It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.
You were just you.
It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.
You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.
You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.
And she started to notice things.
Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.
She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.
You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.
And those were the nights that lingered.
One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.
You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.
That was new.
And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.
She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.
It didn't happen all at once.
But it happened.
And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.
She let herself want you.
Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.
She started noticing the small things.
How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.
She started listening more.
Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.
And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.
It was you.
The way you leaned into her when you were tired.
The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.
The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.
She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.
But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.
It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.
In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.
In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.
And then
And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.
So did she.
And for a second, neither of you moved.
You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.
And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.
Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.
She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.
Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.
You kissed her back.
Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.
When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.
And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.
She just felt... full.
Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.
You pulled back first. But only barely.
You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.
She didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.
She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.
She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.
And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.
summary: in which the truth finally comes out, but not on your terms—and definitely not on hers.
word count: 10.4k
author’s note: like i mentioned before i wrote this over four months ago and never got around to posting it. i don’t really love it, and it might feel a little rushed since i haven’t re-read it since i first wrote it, but i wanted to share something since it’s been a while. consider this a small apology for going quiet. not sure if i’ll keep posting, but for now, here’s this. let me know what you think, if you’d like.
For two weeks, Jenna couldn't get you out of her head.
Even though she had told herself, over and over, that it was done. That she had made the right choice. That this was for the best.
But the moments lingered in her thoughts, clinging to her like the remnants of a dream you could never quite shake off. She'd lay in bed late at night, the quiet stretching between the heavy silence of the room, and she could feel the weight of everything she had said to you, everything she had walked away from.
She never expected to feel so torn.
The decision had been made—final. She knew there was no turning back from it. It had to happen, didn't it? She had convinced herself, time and time again.
She had broken the two of you apart for reasons she couldn't even fully explain to herself.
There was guilt, there was the ache of knowing she'd hurt you, but there was also this strange, unsettling sense of rightness that came with the choice, as if it was something that had been fated. And yet, that didn't make it easier. It didn't make it feel less wrong.
Her thumb always hovered over the phone screen, a draft message staring back at her, begging to be sent. She had typed it countless times, each time deleting it before her finger could press the button. "Are you okay?" was always the start.
But it wasn't enough. She wanted more than that. She wanted to reach out, to make sure you were alright, but how could she? After everything she had said. After what she had done. It would be unfair to you, wouldn't it? To just show up and ask how you were doing after tearing everything apart.
You deserved so much better than that.
She remembered how you looked at her, the hurt behind your eyes that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.
How the words had come out wrong, stumbling over her tongue, rambling in a way that didn't make sense but still left a mark on both of you.
And then, the way you had looked at her. The tears that almost spilled from your eyes. The quiet "oh" that you had whispered, like it was a small admission of defeat. Jenna's chest ached at the memory. She had never wanted to cause you pain. She had never wanted to be the one who broke you.
But it was done. It had to be.
She could still hear your voice in her head, soft and pained. She could still see the shimmer in your eyes as you fought to keep it together. It made her want to call you, to text you, to ask if you were okay, even though she knew deep down that she had no right.
But then there were those moments—the quiet mornings when she woke early, unable to sleep, and the first thought in her mind was of you. It was a fleeting thought, quickly smothered by the reality of the breakup, but it was there, always there. Were you okay? Were you getting better? She had to know, even though she didn't deserve to.
The longer Jenna sat with these thoughts, the more her guilt gnawed at her. The more she questioned herself. Was it too late to fix it? Was it too late to reach out to you? Maybe it didn't matter.
The doubt never fully left her.
It sat in the pit of her stomach, twisting every time she thought about what she had done. Why had she done it? Why had she walked away from you, from everything you two had built together, when it felt so wrong?
Every time Jenna tried to convince herself it had been the right decision, a voice in her head pushed back. It was like trying to convince herself that she hadn't torn a part of her soul away when she ended things. It didn't make sense. Not when she loved you.
She loved you so much.
It was more than just the small things—the way your hand fit perfectly in hers, the way you'd laugh about the stupidest things, making her forget about the weight of her world for a while. It was more than that.
It was how you made her feel like she could breathe easier when you were around, how you understood her in a way no one else could.
You saw her for who she really was, not the façade she put on for the world, not the parts of herself she kept hidden behind layers of insecurities and fears. You made her feel safe, and loved, in a way that made her heart ache just thinking about it.
The way your voice would soften when you spoke her name, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way you held her after a long day, arms tight around her like you could protect her from everything.
How could she have done that? How could she have let go of something that meant so much to her?
She thought about the quiet mornings when you would be the first to wake up, your messy hair still wild from sleep as you stretched and groggily smiled at her.
Every piece of her own brokenness seemed to fall into place when you were by her side. It felt like home. And yet, now she had walked away from it. Moved away from it.
And now, all she wanted was to go back. To rewind time, to find the courage to say something different.
She wanted to go back to that night, to that moment when she had sat across from you, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she uttered the words that had torn everything apart.
She wished she could have just pulled you close and told you how much she loved you, how much she needed you, and how scared she had been.
But it was too late now. The words had already been said.
Now, as the days passed and her thoughts spiraled, Jenna found herself wishing she had said anything. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to fix it.
It got to the point where she found it harder to focus at work, her mind constantly drifting, her thoughts veering toward you when they shouldn't. Even though ending things with you was supposed to make work easier.
It was as if everything she touched, everything she read, had some trace of you in it. Some days, when she stared down at the lines of the script in front of her, your voice would fill the silence, echoing the way you would help her work through the scenes.
It was like you were there with her, coaching her through the dialogue, offering small pieces of advice that always seemed to make everything fall into place.
Sometimes, the simplest words—lines she had read a hundred times before—felt like they carried something more.
She would hear them in your voice, almost like a phantom whisper, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. For a moment, you were still there beside her, as you always had been.
She missed you so much that it felt almost suffocating. It was strange, because the pain of it seemed bigger than just a breakup.
It was as if you had died, and the thought of never seeing you again had left an empty, hollow feeling in her chest. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was just a breakup. People broke up all the time. It wasn't a funeral. You hadn't died, and yet, it felt like a part of her had.
She caught herself thinking that maybe she could go see you tomorrow, that maybe she could find the courage to face you, to apologize, to make things right.
But then the harsh truth hit her: she was the one who had ended it. She had been the one who said the words, who took the step that closed the door.
If there was any death here, it was the death of the love that once was, and she had killed it herself. She was the one who had let it die.
She wished she could go back and do it all over again, even if that meant facing the hard parts. Anything to bring you back into her life. But it was too late now.
She had already made the choice. And she had to live with it, even though it felt like a slow kind of death.
For weeks, it seemed like everyone on set had noticed that something was off with Jenna too. It wasn't anything obvious—she still showed up on time, still gave her all to every take, still cracked the occasional joke between scenes. But there was a heaviness to her presence that hadn't been there before, a quiet distraction that lingered in her eyes or the way she'd zone out in moments she normally wouldn't.
Nobody said anything. Maybe they thought it wasn't their place, or maybe they just chalked it up to the pressure of work. Either way, they left her alone, offering polite smiles and tentative questions about how she was doing but never pushing for more.
Everyone except Mila.
Mila was one of the first people Jenna had worked with in the industry, and over time, they'd grown close—close enough that Mila had been one of the few friends Jenna introduced to you.
The three of you had hit it off immediately. Mila's easygoing personality and sharp sense of humor made her easy to like, and before long, she had become part of the small circle of people Jenna trusted implicitly.
You and Mila had bonded quickly during visits to set, sharing inside jokes and late-night conversations that blurred the lines between friendship and family. Mila had been there through a lot—both the good and the bad—and while Jenna hadn't told her about the breakup, she couldn't help but wonder if Mila had noticed the shift in her mood.
Jenna had told Mila everything once. But now, she hadn't told her anything.
Not about the breakup. Not about why her smile felt more forced than usual. Not about how she struggled to keep it together some days.
Still, Mila noticed. She always did.
Her usual teasing had shifted in recent weeks, replaced by quiet, searching glances. Sometimes, Mila looked at Jenna like she was on the verge of breaking, as if she could see cracks forming beneath the surface that Jenna wasn't even sure were there. And that look... it confused her.
Had you told Mila?
The thought had crossed Jenna's mind more than once, an anxious flutter in her chest as she replayed your last conversation in her head. You wouldn't have said anything, would you?
You weren't the kind of person to share personal things like that without a reason. But the way Mila looked at her sometimes—with that mixture of pity and quiet concern—it was hard not to wonder.
For days, Jenna tried to shake the feeling, brushing off Mila's attempts to talk or check in with excuses about work or being tired.
But Mila wasn't one to pry, but it was clear that Jenna wasn't herself, and eventually, she decided enough was enough.
"You need a night out," Mila announced one evening, catching Jenna off guard in her trailer. "Just us. A girls' night. Go somewhere loud, have a couple of drinks, and, I don't know, live a little."
Jenna hesitated, her fingers pausing over her phone screen as she looked up at Mila. "I don't know if—"
"Don't even try to talk your way out of it," Mila interrupted, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "You've been all... weird lately. Everyone's noticed. It's time to shake it off. Besides, I already have the perfect place in mind."
Jenna opened her mouth to protest again, but Mila didn't give her the chance.
"And hey," Mila added, her tone softening just slightly, "you should invite Y/N. I haven't seen her in forever."
The words hit Jenna like a punch to the stomach. She froze, her brain scrambling to catch up as Mila continued, oblivious to the shift in her expression.
"What?" Jenna finally managed, her voice quieter than she intended.
"Y/N," Mila repeated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, your girlfriend? Bring her along—it'll be fun."
The realization sank in slowly. Of course Mila didn't know. Jenna hadn't told anyone about the breakup, not her family, not her closest friends—not even Mila. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, to admit that she had ended something that had meant everything to her.
"Oh," Jenna said after a moment, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah... sure. I'll, uh, I'll ask her."
"Great!" Mila said brightly, grinning as she clapped her hands together. "It's settled, then. This Friday. You, me, and Y/N. It's going to be great."
Jenna nodded, pretending to go along with the plan as her chest tightened with guilt. She couldn't even imagine how she was supposed to explain this to Mila—let alone face the thought of actually seeing you again.
But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, plastering on her best fake smile and hoping Mila wouldn't notice the cracks beneath it.
"Yeah," Jenna said softly, her voice barely audible. "It'll be great."
___
The week passed faster than Jenna wanted it to, each day slipping away like sand through her fingers.
By Friday morning, she found herself regretting not protesting harder when Mila had first brought up the idea.
She could've said she had something else to do—work, a family obligation, anything that sounded remotely plausible. Or better yet, she could've just told Mila outright that she didn't want to go.
Because she didn't.
Jenna didn't want to go out, didn't want to pretend to have fun, and she especially didn't want to sit through an evening where Mila expected you to show up.
The thought of it made her stomach twist, the kind of anxious churn that left her restless and exhausted all at once. She hadn't even texted you about it, and she didn't plan to. How could she, knowing what Mila was expecting versus what she would actually get?
Still, as much as she hated the idea, the more Jenna thought about it, the more she realized that this might be the right time to say something.
A month had passed. Thirty long, aching days since the two of you had broken up, and she still hadn't told anyone. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not Mila. But Mila wasn't blind. She had to know something was going on, even if she didn't know the full story.
Maybe you'd told her.
The thought was both a comfort and a weight, lingering at the back of Jenna's mind as she tried to figure out what Mila did—or didn't—know. If you had said something, then it wouldn't be a surprise tonight when Jenna finally admitted it.
If Mila asked, of course.
Jenna wasn't planning on volunteering the information. But if Mila pressed, if she brought it up with that quiet concern she always carried lately, then maybe it was time to stop dodging the question. Time to stop pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.
And who knew? Maybe saying it out loud—finally letting someone else in—would take some of the weight off her shoulders.
Or maybe it would just make everything worse.
Jenna arrived at the bar later than she'd intended, though she couldn't bring herself to care. The thought of lingering too long, standing awkwardly with Mila before things really got going, had filled her with dread.
She'd spent way too much time overthinking her outfit, too—something casual but not too casual, like she wasn't trying too hard to look like herself when she didn't feel like herself at all.
The place was already buzzing by the time she walked in. Music thumped softly under the hum of voices, and the low lighting made the bar feel warmer than it had any right to. Jenna spotted Mila almost instantly, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.
She was talking to someone Jenna didn't recognize, but the moment Mila saw her, she perked up and waved her over.
"Finally! I was starting to think you'd stood me up." Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried just enough of a playful jab to make Jenna smile despite herself.
"Yeah, sorry," Jenna said, slipping into the seat beside her. "Traffic." It was a weak excuse, but Mila didn't press.
"Don't worry about it. You're here now." Mila signaled the bartender, sliding a drink over to Jenna. "Figured you'd need this."
Jenna laughed softly, lifting the glass. "Thanks. What is it?"
"Something not too crazy," Mila replied, swirling her own drink. "Didn't think you'd want to dive straight into tequila shots."
Jenna took a sip, letting the conversation flow naturally from there. It was easier than she expected—Mila always had a knack for making things feel effortless. They talked about work, swapped a few jokes about the chaos of the set, and somewhere along the way, the glasses kept refilling.
By the third—or maybe fourth—drink, Jenna was starting to feel the edges of her tension blur. Mila was, too, her laughter coming easier, her cheeks flushed pink.
Her now for what it seemed like sixth drink hovered near her lips as she sat back, her gaze lazily drifting around the room. She took a small sip, her movements slow and deliberate, almost giving the impression she'd forgotten Jenna was even sitting there.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of music and scattered voices, until Mila suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened with a spark of realization, her expression snapping to life.
"Oh my god, right!" she blurted out, the sharpness of her voice cutting through the din. "Where's Y/n? Is she okay?"
The words hit Jenna like a sucker punch, the casual tone unable to disguise the weight they carried. Jenna froze mid-sip, the glass slipping from her lips as her breath caught in her throat. She coughed, the sudden burn forcing her to set the drink down hastily, her fingers trembling as the glass met the table with a sharp clink.
Her chest felt tight, heat blooming beneath her skin—not just from the alcohol, but from something heavier.
Of course Mila would ask that. She had invited you for God's sake.
That detail had slipped Jenna's mind entirely in the haze of the evening, or maybe she'd pushed it aside on purpose. Now it was front and center, leaving her no room to deflect.
She glanced at Mila, already regretting the defensive edge in her voice as she snapped, "Yeah. Why wouldn't she be?"
The words came too quickly, too sharp, and the moment they left her mouth, Jenna wished she could take them back. They weren't just defensive—they were revealing, betraying a tension Mila clearly wasn't expecting.
Mila froze, her brows lifting in mild surprise at the tone. For a brief moment, she looked unsure of how to respond, and then her expression shifted again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out, and instead, she fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh, nothing," she said at last, though her voice had lost its usual breezy confidence. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a dismissive laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I just thought maybe something was wrong? I don't know. She didn't come, so I just wondered."
The nervous energy radiating from her now was unmistakable. Her hand moved to adjust her glass, her fingers drumming against the surface of the table before falling still. She looked everywhere but at Jenna, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow soften the tension hanging in the air.
Jenna narrowed her eyes slightly, her stomach tightening as she watched Mila's sudden shift in demeanor. Something was off—Mila wasn't just making small talk. She was circling something, and Jenna could feel the subtle crackling undercurrent of panic in the way Mila's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape.
Jenna's fingers curled around her glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The question lingered, sharp and unspoken, in the space between them. Why was Mila so nervous?
"Actually I...Uh" Jenna's voice wavered, caught somewhere between a lie and the truth. Her hesitation felt damning, and she hated how small it made her feel. "I didn't ask her."
The admission hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended, and Jenna flinched inwardly at the way it sounded—cold, thoughtless. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Mila didn't know that, and Jenna could already see the gears turning behind her friend's eyes.
"What? Why?" Mila's brows shot up as she leaned forward, her curiosity sharpening with the movement. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but her full attention was fixed on Jenna now, the question hanging in the air like a dare.
Jenna froze, her hand hovering mid-air with her drink still in her grasp. The room around her blurred into a haze of muffled conversation and dim light as her thoughts screeched to a halt. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not tonight, not here, not with Mila.
Was this it? The moment she finally said it out loud?
Her stomach churned, and her grip on the glass tightened as the weight of the unspoken truth pressed harder against her chest. What was the point of keeping it to herself anymore? Mila would find out eventually—everyone would.
Besides, when else was she going to say anything? At the table read? Where the cast, producers, and half the crew would be there to overhear? No. That wasn't how she wanted it to come out.
She inhaled sharply, a shallow breath that did nothing to steady the trembling in her hands. The drink clinked softly as she set it down on the table, her fingers still clutching the rim like it was an anchor.
"Because, uhm..." The words felt foreign on her tongue, her voice shaky as her gaze darted down to the table. She could feel Mila's eyes boring into her, waiting.
Her throat felt dry, the lump forming there making it harder to speak. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up just enough to meet Mila's gaze.
"We... we're not together anymore."
The words tumbled out unevenly, quiet but heavy, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jenna's stomach dropped, her pulse pounding in her ears as she watched Mila's face shift through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, concern.
For a second, neither of them moved. Mila blinked, her lips parting as though to respond, but no sound came out. She glanced at Jenna's hand still gripping the glass and then back to her face, her expression softening slightly.
"What?" Mila said again, but this time her voice was softer, almost disbelieving. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping against the table. "I—since when?"
Jenna's jaw tensed, her teeth pressing together as she tried to find the words, but none came easily. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected, and the weight of Mila's question made her chest tighten even more.
"Not long ago," Jenna finally said, her voice flat, like she was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of the truth. "It's... complicated."
It wasn't complicated.
Yet Mila nodded slowly, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece something together. The nervous energy from earlier was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar kind of stillness.
Jenna could feel Mila's unspoken questions hanging in the air, but she didn't have it in her to answer them—not here, not now. She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling just enough to make the drink ripple.
Mila opened her mouth as if to speak but hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line instead. "I—I didn't know," she said finally, her voice careful, almost apologetic.
Jenna shook her head quickly, as if to wave it off. "It's fine. Really. It's not..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn't fine, but admitting that felt like too much.
The silence between them returned, heavy and unyielding. Mila shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the door as if searching for an escape, while Jenna stared at her glass, the weight of her own words settling deep in her chest.
Mila didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the table as though she were trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner absentmindedly.
Jenna could see the wheels turning behind her friend's eyes, the way Mila's lips pressed together as if she were holding back a question. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, and Jenna shifted in her seat, wishing she'd said anything else—anything to steer the conversation away from this.
But then Mila looked up, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and concern. Her fingers stilled against the napkin, and she inhaled softly, her gaze flitting to Jenna's before darting away again.
"Is..." Mila began, her voice quiet and careful, like she wasn't sure if she should even be asking. She bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she seemed to second-guess herself. "Is it because she's... sick?"
The question hung in the air, stark and unrelenting.
Jenna blinked, her thoughts skidding to a halt at Mila's question. Sick? The word echoed in her mind, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. She stared at Mila, trying to piece together the sudden turn in the conversation.
Her first instinct was to assume she'd misheard, that the low hum of music or the alcohol in her system had muddled her perception. But the look on Mila's face—hesitant, nervous, but serious—told her she hadn't.
Jenna frowned, her confusion deepening as she scrambled to connect the dots. Sick? What the hell is she talking about? The word didn't fit anywhere. You weren't sick. At least, not in any way Jenna knew of.
Did you have a cold?
Her stomach churned uneasily. Was Mila talking about someone else? Or was this some poorly worded attempt at... what? A metaphor? A joke? Jenna didn't know, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread curling low in her chest.
Her grip tightened on her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers. Mila's question replayed in her head, each syllable dragging her further into her own confusion.
Mila had said it like it was obvious, like it was something Jenna should already know, and that only made the knot in her chest tighten further.
A faint heat crept up Jenna's neck, frustration mixing with her unease. She hated not understanding, hated the way her mind was now running in circles trying to grasp something she clearly didn't have all the pieces to.
Jenna's heart thudded faster, her thoughts a jumble of fragmented possibilities that led nowhere. Her confusion was quickly giving way to something sharper—irritation, panic, a gnawing need to demand what are you talking about? But she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't do anything but stare at Mila and hope she'd explain herself before Jenna had to ask.
She wet her lips, suddenly aware of the dryness in her throat, and willed herself to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the tension pulling at her features. She didn't want to look clueless—vulnerable—but she had no idea what Mila meant, and it was beginning to eat at her.
Her fingers drummed restlessly against the side of her glass as she glanced at Mila again, searching her face for some kind of clue.
Mila froze, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. It wasn't shock exactly—it was something subtler, like she'd just realized she'd let slip something she wasn't supposed to say. Her hand stilled mid-air, clutching her glass, and her gaze darted away from Jenna as though avoiding eye contact would somehow erase what she'd said.
Jenna felt her stomach drop, unease prickling at her skin. Her grip on her drink tightened as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you mean, sick? Does she have a cold or something?"
Mila flinched at the question, her face tightening into an expression that only made Jenna's anxiety spike. Mila swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass she held.
"You... you don't know?" Mila finally said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.
The way she said it—the hesitant tone, the words themselves—sent a jolt of panic straight through Jenna. Her heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening as a chill spread down her spine. Why was Mila framing it like this? Why did it sound so heavy, so dangerous?
Jenna's throat felt dry, her words coming out unsteady. "Don't know what?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she fought to keep calm. "What are you talking about?"
Mila hesitated again, her teeth catching her bottom lip as if she were debating whether to say more. Her gaze flickered up to Jenna's face, studying her with a mixture of wariness and something that almost looked like pity.
"When did you guys break up?" Mila asked carefully, the question quiet but deliberate, like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.
The question caught Jenna off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Her mind spun, trying to connect the dots Mila was implying but not fully saying. She blinked, then looked down at the glass in her hand as if it might hold the answer.
"It was..." she began slowly, her voice trailing off as she tried to pinpoint the timeline in her mind. Her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed, as she realized how much time had slipped by without you.
"September," Jenna said finally, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She stared at the condensation pooling at the base of her drink, her voice quieter now, almost distant.
The realization sank in as she said it aloud, a wave of emotion hitting her in its wake.
Three months.
She hadn't even thought about it in those terms until now, but it was true. Three months of getting through each day without you. Three months of forcing herself to push forward, even though the weight of it had felt unbearable at times, even though it was her fault.
And now here was Mila, looking at her like there was some crucial piece of the story Jenna didn't know. The unease grew stronger, twisting in her stomach, and her voice came out softer, more fragile than before.
"Why does that matter?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge and a plea all at once.
Mila's expression shifted as she looked at Jenna, her features softening with a guilt so palpable it made Jenna's chest ache.
There was something about the way Mila's eyes rested on her—sad, full of hesitation and regret—that made Jenna feel small, like a little kid who had just been caught doing something wrong but didn't know what it was.
The weight of that gaze was unbearable, and Jenna found herself straightening in her seat, as if good posture could somehow shield her from the impact of whatever Mila was about to say.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the seconds stretching unbearably long as Mila opened her mouth, hesitated, and then sighed quietly.
"Jenna..." Mila said softly, her voice almost trembling. She paused, her eyes dropping to her hands for a moment before meeting Jenna's again.
The next words landed like a punch to the gut.
"Y/N has cancer."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, echoing in Jenna's mind as her entire body went still. For a second, it didn't even register—like Mila had spoken a foreign language Jenna couldn't translate. The room seemed to tilt, the muted background noise fading as all Jenna could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.
"What?" she breathed, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it wasn't enough to encompass the sheer disbelief coursing through her veins.
Jenna's heart pounded so hard it drowned out every sound around her.
Cancer?
No. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Her head swam, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision or wake herself up from whatever cruel dream she'd stumbled into. Mila's words echoed over and over, growing louder with each repetition until they were almost unbearable.
There was no way. No way. You would've told her. You had to have told her, even though she broke up with you. Right? Jenna gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as her thoughts spiraled. You wouldn't keep something like this from her. You couldn't.
The idea that you might have felt the need to tell Mila instead of her made her stomach churn. When had it happened? How long had you known? And why hadn't you come to her, at least for this? She couldn't stop the questions from flooding her mind, each one more agonizing than the last.
Her lips parted, and for a moment, nothing came out. Her voice felt lodged in her throat, trapped behind the whirlwind of disbelief. Finally, she forced the words, shaky and unsure, as if saying them out loud might make Mila realize how impossible they were.
"When did she tell you that?"
Mila's eyes flicked downward, and she bit her lip nervously, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The air between them thickened with unease, Mila seeming to grasp how heavy her revelation truly was. She exhaled sharply, as though trying to remember something she wasn't sure she wanted to recall.
"A week ago. Maybe two," Mila said finally, her voice quiet, tentative.
The answer made Jenna's breath hitch. A week ago? Two? She felt like the world tilted, like her chair was suddenly unsteady beneath her. She stared blankly at Mila, trying to process how you could've known—really known—and said nothing to her. Her mind flashed back to that awful night, the night she shattered everything, and she realized just how long it had been. Nearly three months. Three months without you. Three months of thinking the pain was one-sided.
And yet, you told Mila.
The betrayal mingled with guilt, forming a storm that twisted in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe. Why didn't you tell her? Why did you think she didn't deserve to know?
Her hands fell to her lap, trembling slightly as the adrenaline coursing through her body rendered the alcohol utterly meaningless. For the first time all night, she felt stone-cold sober.
"What type?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her lips before she even realized it. It felt necessary. Urgent. As if understanding the specifics might make it more manageable, something she could wrap her head around.
Mila hesitated, her discomfort evident as she glanced away and then back at Jenna. She looked almost apologetic, like a woman who'd accidentally unleashed a tidal wave and now couldn't stop it.
"She told me it was... something in the lungs," Mila said slowly, almost wincing at the words. She faltered, clearly unsure of how to phrase what little she knew. "And I don't really—when I asked her how serious it was, she didn't really say..."
Mila trailed off, reaching for her glass. She drank deeply, the motion unnervingly casual for such a serious conversation. It felt wrong, somehow—her nonchalance juxtaposed with the chaos unraveling in Jenna's chest.
"But it can't be that serious, right?" Mila added, her tone nervous but edging toward hopeful, as though willing Jenna to agree.
Jenna couldn't reply. Her throat burned, the words catching painfully on the realization that she didn't know anything. Nothing at all.
Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as her mind raced. The possibilities were endless, and they all sounded worse with every second of silence. Lungs. Something in the lungs. A dozen horrific images flashed through her mind, each more unbearable than the last.
And you hadn't told her. Not about this. Not about anything.
She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking down to the table as a horrible, crushing helplessness settled over her. What was she supposed to do now?
Jenna's thoughts began racing, rewinding through every moment she could remember with you. Every interaction over the past few months played back like a fragmented reel in her mind, and she realized with growing dread that there were signs.
She'd noticed you'd lost weight—nothing drastic at first, just subtle changes. Your cheekbones had become more defined, and the jeans you loved wearing had started sitting looser on your hips. She remembered teasing you about it lightly, asking if you were trying out some trendy diet. You'd laughed it off, brushing her concern away, and she hadn't pressed.
And the cough. God, the cough. It had started as something minor, almost unnoticeable—a soft clearing of your throat here and there. But it stuck around. Over weeks, maybe longer, she'd noticed it lingering, deepening. There were times when it sounded almost painful, raspy, like you were struggling to catch your breath after a fit. She'd asked once or twice if you were okay, and you'd shrugged it off, blaming it on the weather or a cold you couldn't quite shake.
Now it felt obvious. Too obvious.
Had you known back then? Had those symptoms already been signs of something so much worse, and she'd completely missed it?
She remembered other things, too, things that felt insignificant in the moment but now came rushing back like flashing warning signs she'd ignored. You'd gotten tired more easily, saying you needed to lie down after errands that wouldn't have phased you before. Jenna had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion, something manageable. You'd stopped joining her for long hikes, claiming your legs felt "off," though you'd never been specific about it.
And then there was the bruise. A vivid purple mark on your arm that you couldn't remember getting. She'd joked about you being clumsy, and you'd laughed along, but she remembered how quickly the color had darkened, how long it had taken to fade.
Her stomach churned at the realization that all of it—every small, seemingly disconnected thing—might have been connected. How hadn't she seen it before?
She gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white as her mind spiraled further. When had you known? Were you already aware back then? Were you coughing while lying in her bed, pretending everything was fine, knowing it wasn't? Had you looked at her across the breakfast table, silently carrying the weight of something she couldn't even begin to fathom?
Her chest tightened, her breaths quick and shallow as the guilt crashed over her like a wave. If you had known, if you'd been dealing with this alone, why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't she noticed?
Every moment she hadn't pushed harder, hadn't questioned further, now felt like a failure. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she hadn't. She'd let you brush it off, just like she let you slip away when she ended things.
The thought that you might have been carrying this secret—this unbearable burden—during those final months together made her feel sick. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable. Too wrapped up in her own emotions to see what had been happening right in front of her.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry, not here. Not now. She didn't deserve the release. All she could do was sit there, hands trembling, head spinning, replaying every moment that now screamed at her with a truth she hadn't wanted to see.
The guilt hit Jenna like a physical blow, a crushing weight that left her breathless. She had broken up with you. She had walked away from the one person she loved most in the world.
What if, in the moment she ended everything, claiming her work was too demanding, that she couldn't give you what you deserved, you had been silently carrying this? What if, while she was drowning in her own stress, you were drowning too—but in something far worse?
Her stomach twisted painfully, her chest hollowing out as the realization settled deeper. The words she'd said that night came rushing back to her. The look on your face, the way you'd nodded. She hadn't noticed it then, but there was something in your eyes—something heavy, resigned, like you weren't just letting her go but bracing yourself for something far bigger.
God, had you known? Had you sat there, holding that secret, letting her leave because you didn't want to make her stay out of pity? The thought made her stomach churn violently.
She pressed her palms against the table, needing something to ground her as her head spun. All those months.
Three months.
Ninety days she had spent convincing herself she was doing the right thing by focusing on her career, by staying away from you so you could move on. Ninety days where she'd justified her choice as selfless, when in reality, you had been the one suffering. Not her. Never her.
She broke up with you because she said she was "overwhelmed." That was the excuse she gave. She'd cried about deadlines, interviews, and sleepless nights while you—you—were fighting something that made all of that seem meaningless.
The shame was unbearable. It was suffocating. How could she have been so blind? So selfish?
The memory of your voice haunted her now, the way you'd tried to reassure her when she broke things off, even as you were clearly heartbroken. How had she missed it? The exhaustion in your tone, the fragility behind your words?
Her throat tightened, bile rising as she imagined what you must have felt—knowing you were sick, facing something unimaginable, and having the person you loved walk away from you. She had abandoned you. And for what? Because she claimed to be suffering from her workload? The idea made her want to scream.
Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, gripping tightly, as if that could stop the onslaught of guilt. She'd made you feel like you weren't enough when the truth was, she wasn't enough. She hadn't been strong enough to stay, to notice, to see you.
She wanted to believe you hadn't known back then, that you hadn't been aware of the cancer when she left. But even if you didn't, it didn't matter. Because you'd faced this alone. And now? Now it felt like she'd been gone at the very moment you needed her most.
The rest of the night was nothing like Jenna or Mila had envisioned. What was supposed to be a casual girl's night out—a break from the chaos of work and life—had turned into something suffocating, something heavy. Neither of them knew how to recover from the bomb that had just been dropped.
Mila seemed to be trying, though. She fiddled with her glass, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, occasionally throwing out a lighthearted comment about the music or the drinks. But her voice was thinner now, her movements stiffer, as though she wasn't sure if it was okay to pretend everything was normal.
Jenna didn't even try. She nodded when Mila spoke and murmured vague responses, but her mind was elsewhere. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't focus on anything Mila said; her words blurred together, meaningless and distant, like background noise.
She kept fidgeting—picking at her nails, twisting her rings, pushing her drink away only to pull it back closer. Her legs bounced under the table, her body humming with restless energy that had nowhere to go. Every time Mila glanced at her, guilt flashed across her face, but Jenna couldn't bring herself to reassure her. She couldn't bring herself to do anything except sit there and try not to scream.
Her mind raced. Over and over, she replayed what Mila had said: "Y/N has cancer." The words felt like a brand, seared into her skull, impossible to escape. She wanted to text you, to call you, to demand answers—but what would she even say? Did you know how much she wanted to see you right now? Did you even want to see her?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come here tonight to tell Mila about the breakup, to maybe cry a little and then laugh it off over a second drink. Instead, all she wanted was to go home. To be anywhere but here.
Her phone sat heavy in her bag, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching for it every other minute. What would she even say if you picked up? Would you pick up? The thought of hearing your voice again both thrilled and terrified her.
She wanted to know everything. When did it start? What type? How bad was it? Were you okay? Were you scared? Did you hate her for leaving you? The questions screamed in her head, louder and louder, until her temples throbbed.
Mila broke the silence with a forced laugh, trying again to steer the conversation to something normal, but even she gave up halfway through her sentence. She took another long sip from her drink, her gaze darting around the bar, clearly uncomfortable.
"I think I should head home," Jenna blurted, her voice cracking slightly.
Mila's eyes widened, and she nodded quickly, almost relieved. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want me to come with you?"
"No," Jenna said too quickly, shaking her head. "I just—I need to..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Mila didn't press her.
The walk out of the bar felt surreal. The music and chatter faded into a dull hum, her footsteps heavy against the floor. By the time she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her head.
Jenna's hands were shaking as she unlocked her car. She slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and just sat there. The keys dangled uselessly in her hand as she stared blankly at the steering wheel. She didn't cry. She couldn't. All she could think about was you.
She needed to see you. To hear your voice. To know the truth. But she didn't know if she had the right to reach out—not after everything. So she just sat there, torn between guilt and longing, until the weight of it all became unbearable.
The house was dark when Jenna got home, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, her coat and bag left discarded by the door. The quiet was almost oppressive, the kind that made her chest feel even tighter. She kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, collapsing onto it without even bothering to take off her scarf.
Her phone burned in her pocket, but she didn't take it out right away. She sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the coffee table. The familiar space, usually comforting, now felt foreign. Nothing felt normal anymore—not the cushions under her, not the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, not even her own breathing.
She pulled her phone out with trembling hands, unlocking it and staring at the blank call screen. Your number was still there, at the top of her recent contacts, even though she hadn't called you in months. Her thumb hovered over your name. She didn't know what she was even going to say. Was it true? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this?
The first time she called, it rang once before she hung up. Her heart was pounding too hard, her stomach twisted into knots. She tried again, this time letting it ring through.
No answer.
The third call was the same, and by the time the voicemail picked up, Jenna was biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. She dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her, leaning back and covering her face with her hands.
You didn't want to talk to her. That had to be it. Why else wouldn't you pick up? She couldn't blame you. Not after what she'd done. But the thought of you sitting there, seeing her name light up on your screen and choosing to ignore it, made her stomach churn with guilt and dread.
She picked up the phone again, her fingers trembling as she opened the messaging app. What could she even say? How could she even begin to ask the question clawing at her throat?
She typed and deleted the message three times before finally settling on the only words she could muster.
is it true?
Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Then she hit send, tossing the phone onto the coffee table like it burned her.
The wait was excruciating. Every second stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen even though no reply had come through. She didn't know what she'd do if you didn't answer.
But you did.
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with both hands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she opened the message.
what are you talking about?
The words hit her like a wave of icy water. Jenna's stomach twisted, her heart lurching in her chest. Did you not know she knew? Or were you pretending not to know? Either way, the confirmation that she'd have to say more made her hands tremble even harder as she tried to think of how to respond.
Jenna stared at your reply, her mind spinning. What are you talking about? It was almost cruel how normal the words looked on the screen, like they hadn't just completely uprooted everything she thought she knew. Like they didn't force her to put her fears into words that she didn't even know how to face herself.
She started typing, then deleted it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. She couldn't write it. Writing it would make it real, and Jenna didn't know if she could handle that. The word alone carried too much weight, a weight she never imagined she'd have to face—not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not like this.
Her jaw clenched as she tried again, typing out the letters slowly, deliberately, as if each one could shatter the phone in her hands.
cancer
That was it. That was all she wrote because if it were true—if you really had cancer—you'd understand what she meant. She pressed send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought she might pass out.
The reply came quicker than she expected, but it didn't make it any easier.
yes
Jenna's stomach dropped as the world seemed to tilt around her. The room felt like it was spinning, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but for a moment, she couldn't even think. Then, another reply came through.
i'm sorry.
Her chest ached at those words. Sorry? Sorry for what? For being sick? For not telling her? For everything? Her fingers shook as she typed back, her mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which felt like they'd ever be enough.
why didn't you tell me?
The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Each passing second was agonizing, the silence feeling louder than it had any right to be. Jenna stared at her phone, her breathing shallow, her thoughts spiraling.
i was going to. but you made it clear we were done.
i didnt know how
Jenna dropped the phone onto her lap, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't hold it anymore. The words were a slap in the face, brutal in their honesty, and she couldn't even argue against them. You were right. She had been the one to leave. She had been the one to shut the door on you, and now you were sick—seriously sick—and she hadn't even known.
She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen as if it could somehow give her the answers she didn't have.
im so sorry, she typed, her thumbs trembling as she hit send. It was all she could think to say, but it felt hollow, inadequate.
The reply came a moment later.
me too.
Jenna stared at your last message, the words sinking deep into her chest like a weight she couldn't shift. Her heart pounded as her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain, scared, and desperate all at once. She needed to know more—she had to know more.
She typed quickly, her breath catching in her throat.
where are you?
The reply came a moment later, and Jenna's stomach dropped as she read it.
at the hospital
The hospital? Jenna blinked at the screen, rereading the words as panic gripped her chest. Hospital. Why? Was it that serious? It couldn't be that serious, right? But why else would you be there? Her mind spun, racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
She gripped her phone tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. Why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't you called or messaged her before it got to this point? And then it hit her—of course, you hadn't told her. She'd left you. She'd broken up with you and walked away.
Her head fell into her hand as guilt crashed over her again, harder this time. She had shut the door on you, and now you were in the hospital. Alone. How long had you been there? Days? Weeks? The thought made her feel sick.
Jenna's fingers shook as she typed, her desperation clear in every movement. She started the message and deleted it three times before finally forcing herself to just write the truth.
can i come see you? i really want to see you.
Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest tightening. Was it too much? Too sudden? She wasn't sure if you'd even want to see her, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. She pressed send and let the phone fall to her lap, her heart racing as she stared at it, waiting for a reply that felt like it might never come.
Jenna's phone buzzed with your reply, and her stomach flipped as she read it.
visiting hours ended like 25 minutes ago.
She exhaled shakily, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Of course, they had. She should've guessed, but that didn't stop the frustration and helplessness from clawing at her. She needed to see you. She couldn't wait another day knowing you were there, in the hospital, without her.
Her fingers flew across the screen, her desperation evident in the hasty, unpolished message.
can i come tomorrow?
ill come first thing in the morning
The response didn't come right away, and Jenna stared at her phone, her chest tightening. The seconds dragged, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, her screen lit up again.
if you want
they open at 8.
The simple reply stung more than she expected. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was neutral, distant—so unlike how things used to be between you. She hated that, hated how far apart you'd grown. And it was all her fault.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.
how are you?
The message felt inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say. She needed to know, even if she was terrified of the answer.
Your reply came quickly, short and to the point.
been better
Jenna's breath hitched, the two words slicing through her like a blade. She stared at the screen, her thoughts a jumble of guilt, worry, and overwhelming sadness. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but her body was betraying her.
The alcohol, which had burned through her emotions like fuel all evening, was now taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavier, her body sinking deeper into the couch. She typed out a half-formed message, her fingers sluggish and uncoordinated.
i really
The phone slipped from her hand as sleep overtook her, her mind still spinning with thoughts of you, the weight of everything crushing her even as unconsciousness claimed her.
The room was dark, quiet except for the soft hum of her breathing, but the tension in her face remained, even in sleep.
___
The next morning came far too quickly, the harsh light seeping through Jenna's curtains and forcing her awake. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her mouth was dry, but none of it mattered. Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover as the events of last night flooded back into her mind.
She didn't linger in bed. She couldn't. The longer she stayed still, the more the anxiety clawed at her chest. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she winced as the cold floor met her bare feet. She fumbled for the ibuprofen bottle on her nightstand, nearly knocking it over before popping two into her mouth and washing them down with a long gulp of water. The relief wouldn't come fast enough.
Jenna moved through her morning routine like a ghost. She grabbed a piece of toast but barely took two bites before tossing it aside. Her jeans were pulled on hastily, paired with a wrinkled hoodie she found draped over the chair in her room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused, her reflection startling. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and drawn. For a moment, she thought about fixing it, but the thought of wasting another minute when you were waiting...
Her hands shook as she pulled on her sneakers. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with a million thoughts, none of them coherent. All she knew was that she needed to see you. She needed answers, reassurance—proof that this was all a misunderstanding. You had to be okay.
The drive to the hospital was torturous. Every stoplight seemed longer than usual, every slow car ahead of her made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turned white as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched. She barely noticed the December chill in the air, her focus so singular it made the world blur around her.
When Jenna finally walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell hit her immediately, sharp and unnerving. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried to the reception desk. An older woman sat there, her glasses perched low on her nose, typing away on her keyboard. Her kind, weathered face didn't ease the tightness in Jenna's chest.
"I'm here to see Y/N Y/L/N," Jenna blurted, her voice tight and trembling. She leaned forward on the counter, her eyes wide and desperate.
The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving across the keyboard. Jenna watched every movement as if it held the answer to everything. She clutched her phone in her hand, her nails pressing into her palm. The seconds dragged, each one heavier than the last.
Then the woman's expression shifted. Her typing stopped, and she looked up at Jenna. The pity in her eyes made Jenna's stomach drop.
"Oh, honey..." The woman's voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid Jenna would shatter if she spoke too loud. "I'm so sorry. She passed earlier this morning. Around four o'clock.”
Jenna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand the words at first; they didn't make sense. Passed? Passed where? The realization hit her all at once, sharp and suffocating.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears rising. "No, you're wrong. I-I talked to her last night. She was fine. She was—"
The receptionist leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It happened very suddenly."
"No," Jenna said again, louder this time, though it came out more like a plea. Her legs felt weak, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She clutched the counter, trying to keep herself steady, but nothing felt solid anymore.
Her mind raced, flashes of you from the last time she saw you, the sound of your voice from last night, the messages—everything crashing into her all at once. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be waiting for her.
Jenna's knees nearly buckled, but she caught herself, stumbling back a step. She felt like she was falling, like the entire world was falling. You were gone. Gone before she could tell you how sorry she was. Before she could apologize for everything, for breaking up with you, for not seeing the signs, for not being there when you needed her the most.
She wanted to scream, cry, do anything to release the suffocating weight in her chest, but she couldn't move. Her tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as the receptionist gently asked if she needed someone to call. But Jenna barely heard her.
You were gone. You were really gone. And it was too late. Too late for all the things she wanted to say, all the things she should have said.
summary: you're too clingy, and wednesday makes a point she'll definitely be losing at the night.
a/n: hii! i've had so many ideas but literally once i start them, i have no motivation to finish them, your sign to finish your ideas the day of
-
Wednesday and you had gotten into an argument tonight. Well, she technically started it.
You were practically holding onto her as she was working on something, and she had snapped at you for being way to attached to her.
"You're worse than a buzzing bee or if someone pulled on my hair" she says, grabbing you by the shoulders and moving you off of her. "Stop clinging on to me, Y/N, I'm serious."
Your collapsed form on the form gets up as you glare at her. "I can't help it, you know how it is with people like you." You say, crossing your arms.
Wednesday lets out a small sigh, "You're latched onto me like a parasitic leech, even death takes a break."
She watches as you make an angry little noise, "Fine, I'm going to bed--alone!
"You've mistaken me for somebody else if you expect me to come crying and crawling. An Addams doesn't cry, I make others." She says, clicking purposely louder on her typewriter.
Your eyes narrow, shifting in the bed you usually sleep on with her as you glance at the full moon and the breeze coming in from the open. "Once you do, you'll realize just how empty you feel!"
"If I was scared of emptiness, I wouldn't like silence so much, I already feel that way half the time. It's called being "self-aware"
Oh whatever. Who were you kidding, half the time you were the one initiating physical touch, unless you were being half dragged by a zombie and she'd have to carry you back.
You pull the covers over yourself and shut your lamp off.
-
At night, Wednesday debates on going back to her own bed. But it's been untouched since the two of you had started dating.
Ew, she hated that word.
But it was cold and untouched, and as much as Wednesday enjoyed negative things, it wasn't something she liked at night. Plus, that'd be too easy for her to prove her point.
The bed you're on dips as she slips in, making sure to stay in her corner as she shuts her eyes.
You slowly stir, waking up but barely conscious as you make a small confused noise.
Wednesday can't sleep.
Sure, it occurs, if she's in the middle of an unsolved case. But she finished those a long time ago.
It's stupid, when she closes her eyes, her body immediately turns on her other side, seeing your closed eyes and sleeping expression.
"Ugh," she whispers, looking up at the moon, but then your familiar sweet scent literally invades the blanket. Seriously? Why did she notice these things only now?
She glances back at you, it was the first night you weren't practically being spooned by her, and she felt another kind of empty than the ones she usually felt. She turns back away to face her back to you.
It felt much worse than the empty she felt when Enid had changed dorm room mates. It was always quiet. But this? It felt quiet. Wednesday thought she'd feel the relief, but it was only till she experienced something without you, her skin itched.
She felt cold without your breath against her neck, your peaceful face nuzzled against her chest, the little noises you'd make if she stirred.
Your arms clinging onto her.
Damn it.
Wednesday turns back around, watching you make your tiny confused noise as you doze back to sleep. She contemplates for a few moments.
Then her restraint and the need to prove herself snaps as she slowly moves closer--enough to grab your wrist. In a flash, she swiftly pulls you to her and hugs you, staying silent.
Your eyes open, feeling her warm arms around you as she plays with her hair silently. Her brown irises stare down at you through the dark, wanting you not to jump up and down from your proof.
You don't, let yourself rest on her chest as you fall asleep even quicker with her hands threading through your hair. And just as you are about to-
"I don't want you to peep about it tomorrow or I will handle you myself." your girlfriend threatens, softly, no real malice behind it and enough for you not to be startled. "You know Addams don't like losing."
She hears you make a tired sound, "But I'd rather lose the bet than you. But don't make me lose twice. Addams aren't losers."
Instead, she lets the feeling of your warmth surround her as you both fall asleep quickly
summary: you can't come to bring up the challenges you've been fighting to your girlfriend, causing you to exile everything and everyone with it.
a/n: hi:)
-
The walls around you were too small, you weren’t claustrophobic. But being yelled at definitely made you feel like you were trapped; trapped in a tight space and a body that couldn’t do anything but lie there.
It had to be one of the worst feelings, stress never sat well with anything. Besides a gun to shoot at.
Your week was amazing. Amazing. Emphasis on that. You started off with begrudgingly buy all the supplies for your group for a class project because all of the unfamiliar faces that you sat with were never good with grades to begin with. They made you do all the work anyways. Then, small, stupid things, like falling face flat on the floor after tripping on a shoe. Then the small comments from your parents about the mental flaws you had, then the physical ones that you later saw in the mirror.
Then your girlfriend’s small comments, ones that you wouldn't have second thoughts about unless you had an amazing week.
Jenna was one of the sweetest and most understanding people you’ve ever talked to. Except, when she said things she doesn’t think twice about, it hurt more than it should’ve stung. Maybe you were sensitive? Or maybe it just hurt more hearing it out of her mouth, but one thing was for sure, it nicked a piece of you every time, and you’d let it hurt.
As an actress, you knew what would happen whenever you and Jenna were together, unexpected goodbye’s when called for work, late night arrivals to the point where you’d already had been asleep, it didn’t mean it hurt any less. Especially since your love language was quality time.
And god you missed it on nights where you curled into a cold bed.
The other night a few weeks ago, you had been brave enough to talk to Jenna about it at midnight. Maybe she should take less projects, it was draining for her to overwork herself.
You didn’t want to admit that it drained you more and more, she wouldn’t have noticed for the amount of time she was gone.
She had responded with, “Sorry, you know I can’t control my schedule.”
Sometimes it hurt that you didn’t come forward with how her filming ends earlier, but she goes out to houses, restaurants, places that aren’t what you would’ve wanted, not your home.
The day of, you got yelled at by your mother. You don’t tell Jenna about it. You usually don’t when it came to things like this. You should fix being entitled, selfish, or too much on others, you weren’t really like that, were you?
At night you try not to think about if Jenna has ever thought of you that way. A small voice whispers to you on nights you couldn’t sleep, that if Jenna cared about you enough, she would cancel projects for you.
You brush off topics when she asks you about your day, though it became clear it was affecting you. The stress had caused you to eat less, cram yourself in studies, short circuiting your brain enough to stop thinking about it.
Your mother was right, you were too clingy. You’d never learn to know how to set boundaries, how to know if you were too annoying or insistent. “Maybe that’s why Jenna has taken up so many projects, to avoid telling you that you were to insistent on everything.”
By the time you were in your bed, you didn’t realize you were crying, bawling about every stupid thing that has happened to you in the past week, slamming your phone across the room as you hide under the covers of your bed.
Fuck avoiding feelings, fuck everything–you were upset.
Jenna had texted you for that time being, when she left work, a quick text. She’d expected a quick response back, that you missed her, wanted her home.
Nothing.
“Huh,” she murmured, slipping it into the pocket of her jeans as she slipped into the drivers seat of her car. Maybe homework.
An hour after there was not a single bubble, not like she kept the conversation the whole entire ride home, or a text.
She let out a breath, a little frustrated and kind of worried. Work had been a pain for her, she shouldn’t have taken so many roles. Jenna just couldn’t turn down so many of them, she didn’t think she ever wanted to be so many characters at once.
From the time she got home, your hair was tousled, the fan was on–loud enough to cover your hiccups and dark enough to blend the mascara stains under your eyes.
Jenna fumbled with the keys, propping her foot to move the door open. It was silent, she had to flip on a switch for the hallway, you usually had a lamp on, but it was off.
“Baby?” she whispered, kicking her shoes off. You might’ve been asleep. “I’m home, where are you?”
The fan whirred and slightly swayed items back and forth in your room as she peeked inside. Her hands immediately found your room’s light switch once she heard hitching breaths. The lamp illuminated the room and your worn out sobbing figure.
Jenna didn’t know what to do first, panic at your tears, or ask what was wrong.
She hurried to you and slipped into the covers next to you, announcing her presence as your body slowly turns to her, you don’t crawl into her arms like you usually do. Instead you try looking at her, but instead look at anything but her.
Your mouth was quivering, you didn’t know what to say, but you started with, “I miss you being home.”
“Y/N-”
“I tried to not let it bother me as much, but I don’t think..”
You could feel Jenna’s curls against your cheek as her fingers tilted you to look up at her. “Is this what you were upset about? Me not being home as much?” She asked, her eyes watching you. Something unwelcome twisted in her stomach to know that she was doing this.
“I’ve just been so stressed,” you hiccup, you didn’t want to make things worse then they already were, it was multiple things. Just some of them weighed much more than the others.
“Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” Jenna murmured, thumbs pressing against your cheeks as the mascara rubs off of them. “I didn’t know I hurt you by doing that. I’ve been neglecting you.”
You force your hands to stay glued to your sides, your girlfriend giving you a worried look as she tried to hug you, “Baby.”
“Is that why you’ve been taking more roles, so you don’t have to see me as much anymore because I’ve been too insistent for you-”
“Y/N,” Jenna shakes you, hands cupping your cheeks. “Insistent? I don’t see you like that. I like when you’re clingy. Baby, is that why you’ve been so quiet lately and didn’t respond to my messages?” She slightly turns to see your phone on the floor and then scoots closer to you. “Baby, I haven’t been taking new opportunities because I’m avoiding you. I’d never avoid you. I’ve just been trying to explore so many different roles, I didn’t think of how it would affect you, and I’m sorry.”
You swallow, “I was just-”
You glance at her, then back down. “Worried. I’m sorry for overthinking it”
The room was still, the fan still whirring gently as Jenna nudges you to look at her. “Y/N. Baby. Your feelings are valid. They matter to me as much as you do and I want you to tell me about these things. I can’t bear to handle what would’ve happened if you deal with it on your own.”
You feel yourself start to cry again. She pulls you closer, and you let her, babbling on what was happening and how much it hurt you.
Jenna hugs you, letting you sniffle–possibly get her sweatshirt filled with tears, and mutter incoherent words against her.
You missed being close to her on nights like this, maybe not the situation you wanted, but being curled up against her with her threading her fingers through your hair made you forget how much you yearned and waited for it. “How about first thing right after we talk I’ll move my schedule around and cancel most of my productions I was planned on being casted in, okay? I need to take care of you and the busy schedule is bad for the both of us.”
“I’m going to get a lot of curious looks tomorrow.” You sniffle, “My eyes are going to be all puffy.”
Jenna shakes her head, kissing the side of your mouth. “Well, you won’t go to school tomorrow. We’re going to take a mental health day and we’ll spend the day in bed with ice cream. Okay?”
A ugly hiccup comes from your mouth as you slightly giggle, rubbing your eyes. “Okay.”
She feels you nod against her chest and squeezes you tighter. “I love you. And I’m sorry for neglecting you.”
You let her kiss the top of your forehead, “I love you, too.”