Hi! I’m Ally, usually I just share my thoughts about everything that I like, most of the time I’m just rebloging post and adding my unpopular opinions about it (fanfics, edits, movies, shows, celebrities, etc).
I’m 25 and I’m from Mexico 🇲🇽.
My pronouns are she/her.
I make edits and videos.
I love to dance, read books and watch movies/shows. (horror/suspense, comedy, sometimes I even watch romance, but it’s not my favorite genre).
This my favorite and safe place to share my love for my favorite characters of many different movies and shows, I hope that all of you feel comfortable sharing your thoughts in the comments as well, I would love to read it.
If you want to know about my work my socials are on my bio ✨.
Wow, hold on. WTF did just happened with this situation? Yesterday I was complaining about the smut of Bobby, but I didn’t know this part. I just saw that some people were looking forward for the participation of Finn in the Backrooms so that made expectations and the people started writing fanfics about his character and that’s it, in my case it was, but I didn’t thought that some people would really be that kind of people and would be rude with the other characters
Seeing people hate on us, poor Bobby "backrooms" Franklin readers and writers is so funny, because they are doing an entire essay on how we are racist and misogynist for wanting "the five minutes alive white boy" instead of the other characters.
Guys we are just Aerion Targaryen's widows feeding on any crumbs of Finn Bennett we can find. Relax!!!
YOUR 'BETTER BOBBY' FIC WAS SO GOOD! if you ever felt inspired would LOVE to read more about them. maybe another entity attacks them and they get separated? and alone and lost, reader can't help but miss the real Bobby ahhh. anyway, love you, thank you for writing!
I'm so glad you're all loving this idea, because inspiration hit me so hard I wrote this in one sitting. Continuation to this. Def let me know if you wanna see more 👀
warnings: horror (finally got to write my true love), and some gore (nothing explicit/implied)
series masterlist.
You've been here long enough that you've stopped counting the hallways.
That, in hindsight, should probably scare you the most. The fact that it doesn't scare you anymore.
The yellow used to make your skin crawl, that specific shade of institutional sick. Now it's just... the colour of home. Better Bobby's taught you that. Through sheer repetition of safety.
Every time he pulls you into a new room and checks the corners before letting you sit down. Every time he angles his body between you and a doorway without thinking about it. Or when he hands you something to eat. You've stopped asking where the food comes from. That's another question that goes in circles every time you try it. He watches you until you take a bite, satisfied, like feeding you is the only task on a list he takes very seriously.
You have a room now. Your room. He found it for you three (days? rotations? sleeps?) ago, deeper in Level 0 than you'd been before, tucked behind a series of turns that he walked so confidently you wondered if he'd planned the route in advance.
It's quieter than the others. The carpet is thicker, the hum lower, and there's a warm patch on the floor near the far wall where some buried pipe must be running. Better Bobby dragged every blanket he'd scavenged into a pile on that warm spot and when you'd looked at him he'd shrugged, one shoulder, earring catching the fluorescent light.
"What? You get cold."
Real Bobby used to steal the covers.
You try not to make the comparison. You try so hard. But Better Bobby makes it impossible because he's everything real Bobby was on your best days. Distilled and concentrated, with all the carelessness burned off.
He touches you constantly. Not sexually, just contact. His hand on the back of your neck when you walk. His chin on your shoulder when you're sitting together. His fingers finding yours in the dark when the lights flicker, which they do sometimes. And in those brief, stuttering seconds of blackness you can hear things moving in the walls and Better Bobby's grip tightens. He says I'm here like it's a fact of physics. Like his presence beside you is as fundamental and non-negotiable as gravity.
It's a Thursday, you think, or what you've decided is Thursday—you've started naming the days by feeling, which probably means you're losing it—when everything goes wrong.
You're walking. Better Bobby's slightly ahead of you, one hand trailing the wall, talking about something. He talks to you the way real Bobby used to, a constant low-level narration.
Except Better Bobby's commentary is about the architecture of this place, which hallways are safe, which ones echo differently than they should. The way the carpet changes texture near certain thresholds you should know about. You're half-listening, comfortable in the drone of his familiar voice, when he stops abruptly.
You almost walk into his back.
"Bobby?"
He doesn't answer. His head tilts slightly, the way a dog would listen toa distant sound. His whole body goes rigid in a way you've never seen before. Better Bobby doesn't tense up. Better Bobby is languid and easy and always, always calm.
"Bobby, what—"
"Don't move."
His voice is different. Stripped of the warmth, the lazy drawl, all the honeyed softness he pours over you. What's left is flat and hard. Something in your hindbrain fires that hasn't fired since you got here because Better Bobby has kept you so safe that you forgot what fear tasted like.
You taste it now. Bright and metallic at the back of your throat.
The lights flicker abovehead. Not the usual gentle stutter or dimming it does at random intervals. This is violent, a seizure of light, and in the strobe of it you spot something at the end of the hallway.
You can't process it. Your brain tries and slides off the shape the way water slides off wax. It's too tall, and wrong. So wrong. It takes up too much space for its size, like it's pressing against the dimensions of the hallway from the inside, and it's looking at you with something that isn't a face.
Better Bobby shoves you behind him. Both hands this time. Hard.
"Go."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Go. Left, left, straight, third door. I'll find you." He looks over his shoulder at you and his eyes are dark and flat. Ancient in a way that makes your stomach drop because for just a second—just a flicker, shorter than the lights—the thing looking out from behind Bobby's face isn't Bobby, either. "Baby. Run."
You run.
Left, left, straight, except there's no third door. There's no door at all.
The hallway stretches and bends and the carpet under your feet changes from rough to damp to something that feels horribly organic so abruptly you almost skid. You're running and the fluorescent yellow is shifting with you, deepening in increments, and the walls are getting narrower.
The ceiling goes lower suddenly and you realise, with a lurch of animal terror, that you're not on Level 0 anymore.
You don't know when it changed. There was no door, no threshold, no moment. The hallways just... became somewhere else. Like you walked through an edit. A jump cut in reality.
You stagger to a stop. Your breathing is so loud it fills the quiet corridor.
It's dark here. Not quite pitch black, mercifully. There's light, but it's coming from somewhere wrong. Faintly blue, sourceless, the colour of television static.
The walls aren't yellow anymore. They're concrete instead. Industrial. Stained with something you refuse to look at closely. The ceiling is a mess of exposed pipes and dead wiring, and water (you hope desperately it's water) drips in a strange pattern that sets your teeth on edge
It's cold here. You're shaking, you realise a moment too late.
You press your back against the concrete wall and slide down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and try to make yourself small. Try to make yourself invisible. Because Better Bobby isn't here and without him you're nothing in this place.
Just soft, warm, alive thing in a place that is none of those things.
That's when you see it. From the corner of your eye.
It assembles itself in pieces in the dark, the way a photograph develops, the way something reveals itself to you only once it's already too close.
Teeth first.
A grin. Too wide and white, wrong, hanging in the blue-black dark about thirty feet down the corridor. Human teeth in a human smile except there are too many of them and the smile is too wide. It's not attached to anything you can see, either. Just the grin, suspended, luminous. The way a Cheshire cat would look if the Cheshire cat wanted to kill you.
It doesn't move. You don't breathe.
Then it's twenty feet away.
You didn't see it move. You didn't blink. Not once. It was thirty feet and now it's twenty and the grin hasn't changed, not even slightly. The same frozen rictus of delight, and you understand with a sick, cold certainty that it's not walking toward you. It's just... closer. Like the distance between you is a thing it can edit. A number it can change at will.
Fifteen feet. The grin widens. You didn't think it could widen.
You can see more of it now, or rather you can see the shape of more of it. The suggestion of a body behind the smile, darker than the dark around it, a silhouette that doesn't quite hold its edges. And the sound. There's a sound now, low and wet, like someone trying to laugh through a mouthful of something thick. A gurgling, hitching, delighted sound.
It's happy to see you. Whatever this thing is, it's so, so happy that you're here.
Ten feet. You can feel the cold coming off it. Not temperature, exactly, something else. An absence. A pulling. Like it's drawing the warmth out of the air between you one degree at a time and feeding the grin with it.
You open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
"Close your eyes."
The voice comes from directly behind you.
You didn't hear him arrive. You didn't hear footsteps or breathing or the rustle of fabric. He's just there, the way he's always just there. His hand closes over your eyes from behind, firm, warm, his palm flush against your face, fingers curving over your brow.
"Close them. Keep them closed. Don't open them until I tell you to."
Better Bobby's voice is calm. Completely, impossibly calm. The same tone he uses when he's telling you to go back to sleep after the lights flicker. But underneath it—deep underneath, in a register you feel more than hear—there's something else now. An edge that doesn't sound like Bobby at all.
His hand lifts off your eyes. You keep them shut. You squeeze them so tight you see colours behind your lids. Bright, bursting phosphenes, and you press your face into your knees and you hear him move away from you. Toward it.
Then the sounds start.
You can't categorise them. You won't.
There's a tearing sound. Not fabric, or paper; something denser, wetter, something with resistance. A sound like a dog shaking water from its fur except heavier and it ends in a crack that reverberates through the concrete floor and up through your spine.
The gurgling laughter changes pitch. Goes higher. Then higher still. Then it's not laughter anymore, it's something between a shriek and a frequency. A sound that vibrates in the roots of your teeth, and underneath all of it is a low rumbling that you realise is coming from Better Bobby. A sound no human throat should make, a sound like tectonic plates grinding in the dark.
There's a splash. Something hisses, like water on a hot pan. The shrieking cuts out—not fades, cuts, abruptly, like someone hit a switch—and then there's a long, wet, dragging sound that moves away from you down the corridor and fades into the pipes and the dark.
Silence.
There's a ringing in your ears. Your fingers feel numb, heavy. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood in your mouth.
Footsteps. Normal ones. The soft pad of sneakers on concrete.
"Okay, baby. You can open your eyes now."
You do. Better Bobby is standing in front of you, looking down at you with that soft, tilted expression. Same white tee. Same denim shorts. Trusty camera over his shoulder. Not a drop of anything on him. Not a wrinkle. His hair isn't even mussed any more than usual. His earring catches the faint blue light and throws a tiny star onto the concrete wall and he's smiling at you, gently, like you just had a bad dream and he's here to tell you it's morning.
There's nothing in the hallway behind him. Nothing on the floor. No sign that anything was ever there at all, except a faint smell. Ozone, copper and deeper beneath that, an almost rotten stench. You try to examine it but it's already fading.
You don't ask. You can't ask.
Your body moves before your brain does. You launch yourself off the floor and into him so hard he actually rocks back a step. Better Bobby, who's never been moved by anything in your presence, who stands in front of horrors like a wall moves this time. Your arms lock around his neck and you bury your face in his chest.
You're shaking. So violently that it's almost convulsive, these full-body tremors that you can't control, and the sound coming out of you isn't crying exactly. It's more animal than that, a high keening thing that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any room left for embarrassment but you don't, you used it all up being terrified.
Better Bobby catches you. He doesn't stumble again. His arms come around you and they're solid and warm. He holds you so tight that the shaking has nowhere to go, like he's absorbing it into himself, and one hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your ear against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, steady, so steady, and how is he so steady, how is he always so steady—
"Shhh. I got you. I'm here. It's gone."
You can't stop. You're gripping his shirt in both fists, knuckles blanching, and you're gasping against his collarbone and he just...
He holds you. Doesn't rush it. Or tell you you're okay or that it wasn't that bad or any of the things real Bobby would say in later months to make you feel silly for being scared. He just holds on and rocks you, the smallest movement, his cheek resting on top of your head.
Your voice comes out cracked and ruined. "What—what was that, what did you— how did you—"
He hums gently. "Don't worry about it."
"Bobby, that thing, it was—its face, it was smiling, it was—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Tips your chin up with his knuckle. That lazy smile, easy and warm and so perfectly Bobby it makes your chest splinter. "I know what it was. It's gone now. Don't worry about it."
"How did you get rid of it?" you rasp.
His thumb strokes your jawline. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He looks at you. For a moment something flickers behind his eyes. Something vast and patient and very, very old. Then it's gone, and he's just Bobby again, warm-eyed and soft-mouthed, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I told you, baby. Nothing gets past me." He kisses your forehead. Slow. Gentle. His lips are warm and the concrete corridor is freezing around you. You lean into him like he's the last source of heat in the world. "Come on. Let's go home."
He takes your hand.
You let him lead you.
He leads you back through the concrete and the pipes and the blue-dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles, and you don't look behind you.
Not even once. Because whatever he did in that corridor is something you have decided you don't need to see the aftermath of, and also because some part of you—the part that still thinks clearly, the part that Better Bobby hasn't quite reached yet—understands that there is no aftermath.
That whatever Better Bobby does to the things in the dark, he does it completely. He doesn't leave evidence. He doesn't leave remains. He unmakes them, and he does it wearing Bobby's crooked smile, Bobby's silver earring and Bobby's cut-off shorts like a costume. Like a skin, like a love letter written in someone else's handwriting.
The concrete gives way to carpet. Just as abruptly. The blue darkens to yellow again. The cold lifts. The hum returns, and for the first time ever you're grateful for it. The way you'd be grateful for the sound of traffic outside your apartment window because it means you're back in the world, or at least, back in the only world you have left.
Your room. The warm patch. The blankets.
Better Bobby guides you down, wrapping the blankets snug around you. He tucks himself behind you and you press back into his chest, his arm winding around your waist. You're still shaking faintly, these little aftershock tremors, and he absorbs every single one.
"Sleep, baby. I'm right here."
And you close your eyes and you think about real Bobby.
You think about the apartment in Santa Clara. The kitchen counter where he used to roll joints with the window open because you didn't like the smell building up inside. The way his camera equipment colonised every flat surface, cables and lenses and that one light diffuser he was so particular about. You used to complain it and he used to say babe, genius needs room to breathe and you'd throw a dish towel at his head while smothering a grin.
You think about the night you fell in love with him. Not the day you realised it (you'd known for a while by then) but the night it actually happened.
You sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot off El Camino Real, sharing a joint, and he'd turned to you with the camera for once not in his hands and said, so disarmingly, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and his face looked stripped of its usual cockiness. Bare. Scared. Young.
He was so young. You both were.
You wonder if he's sitting in that apartment right now with the TV on and the lights off, not really watching, just existing in the space you used to fill.
You wonder if he's looked at your toothbrush in the holder next to his. If he's opened the fridge and seen the leftovers you made two nights before you vanished (was it two nights? you're losing track of the real timeline, it's blurring at the edges, and that scares you more than the grin in the dark) and whether he ate them or whether they're still sitting there. Slowly going bad, a small decomposition that mirrors something larger in your life.
You wonder if he's picked up his pager. Scrolled to your name. Stared at it.
You wonder if his thumb hovered over the button the way it used to hover over the shutter release—that perfect hesitation, that half-second of do I or don't I—and whether he pressed it or whether he set the pager down and rolled over. Told himself he'd deal with it tomorrow the way he's been telling himself he'd deal with you tomorrow for months now.
You wonder if somewhere under the indifference and the exhaustion and the slow-growing cruelty there is still a version of Bobby who filmed you sleeping because the light was good. Who cut a Metallica shirt into a crop top with kitchen scissors and held it up like a trophy. Who said hold still, the light's doing something crazy on you and meant I love you, you're beautiful and couldn't say it any other way.
You wonder if that Bobby still misses you.
You wonder if he'd ever come looking.
Better Bobby pulls you closer. His mouth finds the spot behind your ear. The one real Bobby discovered during your second date together. The one that makes everything go quiet inside your skull.
"You're thinking again," he murmurs.
"I know."
"About him."
You don't answer. You don't have to.
Better Bobby is quiet for a long time. His breathing is slow and even against your back. The lights hum their tuneless hymn in your ears. Somewhere deep in the walls, something moves again, and you tense at the scraping sound.
Better Bobby's arm tightens around you. A reflex, instant, protective, the one thing about him that never feels performed.
"He's not coming, baby," he says softly. He doesn't say it meanly this time, either. Not triumphant. More so sad. Almost like he wishes it weren't true, for your sake. Because even this thing that wears Bobby's face and unmakes grinning horrors in the dark doesn't want to watch you grieve. "You know that."
This is what I'm looking for fanfics of Bobby in the backrooms. I like to read smut, but not all have to be about that. I love to read this kind of stuff because it gives a plot and makes me feel something.
I hope that authors who love to write about this character can continue doing this type of fanfics, you can tag me, I would love to read it 🩷
you hate how curiosity gets the best of your boyfriend
suggestive/horror. part 1. slight backrooms movie spoilers.
finally, Bobby lifted his head, a lazy, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked down at you. “told you Clark wouldn’t know” he teased, his voice hoarse. you let out a weak laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re such an ass” you muttered, but there was no bite in it.
your body ached in the best way, and you couldn’t deny the thrill of sneaking around like this “I love you too” he chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before rolling onto his side, pulling you into his chest.
suddenly a dull thump echoed somewhere below the floor. you both froze and ended up sitting up at almost the same time, pulling up your clothes a little too quickly.
Bobby slid off the bed first, the thump came again, closer this time.
your gaze drifted across the showroom, landing on the familiar staircase tucked behind a stack of display chairs. a big, slightly faded arrow sign hung above it:
‘MORE DOWNSTAIRS’
your fingers tightened around his hand the second he started to move. god, you hated how curiosity always got the best of him.
“Bobby…” it came out quieter this time. a plea for him not to go.
he paused and looked back at you. that same easy smile was still there, he squeezed your hand once “Baby, it’s fine.”
then, softer almost like he was trying to convince both of you.
“I’ll just look. I bet it’s nothing, we’ll laugh about it later on the way home.”
he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. for a second, it almost made sense again. almost made the store feel like just a store. like Clark was just a weird boss and the basement was just a basement.
then Bobby let go and walked. you stayed there frozen on the bed as he crossed the showroom, weaving between couches and dining sets.
“Bobby don’t-“ you began. he glanced back once at you at the top of the stairs. with a small reassuring smile
“Stay there. I’ll be back”
you didn’t like how calm he was. you didn’t like how calm you weren’t. then he disappeared down the stairs.
silence didn’t last. the moment he was gone, the showroom felt wrong in a new way. the hum from below didn’t fade. it seemed like it spread through the floor and all around you now.
another thump came from beneath. closer than before.
then Bobby’s voice, muffled through the floor. you exhaled in relief.
“hey, I think I found something baby.”
“what is it?” you called out
a pause. longer this time. your stomach tightened.
the arrow sign above the stairs ‘MORE DOWNSTAIRS’ seemed to tilt slightly in your vision, like it was pointing less at a place and more at a direction you really shouldn’t be acknowledging.
another sound came from below. not a thump this time. a slow, dragging creak… like something turning its attention upward.
Bobby never spoke again. just a faint breath through the floor.
you sat there, leg bouncing with anxiety. twenty-two seconds. that was all it took before you got up yourself, your feet padded quickly and hesitantly to where you last saw bobby standing.
you took one step toward the stairwell, then another. you hesitated at the top of the stairs.
“Bobby?” you called. your voice didn’t carry the way it should’ve. it felt swallowed halfway down the steps, like the basement had decided it didn’t need to return it.
no answer. just that faint glow. warm at first glance, wrong the longer you looked at it.
you swallowed hard and started down. the stairs weren’t long, but they didn’t feel consistent. halfway down, the angle seemed to change slightly like the building couldn’t decide how many floors it was supposed to have.
each step made a soft, dampened sound, even though everything above had been dry carpet and polished tile.
the air shifted the lower you went. that familiar furniture store smell faded. cardboard, polish, dust, gone.
“Baby…” your voice came out thin.
the word disappeared into the darkness below, swallowed whole before it could reach anyone.
“This isn’t funny anymore.”
you kept descending down. one hand dragged along the wall beside you, partly to steady yourself and partly to prove the wall was still there. the further down you went, the more the staircase seemed to stretch. every time you thought you should be reaching the bottom, another few steps appeared below.
“Bobby?”
no response. you tried to picture him waiting at the bottom. maybe he’d wandered into a storage room. maybe Clark had stopped him. maybe he was about to step around the corner with that sheepish grin and apologize for scaring you.
you held onto that image as tightly as you could
“Bobby, if this is some joke-”
your voice cracked. the rest died in your throat. your hands were trembling now. not because of the dark, nor because of the strange humming but because Bobby always answered.
always.
even if it was just a sarcastic comment, even if it was a laugh, even if it was a simple “I’m right here.” but this time there was nothing.
at last, your foot touched level ground. the bottom.
you looked up. the staircase behind you seemed much taller than it had any right to be.
ahead stretched a long corridor. yellow walls, dingy carpet, buzzing fluorescent lights.
for a moment your brain refused to process what it was seeing.
that wasn’t the basement. it couldn’t be. the furniture store was old, but not this old. the hallway extended farther than the building should physically allow. farther than the entire showroom upstairs, farther than the parking lot outside.
the fluorescent lights flickered overhead with a constant electrical hum. the wallpaper was stained in places, the air smelled faintly of damp carpet and dust.
and there was no sign of Bobby. your heart squeezed.
you hurried forward. “Bobby!”
the name echoed. not once, not twice. it echoed several times from different directions, bouncing through hallways you couldn’t even see.
Bobby.
the last echo sounded wrong. not quite your voice. you stopped immediately. the silence that followed was worse. much worse. because for a second, you thought you’d heard footsteps.
not yours but someone else’s. a shape appeared at the far end of the corridor.
“Bobby?”
the figure stood perfectly still. too far away to make out details. human-shaped. maybe?
the lights buzzed, flickered. the briefest instant, the figure seemed taller than before. the lights steadied again. the hallway was empty. your stomach dropped.
the corridor continued endlessly ahead. identical turns, identical walls, identical lights. every direction looked exactly the same. and somewhere in that vast maze, your boyfriend had vanished without a trace.
then, from somewhere distant, so distant it could have been miles away but you heard it. a voice. faint but unmistakably Bobby’s.
your head snapped toward the sound.
“Bobby!”
no response. just the endless hum of fluorescent lights. and a pile of furniture sat in the middle of the room.
chairs stacked on tables, dressers balanced at impossible angles. a mattress folded between them like it had been shoved there by something. it looked less like storage and more like a memory of storage.
ahead stood a blank wall. except it wasn’t entirely blank. blue painter’s tape had been carefully applied across it, outlining the shape of a door.
a simple rectangle. a doorway that wasn’t there or wasn’t supposed to be.
your stomach twisted. every instinct screamed at you to turn around. to go back upstairs, to leave.
but… Bobby was gone. the thought drowned out everything else.
“Baby? Bobby?” you called one last time.
the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. no answer. the silence felt enormous.
you stared at the taped outline
“…What kind of fucked up shit is this, Clark?”
the words broke halfway through. your voice sounded small and tight.
you stepped closer. the blue tape looked old. worn. like it had been there for years. yet you were certain it hadn’t existed yesterday or maybe it had.
a strange uncertainty crept into your thoughts. you found yourself struggling to remember the showroom upstairs.
the reception desk, the parking lot, the front doors. even Bobby’s face seemed harder to hold in your mind than it should have been.
the panic that followed nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
you pressed a hand against the taped doorway. the wall felt warm. not room temperature but warm. like skin left in sunlight.
you recoiled then froze.
from somewhere beyond the wall came a sound. not Bobby, not Clark. something moving through an immense distance. a shuffling noise. followed by the faintest whisper. words you couldn’t understand, yet somehow felt addressed to you.
the outline of the doorway seemed deeper now. less like tape. the fluorescent lights flickered once. twice, three times. darkness swallowed the room for half a second. when the lights returned, the pile of furniture behind you was gone. the room was larger, much larger. the walls farther away, the corners wrong.
you should have run, anyone should have. but fear had long since become desperation.
the belief that if you just kept going, if you just opened one more door, turned one more corner, called his name one more time you’d find him.
so you stepped forward.
you never found bobby, and you were never seen again.
the furniture store remained open for another six months until Clark eventually locked the lower level permanently. he never explained why.
the missing persons reports went nowhere. no bodies were found. no evidence was recovered. no explanation was ever given.
the building was eventually abandoned. years later, urban explorers who entered the property would sometimes discover strange things.
a reception desk that shouldn’t have been there, rows of furniture extending far beyond the dimensions of the building, a faint humming beneath the floor.
just a man and a woman. still searching for each other through endless halls. neither one of you ever getting quite close enough to getting found.
Excuse me Quinn App, I was planning to watch the show and Quinn decided that this was the best way to get me in, sadly I didn’t paid this month, but I’ll see what I can do 😉
Soooo, I’m starting to think that maybe I should watch this show, I’m not someone who loves this kind of plot (love stories and all of that stuff) but I dunno 🤷🏼♀️ , I can give it a try.
If you already watched it let me know if you liked it. What was your favorite episode or character and all of your thoughts about it, I’m just curious about your opinions 😉
