J’adore ⋆♡

“computer…make these guys supa gay and horny”

[certifiedsushillover]

J’adore ♡-I write whatever on I’m hyper fixated on at the moment (figure skating) ,reqs are open!! as well as just me being a fangirl and talking!

about me- fifteen, she/her, poc, aquarius, in many fandoms (girl/boy groups, stranger things, arcane, yellowjackets, pjo, voltron, fear street, kdramas, literally just ask about one and i’m probaly in it!!), queer, I loveeee all kinds of music, open to any moots and friends!! ⋆˚꩜｡

MASTERLIST (alysa liu)

SWIM PT 1

SWIM PT 2

1978, baby.

[tokki------0]

𝒲𝑒𝒷 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⋆♡︎.ೃ࿔:･

↪ Synopsis : A spider bite gives Alysa Liu extraordinary powers, but her greatest challenge may be falling in love.

↪ 𝓦arnings: Pure fluff

A/n: little stressed hope u will like it guys ( Share your opinion in the comments or in my inbox :P) best fic I'v ever write btw

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

There is a specific kind of invisibility that has nothing to do with being unseen.

Alysa Liu is seen every day. She walks through the hallways of Westbridge High School the same way she has walked through them for three years — head down, backpack slightly too heavy on her left shoulder because she refuses to use her locker because getting to her locker between second and third period adds four minutes to her route and four minutes is four minutes — and people see her. They step around her. They occasionally say her name if they need something, usually help with an assignment, usually at the last possible minute before it's due, usually with that particular tone people use when they need a favor from someone they have not previously thought about. She helps them. She always helps them. This is not because she is a pushover, though some people mistake it for that. It is because she is constitutionally incapable of watching someone struggle with something she could fix in six minutes.

She is, by every measurable standard, invisible in the way that matters at seventeen in a school like Westbridge. She is not invited to parties. She is not part of any social circle that has a name. She is not on anyone's radar in the particular way that radar operates in high school, which is to say: she is not someone people think about when she is not in the room.

She thinks about this sometimes, in the abstract, in the way she thinks about most things — methodically, without excessive emotion, as a problem with a set of variables that she could theoretically solve if she wanted to. She has decided she doesn't want to. The social architecture of Westbridge High feels, to her, like a system built on rules she didn't help write and doesn't particularly respect, and participating in it fully would require a kind of performance she doesn't have the energy for.

What she has energy for: her classes, which are genuinely interesting, all of them, even the ones people complain about. Her lab, which is technically the science prep room on the third floor that Mr. Okafor lets her use after school because she asked and he said yes and nobody else has ever asked. Her projects, which are numerous and complicated and which she works on with the specific, consuming focus of someone who has found the thing that makes the world make sense.

And, if she is being honest with herself, which she usually is: you.

You are, by every measurable standard, the opposite of invisible. You are Y/N Y/L/N, which at Westbridge means something specific and immediate and understood by everyone in the building. You are a junior, same as Alysa, same year, different universe. You are the kind of person who walks into a room and the room reorganizes itself slightly around your presence, not because you're trying, not because you're performing, but because you have some quality of aliveness that draws attention the way light draws attention — not because light is asking to be looked at, but because that's simply what light does.

You sit three rows ahead of Alysa in AP Biology. You tap your pen against your notebook when you're thinking, a quick irregular rhythm that Alysa has memorized without deciding to. You laugh with your whole face, which is an expression she has catalogued from the side-profile angle available from her seat, which tells her more than a straight-on view would, because the side profile shows the way the laugh starts in your eyes slightly before it gets to your mouth, and that sequence is — she has not found a word for what that sequence is. She has stopped trying to find one.

You have never spoken directly to Alysa Liu.

This is not a cruelty. It is simply the natural order of Westbridge, which Alysa has accepted the way she accepts other fixed conditions — the speed of light, the atomic weight of carbon, the fact that the elevator in the science wing has been broken since October and will presumably remain broken until the heat death of the universe. These are things that are. They do not require her feelings about them.

She has feelings about this one anyway. She keeps them in the category of noted but non-actionable, which is where she puts most things that she cannot solve in six minutes.

The day everything changes starts ordinarily.

Alysa is in the lab after school — which is to say, she is in Mr. Okafor's prep room on the third floor, which she has quietly transformed over the course of a year into something that functions like an actual research space, with three whiteboards covered in diagrams and a shelf of equipment that is technically the school's but which no one else touches and which she treats with the specific care of things that are practically hers. She is working on a project that she has been working on for six weeks, which she describes to Mr. Okafor as "an applied research project on enhanced adhesion polymers" and which she describes to herself, more honestly, as trying to figure out if the thing in my head can actually exist.

The thing in her head: a web-like structural polymer with tensile strength exceeding any currently existing synthetic material, deployable in a controlled filament, strong enough to support significant weight, degrading within approximately two hours. She has notebooks full of the theoretical basis for this. She has a shelf full of prototypes that have not worked. She is on prototype seventeen.

She is deep enough in the math that she doesn't hear the door open.

"Hey," says a voice. "Is this — sorry, is Mr. Okafor here?"

Alysa looks up.

You are standing in the doorway of the prep room.

This is the first time you have been in close proximity to her outside of AP Biology, which means this is the first time she has seen you at anything other than three-rows-ahead distance, which means she is now confronted with the fact that you are even more specifically real up close than you are from a distance, which should not be surprising and yet somehow is. You are wearing your varsity jacket — you are on the swim team, she knows this, she knows more things about you than she has ever examined too closely — and you have a textbook under your arm and you are looking at her with an expression that is open and slightly apologetic and entirely without the particular quality some people have when they look at her, which is the quality of someone looking at a prop rather than a person.

You are looking at her like she is a person.

"He left at four," Alysa says. Her voice comes out at its normal register, which surprises her slightly. "I can leave a message if you need something."

"Oh, no, it's—" You look at the textbook under your arm, then back at her. "It's about the bio midterm. He said I could come by but I must have gotten the time wrong." You look around the room, and Alysa watches your expression shift from apologetic to curious, taking in the whiteboards, the equipment, the general evidence of someone who lives here in some meaningful sense. "Is this your—do you use this room?"

"After hours," she says. "For personal projects."

"Personal projects," you repeat, and there is something in it — not mockery, the very specific opposite of mockery, actually, something that sounds like genuine interest. "What kind?"

A pause. She looks at you. You are looking at her whiteboards, at the diagrams, at the shelf of prototypes. You are not doing the thing people usually do, which is to glance around politely and then redirect toward whatever they actually came here for. You are actually looking.

"Polymer research," she says.

"Like — plastics?"

"Like adhesion structures. Tensile polymer filaments." She hesitates. "Spider silk, basically. I'm trying to synthesize something with comparable properties."

You look at her. A beat.

"That's the coolest thing I've heard all week," you say.

Alysa blinks.

You say it with the same quality that you do most things, which is to say completely and without reservation, without the social hedging that most people apply to statements about what they find interesting when talking to someone they don't know. You just say it, like it's true, like it's obvious that it's true, and then you come further into the room with the easy confidence of someone who moves through spaces without worrying about whether they're welcome in them.

"Can I see?" you say.

She should say she's busy. She is busy. She has seventeen prototypes on a shelf and a whiteboard full of math and a problem she has been trying to solve for six weeks and she does not have time to give a tour to the most distracting person in her AP Biology class.

"Sure," she says.

You stay for forty minutes.

You ask questions. Real ones, not the performative questions people ask to seem interested, but the kind that follow from something you said before, that build on each other, that indicate that you are actually tracking what she's saying and thinking about it. You ask about the tensile strength targets and whether the two-hour degradation is a feature or a limitation and whether spider silk itself has been tried as a base material or if the synthesis has to be entirely artificial. You ask in the tone of someone who is genuinely curious and also genuinely aware that she is the one who knows things here, which is a tone that most people do not find naturally, which requires a particular kind of unself-consciousness.

You sit on the lab stool across from her workbench, your textbook long forgotten on the counter, and you learn about polymer chains with the focused attention of someone who has decided that this is the thing they are doing right now and they are doing it completely.

Alysa answers your questions. She finds herself explaining things in more depth than she usually bothers to with people who haven't already demonstrated they can follow along, because you can follow along, and there is something unexpectedly satisfying about that. She pulls out her notebook at one point to show you a diagram that explains the tensile property problem more clearly than her words are doing, and you lean in to look at it and you are close enough that she is briefly, acutely aware of how close you are, before she redirects her attention to the notebook.

When you leave — you have practice, you say, apologetically, you lost track of time, which she also did, which she is now noticing — you pause at the door.

"I'll come back," you say. "If that's okay. I want to hear how the next prototype goes."

She looks at you.

"It's okay," she says.

You smile, the full-face version, the one she knows from three rows back, and you're gone.

Alysa sits in the lab for a moment after the door closes. Then she looks at prototype seventeen on the shelf. Then she looks at the door.

Then she picks up her notebook and goes back to work, and she does not think about how you said I'll come back and how that sentence has lodged itself somewhere in her chest with a particular and unreasonable warmth.

She does not think about this at all.

You come back on a Tuesday.

Alysa is mid-experiment when the door opens — she has her safety goggles on and her hands in the middle of something delicate and she cannot look up immediately, so she says "one second" to the room and finishes the measurement before she turns around.

You are sitting on your stool. You brought coffee — two cups, from the place on the corner, and you set one near her workbench with the ease of someone who has decided this is a thing that happens now.

"I looked up spider silk," you say, by way of greeting. "I went down a rabbit hole. Did you know the Darwin's bark spider produces silk that's ten times stronger than Kevlar?"

"Yes," she says, pulling her goggles up.

"It's insane."

"It is."

"How far off is yours from that?"

She looks at the shelf. "Prototype seventeen is closer than sixteen. The tensile strength is up. The deployment mechanism is still the problem."

"What's the problem with it?"

She sits down and explains. You listen with the same quality as before — complete, specific, following along. The coffee is the right order, she notices. She has never told you her coffee order. You must have seen it somewhere, or guessed, or —

She doesn't examine this.

This is how the next three weeks go.

You come by the lab two or three times a week. Sometimes you have questions about bio, which she answers, and then you stay for the project conversation anyway. Sometimes you come purely for the project, sitting on your stool with your coffee and your questions, and she works while you talk, and the lab which has always been comfortable and solitary becomes comfortable and inhabited, and the difference between those two things is something she is carefully not analyzing.

You learn her shorthand. Not the technical vocabulary — though you pick that up too, faster than she'd have predicted — but the personal shorthand, the way she uses specific phrases when something is working versus when it isn't, the particular silence that means she's in the middle of something that requires all her concentration, the difference between hm when she means I'm thinking and hm when she means that doesn't work and I know why. You learn to read these things the way you learn to read things about people you are paying close attention to.

Alysa notices this. She notices the precision of your attention, the way you have quietly become someone who knows how to exist in her space without disrupting it, which is something most people don't manage even when they're trying. You don't try, exactly. You just — adapt. You observe and adjust and after a while you simply know.

She keeps this observation in the noted but non-actionable category, along with everything else.

On a Thursday in October, prototype eighteen works.

Not completely — the tensile strength is still not where she needs it and the degradation timer needs calibration — but the deployment mechanism functions, for the first time, in the way she has been designing it for six weeks. The filament deploys in a clean arc, attaches cleanly to the test surface, holds.

She stares at it.

"Oh my god," you say, from the stool, where you have been watching. "Oh my god, that held."

"It held," she says. There is something in her voice that she doesn't bother controlling because she is too busy looking at the filament and the test surface and the first prototype that has done the thing she designed it to do.

"Alysa." You are off the stool. You are beside her. "That worked. That actually worked."

She turns to look at you. You are grinning — the full version, bigger than the one she knows from three rows back, close enough that she can see every dimension of it — and your hand is on her arm, which you have placed there without thinking, the way people place hands on the arms of people they have been paying close attention to for three weeks.

"It's prototype eighteen," she says. "There are still — the strength isn't—"

"It deployed," you say. "The deployment works. You figured out the deployment."

She looks at the filament. Then at you. You are still grinning, still with your hand on her arm, still with the full force of your attention directed at her, and something in the noted but non-actionable category has shifted, very slightly, in a direction she is not going to examine right now.

"Yes," she says. "The deployment works."

"I'm coming back Friday," you say. "We should celebrate."

"It's one prototype," she says.

"It's the best prototype," you say. "It deployed."

She looks at you for one more second. Then she looks back at the filament.

"Friday," she says.

The Westbridge annual science field trip to the Harrington Institute of Biological Research is, by the universal consensus of every student who has ever attended it, not a highlight of the academic calendar.

It involves a two-hour bus ride, a tour that is pitched at a level approximately four years below AP Biology, and a free period at the end that everyone uses to sit in the Institute's atrium and wait to go home. The exhibits are fine. The explanations are basic. The only people who get anything real out of it are the ones who ignore the tour and read the supplementary materials on the displays, which is exactly what Alysa does every year.

This year is different because you are in her AP Bio class, and the field trip seating is first-come-first-served on the bus, and you sat down next to her before she could put her bag on the seat in the way that discourages conversation. Not aggressively, not deliberately, just — you sat down and said "hi" and opened your phone and that was that.

She spent the two hours explaining the interesting parts of the Institute to you, quietly, because the tour guide was in the middle of something oversimplified about protein folding, and you were leaning slightly toward her to hear, and the bus was loud enough that this proximity was reasonable and unremarkable.

That is what she tells herself.

The Institute has a research wing that is closed to general tour groups, which Alysa has known about for years and has never been able to access. This year there is a small exhibit on advanced arachnid biology that is technically open, technically on the edge of the tour route, technically something the guide gestures at briefly before moving on.

Alysa does not move on.

"I'll catch up," she tells the group, which no one in the group cares about except you, who falls back with her without being asked.

The exhibit is small but the content is real — genuine research-level information on spider silk production, structural biology, the specific proteins involved in dragline silk synthesis. She reads every panel. You read alongside her, which she is no longer surprised by. You have been reading alongside her for three weeks.

"This is what you're trying to replicate," you say, at the panel on dragline silk tensile properties.

"Trying to," she says.

"You're closer than this paper is," you say, pointing at the cited research date. "This is from four years ago."

She looks at the panel. You're right. The tensile strength numbers in her last prototype, while still below target, exceed what this paper was working with four years ago. She had not framed it that way before. There is something in the reframe that settles in her chest with a particular quality, the quality of being seen accurately rather than politely.

"I'm still not there," she says.

"You'll get there," you say, with the same uncomplicated certainty you say most things with, and she believes you the way she believes things that don't require proof.

The research wing is accessible through a door at the back of the exhibit that is marked authorized personnel only but which is, when she tries it on instinct, unlocked. She looks at it for a moment.

"We shouldn't," you say.

"No," she agrees.

A beat.

"The tour group is probably already in the atrium," you say.

"Probably," she says.

Another beat. She looks at the door. You look at the door.

"Five minutes," you say.

They go in.

The research wing is quieter than the exhibit space, the low hum of equipment the only sound, rows of tanks and terrariums and lab benches with work in progress. She moves through it slowly, reading labels, taking in the scale of the research, the evidence of years of work. You follow her, close enough that she can hear you breathing, looking at the same things she looks at.

They are at the far end of the wing, near a row of terrariums containing various arachnid species, when the spider drops.

She doesn't see it happen. One moment she is reading the label on a terrarium, and the next there is a sharp, specific sting on the back of her hand, and she pulls it back and looks at it and there is a small welt rising.

"Alysa." Your voice is sharp with alarm, your hand closing over her wrist. "What happened?"

"Something bit me," she says.

She looks at the terrarium. On the glass, on the outside — it must have gotten out through a gap, must have been on the edge of the label she was reading — is a spider. Small, deep amber-colored, with a marking on its back she does not immediately recognize.

You look at it. Then at her hand. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," she says. "It's just a bite."

"We need to find someone," you say. "We need to tell a staff member."

"It's just a bite," she says again, but you are already steering her back toward the door, your hand still around her wrist, and she lets you because the alternative is arguing with you and she is currently distracted by the sensation in her hand, which is not exactly pain, more like warmth spreading outward, which is probably fine, which is almost certainly just a normal localized reaction.

They find the tour group. They do not tell anyone, because Alysa says she is fine, because she is probably fine, because the ride home is starting and the welt is already reducing in size by the time they are back on the bus and you are sitting next to her again and checking her hand every twenty minutes.

"It's fine," she says.

"I'm watching it," you say.

She looks at you from the side. There is a particular quality to the way you are watching her hand — not performing concern, just actually concerned, in the direct and uncomplicated way you do things.

"I'm fine," she says, softer.

You look at her. "I know," you say. "I'm still watching."

She looks out the window. The welt is gone by the time they pull into the Westbridge parking lot. She tells herself, and tells you, that it was nothing.

She sleeps for eleven hours that night and wakes up with her hands tingling.

The tingling goes away by morning. So does the tiredness. What doesn't go away — what presents itself over the course of the following week with the quiet inevitability of something that has already been decided — is everything else.

She notices the first thing on Monday, in the hallway, when she catches a water bottle that Marcus Kim drops from three feet above her head, in mid-air, without looking, without the reaction time that catching something requires. She holds the bottle and looks at it and thinks: hm.

She notices the second thing on Tuesday, when she climbs the stairs to the third floor and realizes she isn't breathing harder at the top, which she always does, which everyone does, because it's four flights and it's fast. She is not breathing harder. She could have gone faster. She is not sure how much faster.

The third thing is Wednesday, in the lab, when she is reaching for a beaker on the top shelf — the one that is technically too high for her without a step stool, which she has been using for a year — and her hand simply sticks. Not slips, not grabs. Sticks. Palm flat against the surface of the shelf, with a grip that doesn't require any effort from her, with a quality that is immediately, entirely recognizable to someone who has spent six months thinking about adhesion polymers.

She stands there with her hand stuck to the shelf for approximately fifteen seconds, processing this.

Then she unsticks her hand, which is also something she can simply do, intentionally, by — she does not fully understand how, it is like deciding to let go but more specific than that — and she stands in the middle of the lab and looks at her palm.

"Hm," she says, out loud, to the empty room.

She spends the next two hours testing this instead of working on prototype eighteen. She sticks her hand to the shelf, the wall, the window, the workbench. She peels it away cleanly. She tries with different pressures, different surfaces, different intentions. She falls off the lab stool at one point when she overbalances attempting to test the ceiling and grabs the wall instinctively on the way down, which results in her hanging sideways from the wall for a moment before she figures out how to let go and lands on her feet with a grace that is also new and also requires examination.

She lands on her feet from a sideways wall-hang with no impact and no stumbling.

She stands in the middle of the lab.

Her phone buzzes.

Y/N: how's 18 going, still at the lab?

She looks at the text. Then at the wall. Then at her hands.

ALYSA: can you come by

You come by. You always come by when she asks, which is something she has not thought about too directly because thinking about it too directly takes her somewhere she has categorized as non-actionable.

You come in and you look at her standing in the middle of the lab, which she has been doing for twenty minutes, and you say "what happened" before she says anything.

"I need to show you something," she says. "And I need you to — I need you to be the kind of person you are, about this."

You look at her. "What kind of person am I?"

"The kind that doesn't panic," she says. "And doesn't ask questions I can't answer yet. Just watches."

A beat. "Okay," you say.

She turns to the wall. She puts her hand flat against it. She walks up it.

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. She puts her hand on the wall and then her foot and she walks, vertically, up the prep room wall to the ceiling, where she stays for a moment because she can, because gravity appears to have become optional, because the spider from the research wing has done something to her that she is not yet able to fully articulate but which she is currently demonstrating by being on the ceiling.

She looks down at you from the ceiling of Mr. Okafor's prep room.

You are looking up at her. Your expression is — she cannot fully read it from up here, but it does not look like panic, which is what she asked for. It looks like the expression you have in the lab when something works, when a prototype does something it wasn't doing before. It looks like the expression of someone watching something new become real.

"Okay," you say, from the floor. Your voice is steady. "Okay. Tell me everything."

She climbs back down and tells you everything.

Chapter Five : The Research Wing Spider

They spend six hours in the lab on Wednesday.

She tells you about the bite, the symptoms, the sequence of observations. She shows you the wall demonstration three more times, the ceiling grip, the strength test where she lifts the lab table with one hand and puts it down and it makes a clean impression in the floor and she will have to deal with that later. She shows you her palm, which looks completely normal, which you examine with the focused attention you bring to everything you examine.

You do not panic. You ask exactly the questions she cannot answer yet, which is what she asked you not to do, but you ask them in the tone of someone who is helping figure out what the answers might be rather than demanding she have them already. You bring your notebook. You are taking notes. She is too.

"The spider," you say, at some point. "Did you get a look at it?"

"Small. Amber-colored. Dorsal marking I didn't recognize."

"We need to figure out what species."

"I know."

"The Institute would have records."

"I know." She looks at her notebook. "I also think — the silk."

You look at her.

"The bite. The adhesion. The filament I've been developing." She turns to the whiteboard, where she has started a new diagram, the one she has been drawing for the past three hours that connects prototype eighteen to what her hands are currently doing. "I don't think this is unrelated. The spider's silk production. I think the bite — I think I have something in my biology now that's analogous to what I was trying to synthesize."

You look at the diagram. Then at her hands. Then at the diagram again.

"You have the deployment mechanism," you say.

"Potentially."

"You've been building the external version for months and the spider just—"

"Potentially."

"Alysa." Your voice has something in it. "You have the deployment mechanism."

She looks at her hands. Then at the diagram. "I need to test it."

"Yes," you say. "Obviously yes. How?"

She looks at the prototype eighteen housing on the shelf — the wrist mechanism she's been developing for deployment. She has been testing it with the synthesized polymer, with decreasing success because the polymer still isn't strong enough. But if what she thinks is happening is actually happening — if her body is now producing something analogous, something that comes from the same biology she's been trying to replicate—

"I need to rebuild the housing," she says. "Smaller. More precise. If I can direct the deployment biologically, through the mechanism, without the synthesized polymer—"

"You'd have what you've been trying to build for eight months," you say.

She looks at you. You are watching her with the particular quality of your attention, the full version, and there is something in your expression that is not just scientific interest, something warmer and less categorizable, something she puts in the non-actionable file without looking at it.

"I need to go home and work on the housing," she says.

"I'll help," you say.

"You don't know how to build—"

"I know how to hand you things and not touch things I shouldn't touch and ask questions that make you explain your thinking more clearly," you say. "You've told me that's useful."

She has told you that. She has told you that the questions you ask make her articulate things she was processing silently, which often helps. She has told you this as a fact, neutrally, and you are now deploying it as a reason to stay and she doesn't have a counterargument.

"Fine," she says. "Come on."

They go to her apartment. Her parents are out. You sit at the kitchen table and watch her rebuild the housing, and you hand her things when she asks, and you ask the questions that make her explain her thinking, and by midnight she has something that might work and you are asleep on the couch with your jacket as a blanket, which is something she observes and puts in the non-actionable file along with everything else.

She covers you with the blanket from the back of the couch, which is something she does without examining whether she is doing it.

Then she goes to her room and sits on her bed and looks at the modified housing on her desk.

The next morning she tests it.

It works.

Here is the thing that Alysa understands about herself, which she has understood for a long time and which has shaped the specific architecture of her life at Westbridge: she is not a person who does things halfway.

This is not a personality trait she selected. It is simply how she is built. When she is interested in something, she is completely interested, and the interest does not modulate itself to fit the available time. When she commits to a problem, she commits with the entire force of herself, and she does not stop until the problem is solved or until she has run out of approaches to try, which has not yet happened.

This quality, applied to schoolwork, produces the best grades in the junior class. Applied to the lab, it produced prototype eighteen and the modified housing. Applied to the post-bite situation, which she is tentatively calling the development because she does not yet have a better name for it, it produces the following, over the course of three weeks:

A complete suite of modified housings, one for each wrist, built to her exact specifications, black metal with a tensioned filament mechanism that deploys with a specific motion of her wrist and retracts cleanly. A costume that she is somewhat embarrassed about but which is functionally necessary — coverage, movement, anonymity — built from materials she sourced with care and assembled with the same precision she brings to lab work. A testing protocol that starts in her apartment, moves to the roof of her building, moves to the alley behind her building, moves progressively outward as she understands more about what she can do and how to do it.

The strength: she can lift approximately eight times her body weight. She can fall from the third floor of her building without injury, which she tests with some caution and some scientific excitement and some genuine terror. She can run at a speed that makes the city feel smaller.

The webs: the housing works. The filament deploys cleanly, attaches to surfaces with the adhesion she has been trying to synthesize for eight months, holds her weight and more. She swings between her building and the next on a Thursday evening and lands on the opposite roof and stands there breathing hard from the adrenaline of it and looking back at the space she just covered, which is not a large space, which is not a record-breaking distance, but which was air and is now traversed.

She stands on a rooftop in the October dark and understands that something has changed in a way that is not reversible.

The other things are tests she runs and data she collects. This is a realization she arrives at, not a test. This is standing still and understanding, with the particular quality of certainty she has about things that are true, that the development is not something that happened to her and is going to stop. It is something she is now. It has joined the architecture.

She goes home and sits at her desk and thinks.

You text at eleven.

Y/N: how's testing going

ALYSA: the housing works

Y/N: ALYSA

Y/N: the housing WORKS?

ALYSA: the housing works

Y/N: I'm coming over

ALYSA: it's eleven

Y/N: and?

She looks at her phone. Then at the housings on her desk.

ALYSA: fine

You come over. She shows you the housings, the deployment, the controlled filament. She does not take you to the roof yet because it is eleven PM and she has not thought through the logistics of the roof with an audience. You sit on her bedroom floor across from her and you watch the filament deploy from the housing and attach to the far wall and hold, and your expression is the expression from prototype eighteen, the full-face grin, the close-enough version.

"You built the real thing," you say.

"The development built it," she says. "I just made the housing."

"You built the housing for six months first," you say. "You were already there. The spider just — completed the circuit."

She looks at the filament attached to her wall. Then at you.

"What do I do with it," she says. This is not rhetorical. She is asking you the way she asks you things in the lab — genuinely, because you are someone whose thinking she finds useful, because you have this quality of seeing the angle she hasn't tried.

You think about it. Not the quick-answer version of thinking, but the real version, the one where you actually sit with something before responding.

"I think," you say, slowly, "that you already know what you do with it. And I think you're asking me because you want someone to say it out loud so you don't have to be the one who decided."

She looks at you for a long moment.

"The city is right there," you say. Quietly. Not dramatic. Just factual. "You can do things most people can't do. People need things."

"I'm not—" She stops. "That's not—"

"You help people you can help," you say. "That's just what you do. You always have. This is bigger."

She looks at the housing on her wrist. The filament still attached to her wall.

"I'd need a better costume," she says.

"Absolutely," you say.

"And a name is probably—"

"A name would help, yes."

She looks at you. You are looking back with that particular quality, and something in the non-actionable file is straining at its category, has been straining for weeks, is becoming harder to keep contained.

"I don't know how to do this," she says.

"You know how to do this," you say. "You know how to learn things, which is the same as knowing how to do them eventually. Start small."

She nods. She looks at the wall where the filament is attached. She thinks about the roof, about the alley, about the distance between her building and the next one that she crossed on Thursday.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay," you say.

November. Three weeks after the roof.

The thing about becoming someone who swings between buildings at night is that it changes your relationship with insomnia. Alysa has always been a light sleeper, has always had nights where the math in her head won't quiet down, where the next step of a problem presents itself at two AM with the urgency of something that will not wait. Those nights used to mean hours at her desk and too much coffee and tiredness the next morning. Now they mean putting on the suit and going out, which is both a worse idea than staying at her desk and a better one, because at least when she is out she is doing something with the restlessness.

She has, in three weeks, stopped a mugging in the East Village (her first real one, not a practice scenario, not a test — an actual person with an actual knife, which she handled with less grace than she wanted to and more effectiveness than she expected), helped extract two people from a car accident on 7th Avenue, and caught a man who jumped from a fire escape on the third floor and would have hit the pavement badly if she hadn't been passing below at exactly that moment. She is not yet fast enough, or practiced enough, to be doing this comprehensively, with the coverage of someone who knows the city from above. She is learning the geometry of it — the swing radius, the web attachment points, the way certain building facades work and certain ones don't, the weight distribution of different moves.

She is, in short, a work in progress.

You know all of this because she tells you. This has become the architecture: she goes out, she comes back, she texts you, and you parse it together. Not surveillance — you are not her handler, she does not check in because you require it. She checks in because you are the only person who knows, which means you are the only person she can be honest with about this specific dimension of her existence, which means the texts have taken on a particular quality of relief. Saying it to you makes it real in a way that the suit and the city cannot do alone.

ALYSA: mugging on 9th, handled it, scraped my knee on the landing

Y/N: the landing or the takeoff

ALYSA: the landing. I overrotated

Y/N: again?

ALYSA: yes, again, I'm working on it

Y/N: want me to come over

She looks at this text every time. She looks at it and she says no, she's fine, it's late, she has school tomorrow. She says this every time.

Y/N: ok. ice for the knee

ALYSA: I know

Y/N: get some sleep

She doesn't sleep. But she tries, which she counts.

The other thing that happens in November is that the city starts to notice.

Not her, specifically — no one knows who she is, the mask and the costume have done the job she designed them to do. But someone is swinging between buildings on the east side and stopping things that used to not get stopped, and the city notices this the way the city notices everything, which is loudly and with strong opinions.

The first Daily News piece is brief, buried in the Metro section, and calls her "a masked vigilante of unclear motivation." The second one is bigger and calls her "the city's newest costumed figure." The third one is a week later and has the word Spiderwoman in the headline, which is not a name she chose, which is a name derived from someone's description of the web she left at a scene because she ran out of time to clear it, but which is now apparently what she is.

She reads this piece in the lab, on her phone, while you read it on yours sitting on your stool.

"Spiderwoman," you say.

"I didn't name it," she says.

"I know. Do you hate it?"

She considers. "No," she says. "It's fine."

"It's actually pretty good," you say. "Descriptive. Clear."

"It's derivative."

"Everything is derivative," you say. "Does it fit?"

She looks at the article. At the description of the figure someone saw swinging through the East Village at two AM. At the word Spiderwoman in the headline.

"Yes," she says. "It fits."

You nod. You look back at your phone for a moment, and then you look up and you have an expression she hasn't seen before, something that is complicated in a way you're not trying to hide but also not naming.

"You're going to keep doing this," you say.

"Yes," she says.

"I know," you say. "I just — I want to make sure you know I know. That this is the thing now."

She looks at you. "It's the thing now."

You nod again. Something in your expression settles, resolves into something simpler, the something that you usually have when you've processed a complicated thing and come out the other side.

"Then I'm in," you say. "Whatever that means. However you need it."

She looks at you for a long moment, long enough that you look back with curiosity, long enough that whatever is in the non-actionable file presses against its category with specific and unhelpful intensity.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay," you say.

December.

AP Biology has a lab practical this week, which means the seating arrangement changes, which means Alysa is no longer three rows behind you but beside you at a shared lab bench, which is an arrangement that happens every few months and which she has always handled fine.

She handles it fine now. She is handling it fine.

You are pipetting a solution with the focus you bring to things you are genuinely trying to do correctly, which is all things, which is one of the things about you that she has stopped trying to categorize and simply accepts as a quality you have. You are wearing your swim team hoodie. You have your hair back in the specific way you do it when you are working on something that requires concentration.

"You're doing the contamination check wrong," she says.

You look up. "I'm not."

"You are. The order matters."

"The order — does the order matter for this?"

"For sterility, yes. Always rinse the outside of the pipette before the inside."

You look at the pipette. Then at her. "Why does no one teach that."

"It's in the supplementary materials."

"Of course it is." You correct your technique. You do it correctly. "Thank you."

She goes back to her own bench section. Two minutes later:

"Why does it have to be outside first?"

She explains it. You listen. The lab practical continues. At some point you are leaning toward her to look at her diagram and you are close enough that she is acutely aware, in the specific and unhelpful way she has been for two months, of exactly how close you are.

"Your contamination ring is smaller than mine," you say. "Mine looks like a crime scene."

"Practice," she says.

"You've done this before."

"I've done this a lot."

"Show me the motion again?"

She shows you the motion. She does it with her hands over yours, very briefly, correcting the angle of the pipette, and then removes them and steps back and goes back to her section with the calm of someone who is not thinking about anything specific.

You get it right on the next attempt.

"There it is," you say, quietly, to yourself, with the tone of someone who gets a small private satisfaction from getting something right. She is not supposed to hear this. She hears it anyway. She files it in the non-actionable category, which is becoming alarmingly full.

After class, in the hallway:

"The Christmas showcase thing," you say, falling into step beside her. "For bio club. Are you presenting?"

"The polymer project. Yes."

"Can I come?"

She looks at you. "It's open to the school."

"I know. I'm asking if you want me there specifically."

A beat.

"Yes," she says.

You nod. "Then I'll be there."

You split off toward the gym. She continues toward the third floor. She walks up all four flights without any change in her breathing, as has been the case since November, and she arrives at the lab and puts her bag down and stands in the middle of the room for a moment.

She opens her notebook to a clean page.

She writes: non-actionable.

She underlines it.

She closes the notebook and gets to work.

Chapter Nine : What Everyone Else Sees

The thing about Y/N Y/L/N is that she is not oblivious.

She is, by some measures, one of the more perceptive people at Westbridge, which is not something people would necessarily list first when describing her because what they list first is usually something about her presence, her energy, the way a room responds to her. But underneath that, she notices things. She notices the way people's expressions change when they're uncomfortable versus when they're performing discomfort. She notices when someone is struggling with something they haven't said yet. She notices the specific quality of silence in different people, what it means when Marcus Kim goes quiet versus what it means when Jenny Park goes quiet, and she has learned to respond to the difference without being obvious about the fact that she's noticed.

She has been noticing things about Alysa Liu since October.

Not the technical things — those she was already noticing before October, before the prep room, before the lab visits became a fixture. She noticed Alysa before she ever spoke to her, in the particular way you notice people who are doing something completely independently of whether you are looking at them, which is a quality very few people at Westbridge have. Most people at Westbridge are performing their existence to some degree, for some audience. Alysa is not performing anything. She is simply doing what she is doing, with her whole self, with no apparent awareness of or interest in whether anyone is watching.

She found this interesting before she found it anything else. She finds it something else now.

She finds, specifically, that she is thinking about Alysa with a frequency and specificity that has been increasing steadily since October and which she has not interrogated too closely because she is not sure she wants to know what the interrogation produces. She finds that the time in the lab has become the part of her day she looks forward to with a particularity that she is careful not to examine. She finds that when Alysa explains things to her — the polymer, the housings, the bio lab techniques, the city from above, the specific geometry of swinging between two particular buildings — she is listening with more attention than she gives to most things, and that this attention has a quality that is not entirely academic.

She also finds that Alysa is — and she has been slow to land on this word, not because she isn't sure of it but because once she lands on it she will have to decide what to do with it — beautiful. Not in the obvious way, not in the way Westbridge would vote on it, not in the way that gets noticed. In the specific, close-range way of someone who has been paying attention to all the details of a face for two months and has arrived at a conclusion that is more comprehensive than the one you'd reach from a distance.

She sits in AP Biology and looks at Alysa from three rows back, and she thinks: I am in significant trouble.

She does not tell Alysa this. She is fairly confident Alysa does not know. Alysa moves through the world with the focused specificity of someone who is thinking about the next problem, and when she looks at you she looks with interest and attention and warmth and also — sometimes, in the specific way of something being managed — with a quality that suggests there is something she has decided not to look at directly.

You recognize this quality because you are also deploying it.

The difference, which you have not fully worked out yet, is what to do about it.

It is a Tuesday in December and your phone buzzes at two in the morning.

You are awake. You are usually awake at two, not because you have insomnia but because you have a long-standing inability to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, which your mother has been commenting on since you were twelve. You are on your phone, reading something you found in the rabbit hole that started with Alysa's polymer research and ended, six links later, at a paper on arachnid silk gland evolution, which is not something you ever expected to be reading at two in the morning and which you find genuinely interesting.

The buzz is Alysa.

ALYSA: bad night

You sit up.

YOU: what happened

ALYSA: nothing I couldn't handle. just — bad.

YOU: define bad

A pause. Then:

ALYSA: there was a fire. apartment building, East 14th. I got the people out but I was — I wasn't fast enough for one of them. she's okay. the paramedics got to her. but I wasn't fast enough.

You read this twice.

YOU: she's okay

ALYSA: she was unresponsive when I found her. she's okay now. she is. but

YOU: but you keep thinking about the before

ALYSA: yes

YOU: where are you

ALYSA: rooftop. 20th st

YOU: can you come here

A long pause.

ALYSA: it's two AM

YOU: I know

ALYSA: you have practice at six

YOU: I know. come here.

The longest pause yet.

ALYSA: give me fifteen minutes

She comes in through your window, because this is something she can do now, something that you have both adapted to with a practicality that still occasionally strikes you as surreal. She comes in through the second-floor window and drops down onto your floor and she is already out of the suit top, just the undershirt, and she looks — she looks tired in a way that the suit and the movement usually mask and that is more visible now, in your room at two AM, in the specific light of your desk lamp that is the only light on.

She sits on the floor. You sit on the floor next to her, because the floor is where she chose to sit and you are not going to make this into something it doesn't have to be.

"Tell me what happened," you say.

She tells you. The building, the fire on the third floor, the people on the upper floors who couldn't get down. The woman on the fourth floor who was unconscious when she got there, who she carried down, who the paramedics took before Alysa could know for certain. The waiting on the rooftop across the street while they worked on her, watching, not being able to know.

"She was okay," you say. "You said she was okay."

"She was okay by the time I left," she says. "Responsive. They had her."

"Then—"

"I know she was okay," Alysa says. "I know. I keep—" She stops. She is looking at her hands, which are fine, which are not injured, which have the specific non-state of hands that did not get to do the thing they needed to do fast enough. "I know she was okay."

"Yes," you say.

"I keep thinking about the window," she says. "There was a window of time where if I had been thirty seconds faster she would never have been unconscious at all. If I had been thirty seconds faster."

"You don't know that," you say.

"I know the timing," she says, and this is Alysa, this is the specific way her mind works, precise and relentless, running the numbers even when the numbers are hurting her. "I know what I could have done differently."

"And in six months," you say, "when you know more, when you're faster, you will do it differently. You will have been doing it differently for six months." You look at her. "You started three weeks ago."

She is quiet for a moment.

"Three weeks," she says.

"You are three weeks into this," you say. "You saved everyone else in the building. You have stopped four other things this month. You are learning and you are doing it while you're learning and that woman is alive because you were there." A beat. "Three weeks ago you were only doing it from the roof of your building."

She looks at her hands again. The lines of them, the adhesion capability, the thing she has spent months thinking about in a purely technical register and is now thinking about in a completely different one.

"Yeah," she says, quietly.

"Yeah," you say.

You sit there for a while. The desk lamp makes a small warm circle. Outside, the city does its 2 AM thing — quieter than it is at any other hour, but not silent, because the city is never silent, because the city is exactly what she said it is, the thing that holds together.

At some point you get off the floor onto the bed because the floor is uncomfortable and you are both seventeen and you have practice at six, and she is on the far side with her arms around her knees and you are on your side facing her and neither of you says anything for a while and it is not uncomfortable, it is the specific comfortable silence that has been building in the lab for two months, the one that exists between people who have been in enough silences together that they know what the other person's silence means.

"Thank you," she says. Eventually.

"You would have figured it out by morning," you say. "I just made it faster."

"That's not—" She stops. She looks at you, and in the lamp light her expression has shed some of the layer she usually keeps in place, the managing-quality, and what's underneath it is something warmer and more direct and completely, thoroughly non-actionable.

"I know," you say. Because you do know. Because you have known for a while.

You fall asleep before she does. She lies awake for another hour in the specific comfortable quiet of your room, which smells like chlorine and the vanilla candle you keep on your desk and something else she doesn't have a name for that is simply the smell of your space, and she looks at the ceiling, and she thinks.

In the morning she is gone before your alarm, which is what she usually does when she ends up here. There is a text on your phone from 5:47 AM.

ALYSA: thank you

ALYSA: go get in the water

You smile at your phone before you're fully awake. Then you get up and go to practice.

After the holidays — after two weeks apart, which Alysa spends at her grandmother's in a way that is too long and too quiet and that has a shape she doesn't examine too directly — January arrives with the specific quality of a month that is cold all the way through and asks nothing cheerful of you.

She is back at the lab. The project has evolved past the housing, past the suit, into something she is now thinking about in operational terms rather than engineering ones — the improvement of her technique, the expansion of her coverage area, the nights when she goes out earlier and comes in later and the data she is collecting about the city's patterns and her own response times. She is getting faster. The overrotation on landings has mostly resolved. The swing radius is larger.

You are back on your stool.

The weeks in between have produced something — she is not sure what to call it, it is something she notices in the way she notices changes in her prototypes, by comparing what is in front of her to what she remembers. You are the same as before and also there is something different, something that is not dramatic and has no announcement, something that exists in the specific quality of how long you hold eye contact before looking away and in the way you lean against the door frame sometimes when you are leaving, like leaving requires a moment of decision.

She puts this in the non-actionable file. The file is at capacity. She is aware of this.

"The Post did a thing on Spiderwoman," you say, on a Tuesday, looking at your phone.

"I saw."

"They called you a menace."

"I saw."

"Two days before that they called you a hero."

"Journalists are not consistent." She does not look up from the workbench.

"They want to know who you are," you say.

"Everyone wants to know who I am."

"What would you say? If someone asked."

She looks up. You are looking at her with a question in your expression that is both the question you asked and something other than the question you asked, something larger and less specific.

"I'd say it doesn't matter," she says.

"Does it matter to you?"

She considers this with the honesty she brings to most things. "Yes," she says. "But the part that matters is the one that exists here, not out there." She gestures vaguely at the window, at the city outside, at the press coverage and the rumors and the growing accumulation of public opinion about a woman in a red and black suit. "Out there, the identity is a problem. It makes the people I care about into targets."

A pause.

"People you care about," you say.

"Specifically, one person," she says, and then she realizes she has said this out loud and she looks back at the workbench with the specific focus of someone redirecting very quickly.

The silence in the lab has a different quality for a moment.

"Okay," you say, quietly.

She does not respond. She is pipetting something she does not need to pipette. She is giving this pipetting her complete attention.

"I'm not a target," you say. "For the record."

"You don't know that," she says.

"Alysa—"

"I don't know what this becomes," she says, to the workbench. "I don't know how visible it gets, or what the visibility means for the people connected to me. I don't—" She stops. She puts the pipette down. "I need to know that what I'm building stays separate. That you stay—"

"Safe," you say.

"Yes," she says.

You are quiet for a moment.

"I understand that," you say. "I do. But I'm already in it. I've been in it since the prep room." You say this carefully, not dramatically, in the tone of someone stating a position they have thought about. "I know what that means. I'm making an informed choice."

She looks at you. "You're seventeen."

"So are you," you say.

She doesn't have a response to this. She looks at you, and you look back, and the non-actionable file in her chest is making itself very loudly known, and she is about to say something, she is in the process of deciding what to say, when your phone buzzes.

You look at it. "I have to go," you say. "Practice ran over, I forgot to tell my mom." You slide off the stool, pick up your bag, and then you pause at the door in the way you have been pausing at the door more lately, the pause that takes a moment to resolve.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say. "For the record."

She looks at you.

"Okay," she says.

You go. The door closes. She stands in the lab for a moment and then she goes back to the workbench and she pipettes the thing she was pretending to pipette earlier, this time because she actually needs to.

February.

Alysa's name is in the school paper.

Not for Spiderwoman. For the polymer project, which she presented at the bio club showcase in December and which one of the students on the paper wrote a brief item on, which ran in January, and which resulted in three things: an email from a professor at Columbia who wants to hear more about the project, an email from a bio competition coordinator about a citywide showcase in March, and the specific kind of visibility she has been trying to manage since November.

She is, briefly, something at Westbridge. Not the kind of something you are — she does not walk into rooms and have them reorganize — but the kind of something that produces recognition, people saying her name in the hallway with the specific quality of people who have recently learned it, the bio teachers mentioning the item in class, Harmon (the AP Bio Harmon, not related to the fictional editor in the previous story) asking her to present the project to the junior seminar.

She handles this fine. She is used to the work being visible even when she isn't. This is different from social visibility, which requires performance. The work standing on its own is something she has always been comfortable with.

What she is less comfortable with is the shift in your presence at school.

You have always been, by the natural order of Westbridge, someone who moves in circles that don't include her. Your circle is large and warm and inclusive in the specific way of someone who doesn't build walls, but it is still a circle, and she has been adjacent to it rather than inside it for three years. The lab visits are their thing — separate, specific, not something that has migrated into the hallways or the cafeteria or the rest of the school day.

Until February.

You stop by her locker on a Tuesday, which you have never done before. You do it in the way you do things — naturally, without ceremony, like it is simply a thing that happens and you are doing it. You are talking to someone from the swim team and you see her and you say her name and include her in the conversation with an ease that leaves no room for awkwardness, and then you say see you later when you have to go and the swim team person says nice to meet you and she stands at her locker processing the fact that you stopped by her locker.

On Thursday you sit next to her at lunch.

You eat with your usual people, most days. Your social gravity pulls you there, and it is not a cruel gravity — you are not one of the people who categorizes, who excludes deliberately, who builds walls. But you eat with your people, and your people are not her people, and this has simply been how it is for three years.

You sit next to her on Thursday with your tray and you say hey and you eat and you talk to her and to the two people from the bio club who are also at this table, and when the swim team people come by looking for you, you introduce everyone without making it a production and they sit down and the lunch is — it is fine. She handles it fine. The swim team people are not awful, they are ordinary, and she can navigate ordinary.

But she notices, and she files it, and the non-actionable file has been over capacity since January and she is not sure what to do about that except continue to manage it.

On Friday, after school, in the lab:

"You keep doing things," she says.

You look up from your stool. "What things."

"The locker. Lunch. The — including."

"The including," you repeat.

"You keep including me," she says, not accusatorially, just — stating it, the way she states things she is trying to understand the logic of. "Deliberately. In places you haven't before."

You look at her for a moment. "Yes," you say.

"Why."

"Because I want to," you say. And then, more carefully: "Because I've been thinking about the categories."

"What categories."

"The one where the lab is ours and the rest of school is something else," you say. "I've been thinking about whether that needs to be true."

She looks at you. This is a direct conversation, more direct than either of them usually does in this particular direction, and she can feel the edge of it, the place where this conversation could become the conversation that she has been managing around for months.

"The lab being ours doesn't stop being true if the other things are also true," you say. "They're not mutually exclusive."

She is quiet for a moment.

"What happens to the categories," she says, slowly, "if the other things are also true."

You look at her steadily. "I think you know what happens."

She looks back. The non-actionable file is open. She is looking directly at it, and it is looking back at her, and every argument she has assembled — the complication, the risk, the specificity of what she is now and what that means for anyone close to her — is present and real and none of it is sufficient to change the fact of what she is feeling.

"Alysa," you say. Quietly.

She picks up her notebook. She opens it to the page that says non-actionable, which she underlined in December.

She crosses out the word.

You watch her do this. Something in your expression opens — not surprise, she doesn't think it's surprise, more like relief, like something that has been held at a particular tension finally being able to release.

"I still don't know what it means," she says. "For the rest of it. For — what I am."

"I know," you say.

"It's complicated in ways—"

"I know," you say again. "I've been next to the complicated for four months. I'm not leaving because it's complicated."

She looks at you for a long moment. Then she looks at the notebook in her hands, at the crossed-out word.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay," you say.

Neither of you moves for a moment. The lab is the same as it always is, the equipment and the whiteboards and the light at this hour going golden, and she is sitting on her lab stool and you are sitting on yours and the distance between the two of them is approximately four feet, which is a workbench width, which is nothing.

"Come here," you say.

She comes. She stands in front of you and you are looking at her with the full version, the one she knows from prototype eighteen, the close-range version, and she looks back.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," she says.

You reach up and tuck a piece of her hair back, very gently, with the specific care of someone doing something for the first time that they have been thinking about for a long time. She stays still for it. Your hand comes to rest at the side of her face, and she turns into it slightly, not dramatically, just a small lean, and something in her chest that has been noted but non-actionable for four months resolves into something simple and certain and completely present.

"I've been thinking about doing this for a while," you say.

"I know," she says.

"You knew?"

"I observe things," she says. "You know this about me."

You laugh — the full version, the close version, the one she has now seen many times but which she does not think she will ever fully adapt to, because it is the specific quality of a thing that is complete rather than a thing that performs being complete.

"Fair," you say.

She kisses you. It is the first time she has kissed anyone and she is aware of this and also aware that it doesn't feel like a first time in the way people describe first times, doesn't feel fumbled or uncertain, feels like the logical conclusion of four months of everything else, like something that was going to happen at the exact moment when they both had the right information and decided to use it.

You kiss her back with the same completeness you bring to everything.

The lab is the same as it always is. The equipment hums. The late afternoon light comes through the windows at the angle it comes through at this hour. Prototype eighteen is on the shelf where it has been since October, the first thing that worked.

She is, she thinks, the second.

February becomes something new, in the way months become something new when the architecture of your life changes in the middle of them.

It is not dramatic. It does not remake every surface. It is subtler than that — a shift in the quality of specific things, the lab and the hallways and the two-AM texts, all of them the same and also different, the difference being that she now gets to kiss you when you stop by her locker, that you reach for her hand sometimes in the hallway without looking around first to see if anyone is watching, that the 2 AM texts have a different register when she's been out and comes back to them, something warmer and more specific, something that says you specifically in a way that the texts already said and now say louder.

You are careful with her. She notices this and she does not put it in any file at all, she simply holds it, the way you hold things that you don't want to categorize because categorizing them risks diminishing them. You are careful with the suit, with what it means, with the specific complications of being the person who knows. You have been careful since October. Now the care has a different quality, the quality of someone who has a personal stake rather than an intellectual one, and she feels the difference.

She is also careful with you. She is careful with the identity, which she has been careful with since November, but now the carefulness has a specific shape, a specific fear that has settled into the architecture alongside everything else: the fear of the day when someone figures out that Spiderwoman is a specific person rather than a symbol, and traces that person to the people she is near. She carries this fear with the same precision she brings to everything — cleanly, specifically, managed rather than avoided.

March arrives. The citywide bio showcase. She presents the polymer project, the official version, the one that does not include the development, the one that is purely the synthetic research. It wins its category. The Columbia professor shakes her hand. The competition coordinator mentions graduate programs that she is, technically, seven years away from, but which she files as something to examine later.

You are there. You are in the audience, which is not a small thing, it is a Tuesday afternoon in March and you rearranged your practice schedule to be there, which your coach was not happy about and which you did anyway. She sees you when she walks to the podium and you are in the third row with the full version of your expression, the close-range one, and she looks at you for exactly one second before she begins speaking.

It is the best presentation she has ever given.

After, in the lobby, you say: "Outside first, then inside."

She looks at you.

"The contamination check," you say. "I've been thinking about how to apply that principle to the suit's grip release mechanism. Outside force first, then internal adjustment. Would that give you more precision?"

She stares at you. "You've been thinking about my grip release mechanism."

"I think about your grip release mechanism a lot," you say, and there is something in it, a deliberate note of the other meaning, and she starts laughing, which she doesn't do often enough, and you are grinning, and the lobby of the competition venue is not the lab and it is not the 2 AM rooftop and it is not the school hallway, it is something else, something new, something that is a part of the architecture that didn't exist in September.

She is, she thinks, doing all right.

Epilogue

April.

There is a building on the corner of 23rd and 8th that Alysa has started thinking of as hers, not because she owns it, not because it is special, but because the water tower on the roof has a particular vantage point on the west side grid that she finds useful for situation assessment, and because she has been up there enough times that it feels familiar in the way things feel familiar when you have been in them enough times, settled-in, known.

She is up there on a Tuesday in April, the suit on, the city below her in its April state — colder than it should be still, the specific stubborn cold of a New York April that refuses to concede spring until it's absolutely forced to — and she is doing what she does up here, which is watching.

Not for anything specific. For the pattern. For the system. For the way the city moves at eleven PM on a Tuesday, the specific rhythm of it, the particular way the lights organize themselves and the streets move and the whole thing works.

Her phone buzzes.

Y/N: I can see the water tower from my window

She looks south. The window of your apartment building is visible from here, lit up, your silhouette behind the glass.

She raises one hand. A wave.

A beat. Then, from your window, a wave back.

ALYSA: go to sleep

Y/N: you first

ALYSA: I have work

Y/N: I know. be careful.

She looks at the lit window for a moment. The city goes on below her, and the cold is still the specific April cold that hasn't given up, and she is on a water tower in the suit she built out of a housing she built out of a development that started with a spider in a research wing in October, and twelve floors down and three blocks south you are at your window watching for her.

She looks at the city. She looks at your window.

ALYSA: always

She goes back to watching.

The city holds together.

🕷️

[jessalyninlove]

happy pride month to all the queer kids and adults that deserve to see their love and their identities represented on screen

[phaelusion]

for the ones who knew from the beginning, and for the ones still searching for the right word. for the girls who love girls, the boys who love boys, the people who love beyond labels, beyond expectations, beyond what the world told them was possible. for the bisexual hearts who were told to "pick a side," as if the ocean could choose only one shore. for the pansexual souls who found beauty in people, not in the boxes they were placed inside. for the asexual people whose love was never defined by what others expected from it. for the aromantic people who proved that a life without romance can still be overflowing with connection, laughter, and meaning. for the transgender people who looked at the name they were given and listened instead to the name their hearts whispered back. for the nonbinary people who stepped beyond the lines and discovered entire galaxies between "this" and "that." for the genderfluid, agender, bigender, and every identity that refuses to shrink itself to fit someone else's understanding. for the questioning people who carry uncertainty like a lantern, lighting the path one step at a time. for those who are out, for those who are not, for those who cannot be. for the elders who fought so future generations could breathe easier. for the youth who continue to imagine a kinder world. for every person who has ever hidden a piece of themselves to stay safe. for every person who finally let themselves be seen. you are not a debate. you are not a trend. you are not a phase, a confusion, or a problem waiting to be solved. you are a story unfolding. a constellation of experiences, a thousand different ways to be human. and somewhere, in all that beautiful complexity, you belong here. 🌈

[certifiedsushillover]

happy pride month! 𓏲ꪆ

[tokki------0]

𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹, 𝒜𝓁𝓎𝓈𝒶 ✵٭⊹

↪ 𝓢ynopsis : Alysa invited you to a party, but she didn't know that this party would make her jealous.

↪ 𝓦arnings: Nothinnnnnnnng A/n: still traumatised with the spiderman fic... Sorry if the story is a bit rushed, I hurried to rewrite the Spiderman fic

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

The café where Alysa suggested meeting is the kind of place that exists primarily so people can say they've been there. The walls are covered in plants that someone waters with suspicious devotion, the chairs are uncomfortable in a way that wants to read as deliberately aesthetic, and the menu costs twice what it should for drinks whose names take up three lines. You'd laughed when Alysa sent you the location, because the place is called Somewhere Nice and that's exactly the kind of café she'd choose without noticing.

You arrived early. Not by much — maybe ten minutes — enough to pick a good table and wallow a little in the waiting.

That's where the problem lies, actually. Not in the café, not in the chairs, not even in the absurd price of the latte. The problem is that you don't know exactly how to hold yourself when you're with Alysa in public. How you're supposed to behave. What distance to leave between you, what to do with your hands, how to handle the fact that your chest tightens in a mildly catastrophic way every time she smiles directly at you.

Alysa Liu is a figure skater. You knew that before you knew her, in the vague and distant way you know someone you've seen mentioned online, in article headlines you haven't always read all the way through. But knowing her from afar and knowing her for real — that's a difference you hadn't anticipated. The real Alysa is less remote than her public image, funnier, less perfect in a way that makes her even harder to look at without feeling something.

You met through a chain of mutual acquaintances convoluted enough that you struggle to explain it simply. A friend of a friend, someone who knew someone, a party you'd both been invited to where you ended up in the same conversation with someone talking about skating with a technical precision you couldn't follow. You'd looked at the girl who was talking. She was small, she laughed with her whole face, and at one point she'd looked back at you with the expression of someone checking to see if you were still following.

You were following.

It's not that you immediately knew what that meant. You'd simply kept watching her talk for too long, and then you'd exchanged numbers in a way that felt obvious in the moment, and since that night the question of what you feel, exactly, for Alysa Liu has come up with an exhausting regularity.

What you know: she texts you often. She sends you videos of things that make her laugh, photos of the ice at sunrise during her morning training sessions, messages that begin with wait I have to tell you and end thirty minutes later because Alysa tells stories with a lot of detail and digressions that don't quite finish. She called you once at eleven in the evening to ask your opinion on something entirely stupid — a question about whether pineapple really deserved all the hatred people directed at it — and you talked for two hours.

What you don't know: whether any of it means something on her end, or whether this is simply the way Alysa is with people she likes.

That's the part that escapes you. The uncomfortable part.

Because Alysa is warm in a generous way, with everyone, in a way that makes it hard to read the exact temperature of what she feels for you in particular. She's invited you to events, to parties at friends' places you didn't yet know, to impromptu group dinners. She holds your arm when you walk. She leans toward you to murmur comments during group conversations. She says your name in a way that's nothing special on paper but that makes you look up every time.

And today, she texted to say she wanted to introduce you to her friends. That she'd talked about you and they wanted to meet you.

My friends want to get to know you, she'd written. Are you free this weekend? We could meet somewhere?

You'd stared at the message for a full minute before replying yes.

Alysa arrives seven minutes late, which — from what you've learned about her — represents remarkable punctuality. She pushes through the café door with the slight urgency of someone who knows she's late but refuses to entirely show it, and she spots you immediately, which gives you that tiny fraction of a second to watch her before she's had time to adjust her expression for you to see.

She looks happy. Happy for real — not the public version. The other one.

"You got here before me," she says, settling in across from you, unbuttoning her coat with quick movements. "That's good. That's a good sign."

"A good sign of what?"

"That you're serious." She puts her phone on the table face-down, which she does when she wants the conversation to be real. You noticed that early on. "People who arrive late to important first impressions are people you can't fully trust."

You look at her. "You're seven minutes late."

She raises a finger, deeply sincere. "I'm the one making the introductions. Different rules apply to me."

You laugh despite yourself, and she smiles in that way of hers — a way that takes over her whole face at once, eyes creasing, head tilting slightly. That smile is the problem. Not the smile from her official photos. The other one. The real one.

"When are they getting here?" you ask.

"About twenty minutes. But I said twenty minutes because Camille is always half an hour late, so in reality they should be here in—" she thinks, "—thirty-five minutes, if everything goes smoothly."

"You got me here early so we'd have time alone."

It's not an accusation, more of an observation. Alysa shrugs with that slightly faux air she puts on when she doesn't want to admit something while admitting it.

"I just wanted to brief you a little on who's who," she says. "It's logistics."

"You could have done that over text."

"Texts are impersonal." She leans slightly over the table, elbows on it, hands folded. "So. There's Camille, who I mentioned — we've known each other since secondary school, she can be a little intense sometimes but in a good way, she's funny. There's Marcus, her current boyfriend, he's nice, talks a lot about music, if you get him going on that you'll get along. There's Sophie — we grew up in the same skating world, we've been close for a few years. And there's Théo who—" she pauses for just a fraction, short enough that you could have imagined it, "—who's been Marcus's best friend for a long time. He's cool."

You file all of that away. "And what did you tell them about me?"

"That you were my friend." She says that easily, without hesitation, with a naturalness that gives you no reason to resent the word but that still creates that small dip in your chest that you recognize now and carefully tuck away in its usual spot. "And that you were someone good. And Camille said she was looking forward to meeting you because apparently I never introduce my friends to the others, so if I'm doing it you must be special."

That last word lands in a way Alysa probably doesn't see — or maybe she sees something, because she looks at you for a second before straightening up and looking at the menu.

"Shall we order before they get here?"

Camille arrives first, thirty-two minutes late and with an energy that fills the café in a way disproportionate to her body. She's tall, short hair, a jacket that looks vintage and probably is. She spots Alysa immediately, raises a hand, and then her eyes shift to you with a frank curiosity that isn't unpleasant.

"Is this her?" she says, to Alysa, but looking at you.

"That's her," Alysa confirms.

Camille sits down next to you without ceremony and says your name as though she already knows you. "Alysa's talked about you so much I feel like we're already friends."

You look at Alysa. She looks at her coffee.

"Same," you say to Camille, who smiles.

Marcus arrives two minutes later, with Théo, and the table fills up suddenly. Marcus is indeed someone who talks a lot about music — you learn that in the first five minutes of conversation — but in a way that's contagious rather than exhausting. He asks questions, he listens to the answers, he builds on them. Théo is quieter, with a dry humor that takes a few minutes to surface and is worth waiting for. Sophie is the last to arrive, slightly breathless, a scarf unwound around her neck, apologizing to everyone in general before settling into the remaining chair.

The dynamic establishes itself quickly, more quickly than you'd have predicted. You'd had a slight apprehension on the way over — that ordinary anxiety of arriving in a group of people who've known each other for years and feeling like you don't quite have a place in the jokes that assume a shared history of decades. But that's not what happens. Camille actively folds you in, asks you questions, steers topics in your direction. Marcus had asked what you were listening to lately and you'd told him and for ten minutes you'd had a conversation that left the others slightly behind — not unkindly, just because you'd found something.

Théo, at one point, said something quietly funny and you'd laughed and he'd looked satisfied in a neutral way, like someone who appreciates a well-aimed shot without making a big deal of it.

Sophie talks about skating with Alysa in moments — names and competitions you don't all know — and during those moments you listen rather than participate, but that's fine too, it's pleasant to hear Alysa in her natural environment, talking about something that belongs entirely to her.

What happens, in short, is that you get along well with her friends. Well, really — not just politely. And that should be a good thing. It is a good thing. You tell yourself that several times during the evening, in a way that proves you need the reminder.

At one point, Alysa goes to the bathroom. It's the kind of unremarkable moment that shouldn't change anything but changes something, because suddenly you're just yourself in this group, without her as a common reference, and the conversation continues naturally.

Camille talks to you about her job, Marcus and Théo debate something you only half follow, and then Sophie turns to you and asks with total simplicity: "How long have you two known each other — you and Alysa?"

"A few months," you say. "About five."

Sophie nods. "She talks about you a lot."

There's something in the way she says it — not maliciously, just as a statement of fact — that makes you search for something in her expression. But there's nothing to read there, only neutral observation.

"Hopefully good things," you say, because that's the default response.

Sophie smiles slightly. "Always."

Alysa comes back before you have time to decide what to do with that. She resettles next to you — not across from you, next to you — and that too is something you note without knowing exactly why, and the conversation resumes.

The evening ends late, later than you'd have imagined when you arrived. The café had started to empty around them, the lighting shifted temperature slightly, and no one looked at the time out loud, but they finally made the slow, collective movement of people accepting that it's over.

On the pavement outside, there are the goodbyes that stretch on the way goodbyes between friends always do. Camille takes your number directly — not through Alysa — which makes Alysa laugh in a way that looks like surprise. "I'll send you an invitation to something soon," says Camille as though this is just information you should file away. Marcus and Théo leave together with a vague collective handshake. Sophie hugs Alysa, gives you a kiss on the cheek, and heads off.

And then it's just the two of you, on the pavement.

"So?" says Alysa.

"So what?"

She has that slightly impatient air of someone waiting for an answer they already know but want to hear anyway. "Did it go well?"

"It went very well," you say, honestly.

She smiles. Really, fully. "I told you." She starts walking in the direction of her car and you walk with her, both heading the same way without it needing to be decided. "Camille adores you. I can tell when she takes someone's number on her own initiative."

"Théo is funny."

"He's funny when he trusts you. He usually needs time."

"Marcus really does know everything about music."

"Marcus knows everything about music and nothing about anything else," says Alysa, affectionately. "That's his thing."

You walk. The streets are quiet — not empty, but quiet in that clean way of a weeknight evening. Alysa has her hands in her coat pockets and she looks ahead but regularly toward you, quick checks.

"Sophie is nice," you say.

"Sophie is a good person," Alysa confirms. "We've known each other a long time. It's the kind of friendship that has survived a lot of things."

There's something in her voice there — not exactly melancholy, just texture. You don't push.

You reach her car. She stops, turns toward you, and there's that moment that sometimes exists at the end of an evening that went well — that suspended beat where you don't yet know whether you're simply saying goodbye or staying one more minute.

"Thank you," says Alysa. "For coming."

You look at her. "You invited me."

"Yeah, but." She shrugs in a way that looks like something she doesn't finish. "It was important to me. That it went well." Another shrug, smaller this time. "That's all."

You don't know exactly what to do with that. So you say good night and drive home, and spend the twenty minutes in your car thinking about almost nothing else.

Two weeks pass.

Two weeks during which Camille does in fact send you an invitation — a party at her place one Friday — and you go, and Alysa is there too, and there are a dozen other people you don't know yet. Marcus plays music from his phone and argues with two different people about every choice. Théo is in a corner talking to someone, gives you a nod when you arrive — the kind of nod that means we know each other now, you passed.

And you and Alysa spend the evening together but not only together. She drifts toward other people, you drift toward other people, and then you find each other again in moments — in the kitchen, on the balcony, in the middle of commenting on something you've both just seen. It's comfortable in a way you wouldn't have predicted. It's the way two people exist in a room when they know the other is there without needing to keep checking.

You notice things, because you always notice things about Alysa. You notice that she laughs louder with Camille than in any other context. You notice that Sophie touches her arm when she talks and that Alysa doesn't register it. You notice that when you're at the other end of the room, Alysa knows where you are — because two or three times you look up and she's already watching you.

Maybe it's nothing. You've told yourself that often enough that it's lost its power to convince you.

At the end of the party, in Camille's hallway while people collect their coats, Théo ends up beside you and says, in a way that has nothing to do with what you were thinking: "Are you in the city for long?"

"I think so, yes," you say. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Just — Camille wanted to organize something next week. She was wondering if people would be available."

"I think I'm free."

Théo nods. "Cool."

It's an entirely unremarkable conversation. There's nothing in it. And yet, standing two meters away, Alysa is looking in your direction with something in her expression you don't quite recognize, and when you meet her eyes she turns back toward Sophie.

The following week, Marcus organizes something at a bar. Not an official party, just people getting together to watch something on a screen and drink cheap things. You go because Camille texted you directly, and because you want to go — not just because Alysa will be there.

That's what you tell yourself.

Alysa is there when you arrive, already settled with Sophie in a corner of the room, and she waves the second she sees you. Her wave is enthusiastic in a mildly disproportionate way — both arms — the kind of gesture that's bigger than necessary and has something involuntary about it. You sit next to her because that's where there's space.

The evening resembles the one before, in the good way. The group has expanded slightly, there are two or three people you don't know yet, but you've learned by now that Camille and Marcus's friends tend to be the kind of people you can talk to without a formal introduction.

Théo arrives late, which is new — from what you've gathered, it's usually Camille who's the systematic latecomer. He settles in next to Marcus and at one point looks in your direction and says something to Marcus that you can't hear, and Marcus nods.

You don't think much of it in the moment.

What you do think about in the moment is Alysa. As usual. Tonight she's in a particular state — quieter than normal, not in a worrying way, but noticeably. She participates in the conversation, she laughs at the right moments, she's present, but there's a slight distance in her eyes sometimes, something looking further than the room.

You don't ask her what's wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong and you're projecting. That's something you try not to do.

At one point you go to get drinks and Théo ends up following you to the bar, not in an organized way — you were both just standing at the same time. He orders something, you order something, and while waiting he says: "Did you grow up here?"

"No," you say. "You?"

"Yes." He thinks about it. "Well, forty minutes from here. That counts."

You talk about that for a few minutes — the city, the neighborhoods, those vague and harmless things you say when you're not yet sure how to talk to someone. It's pleasant. Théo is easy company once he's decided you exist, you've learned.

When you come back to the table, Alysa looks at both your glasses in a fairly neutral way, but for a fraction of a second you could have sworn you saw something else. You sit back down. Alysa says something to Sophie. The evening continues.

What happens next, you learn after the fact.

It's Camille who tells you — not intentionally, or at least not entirely intentionally. You're together for coffee the following Thursday, just the two of you, because Camille had texted and suggested it and you'd said yes because Camille is someone you want to spend time with, independently of everything else.

You're in another café, less aesthetically ambitious than the first, and Camille is talking about her job in a way that is simultaneously a complaint and an adventure story, and you listen and chime in at the right moments and it's nice.

And then she changes subject with the fluency she brings to everything.

"You know Alysa is completely gone on you, right?" she says.

You look at your coffee. "Sorry?"

Camille looks at you with the patience of someone who knows she's just said something that landed precisely. "That's an observation, not a question." She takes a sip. "I just wanted to make sure you were aware."

"We're friends," you say, using the word Alysa herself used.

Camille makes a sound that's not quite a laugh. "She introduced you as her friend."

"That's what we are."

"Sure." She puts her cup down. "Look, I'm just telling you what I see. And what I see is someone who's been making doe eyes at you since she introduced you to the group." She tilts her head slightly. "You haven't noticed?"

You've noticed. You've noticed a quantity of things, carefully filed in a category labeled probably nothing that you revisit regularly. "I don't know if—"

"It's fine," says Camille. "You don't have to decide anything right now. I'm just giving you the information. That's all." She picks up her coffee again. "The decision is yours."

The conversation moves on to other things, because Camille is someone capable of dropping a revelation like that and immediately moving to something else, and you're vaguely grateful for it because it gives you time to file away what she's just said somewhere accessible without having to know what to do with it yet.

You think about it the whole drive home. In your car, both hands on the wheel, you replay Alysa's words. My friend. The natural, unhesitating way she'd said it that first evening.

And then you remember the way she'd looked at you on the pavement afterward. It was important to me. The shrug that didn't finish its sentence.

You still don't know what to do with it. But the information is there now, harder to ignore than before.

There's a party at Marcus's the following Saturday.

Alysa sends you a message Friday evening to say it's at his place, that you should come, that she can pick you up if you want. That last part is new. You hadn't done that yet — been in the same car, just the two of you, going somewhere together.

You tell her yes.

She arrives on time, which — from what you've learned — is a conscious effort on her part. She's in a fairly high-energy state tonight, the kind that shows in her quicker movements, in the way she speaks in sentences that slightly overlap. She asks you about your week and listens to the answers and asks follow-up questions, and you're still on the way when you realize twenty minutes have passed since you got in the car.

"You seem happy tonight," you say.

"I am happy tonight," she confirms. "The week was long." A small silence. "It's good to get out."

You arrive at Marcus's. The apartment is larger than you'd have imagined for him — maybe because Marcus gives the impression of being someone who prefers small rooms — but he actually has a spacious living room with a hi-fi setup that takes up an entire wall, and that's clearly the room that matters.

The usual people are there, plus a few new ones you don't recognize. Alysa and you enter together and Camille spots you first, and you see Camille look back and forth between Alysa and you with a smile she's visibly working to keep at a reasonable level.

The evening gets going. You know enough people in this group now that you don't have to navigate carefully — you can just be there and let conversations find you, and it's pleasant. Marcus asks if you've listened to the album you were discussing last time, you tell him yes and it starts up again for fifteen minutes on that subject, and during those fifteen minutes you're not particularly attentive to what's happening around you.

It's when you turn around to find Alysa in the room that you spot her mid-conversation with someone you don't recognize — someone new tonight — and at the same time Théo approaches you with two drinks in his hands and holds one out to you.

"Marcus sent me to do service," he says.

"It's a thankless job."

"He says I'm more efficient than him because I don't stop to talk to everyone on the way."

You laugh. Théo has that slightly satisfied smile he brings out every time he's landed something precise.

You talk. It's easy — it has been for the last few evenings — and you don't analyze it too much because he's just someone you know now and get along with. He asks about your work with genuine curiosity and you answer and ask him questions in return.

At one point you look in Alysa's direction without quite deciding to. She's still talking with the same person, but now she's looking at you — at you — from across the room. When your eyes meet, she doesn't look away immediately this time; she holds the contact for a second before returning to her conversation.

Something in your chest does something you deliberately ignore.

The evening moves on. At some point you lose Théo in the collective drift of people circulating, and you end up in the kitchen with Sophie, who tells you about something that happened at training this week that made her half furious and half hysterical. You listen and laugh at the right moments, and Sophie is someone you like easily, without complications.

Then Camille appears in the kitchen doorway, looks around, and when she sees you she walks in with purpose.

"Sophie," she says, "Marcus is looking for you for something."

Sophie frowns. "For what?"

"I don't know, something about music, you know what he's like."

Sophie shrugs and leaves, and Camille watches her go then turns to you with an expression that clearly indicates there was probably no message from Marcus.

"What," you say.

"Nothing." She leans against the counter. "I just wanted to tell you something before the evening ends." She looks at you directly, the way she always does when she's saying something that matters. "Théo talked to me tonight."

You wait.

"He thinks you're cute." She says it flatly, like a logistical update. "He asked me if you were seeing anyone."

The silence in the kitchen is suddenly quite present.

"He asked you?" you say, finally.

"He didn't know who else to ask." She crosses her arms. "I told him I'd look into it." She looks at you. "So. Are you seeing someone?"

"No," you say.

"Yeah." She nods, expressionless. "That's what I thought."

You wait again. Camille says nothing more, and you wonder if that's all, if this conversation is just a transmission of information — and then you realize, from Camille's expression, that it isn't.

"There's a second part to what you want to say," you say.

Camille takes a moment. "I haven't answered him yet." She looks at you. "I'm waiting to see if you have something to tell me first."

You look at her.

She looks at you.

"Camille."

"I'm just saying." She pushes off the counter. "Théo is good. He's nice, he's grounded, he's interesting. He'd probably be good for you." A pause. "But you know what I think."

"You think Alysa—"

"I think what I already said." She shrugs, slightly, almost generous. "It's your life. Your choice. But I wanted you to have the full information before you decide anything."

She leaves the kitchen and you stay there for a minute, both hands on the counter, looking at the wall opposite without really seeing it.

You go back to the living room. The evening continues. You talk to people, you drink something, you exist in the room in a way that looks like normalcy, and the whole time part of your attention is on Alysa in a way you now recognize as the way she's always been on you in these settings.

Alysa, tonight, is different from last week. She's there but with that slight distance again — something you sense beneath her usual energy. She laughs, she talks, she's present, but there's something you don't yet know how to name.

At one point you find yourselves in the same space between two conversations, and she says: "You okay?"

"I'm okay," you say. "You?"

"Yeah." She looks at something behind you for a second, then back to you. "You're doing well tonight. Everyone loves you."

There's something in the way she says it. Not jealousy, not clearly, but something less readable, less easily filed away.

"Your group is great," you say.

"Our group," she corrects, easily.

Our group. You file that away too.

Théo passes close to both of you at that moment and says something to you both — something banal, a joke about Marcus and his musical choices. You both laugh. And then he moves on, and you look at Alysa, and the expression on her face is something you hadn't expected to see.

Not anger. Not really. Something softer and more uncomfortable than that.

You leave together because Alysa drove you there and drives you back, and in the car there's a silence that wasn't there on the way over. Not exactly unpleasant, but present in a different way. Alysa drives with both hands on the wheel, which she doesn't usually do, and she looks at the road with a focus that's slightly too concentrated for the situation.

"Good evening," you say, because it was.

"Yeah," she says. "Good evening."

Silence.

"You seem off," you say.

"I'm not off." She says it too quickly, and she knows it, because she adds, more slowly: "I'm just tired."

You look at her profile. "You weren't working this week."

"Tiredness isn't just physical."

You'd wait for her to elaborate, but something in her tone says she's not going to elaborate tonight, so you let the silence return and you drive.

She stops in front of your place. You undo your seatbelt but don't get out right away, and she stays there looking at the street, hands still on the wheel, engine still running.

"Théo is nice," she says, without you having led her there.

You pause. "Yeah."

"You get along well." It's not a question.

"We talk easily, yeah."

A moment. She nods in a way that says she wanted to confirm something and it's confirmed now — but that something isn't something simple.

"Sleep well," she says.

You look at her for one more second. There's something there you want to touch but that's behind glass, something she's not giving you access to tonight.

"You too," you say, and you get out.

You're not sure what happens during the ten days that follow.

Alysa texts you as usual — not less often, nothing changes on that front. But there's something slightly off in the tone, hard to identify precisely. The messages are there, affectionate, true to themselves, and at the same time she doesn't suggest plans. Normally it's her who suggests things — she texts to say there's something on Friday, or do you want to go somewhere this week? These ten days, she doesn't suggest anything.

You could have suggested something yourself. You think about it. But there's something in the waiting that holds you back — something you don't analyze too directly, because if you do you'll have to decide what to do with it.

Camille, for her part, texts you about a party at a place you don't know, on Friday. She adds that everyone will be there. You reply yes without asking Alysa if she's going, because Camille said everyone and you take that to be true.

Friday arrives. The place is a quieter bar than usual, more intimate — banquettes rather than standing tables. You arrive on time, see Marcus and Théo already there, sit with them. Sophie arrives a few minutes later. Camille five minutes after Sophie, with two people you don't know.

Alysa arrives last.

She comes in and her gaze sweeps the room quickly, and it lands on you almost immediately, and something in her expression shifts slightly in that moment — softens or sharpens, you can't quite tell which.

She sits down across from you this time, not beside you.

The evening begins like the others. Conversation circulates, people come and go at the adjacent tables, glasses fill and empty. Alysa is animated tonight, more than last week, and she talks with the energy of someone who has decided that tonight she'll be present. She jokes with Marcus, teases Sophie about something whose context you don't know, watches Camille do an impression of someone everyone knows but you, and laughs loud enough that the table next to you turns around.

And then there's a moment, in a lull in conversation, where Alysa looks at you and asks: "How was the rest of the week?"

"Fine," you say. "Long. You?"

"Same." She turns her glass in her hands. "What did you do?"

You tell her about your week. She listens the way she always listens — with that total attention that's always made talking to Alysa feel like what you're saying matters. And while you talk you see that something in her is less contracted than in these past days, that the slight distance you'd been perceiving in her messages isn't there tonight in the same way.

That's good. It relieves you in a way you hadn't admitted you needed.

The moment that changes something happens later in the evening.

Camille has disappeared somewhere with the two people she brought, Sophie is talking with someone at the adjacent table, Marcus is at the bar. Left are Alysa, Théo, and you.

Théo says something funny. You laugh. He has that satisfied smile, and then he says, with the casualness of someone who's decided to try: "What are you up to this weekend? There's something on Sunday if you feel like—"

And he doesn't finish his sentence because Alysa says, too quickly, visibly: "She's busy Sunday."

Silence.

Théo looks at her. You look at her. She looks at her glass as though she's just realized what she's done.

A moment that lasts three seconds too long settles over the table.

Théo takes a calm sip. He looks amused more than anything — or maybe he's feigning amusement because it's the least complicated reaction available. "Alright," he says, lightly.

And then he gets up to join Marcus at the bar, leaving the two of you alone.

Alysa doesn't look up for several seconds. When she does, you're still watching her, and she knows it, and her expression is something you've never seen on her before. Embarrassment, maybe, but beneath the embarrassment there's something else — something more exposed.

"Sorry," she says, quietly enough that it doesn't carry beyond the two of you. "I don't know why I said that."

You wait.

"That was weird," she adds.

"You said I was busy Sunday," you say.

"Yeah." She runs a hand through her hair — quick, involuntary. "I know you're not necessarily busy Sunday."

"Why did you say it then?"

She doesn't answer right away. She looks at the table, she looks at her glass, and you see something happening on her face that looks like someone weighing a decision.

"I don't know," she says finally — and it's clearly a lie, but a gentle lie, not a defensive one. The kind of lie you tell when you're not yet ready to tell the truth.

You could have left it there. That's what you'd normally do — take the gentle lie, file it alongside all the other things you file away, talk about something else. But tonight, for some reason, you don't want to.

"Alysa."

She looks up.

"What's been going on for the past few weeks?"

She looks at you, and there's something in her expression that resembles relief mixed with fear — like someone being finally asked the question they were dreading and hoping for at the same time.

"I don't know what you mean," she says, but it's different from the lie before. This one is more fragile.

"Yes you do."

She looks away. The room around you is noisy in a way that creates its own intimacy — all these people talking, this low music, this dim lighting. No one is looking at you.

"It's complicated," she says finally.

"What's complicated?"

And she says nothing for long enough that you start to think she's not going to say anything at all — and then she says, very quietly, still looking elsewhere: "I don't like the way I feel when you talk to Théo."

The bar keeps existing around you. Marcus laughs with someone at the counter. Music plays. And you're sitting there with that sentence landing with a precision you'd stopped expecting.

"How do you feel?" you ask.

She turns her head toward you and her eyes have that quality — that way of being directly on you, without detour. "Like I don't want you to talk to him." Pause. "Like I want you to talk to me instead." She says it in a voice that's not entirely steady but doesn't tremble either — someone saying a difficult thing with precision because that's the only way she knows how to do difficult things. "Which is stupid because you talk to me all the time, that's not the problem, the problem is—" she stops.

"What's the problem?" you ask.

She looks at you.

"I don't want him to interest you," she says. "I don't want anyone else to interest you."

You say nothing. You let that exist in the air between you.

And then — because this is Alysa, and Alysa does things fully once she's decided to do them: "I introduced you as my friend because that was the word that came out. Because I didn't know what other word to use without putting you in a position where you'd have to respond to something I'd never told you." She looks down for a second, then back up. "But I think if I'd had another word, I would have wanted to use it."

The silence is different now. Not uncomfortable, not tense — just full of something.

"You never told me," you start.

"No."

"Why?"

She thinks. Really thinks — you can see her thinking. "Because I was afraid it would change things. And the way things are now is already something I want to hold onto." She looks at you. "Even if it's not enough, it's still something."

You think about these five months. About all the conversations. About the fact that she always knows where you are in a room. About her way of saying your name. About that evening on the pavement outside the café — it was important to me, the shrug that didn't finish itself.

"It's enough," you say. "What you said. It's enough for me to tell you something too."

She looks at you with total attention, both hands motionless around her glass.

"I've been filing things in a category called probably nothing since we've known each other," you say. "Things you did, things you said. The way you always know where I am in a room. The way you text. The fact that you introduced me to your friends because it was important to you." You pause. "I kept telling myself it was probably nothing because it was simpler than telling myself what it maybe was."

"What was it maybe?"

You look at her. "Something."

The word lands between you — simple, insufficient, and whole at the same time.

Alysa stays still for a second and then her expression does something — that movement that belongs to her, that way she has of smiling when something touches her for real, before she's even decided to smile. It starts in her eyes and travels down to her mouth and it's the smile from when she's happy for real. Not the public one. The other one.

"Something," she repeats.

"Something."

She laughs softly — not loud, something low and relieved. "That's the vaguest word I've ever heard."

"It was the most precise one I had."

"I'm in the same place, I suppose." She looks at you. "Something."

You stay like that for a moment, and it's strange and tender and it resembles what it is — two people who have just put something on the table for the first time, who are looking at what it is and don't yet have all the words for it but who know the words will come.

Around you the evening slowly reclaims its rights. Marcus comes back from the bar with drinks, Théo with him, and they resettle without it being clear whether they understood that something happened during their absence or not. Théo looks at you for a second — not long — with that dry humor of his that doesn't comment on anything directly.

Camille reappears shortly after, and she looks at both of you in turn and then at the table with the expression of someone reading something and filing the information without comment — which, for Camille, represents a considerable effort.

Sophie is talking about something. The conversation picks back up.

But now you're sitting across from Alysa and something has changed in the texture of it, in the way you two exist in relation to each other at this table. She looks at you differently, or you look at her differently, or both — hard to say. When something funny is said in the conversation, you both look at each other in the same half-second, and it's unremarkable except that tonight it isn't.

Later, in a lull, she puts down her glass and says, quietly enough that it's just between you: "Sunday. Are you really busy?"

"No," you say.

"So then."

"So then what?"

She looks at you with a smile that's slightly nervous below the surface and slightly luminous above. "So then we could do something. You and me. Not a group evening."

"Just the two of us."

"Just the two of us." She waits. "If you want."

"I want," you say.

She nods, and in that nod there's something that resembles a relief you recognize because you feel it too — that finally, at last, here we are.

Sunday, it rains.

Not a catastrophic rain, just that low and steady rain that changes the color of everything and makes the streets gleam and the air different. You'd left your place late because you'd spent too long deciding what to wear, which was slightly ridiculous and which you'd admitted out loud to your empty apartment while putting back the third option you'd tried on.

Alysa had told you to come to hers. That you'd decide from there what to do.

You know her apartment a little already — you've been by two or three times — but never alone together, always with other people around. Today is different. She opens the door before you've had time to knock twice, and she looks like she's decided the day will be relaxed: comfortable clothes, hair down in a way that's rarely her public position.

"It's raining," she says, as though this is something you hadn't noticed.

"It's raining," you confirm.

"We'll stay in then. Unless you want to go out anyway."

"I don't want to go out."

She steps back from the door and you come in.

Her apartment is what it's always looked like — someone actually lives there, doesn't just sleep there. Things are everywhere in the positive sense: books stacked in a system that's neither quite alphabetical nor quite chronological, photos magnetized to the fridge, a jacket she forgot to hang draped over the back of a chair, a plant that seems to be thriving on the windowsill.

"Are you hungry?" she calls from the kitchen.

"A little."

She looks in her fridge with the energy of someone hoping something interesting has appeared since she last checked. "I have ingredients for crêpes or ingredients for scrambled eggs, and after that I think we order in."

"Crêpes."

"Good answer."

She starts making crêpes with the authority of someone who's done it often, mixing things without really measuring, and you sit on the counter because that's where there's space and it's closer.

You talk while she cooks. About nothing in particular at first — the past week, a show she's been watching that you should watch too, something Marcus said on Friday that was funny in retrospect. The rain continues outside. The kitchen is warm.

At one point she pours batter into the pan and you watch her do it and she glances at you from the corner of her eye in a way that means she has something to say.

"I've been thinking about Friday evening," she says.

"Me too."

She flips the crêpe with a gesture that is either experience or luck. "I should have said things sooner."

"Maybe," you say. "Or maybe the moment wasn't there before."

She thinks about that. "I'd been looking for the right moment for a while." She nudges the crêpe in the pan, eyes on the cooking. "And every time I found a reason why it wasn't quite the right moment yet."

"What reason?"

"That I wasn't sure how you saw things. That I didn't want to put something heavy between us when it was good the way it was. That if I was wrong, it would change what we had." She turns toward you, leaning against the opposite counter, pan still in hand. "And then you came into the group and everyone liked you and it was good — really good — and then Théo—" she stops.

"Théo wasn't the person in this story," you say.

"No," she agrees. "But he helped me understand what I felt. Or at least stop ignoring it." She sets the pan down. "Seeing someone else be interested in you and realizing I didn't like it at all — it's not the most elegant way to arrive at your conclusions."

"It's human."

"It's jealous."

"It's human," you repeat.

Elle vous regarde un instant, et il y a dans son expression cette vulnérabilité tranquille — celle qu'on n'offre pas à tout le monde, celle qui a un prix.

"I just wanted it to be me," she says. "Someone you wanted in your life in a way that was different from the others."

You step down from the counter. You're standing now, at a reasonable distance from her, and she doesn't move but something in her posture shifts — opens slightly.

"You've been different from the others since the beginning," you say. "That's why I needed an entire category to file the things you did."

She laughs — low, slightly breathless. "The probably nothing category."

"The probably nothing category."

"What was in it?"

You think. "The way you always know where I am in a room."

She says nothing.

"The way you say my name. The way you text. The fact of staying on that pavement after that first evening and saying it mattered to you that it went well." You look at her. "All the ways you made me feel like I had a place in something that mattered to you."

Alysa looks at you with an expression you no longer try to decode, because you can read it now — easily, unambiguously.

"You have a place," she says.

And then — because this is Alysa, and Alysa does difficult things directly once she's decided to do them: "Can I—" she starts, and she doesn't finish the sentence but she makes a tiny movement forward.

"Yes," you say, before she's had time to find the words.

She kisses you.

It's soft and precise and it has something recognized about it, like something you'd been waiting for long enough that it feels like a return rather than a beginning. Her hand finds your cheek and settles there gently, and you kiss her back with something that resembles relief and something else — something larger.

When you pull apart, it's by centimeters. Her hand stays where it is. Your foreheads almost touch.

"The crêpe is burning," you say.

She laughs — a real laugh — and turns back to the stove.

You eat the crêpes on the sofa because it's more comfortable than the table, with the rain still going outside and something on the television that neither of you is really watching. Alysa is sitting with her legs folded under her and you're beside her, your shoulders touching, and there's in it a quality of ordinariness that is precisely what you wanted without having known how to name it.

"Camille is going to be insufferable," says Alysa at one point, eyes on the screen.

"She was already insufferable. She knew before you did, apparently."

Alysa turns to you. "She said something to you?"

"She told me what she saw."

"What did she see?"

"She said you were making doe eyes at me."

Alysa sets her plate on the coffee table with a movement slightly more abrupt than necessary. "Doe eyes."

"Her words."

"My doe eyes." She looks caught between outrage and laughter. "I hope she's pleased with herself."

"I think she is."

You laugh and she laughs too and your shoulders touch again differently now, and something in the apartment changes texture permanently — in the good way, in the way that means the things you've said can't be unsaid and now you both know what you are to each other.

Not everything, maybe. The clear and precise words aren't all there yet. But the foundation is there. The thing is there.

And that's enough for today.

That's more than enough, actually.

What comes after that you couldn't recount in distinct moments, because it doesn't work like that. It works like something settling in, taking up space progressively, becoming the way things are.

Alysa still sends you videos of things that make her laugh. Except now she also sends photos of the ice in the morning with captions that say things like I was thinking about you and I wish you'd been here. You reply and you talk for hours and sometimes you wake up to messages she sent at a reasonable hour on her end but that you missed because you were sleeping, and you reply in the morning and the conversation picks back up.

Her friends see you differently. Camille has the good grace not to say it out loud too often — which, for Camille, is a restraint worth acknowledging. Marcus folds you into music conversations in a way that means he's decided you're part of the group for good now. Sophie is the same with you as she's always been, warm and direct. Théo says hello with the ease of someone who has no reason to do otherwise, and you're grateful to him for it without you ever discussing it.

The evenings continue, but now Alysa arrives with you or you arrive with her or one of you waits for the other, and it's simple logistics — but it means something.

There's an evening, a few weeks later, at Camille's again — because Camille organizes things most often. You're in a corner with Sophie and someone else you know now, and Alysa is telling a story with that energy she brings to things that amuse her: arms moving, rhythm rising. You watch her do it and you remember that first evening, when you only knew her as someone you'd seen online, and the distance between that moment and this one is something you'd have trouble measuring.

She senses you watching, or she's looking for it, because she turns her head for a second in your direction in the middle of her story. Her gaze finds you immediately and she has a half-second smile — just for you — before returning to what she was saying.

And you think about all the looks like that you'd filed in the wrong category. All the times you'd decided it was probably nothing and set it aside. About the patience it cost both of you to get here, and about the obviousness of the fact that you would have gotten here anyway, one way or another — because certain things have a way of finding their path.

It's not a dramatic thought. It's just something you notice, quietly, at a party at Camille's on a Friday evening, with Marcus's music in the background and Alysa finishing her story and turning toward you to see if you'd been following.

You'd been following.

[tokki------0]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝒾𝓇𝓁 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𐙚₊˚⊹

part 1

✧⋆

Synopsis : Y/N, a journalist, falls for the mysterious superhero Spiderwoman while trying to interview her. But Spiderwoman is secretly Alysa, Y/N's best friend, who has been in love with her for years. As Y/N grows closer to Spiderwoman, Alysa struggles to keep her identity a secret.

A/n : I hope you like it I spent a lot of time making it :)

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

The city never really slept.

You'd learned that early on, back when you first moved to New York — back when the rent was terrifying and the subway map felt like a foreign language and you used to stand on the fire escape of your tiny third-floor apartment, coffee mug warm in both hands, watching the streets below pulse with that specific, breathless energy that belonged only to this city, this ridiculous, overwhelming, intoxicating city that had somehow become home.

That was four years ago.

Now you stood on that same fire escape, that same chipped mug between your palms, and you didn't look at the streets anymore. You looked at the skyline. You'd learned where to look for her — where the webs would catch the early morning light between the towers, where the silk threads would glitter like thrown silver against the grey pre-dawn sky. You told yourself you were looking for a story. You told yourself it was professional instinct.

You'd been telling yourself that for three months.

Your phone buzzed on the windowsill.

ALYSA : you're on the fire escape again aren't you

You laughed before you could stop yourself — a short, surprised sound that disappeared into the morning air.

YOU : how do you even know that

ALYSA : because it's 6:47am and you have a 9am pitch meeting and you're NOT texting me from inside your apartment panicking about your outline, which means you're already outside staring at the sky like a Victorian widow waiting for a ship

YOU : a Victorian widow??

ALYSA : dramatic. melancholic. unnecessarily pretty about it.

YOU : I hate you

ALYSA : no you don't. coffee in 20? I'm already at the corner place

You looked back at the skyline one more time. Nothing. Just steel and pale sky and the sound of the city waking up.

YOU : order me the oat latte

ALYSA : already did :)

That was the thing about Alysa Liu that nobody who didn't know her would ever guess from the outside — she was always one step ahead. Not in an aggressive way, not in the way that some people were ahead of you just to make you feel slow. In the quiet, careful way of someone who had been paying attention to you for a very long time and simply... knew.

She knew you took oat milk even though you'd spent the first two months of your friendship insisting you were a regular-milk person. She knew you stress-cleaned your desk when you had a deadline. She knew that you went quiet for exactly forty-five minutes after getting bad feedback on a piece, and that you needed to be left alone for those forty-five minutes but needed someone to appear with takeout immediately after.

She knew you in the specific, thorough way of a person who was in love.

Not the dramatic kind of love people wrote songs about. Not the kind that arrived all at once and demanded attention.

Alysa's love had settled quietly into her life over the years, weaving itself between shared coffees and late-night phone calls, between deadlines and inside jokes and ordinary mornings.

She loved you in a way she never intended to.

She loved you enough to never say it.

You had never once considered that possibility.

Alysa avait cessé d'essayer de se souvenir exactement quand c'était arrivé.

Maybe it had been during one of their endless coffee runs.

Maybe it had been the night Y/N stayed awake until two in the morning helping her rewrite an article.

Maybe it had been even earlier.

All she knew was that somewhere along the way, Y/N's happiness had started mattering to her more than her own.

You climbed back through the window, tugged your jacket off the hook by the door, grabbed your bag, and went to meet her.

The corner café was called Marguerite's and it had about twelve seats and one very judgmental tabby cat named Bertrand who sat on the counter and watched you eat. You loved it unreasonably. Alysa had found it, of course — Alysa found all the good places, had some kind of internal radar for the hidden and the quiet and the worth-keeping.

She was already at the table by the window when you pushed through the door, laptop open, hair pulled back in a loose bun that somehow still managed to look effortlessly put-together. She was wearing a deep burgundy sweater and she had her reading glasses on — the small rectangular ones she refused to wear in public except around you — and she was frowning at her screen with the focused intensity she brought to everything she cared about.

She looked up when you came in, and she smiled, and it was — it was just a smile, just Alysa's smile, the one you'd seen a hundred thousand times, and yet something about the morning light catching her face made you pause for just a second in the doorway.

Just a second. Nothing significant.

"You look terrible," she said warmly.

"Thank you, I love you too." You dropped into the seat across from her and pulled your latte toward you. "What are you working on?"

"The piece on the infrastructure bill. It's due Thursday and I've interviewed six people who all contradict each other." She pulled her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Politics is exhausting."

"Politics is exhausting," you agreed, "which is why I cover culture."

"Culture is also exhausting."

"Yes, but at least someone's crying about a movie and not about, I don't know, municipal zoning laws."

She laughed — that bright, genuine laugh that she didn't give to everyone, the one that meant she'd actually found something funny and wasn't just being polite. You liked being the person who got that laugh. You'd always liked it.

"How's your pitch?" she asked, leaning forward on her elbows.

"Fine. I think. I have three story ideas and two of them are genuinely good and one of them is what I'm going to pitch because Harmon will hate the good ones."

"Your editor has terrible taste."

"My editor has very specific taste, which is somehow worse." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "He rejected my piece on the Met retrospective because, and I quote, 'our readers don't care about dead photographers.'"

Alysa looked pained. "That was a beautiful piece."

"It was an excellent piece."

"I read the draft. I cried."

"I know, I know." You shook your head. "Anyway. I pitch at nine. I'll survive. What's your day?"

She glanced back at her screen. "Interview at eleven, edit meeting at two, and then I have to —" She paused. Something shifted in her expression — small, barely there, a micro-hesitation you'd noticed before and never been able to name. "I have a thing later. Might be late tonight."

"A thing," you repeated.

"A thing."

You raised an eyebrow. She raised one back. This was a long-standing dance between you — Alysa had a private life that occasionally produced mysterious evening plans and evasive answers, and you had learned not to push, partly because she would tell you eventually and partly because some stubborn, stupid part of you didn't really want to know if the answer was a date.

"Okay," you said. "A thing."

"A thing." She smiled and it was slightly too bright, slightly too quick, and she picked her glasses back up and put them on and looked at her screen. "Tell me your pitch ideas. The good ones. Not the Harmon-approved one."

So you talked, and she listened, and outside the window the city went about its morning, and Bertrand the cat judged you from the counter, and neither of you said the things you weren't saying.

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

The New York Metropolitan Courier occupied the fourteenth through seventeenth floors of a building on 48th Street that had last been renovated in 2009 and showed every year of it. The carpet was the specific shade of grey that existed only in offices that had given up. The overhead lighting hummed. The coffee from the machine on the fourteenth floor had the texture of determination and the flavor of regret.

You loved it. You had loved it since your first day as an intern six years ago, when you'd been twenty-two and terrified and had somehow convinced yourself that you were going to change the world through arts and culture journalism. You still believed that, mostly. On the good days.

Your desk was on the sixteenth floor, in the middle section, between Marcus Webb (sports, perpetually on the phone, gesticulated wildly) and the window, which looked out onto 48th Street and, if you craned slightly to the right, a sliver of sky between buildings that on clear days turned a very satisfying shade of blue.

Alysa's desk was twelve feet away, because four years ago when she'd joined the paper you had immediately submitted a formal request to have her moved next to you, and your editor at the time, a woman named Patricia who had been profoundly reasonable, had made it happen. Now Patricia was gone, Harmon was here, and you were grateful for the twelve feet every single day.

You made it to the pitch meeting with four minutes to spare. Seven people sat around the conference table: you, Alysa, Marcus, three writers from the general news section whose names you always got slightly wrong, and at the head of the table, Richard Harmon, editor-in-chief, who had the energy of a man who had once had a very exciting idea and had been punishing everyone around him for not matching it ever since.

He was fifty-three. He wore the same three blazers in rotation. He had very strong opinions about what the readers of the Courier wanted, opinions that seemed to have been formed sometime around 2015 and had calcified completely since.

"Liu," he said, as Alysa opened her laptop. "Infrastructure piece."

"On track for Thursday."

"Good. I want the angle to be bipartisan cooperation. Make it optimistic."

You watched Alysa's expression stay perfectly composed while her eyes communicated something extremely specific in your direction. You looked at your notebook.

"Good. Right." Harmon moved on. "Webb, the Mets series —"

The meeting went quickly, as Harmon's meetings always did, because he talked over anyone who went longer than ninety seconds. You pitched your third idea, the one about the new interactive art installation in Brooklyn, and he said "fine, keep it under eight hundred words," and that was that.

You were almost out the door when he said your name.

"Stay a moment."

Alysa shot you a look as she passed. You stayed.

Harmon waited until everyone else was gone, then he sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together in the way he did when he thought he was about to give you a gift.

"Spiderwoman," he said.

Tu as cligné des yeux. « …Je suis désolé ? »

"Spiderwoman. The vigilante." He said it like you might not be aware of the most talked-about figure in New York City for the past fourteen months. "I want an interview."

You stared at him.

"An exclusive," he continued, leaning forward with the energy of a man presenting a business plan he was very proud of. "One on one. Nobody's gotten it. The Times tried, the Post tried, every podcast with a microphone has tried. She doesn't talk to press. She does her thing, she disappears, she doesn't give statements." He paused. "I want the Courier to be the first."

"That's ..." You chose your words carefully. "That's a great idea, Richard. How exactly ...."

"That's your job."

You looked at him. "My job is arts and culture."

"Spiderwoman is a cultural phenomenon."

You could not actually argue with that. Fourteen months ago, a woman in a red and black suit had swung off a building in Midtown and stopped a robbery, and within forty-eight hours she was everywhere — news, social media, merchandise, thinkpieces, a terrible SNL impression, two competing documentaries already in development. She was, undeniably, a cultural phenomenon.

You still had absolutely no idea how you were supposed to get an interview with someone who had actively, consistently, and apparently effortlessly evaded every journalist in the city.

"I don't have a source," you said. "Nobody has a source. She doesn't ....she's not exactly reachable."

"Then find a way to be reachable," Harmon said, with the magnificent vagueness of someone who would not be the one doing the actual work. "I want this, Y/N. I've wanted it for months. Every paper in the city wants it. We get this, we're ahead of all of them." He fixed you with a look that he probably thought was inspiring. "You're good at this. You connect with people."

"She's not exactly...."

"People, subjects, whatever. You have a way with it. That's why I'm giving this to you." He stood, which meant the meeting was over regardless of whether you had agreed. "Six weeks. Get me the interview."

You sat back down at your desk and stared at your screen for a moment.

Then you looked over at Alysa, who was already watching you with an expression that said she had correctly guessed what had happened. She raised her eyebrows.

You picked up a sticky note and wrote: Harmon wants me to get a Spiderwoman interview

You held it up.

Alysa's eyes went wide. Then something — very fast, there and gone — moved across her face. Something you couldn't read. She composed herself quickly, visibly, and wrote back on her own sticky note.

How??

You turned your note over. No idea.

She looked at you for a moment. A beat longer than a normal look. Then she wrote: you'll figure it out. you always do.

And she turned back to her screen.

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

What Y/N did not know — what Y/N could not know, what Alysa had spent fourteen months making absolutely certain she would not know — was what happened after Alysa left the office that evening.

She took the subway three stops, like a normal person. She walked two blocks east, like a normal person. She stopped at the dry cleaner's on the corner, picked up what appeared to be a garment bag, thanked the man behind the counter by name, and walked another half block to the parking structure on 51st.

In a particular corner of the second floor, behind a support pillar and next to a defunct electrical panel, there was a space in the wall that looked like a panel seam. Alysa had discovered it fourteen months ago, on the specific day that everything had changed, and she had been using it ever since.

She pressed her thumb to a contact point that no one else would have known to look for.

The panel swung inward.

Inside: a compact space, barely a closet. A shelf. And on the shelf, folded with the specific care of someone who had learned to fold it fast and fold it right, was a suit.

Red and black. Sleek. Lined with tech she'd spent eighteen months building in her apartment before she'd ever worn it once, running tests until she was certain, until the web-shooters functioned exactly as designed, until the impact resistance met every threshold she'd set for herself, until she could put it on and take it off in under ninety seconds.

Alysa undressed efficiently. She put the suit on. She pulled the mask into place.

She became someone else, and she became more herself, at the same time.

She took the stairwell to the roof.

The city was different from up here. She'd known it would be — had always looked up at buildings and imagined it, back when she was just a physics prodigy with a journalism scholarship and too many ideas and a specific, driving need to do something with the capabilities she'd been handed. But imagining and knowing were different things. The city from above was vast and intricate and brutally, achingly beautiful, and after fourteen months she still felt it every time — that drop in the stomach when she swung out over the first gap, the half-second of pure free fall before the next web caught, the wind and the speed and the way the lights below blurred into something that looked almost like the interior of a galaxy.

She loved this. She loved it completely and she was never going to be able to tell anyone that she loved it, because loving it meant acknowledging she was the person who did it, and she was not ready for that conversation with the world.

She was especially not ready for that conversation with Y/N.

The thought arrived, as Y/N-related thoughts always did, at maximum inconvenient timing — she was mid-swing between two office towers, the city spread out forty floors below — and she let herself have it for exactly three seconds, which was the standard allowance she'd developed.

Y/N, qui était assise à quatre mètres d'elle chaque jour et qui réchauffait l'atmosphère du bureau. Y/N, qui riait de bon cœur à ses blagues, lui apportait de la soupe quand elle était malade et qui, une fois, s'était souvenue de cette nuit où elle était restée éveillée jusqu'à deux heures du matin pour aider Alysa à retravailler un texte sur lequel elle butait depuis une semaine, simplement parce qu'Alysa avait l'air frustrée, simplement parce que Y/N l'avait remarqué. Y/N, qui ignorait tout des soirées que sa meilleure amie passait à se balancer d'immeuble en immeuble dans une combinaison high-tech et à distribuer des coups de poing à ceux qui le méritaient.

Y/N, who had just been assigned to get an interview with Spiderwoman.

Alysa landed on a ledge, crouched, and let herself have one full moment of exquisitely bad timing awareness.

Harmon, she thought, with great feeling.

Then she heard it — three streets over, the specific pitch of tires and shouting that her brain had learned to pattern-match over fourteen months. She was off the ledge before the thought fully formed.

Tonight was not a night for thinking about Y/N.

She stopped a carjacking in Midtown. She caught a fire escape that had come loose from a building facade in Chelsea before it hit a woman pushing a stroller on the sidewalk below. She spent forty minutes tracking a string of connected apartment break-ins in the East Village based on a pattern she'd noticed two weeks ago and tonight finally got the confirmation she needed.

It was nearly midnight when she ended up perched on the top of a water tower in Hell's Kitchen, looking out at the Hudson, letting the wind come off the river and cool the particular exhausted satisfaction of a night that had gone right.

Her phone buzzed in the hidden inner pocket of the suit.

She already knew who it was. There was only one person who texted her this late.

She extracted it with the particular awkward maneuvering required by the suit's gloves.

Y/N : still awake, don't worry about it, just couldn't sleep. did you get back okay from your thing?

Alysa smiled under the mask. It was an involuntary thing. She'd stopped trying to stop it.

ALYSA : yes, I'm fine. why can't you sleep?

Y/N : the spiderwoman assignment is in my head. how do you even start with something like this

ALYSA : you could try... showing up in places she tends to show up?

A pause.

Y/N : that's actually not a bad idea

Y/N : you're always the smart one

ALYSA : I know. go to sleep Y/N

Y/N : working on it. goodnight Aly

ALYSA : goodnight

Alysa sat on the water tower for another moment after that, phone in her gloved hand, the city humming below her, the river dark and enormous to the west.

Then she folded the phone away, stood, and headed home.

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧✧⋆✧⋆

You had, over the course of three weeks, tried everything reasonable.

You had filed information requests. You had reached out to the NYPD's press liaison (who had laughed, politely, and said that they had exactly as much contact with Spiderwoman as you did, which was to say none at all). You had interviewed seventeen people who had been helped by Spiderwoman — accident survivors, crime victims, two people who had been pulled from a burning building, a teenager who had been saved from a mugging who had posted about it and gone mildly viral. You had their stories. You had a very good sense of what Spiderwoman meant to the city.

You did not have Spiderwoman.

"She doesn't want to be interviewed," Marcus said one afternoon, with the sage certainty of a sports journalist who had never had to interview anyone who could also web him to the ceiling.

"I know she doesn't want to be interviewed," you said. "That's the problem."

"So write about that. Write about the evasiveness."

"Harmon doesn't want a think-piece about evasiveness. He wants words from her actual mouth."

"Have you tried..." He made a vague gesture. "Being in danger?"

"I'm not going to manufacture a crisis to get a quote."

"I'm not saying manufacture—"

"That is exactly what you're saying, Marcus."

Alysa, who had been listening to this exchange with the expression of someone watching a tennis match, turned from her screen. "You could try being somewhere she tends to patrol," she said, very casually. "Some people have talked about a general Midtown area, Hell's Kitchen, sometimes the Village. If you're in those areas at the right time with a recorder—"

"That's a lot of cold evenings waiting around hoping for a crime," you said.

"You went to three opera openings last winter for that piece on the arts funding crisis," Alysa said. "Twice you sat outside in fifteen-degree weather waiting for quotes from people coming out of the theater. You committed."

"Those were people. She's actively avoiding people."

"So commit more."

You looked at her. She looked back with the particular expression she wore when she was absolutely certain she was right and was waiting patiently for you to reach the same conclusion.

"Fine," you said. "Hell's Kitchen tonight."

"There you go."

It was not Hell's Kitchen tonight that did it. It was four more nights after that — two in Hell's Kitchen, one in Midtown, one in the Village, all cold, all uneventful, your recorder in your pocket and your notebook in your bag and a truly excellent thermos Alysa had lent you after the second night, engraved on the bottom with her initials in a font you had spent five minutes looking at for no coherent reason.

It was a Thursday, and you had been out for three hours, and you were beginning to genuinely contemplate the possibility that Harmon would fire you and you would become a person who wrote anonymous reviews on Yelp and never thought about Spiderwoman again.

Then the roof access door of the building behind you burst open.

You heard it before you saw it — a crash, shouting, two people coming through the doorway onto the street level alley where you'd been leaning against the wall. They moved like people who were running from something, which meant they were probably running toward you, which was not ideal. In the half-second that you had to assess the situation, you counted two men, large, moving fast, and you registered that one of them had something in his hand that caught the streetlight badly.

You did two things simultaneously: you stepped back toward the wall, because your brain had done a very quick assessment and presented you with there is no good option here, and you felt your foot catch on the uneven paving of the alley and felt the entirely familiar, entirely unhelpful sensation of losing your balance completely.

The fall seemed very long for something that happened in under a second.

And then it stopped.

Not the impact of the ground — you never hit the ground. Something caught you, fast and decisive, a grip around your waist that was firm and absolutely certain, and you went from falling to being held in a standing position in what felt like no time at all, and you heard a thwip sound and a startled shout from the direction of the two men and then a very efficient silence.

You looked up.

Spiderwoman was looking down at you.

She was — you had seen pictures, obviously, seen the videos, seen the shaky phone footage that circulated endlessly — but nothing had quite prepared you for the actual physical reality of her, which was that she was sleek and quiet and absolutely present in a way that photographs didn't capture, and she was holding you upright with one arm and she had, apparently, just webbed two men to the wall of the alley with the other, and she was looking at you with the blank-faced expression of the mask and you couldn't read anything from it at all and your heart was doing something extremely unhelpful.

"Are you all right?" she said.

Her voice was — it was lower than you'd expected, and warm, and she was clearly trying to modulate it slightly, a slight deliberate roughness that you would later describe in your notes as consciously obscured but not unnatural, and you would spend a frankly embarrassing amount of time analyzing that voice in the weeks afterward.

"Yes," you said. "I — yes. I tripped."

"I noticed." Was there something — was there a hint of something in her voice? Something almost like amusement, gentle, not unkind? "You shouldn't be in this alley."

"I'm a journalist," you said, which was not exactly a relevant response but your brain was still catching up. "I'm — I've been trying to find you, actually. For weeks." You watched her expression, which was invisible, and you reached into your jacket pocket because your hands were operating on professional instinct even if the rest of you was not. "My recorder. Can I — I just need ten minutes. Five. Two questions—"

She looked at your recorder. She looked at you. There was a long pause. Long enough that you thought she was going to say no, long enough that you were already composing the email to Harmon in your head—

"Two questions," she said.

You stared. "Really?"

"I make no promises after that."

"That's — yes. Absolutely. Yes." You clicked the recorder on and became, immediately and almost completely, a journalist again, because that was what you did when something mattered — you focused. "Spiderwoman, the Courier has been trying to reach you for—"

"You said two questions."

"Right. Right." You steadied yourself. She was still holding you, just slightly, her hand at your arm as you found your footing, and you were acutely aware of it and also trying very hard not to be. "First question. You've been active in this city for fourteen months. You don't give interviews, you don't give statements. Everything the public knows about you comes from what they've seen. Why the secrecy?"

The silence was different this time — not evasive. More like consideration.

"Because who I am is less important than what I do," she said. "When people know who someone is, they stop listening to what they're saying. They listen to who's saying it instead." A beat. "I'd rather the work speak."

You were writing shorthand in your notebook even as you spoke, muscle memory from years of not relying solely on recorders. Who I am / less important / what I do. Work speak.

"Second question." You looked up from your notebook, directly at the mask, directly at where her eyes must be. "What do you want people to understand about this city that they don't already?"

Another pause. Longer. And when she spoke, the deliberate roughness in her voice had eased slightly, and there was something underneath it that was genuine and unguarded and made something in your chest respond to it without your permission.

"That it holds together," she said. "Every night, I'm out here, and every night I see people—" She stopped. Started again. "People help each other. Strangers. Without being asked. Without being recorded. The city holds itself together in a thousand ways nobody ever writes about, because it's not a story, it's just what happens." A beat. "I'm just part of that. I'm just — visible."

You had written it all down. You would transcribe it later and read it several times and know that it was good, genuinely good, the kind of quote that carried weight not because of who said it but because of what it meant.

But what you were feeling in that alley in Hell's Kitchen, listening to her voice, was not professional satisfaction.

You didn't have a word for what it was, yet.

"That's—" You clicked the recorder off. "Thank you."

She tilted her head. A gesture that was readable even through the mask — genuine curiosity. "You're not pushing for more."

"You said two questions." You met what you assumed was her gaze. "I keep my word."

Another pause. And then — you were sure of it, you were certain even without being able to see her face — she smiled.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Y/N. Y/N L/N, the Courier."

"Y/N." She seemed to sit with that for a moment. "Be careful walking home, Y/N."

"I—" But she was already moving, one fluid motion that took her up the side of the building and out of the alley and into the air, and within seconds she was a shape against the night sky, swinging south, and then she was gone.

You stood in the alley for a long moment.

The two men she'd webbed were beginning to make aggrieved noises from the wall.

You called the police, gave your location, and then you walked home very quickly and sat at your kitchen table and opened your laptop and started writing, and you wrote for two hours without stopping, and the piece was the best thing you'd written in a year and you knew it from the first line.

And when you finally stopped and sat back and looked at the ceiling, what you thought about was not the piece, and not Harmon, and not the Courier, and not the fourteen months of mystery solved in thirty seconds of conversation.

You thought about a voice.

Warm and deliberate and, for just a moment, unguarded.

That it holds together, she had said.

You pressed your fingertips to your sternum, where something had settled in that felt newer than you knew what to do with, and you sat with it for a while, and you did not yet have a name for it.

But it was there.

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

"It's good," Alysa said.

She had come over the next morning — Saturday, mercifully — and she was sitting cross-legged on your couch with her own coffee and your laptop balanced on her knees, and she had been reading for eleven minutes while you ate toast and tried to look like you were not watching her read.

"It's really good," she said again, and she looked up, and something in her expression was complicated in a way you couldn't quite parse. Her eyes were bright but there was something else in them. "Harmon's going to love it."

"Harmon's going to call it twelve hundred words when he wanted eight hundred," you said, "but yes."

"He won't cut it." She handed the laptop back. "He can't cut it. This is — she sounds like a person. You made her sound like a person."

"She is a person."

"I know that. The city doesn't always know that." Alysa looked down at her coffee. "Two questions. You kept it to two questions."

"She said two questions."

"You could have pushed."

"I know."

Alysa was quiet for a moment. You knew this silence — it was the thinking silence, the processing silence, the one that usually preceded something that was either very astute or very personal or both.

"What was she like?" she asked.

You thought about how to answer that. You turned your coffee mug in your hands.

"Careful," you said. "Very — deliberate. Like every word was chosen specifically." You paused. "But there was a moment — one moment — where she just talked. Where it felt..." You stopped.

"What?"

"Real." You looked at the ceiling. "Like she forgot, for a second, that she was supposed to be keeping distance." You shook your head slightly. "I don't know. It probably sounds ridiculous."

Alysa was looking at you. You could feel it — that specific quality of attention she had, the weight of it, the way she paid attention to you when you were saying something that mattered to you.

"It doesn't sound ridiculous," she said quietly.

"I've been thinking about it all night."

Alysa's heart sank.

Not because Y/N sounded upset.

Quite the opposite.

There was a softness in her voice.

An admiration.

The beginning of something Alysa recognized immediately.

Y/N was falling for Spiderwoman.

And Spiderwoman was her.

It should have made her happy.

Instead it hurt in ways she couldn't quite explain.

Another silence. And in that silence, something happened that you would not be able to fully articulate until much later, when everything else had happened too. Something shifted — not in the room, not in anything visible — something in the particular quality of the quiet between you, something that had maybe always been there and was maybe only now becoming slightly, slightly visible.

"Are you going to try to talk to her again?" Alysa asked.

"Probably." You looked at her. "Harmon will want a follow-up. And I..." You hesitated. "I want to know more. About what she meant. About the city holding together." You shook your head. "I know that sounds like a journalist thing and it is a journalist thing but it's also—"

"Just a wanting-to-know thing."

"Yeah."

Alysa smiled, and it was small and slightly strange, and she looked away. "Yeah," she said. "I get that."

You finished your coffee. Outside, New York was doing its Saturday thing — louder, slower, the particular rhythm of a city letting itself breathe. You had a piece to finalize and a story that was only beginning, and twelve feet away in the office on Monday Alysa would sit at her desk and you would sit at yours and neither of you would say the things you weren't saying, and that was fine, that was how it had always been, and there was no reason for any of it to change.

You told yourself that.

Across the couch, Alysa told herself the same thing

Neither of you quite believed it.

Y/N couldn't stop thinking about Spiderwoman.

About her voice.

About the way she'd looked at her through that mask.

Across the couch, Alysa couldn't stop thinking about Y/N.

About the fact that she had loved her for years.

About the fact that Y/N was slowly falling for a version of her that wore a mask.

About how unfair it felt to be both the luckiest and unluckiest person in New York.

Neither of them knew where this story was going.

But Alysa knew one thing for certain.

She was already hopelessly in love.

And Y/N had absolutely no idea.

✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆✧⋆

The piece ran on Tuesday.

By noon it had more traffic than anything the Courier had run in eighteen months. By four o'clock, Harmon had called you into his office to look extremely self-congratulatory about having assigned it, which you accepted with grace, because grace was a professional skill. By six, you had seventeen emails from other outlets, two from podcast producers, and one from a documentary filmmaker who had apparently been working on a Spiderwoman project for nine months.

Your phone also had a text from a number you didn't recognize.

Nice piece. — SW

You stared at it for a very long time.

Then you typed back: How did you get this number

The response came after a moment: You left your card at the scene. Journalist instinct, presumably.

You had absolutely left your card at the scene, in case the police needed to follow up, purely as a professional reflex. You stared at your phone.

Can I ask a follow-up question? you typed.

A pause. Longer than the ones before.

Maybe, came the reply.

Vous avez serré les lèvres pour contenir un sourire totalement disproportionné à la situation, puis vous vous êtes levé de votre bureau, vous êtes allé à la fenêtre et vous avez regardé la bande de ciel entre les immeubles, d'un bleu clair typique de fin d'après-midi, et vous avez ressenti dans votre poitrine quelque chose de chaud et de précis, qu'il devenait de plus en plus difficile de classer dans la catégorie « intérêt professionnel ».

Twelve feet away, Alysa's chair was empty. She'd left early — the thing again, the mysterious evening thing. You looked at her desk: organized, neat, the burgundy mug she kept there washed and upside down on a paper towel next to her keyboard. A Post-it in her handwriting stuck to her monitor that said infrastructure bill - double-check stat on pg 4.

Normal. Completely normal. Your best friend's desk on an ordinary Tuesday.

You looked back at your phone.

Maybe was enough to start with.

[internetgurll]

girls like girls

college reader x alysa liu

(obvi inspired by hayley kiyoko def recommend listening to the movie version of the song while reading)

the party was suffocating. your boyfriend reeked of cheap beer, arm lazily over your shoulder talking to his frat brothers. they were all well past their limit not making any sense. you smiled and nodded along with them as you looked for a way to escape. that’s when you saw her for the first time, she was leaning against the wall scanning the room. your eyes locked and you smiled rushing over.

“im gonna grab a drink babe” you yelled over the music. your boyfriend tried to offer his beer but you rejected it. he placed a sloppy kiss on the top of your head as you walked over to her.

“hi” you smiled excitedly.

“hey” she said smiled back.

“i’m y/n” you stuck out your hand.

“alysa” she shook your hand.

“you looked a little lonely over here and i’ve been dying to get away from my boyfriend”

“yeah, i don’t really know anyone here”

“me neither, wanna go outside?”

she nodded and you grabbed her hand leading her though the crowd. the air outside was cool, refreshing. you decided to sit along the pool. you took your shoes off and rolled up your pants above your knees. alysa followed quickly sitting beside you.

“where are you from?” you asked.

“oakland”

“like the bay?”

“yup”

“im from oregon, very small town. ever been up there?”

“nope”

you nodded your head, kicking your feet lightly in the water. were you nervous right now?

“what are you studying?” she asked.

“psychology”

“shut up me too”

“really? what made you pick it?”

“i don’t know actually” she laughed under her breath. she did know why but wasn’t going to say. you took a mental note of that.

“i want understand why people think the way they do”

“yeah? what made you realize that?”

“nothing specifically”

this time you were the one holding onto the truth, she took note of it.

there was a pause in the conversation. leaving you two in an awkward silence, usually you were very social. telling your life story to anyone who would listen but with her you couldn’t.

“how long have you been with your boyfriend?” she asked breaking the silence.

“since we were fifteen” you said beginning to mess with the polish on your nail.

“high school sweethearts?”

you nodded somewhat excitedly. you loved grant a lot, but you knew you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life with him.

“what about you? anyone special?”

she shook her head and you told her she was lucky. she looked at you puzzled and you went on about how relationships hold people back. you’ve recited this monologue hundreds of times to your friends and when they would question why you were still with grant. you’d told them he was the exception.

the night went pretty well after that. you started to get comfortable with each other, as comfortable as people who just met can get. until grant came through the sliding glass door stumbling.

“baby i’ve been looking for you” he proclaimed attempting to kiss you. his lips tasted like cheap beer. he completely missed your mouth too, basically kissing your chin. you shoved him off, getting up. he leaned his whole body against you making you stumble back, alysa got up helping catch you. you thanked her wrapping grant’s arm around your shoulder starting to walk out.

“hey wait!” you turned around leaving grant at the door where he hit his head against the glass. he mumbled a quick ow before rubbing his head.

“give me your phone” you demanded reaching your hand out.

there was no hesitation from her, she reached in her pocket handing it to you. you smiled when you saw her wallpaper, a picture of her and her siblings. you turned the phone to her to unlock the face id and opened her contacts app. you added your number and sent yourself a quick hello to have her number. then you handed her phone back.

“text me” you said rushing back to your boyfriend.

the night went on after that. you walked with grant back to his dorm. he didn’t make any sense, you had completely tuned him out. all you could think about was your new “friend” alysa. from the short conversation you had with her you knew you wanted her around more. you couldn’t put your finger on what, she was just intriguing to you. you got grant home and into bed, then when you got home you couldn’t sleep. you decided to text alysa.

you: hey

alysa: hi

you: wanna get breakfast in the morning?

alysa: sure

what time?

you: whenever! just text me when you’re up

alysa: sounds good

you woke up the next more with a new found excitement. alysa had texted saying she’d be ready soon. you stumbled all over your dorm in attempts not to wake your roomate before rushing out the door. you were practically running to the dinning hall before grant called you. he was sort of angry at the fact you chose to meet with someone else for breakfast.

“you have nothing to be upset for. i’m meeting a friend, i can have friends grant” you whispered yelled.

“i’m your boyfriend! i should be your priority. i’m hungover, i want to be with you.”

“yeah well i’ll come over later” you hung over before he could say anything else. you spotted alysa sitting in the corner scrolling through her phone. you smiled, fixing your hair and smoothing out your top before walking over. she smiled at up you.

“hey you look nice” she complimented.

“thank you! so do you” you compliment her right back.

“thanks, how was getting back home last night?” she asked as you walked over to get in line for food.

“it was fine, i hate dealing with drunk people”

“yeah i feel you. my roommate was throwing up all night.”

“jeez, how is she doing?”

“she’s fine, sound asleep”

you nodded. you were kind of nervous, you couldn’t understand why. you didn’t really have any friends, most of your time you spent with grant. it was probably just that, the common nerves of meeting someone new.

you grabbed your food and walked back to the table. it was mostly silent between the two of you as you ate, you didn’t mind it though. it was a comfortable silence.

“are you alysa liu?” someone asked from behind you and alysa looked up.

she smiled nodding before the person asked for a picture and told her they were sad about her retirement. you looked at her puzzled, who was this girl?

“i used to skate growing up” she told you nonchalantly picking at her food.

“skate?”

“like ice skating”

“oh cool. did you go to the olympics or something?” you asked half jokingly, you knew nothing about skating. the most you knew about it was about tonya harding’s story. you watched her movie with your mom a while back.

“yeah i did”

“that’s cool” was all you said and you shrugged continuing to eat your food. it’s not that you didn’t care, but if it meant a lot to her she would’ve told you last night. clearly she wasn’t willing to share that side of herself so who were you question it any further.

“you do sports growing up?” she asked trying to steer the conversation away from herself and skating.

“soccer”

“oh yeah? do you still play?”

“nope, quit my junior year”

“can i ask why?”

“i just didn’t like it anymore” you said picking at your food. that wasn’t the truth, you just didn’t want to have to reopen the wound. alysa caught the hint immediately and didn’t push further. it was quiet again between the two of you. both of you just picking at your food hoping the other would start a new topic of conversation. alysa was about to open her mouth but someone called your name from across the dinning hall. you didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was. you rolled your eyes continuing to pick at your food, not daring to turn your head around.

“babe i’ve been calling and texting” he was out of breath, sliding into the chair next to you. he kissed the top of your head and put his arm around the back of you chair.

“grant i told you i was meeting with a friend” you said still not batting an eye his way.

“i know but you don’t really have any so all of sudden to hear you do” he said it condescendingly.

you scoffed, shoving his arm off the back of your chair. alysa watched carefully not wanting to overstep in anyway. her mind was already set though, she hated grant.

“i’m grant” he reached his hand over the table for alysa to shake.

“alysa” she shook it quickly before quickly folding her arms over her chest.

“hey alysa did you still want me to come help with your-”

“yeah i can’t handle my roommate alone” she turned to grant, “she’s been throwing up all morning. i’m scared she might have some kind of poisoning”

“you should call your ra then” grant suggested, resting his arm on the back of your chair again.

“and risk getting in trouble? come on aren’t you in a frat, don’t you know calling ra is like a death wish” alysa replied grabbing both your trays getting up.

you followed quickly behind her, leaving grant alone at the table.

“thank you” you said as you walked out the dinning hall.

“of course, that guy is-”

“an asshole. i know and i really want to break up with him but”

“but what?”

“i can’t get rid of him. he just lingers, ive tried and he always traps me back in”

alysa didn’t say anything she just continued looking down at the pavement.

“hey i need to get shampoo, want to come with me?” you offered.

“yeah of course” she said almost a little too excitedly. you laughed at her excitement, grabbing her hand and dragging her behind you. it was nice being able to hang out with someone who wasn’t grant. alysa was easy to talk to, she was funny, and very caring. you couldn’t believe you hadn’t known her a full twenty four hours yet. she felt like your soulmate, platonically of course.

“i had so much fun today” you said walking into your dorm building.

“i did too”

you smiled at her, you really didn’t want her to leave.

“do you want to come up and watch a movie?”

“of course”

you giggled excitedly letting her into your building. you were lucky your roommates werent in the room for once. you set your things down. alysa stood in the doorway in awe of your room. she looked at all your posters and pictures you had up.

“i love pink pantheress” she said pointing to one of your posters.

“shut the hell up, you’re the first person to know who that is”

you grabbed your laptop jumping on your bed and invited her over. you scrolled for what felt like hours trying to decide what to watch.

“you’ve never seen how to loose a guy in ten days?”

“nope”

“that’s unacceptable, we have to watch it”

alysa was focused on the movie the entire time, as if she was taking notes. you would pay attention here and there, but most of your focus was on her. how is that you clicked so instantly, you felt like you knew her forever.

she looked over to you and you quickly focused your attention back to the movie. she nudged your shoulder and you lightly pushed her back. then both of you turned your focus back to the movie.

“good huh?” you asked closing your laptop once the movie was over.

“actually yeah, i really liked it”

“im glad” you hopped off your bed. she followed behind you starting to grab her stuff.

“what classes do you have tomorrow?” you asked leaning on your desk.

“calc and bio, you?”

“do you have calc at 12 with the ginger lady?”

“yeah”

“i do too! she’s so annoying, i can’t understand her half the time”

“me neither what! we should meet up before class”

“of course!” you put started putting on your shoes, “im going to walk you home”

“you don’t have to”

“i want to, wouldn’t want someone kidnapping you”

those next weeks you two only grew closer. you would walk each other to class, sometimes even sit in on the others class when you had nothing to do. sleepovers became common, so much so alysa knew your roomates starbucks orders. she put in the effort to get to know them, something grant never did. grant kept you isolated away from everything. alysa encouraged you to meet new people and try new things. it was refreshing.

grant wasn’t happy about this new found friend of yours. he hated the way she made you laugh more than he did. the way you started devoting all your time to her. the final straw was the way you looked at her. you looked at her as if she was the only person in the room. no one else mattered to you when alysa was around and he hated it.

you could’ve cared less about how grant felt, you were waiting for him to break things off. he didn’t, he kept trying to lure you back in. taking you to nice dinners, buying you flowers, and getting you away from alysa.

“he really doesn’t like you” you told alysa one night. you two had discovered a look out spot not to far from campus.

“i don’t really care. he’s just mad i’m stealing his girl”

“im not his girl, i haven’t been for a while”

“yeah? and why is that?”

“i just don’t like him. he’s so possessive, annoying, and doesn’t know how to please me”

alysa laughed at you, “please you how?”

“we’re not thirteen alysa. you know how”

“so you like you’ve never-”

“never made me cum ever! the first time we ever had sex he lasted all of thirty seconds”

she bursted out laughing at that. at first you were slightly embarrassed, telling her to shut up. then you started laughing wit her, because what a pathetic thing grant was. once the two of you stopped laughing you looked at her, like really looked at her. without thinking you fixed her slightly crooked bangs. she watched your fingers as they moved across her bangs.

“you’re like really pretty you know that?” you told her.

“you’re really pretty too” she said without any hesitation.

you looked moved your attention from her eyes to her lips. up until this moment you hadn’t thought of her as anything than your best friend. she got you in no one anyone had, specially grant. that’s what confused you, everytime you compared to her to someone it was always grant. there was something about alysa that made you feel different, and looking at her now. you realized what it was, and you hoped she knew it too. you leaned in slowly, cautiously leaving the right amount of space. if she want to meet you halfway she would, and if she didn’t she could back away. there was no hesitation from her, she kissed you. it started slow, then it become needy. her hands landed on your hips pulling you closer to her, your hands wrapped around her neck. she tugged on your hips begging for more. you didn’t hesitate, without breaking the kiss you went to straddle her lap. she began to rock your hips against her thigh, you threw your head back. she started to kiss your neck careful not to leave any mark, you could care less at this point. until you realized you were cheating on your high school sweetheart. you quickly stood up saying how this was stupid and you don’t meant to lead her on. alysa tried to plead with you, but you didn’t listen already walking back to your dorm. you cried the entire way there, you were confused. you knew your feelings for alysa, but what would people think? grant wasn’t a good boyfriend you knew that, but he also didn’t deserve to be betrayed this way.

you hadn’t even think about how this was going to go. you had tried to break up with grant countless times, each time unsuccessful.

you knocked on his dorm door quietly, hoping that maybe he wouldn’t hear you. that you would be able to avoid this conversation for another day. he opened the door, no shirt just some old basketball shorts.

“god you look like shit” he looked you up and down. for once he was probably right, you had been crying the entire way here. the wind had picked up leaving your hair a frizzy mess.

“shut up grant. i need to talk to you” you shoved your way in.

“are you going to trying to break up with me for the millionth time?”

“yeah and it’s going to work because”

“who in their right mind is ever going to love you? you’re a real mindfuck you know that? you’re lucky i’ve put up with you this long”

you sat on the edge of his bed, looking down at the floor. his words hit you everytime, always hurting more than the last.

“because i met someone who loves me”

“oh so you’re a slut? you’ve been cheating on me? let me guess with that bitch”

“yes! grant yes! eveything bad you have to say about me is true and nevertheless she loves me”

“how do you know huh? what if she just wants to fuck, realizes you’re no good then kicks you to the curb?”

“she wouldnt do that” you said under your breath.

“huh? you’re a fool to think that. i love you baby, so much. no one will ever love you the way i do” he came up to you, holding your face with both his hands. wiping the tears falling from your eyes with his thumb, “how will your parents feel when they hear you cheated on me? with some chick, do really think they’ll still love you?”

you didnt say anything, you couldn’t. you knew he wasn’t right, but you knew nothing other than him. how would your parents react? you never actually thought about what your parents might think, would they even accept you? you felt like a damn fool, but once again you fell into grant’s trap. he kissed your temple, telling you he loved you. he pulled your head back to look at him, and he had the same rage in his eyes. he didn’t have any remorse for his words as he kissed you. he lifted you to sit on the dresser by his window. you knew this wasn’t right, but grant’s words echoed in your head. what if alysa really got to know you and realized you were too much, or not enough for her. how could she ever love you the way grant did?

alysa knew she liked you from the moment you approached her at that party. she loved everything about you, especially the way you cared for others. one of the first nights you hung out, alysa overdid it at the pregame. you didn’t get mad at her, you immediately took care of her. much to grant’s disapproval you skipped out on the party that night. you brought her back to your dorm, and watched her all night. you slept on the floor and any movement you heard you got up to make sure she was okay. the next morning you sat with her on the bathroom floor, holding her hair and rubbing her back as she threw up. you never expected anything in return either. you were selfless that way, you loved with your whole heart. that’s why she hated grant, he was selfish. he kept you all to himself, sucking the life out of you. she wanted nothing more than to get you away from him. then hopefully you’d realize you loved her more than just a friend. for the the past couple months it felt like you were finally seeing it. the way grant kept you isolated and alysa let you be free. the way alysa cared for you in ways he couldn’t. until the night you left her at the lookout, she really thought you were finally going to be hers. she gave you space thinking you’d eventually come around but you never did. it had been weeks since she last saw you, you never came to class and you stopped taking your usual routes around campus. her roommates saw the way your absence was affecting her and they couldn’t stand to see that way. they knew what she went through before this, how her love for skating was taken from her. they didn’t want her loose something else she held so close, so they invited her out. they knew you’d be there with grant and they had a plan to trap you two into talking to each other. alysa fought against the plan she didn’t want to see you, especially if you were with him.

“she won’t be there. the pledges are out on some retreat this weekend” her first roomate encouraged her.

“we don’t even have to stay! just drink their alcohol and dip” the second one said pulling her by the arms up.

alysa didn’t fight back this time.

grant was like he was at every party, drunk beyond his mind. this time you joined him taking a couple shots. each one you’d hope help take your mind off alysa. it had been almost a month since you last saw her and everyday you missed her more. you knew kissing her wasn’t a mistake, but your mind couldn’t accept it. you belonged with grant right?

“are you fucking kidding?” grants friend, logan, shouted.

“what’s up my boy?” grant replied and you cringed grabbing his cup and chugging the rest. he smiled whispering into your ear, “that’s my girl” kissing your forehead.

“that weirdo, i forgot her name. we messed around like once, her roommate is your girl” logan pointed to you and you knew who he was talking about. grants grip on waist tighten.

“logannnn” alysa’s roommate sang from

behind all of you.

you all sighed in unison.

“i haven’t seen you in so long baby, what happen?”

“i got busy”

“so am i” she reached over him and grabbed a bottle.

“yo you can’t take all that” logan grabbed the bottle from her hand.

“i’m sharing it with my girls”

your breath caught when you saw her. she looked good, way too good. if you could have it your way you’d reached over the counter and drag her upstairs with you.

“nah, not with her” logan pointed to alysa. she looked down embarrassed and then her roomates grabbed the bottle from logan, running off giggling. logan quickly chased after them and grant grabbed your arm dragging you outside.

“grant stop you’re hurting me!” you yelled as he yanked you outside and slammed the door behind him.

“did you know she was going to be here?” he yelled at you.

“what no? of course not.”

“you’re such a fucking liar. i shouldn’t have taken you back.”

“you didn’t take me back you moron”

“oh yeah? then why am i still putting up with your bullshit?”

“because you’re scared grant. no one will ever love you, you’re pathetic.”

“i don’t know how drunk you are right now but im not some kind of mirror”

truthfully you were drunk out of your mind, you were seeing two of him at the moment. there was such thing as liquid courage though, because seeing alysa made you realize you were a fool. you weren’t the miserable and unloveable one in the relationship, it was always grant. in high school you were the most popular girl, no one ever had anything bad to say about you. grant took notice of that, and wanted you all to himself. star quarterback and popular girl, it should’ve been a fairytale and it did start as one. he was sweet in the beginning then he showed his true colors. he couldn’t stand not having the attention in the relationship, he didn’t want to be known as your boyfriend. you were his girlfriend, so he took your insecurities and capitalized on them. slowly he turned you into a shell of the person you once were. then alysa came along and the same bubbly personality started to come out and he freaked out. you were finally starting to see past him and his evil antics. you wanted to be the old you, the one that was starting to show when you were with alysa. she didn’t hold you back, she wanted you to be the best version of yourself. you wanted to be that person too, not just for you but for her.

“no grant i’m just done with you. i don’t owe you an explanation or reason, im done.”

“we’ll see how long that lasts”

you just rolled your eyes and slammed the door behind you. there was people gathered around who clearly had seen the whole show you two put on. you could care less about what some strangers thought, you needed to find her. you rushed upstairs knocking and opening every door, nothing. you went downstairs pushing through people asking if they had seen her no use. you spotted logan in the corner making out with a new girl, perfect. you cleared your throat looking anywhere but the two of them.

“what do you want?” he asked harshly.

“where did the bottle stealers go?”

“they left”

you rushed out the door knowing where’d you’d find her. you didn’t fully comprehend how hard it would be to run across town drunk, so you stopped halfway to call an uber. he was a sweet older gentleman who listened to your story about how your high school boyfriend was holding you back from your true love. he told you falling in love that young never worked anyways. you thanked him and reached in your pocket reaching for cash to tip him. he tried to refuse, but you told him if he refused, alsya would also refuse you. he was your good luck charm you insisted on it.

you jumped out the car expecting to see alysa sitting there. alone, with the cheap bottle her and her roomates stole. she wasn’t there, you cursed under your breath starting to feel nauseous. you ran to the trashcan and threw up. you couldn’t survive another car ride in your state, the thought already making you nauseous. you also couldn’t walk without the possibility of getting caught by a cop. so you did the next best thing, you reached for your phone telling siri to call her. it went to voicemail immediately.

“i hate do not disturb you know that. i’m going to call you again and if you don’t pick up im going to text you. and im not gonna stop until you answer soooooo” your words were slurred and you laughed before hanging up. calling her again, the phone rang too many times for your comfort. then on the final ring she picked up, there was music playing in the background.

“hello”

“hi please don’t hang up, please. i need you, i need to see you, please” you started to cry into the phone.

“holy shit okay where are you?”

“you know where. i thought you’d be here too but you weren’t.” you said between broken sobs.

“i’m on my way okay? i’ll be there in no more than twenty minutes.” you heard confused voices as she hung up the phone.

you decided the best way to solve your nausea was to sleep, so you laid against the trashcan and closed your eyes.

“my god i gotta go” alysa said to her roomates as she got up rushing out the door.

“what? this is supposed to be our night” her roommate augured.

“that’s not entirely true” the second said.

alysa looked between the two of them

puzzled.

“we knew she was going to be there and were going to trap you to talk to her”

“you what?”

“we know how much you like her and couldn’t stand seeing you so sad”

“we’ll talk about this later, i’ll be back” alysa grabbed her keys and rushed out the door. she surprisingly wasn’t mad at her roommates, she’d been dying to talk to you. seeing you with grant made her heart drop and she would be lying to herself to say she wasn’t scared. you hadn’t called in weeks, what if grant did something to you? what if you were setting her up somehow? she shoved those feelings down quickly as her uber pulled up, she could’ve walked but she needed to get you as quickly as possible.

“i just dropped off this lovely young lady at the same place. such a sweetheart truly, she left me a tip. told me if i rejected her the person she was trying to win back would reject her too. i’m good luck tonight she told me” the man looked at her through the rear view mirror. alysa just laughed at the story, biting her thumb knowing he was most likely talking about you. she left him a generous tip as well, telling him she needed some of his luck. when she got out the car it was colder than she expected, she hugged herself and started looking for you. you weren’t that hard to miss considering you were in a bright colored dress sleeping against a trash can. she immediately rushed over to you, holding your face and shaking you awake. you woke up slowly smiling at her.

“alysaaaaaa you showed up”

“i did, are you okay?”

you didn’t even expect to but you started crying, you shook your head.

“i fucked up, i know i did. i should’ve cut things off with him so long ago. i was so scared what people would think of me. i mean i haven’t even soft launched to my parents that i might be gay or i don’t even know! i don’t wanna label it, i hate labels. my mom had this label machine growing up that used to freak me out” you stopped yourself before you continued on your tangent. you stood up stumbling a bit before alysa caught you, holding your waist firmly. you wrapped your arms around her neck, “look i know i messed things up with us but i need you to know. i like you so much, like it’s bad. i’m sorry it took me so long to get my head out my ass but i’m ready to be here for you. i could give less of a shit what anyone thinks, all i want is to be with you”

she didn’t reply at first she just nodded, her grip on your waist slightly tighter now.

“i think you’re drunk and we should talk about this in the morning”

“nope! no because im not as drunk as i was, like yeah im tipsy. i just really want to kiss you right now” you titled your head.

she laughed and shook her head and you let out another whine. she gave in and kissed you. you melted into her instantly, your hand starting to mess with her hair. her hand was steady on your waist and you smiled the entire time.

she pulled away first, your eyes were still closed hoping she just needed to catch her breath or something.

“does this mean you’re free from-”

you put your finger on her lips, “don’t use that devils name, but yes.”

she smiled leaning into to give you another quick kiss. she insisted on getting you home and you begged her to stay with you. insisting that your roomates missed her but she knew you it was you who did.

you weren’t on sure how things would play out between you. you knew grant would try to come back, but he’d have to give at some point. you weren’t sure how your parents would react but you honestly didn’t care. alysa was your person, you weren’t sure on the timeline yet. you just hoped it would be a while.

tags <3 @bellecanelle @tomasaya03 @kozukenapplepi @luvlysssss @sani-sunny @katzzeye @aespicysstuff @lyzsaphrodite @certifiedliunatic @certifiedsushillover @prettyshittywriting @jemilysamour @eunchacha @petrolprettyplease @lovergirl1989 @sambiuxstuff @urwavvy @huskypuppysblog @lizzygrantwrld @nanabongos @yournextdooralien @lexiidkwhattoput @kerbedumb @katismad

[certifiedsushillover]

MY LAST EXAMS ARE ON TUESDAY!! guys ive missed writing so bad and the alysa fic shortage is getting too real🫩 drops some recs/ideas for me to write soon!! I pinky promise I’ll be back after tuesdayyy, I plan to write so many fics over the summer and I hope the drought isn’t as bad when summer officially hits🥹 anywho I miss all my moots and the activeness of everyone and I can’t wait to be back!!!!🤗

[certifiedliunatic]

“Party On You”

𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐮 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (8.1𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬) — part 1

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬) — mentions of s/a, intoxication

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡... alysa tries to prove that she can be more than the player everybody knows her as.

𝐚/𝐧 — im sorry this is SO underwhelming, i didnt know how to write the dialogue or the ending, sorry! i hope you guys still like this

the sound of your alarm blared across your bedroom, the noise abruptly waking you up, already fucking your day up. 

the hangover was not helping. you felt your head throb and spin, your vision blurry and body so sore that every movement feels like something that comes with a painful cost. 

you do your best to roll across your bed, sloppily grabbing your phone to turn off the alarm. as you rub your eyes to get them to focus so you can better see the icons on the screen, a notification pops up. 

2:47 AM | alysa: 

im sorry

i really am

can we talk

you used what little strength you had left in you to shut your phone and set it down on the nightstand a little harder than intended to, a small scoff coming out of you.

you moved to bury your head in your pillow, trying to ignore the burning sensation in your chest as tears formed in your eyes, your pride refusing to let a single tear escape.

the promise you made to yourself last night echoed in your head. “i’ll never waste an ounce of my energy on her ever again.”

the blanket felt so comfortable, the mattress practically swallowing you, like it was begging you to stay.

so you stayed. 

you tossed and turned until you finally shut your eyes, trying to get the notification out of your head.

but no matter how much you shifted around, how much you swore you didn't care anymore and that you were entering your “nonchalant” era, you still couldn't help but wish the girl with striped hair would come over, hand you an edible and lull you to sleep, the memory of her soft lips on your neck haunting you. 

the sunlight that managed to filter through your half closed blinds was too bright, too demanding. a groan came out of you when you finally stood up, going to close the blinds all the way through. 

now your room is pitch black, hitting your chest with the melancholy you became familiar with years ago. 

you slumped over to your bed, closing your eyes, hoping to escape your misery at least in sleep.

the dream was heartwrenching — it was you and alysa, holding each other in the middle of a field, surrounded by flowers and a sunset with a gorgeous orange-pink gradient. 

the dream itself wasn't so bad. the heart wrenching part was waking up and coming to the realization that this really was just a dream. 

that alysa hadn't come back to you, and you haven't gone back to pressing lazy kisses against the top of her head.  

your room was still pitch black, you didn't even know what time it was, the blinds wouldn't let you see. 

tears were now streaming down your face, your hands moving up to wipe your nose then your tears, wetting your sleeve.

there was no hope for you, the feeling of emptiness had already begun to swallow you whole. you decided there was nothing better to do, so you went back to sleep. this time, your mind had some mercy on you, so you had a dreamless slumber.

it was now nearing midnight, and the sound of your phone ringing awoke you, causing a whine to come out of you. 

you reached for the phone on the nightstand. a number you hadn't saved nor recognized.

                                    ⋆⋆⋆

alysa had spent the entire night crying until she fell asleep at 4 in the morning. 

her dreams were filled with your caresses, the times you'd kiss her cheek, how you were patient with her when she was figuring her feelings out, how gentle you'd been..she never realized that she couldn't live without it until she lost it. 

the sunlight crept through the curtains, waking her from the dreams she wished would translate to real life. 

alysa looked around — trying to understand where she was. everything around her seemed unfamiliar. the mattress was softer than she'd been used to, the view different from the one she would enjoy every time she went out for a smoke. 

once it finally clicked to her that she was at her friend's place, the memories from last night immediately began flooding in, like water rushing through a broken dam. the familiar ache in her chest returned, accompanied by the feeling of emptiness in her stomach.

alysa was stumped. she sat up, looking through the window. she knew she had to leave eventually.

the first thing she did was grab her phone, checking to see if you texted back. 

read.

she covered her face with her hands, groaning while she muttered a “god, this is so embarrassinggg.” to herself. “i cant believe i drunk texted my..ex.” 

what were you, really? exes? you never dated. that might've been the worst part of it all.

all this pain from a couple that never even dated.

her mascara was ruined, makeup smeared all over her face, eyebags so big they looked like black eyes at first glance.. the whole ”rough night” package.

she put her phone in her pocket, taking a quick trip to the bathroom.

the hallways were closing in on her — the shame, guilt, remorse, all of the emotions from last night coming back in full force. 

she tried to put up a front, pretending it wasn't eating her alive. but as soon as she locked the bathroom door, it was over for her.

tears came streaming down her face as she curled up against the door, hugging her knees, no longer trying to contain the emotions that had been bubbling up under the surface for months now.

she thought she had more time, she really did. she thought she had more time left until she had to confront her feelings about you, about herself, to confront her problems. she never thought it would be in a friend's bathroom after a college party. 

the knock on the bathroom door was what finally got her to snap out of it — her body jolting at the sound and sudden vibration. 

“alysa, you in there? let me come in!” her friend insisted, her tone making it clear she wasn't taking no for an answer.

with you gone, her friend was the only real connection she had outside of her family. the only one who gave her reality checks, stayed by her side, showed her the good and the bad. 

alysa knew she needed the comfort and the advice. it wasn't like she had much of a choice anyway, the pain was ready to swallow her whole if somebody didn't come to help her stay on the surface. 

she stood up, her hand going to reach the door handle. 

her friend's eyes widened, not accustomed to this side of the usually composed alysa. she sighed, sitting down next to her, wrapping her arm around her as she spoke, her voice scolding, but alysa felt lingering softness.

“lysa. dude. you're still crying?”

“i miss her so bad.”

“im sure she misses you too.”

“do you think she'll come back to me...”

“maybe. but you need to work on this whole trust and commitment issues thing you got going on. not every girl is out to get you, y'know? and she definitely cared and wanted you. i don't know how everybody but you saw how she looked at you.”

“i just…i was scared to..i..”

her friend didn't respond, just waited for alysa to calm down the turmoil inside her, tracing soft patterns on alysa's shoulder.

“i trusted a girl once. i thought she'd be the one. we spent the entire 7th grade together. always texting, calling, never spent more than a few hours apart. and then i finally worked up the courage to ask her out..and from then on we started dating. we only lasted a few weeks until she told me i was too much. told me i was too intense, that i..” alysa muttered in between sobs and sniffles, no longer having the strength to continue. 

she let her friend's arms wrap around her. she pretended it was you holding her. she let herself melt into the embrace, her sobs eventually coming to a stop.

“lysa you cant let a doomed relationship from 7th grade ruin your ability to love freely in college. it's like letting a bad grade you got once determine the grades you get for the rest of your life, because you don't believe in yourself and your ability to learn from your mistakes and do better.”

“i would say i know,” alysa murmured sheepishly. “but i didnt. i needed to hear this.”

“i know you did.” her friend spoke, tracing little patterns on alysa's shoulder. “did you text her?”

“i texted her last night.” 

“let me see.”

alysa groans, reluctantly handing her the phone. alysa was never one to beg, or sincerely apologize. the tough front she was putting up wouldn't let her. having her friend see her text somebody like this felt humiliating.

“ouch. read?”

“dont even mention it.”

her friend sighs, handing her her phone back. 

“maybe she needs some time to think about it.”

“whatever dude..it's over. obviously..” she said. 

alysa's head was resting on her knees which were hugged to her chest. her eyes were getting watery, staring off into blank space. she felt pathetic, vulnerable, uncomfortable. she looked like a kicked puppy. 

“alysa, give it a few days.”

she didn't respond, she just closed her eyes and took a few shaky breaths before finally standing up to wash her face.

“see, i told you. they're all the same. they all leave.” 

alysa's tone was oddly monotone, a stark contrast to the hopeless, shaky voice heard earlier. 

“no! this was your fault. you did this to yourself. you pushed her away.” her friend scolded.

“she could've tried to stay!” she retorted, her frustration bubbling under the surface.

“she did! she can't fight for you to keep her forever you know.”

“whatever.”

alysa fixed her hair and went back to the guest bedroom to get her bag. she tried to avoid conversation, because she knew what it would all be about.

“thanks for letting me stay..sorry for last night.”

her friend let out an exasperated sigh and pulled her in for a quick hug.

“don't worry about it…just.. take care of yourself yeah? lay off on the parties for the next few days while you're recovering.”

alysa rolled her eyes, a small smile growing on her face.

“yeah yeah, okay mom. take care.”

her friend snickered, shut the door and with that, alysa was once again, left alone. 

she was sobered up by now, at least enough to walk home. 

the entire walk was spent with her mind on autopilot, her body having taken this route many times, no longer requiring much thought from alysa. 

alysa used this to her advantage, using the time to think about you. she wondered where exactly it all went wrong. tried to gauge if it was worth it to even try to change if you wouldn't be there to enjoy the “new and improved alysa liu”.

she thought about giving up, about letting you go. she knew you deserved better, and she was stuck between being this better that she wanted to give you, or letting somebody else take her place. 

of course, it would be easier to let someone take her place. she wouldn't have to worry so much about changing, wouldn't have to put in the effort. then she thought about how it'd be like seeing you with a new girl. she thought about how she was willing to give everything up to be that girl. 

she didn't notice it, but her legs started moving a little faster, getting her to her apartment sooner.

she took her key out of her bag and unlocked the door. 

her cats rushed to greet her, causing a soft smile to form on alysa's face. 

immediately after looking up from her cats, she noticed how empty the apartment felt. how your soft voice wasn't there to warm her heart like how it used to every time she came back from work or school. she noticed your hoodie hung on her chair — the only trace of you left remaining.

the blinds were half closed, not letting much light seep in. 

there were clothes, cups, random items and dishes scattered around the apartment.

they were right when they said your room (or apartment) was a reflection of your mind. 

alysa was lost, she was messy, how could she expect someone to handle her if she can't handle herself? 

she picked her cat up, carried her to the cat tree, and then began cleaning up. 

she wanted to impress you, to show you that she was finally improving, that it wasn't empty words.

she imagined how you'd praise her the next time you came over, how you'd stare in disbelief, tell her you're proud of her..

she didn't realize it, but she was smiling like an idiot, humming some song while cleaning up. 

she cleaned up her cat's litter, threw the trash out, picked up and threw the clothing in the laundry, neatly folded her clothes, opened the blinds, now letting the sun illuminate the room. 

she changed her bedsheets, put on a happy yet calm song, and sat on her desk to do the homework that was long overdue. 

she stared at the problems on the question sheet, completely dumbfounded. math was never her strong point, but she didn't expect to be this lost.

that was when she realized just how much she needed you. 

every time she struggled with schoolwork, she'd call you, and you'd come over to help. you kept her grades afloat — it was thanks to you she got her first B+ in college. 

now, she didn't have her favourite nerd to call up. 

the inability to solve the questions wasn't what hurt her, it was your absence and all the small ways it was noticeable that did.

alysa knew that it was the 21st century and she could've just looked up a video explaining how to solve the problems, but she didn't want some stranger, she wanted you. she was well aware you were the last thing she deserved.

still, she tried her hardest to get her homework done, and do it decently at that. she wanted to hand in the homework in front of you, to prove that she was getting her life together.

you had always scolded her for being careless with her grades, now she wanted to give you a reason to be proud of her.

she spent the rest of the day trying to be “productive”, remembering all the things you'd told her, all the advice you'd given until your mouth started foaming up.

when the day came to a close and the sun hid behind the horizon, she put her headphones on and went to see what you were listening to. She went to your profile, choosing to listen to whatever you were listening to. “Break It Off” by PinkPantheress started playing. 

“noone ever saw me cry, until i left the party the other night..do you remember all the things that you said to me?”

she promised to herself — no more crying, no more wallowing. 

but then the memory of you leaving, nose stuffy, eyes red and puffy from crying and makeup smeared all over your face came back, and for a minute, she was in your shoes.

guilt and shame practically swallowed her.

she couldn't get the image of your puffy eyes out of her head.

her weekend was spent wallowing, wolfing down tubs of icecream, ignoring everyone but her sibling’s calls and messages.

sunday night came around.

her hands reached to take off her headphones, placing them on the nightstand. she set an alarm for 8AM, so she'd have time to make it to her 10AM class. she grabbed the plushie you bought for her a few weeks ago, holding it tightly in a pathetic attempt to soothe herself by pretending it was you she was holding.

eventually, she let herself close her eyes, falling into a somewhat peaceful slumber.

                                 ⋆⋆⋆

the next day, she walked in class, her eyes darting around, trying to find yours. 

however it seemed she was out of luck that day, as her classmate informed her you weren't coming to class that day.

“why?” alysa questioned, a hint of concern in her voice.

“apparently she's got the flu.”

“what? is she okay?”

“i mean, i’m sure she is.. it is just the flu after all.” her friend answered, clearly unwilling to entertain the conversation any longer.

“yeah. you're right.” 

alysa finally sat down, a small pout on her face — looking like a kicked puppy yet again.

when it was time to turn in her homework, she took one last look around the classroom one last time before handing it to the professor.

she spent the rest of her day looking like a kicked puppy. she was hoping to sneak a few glances at you throughout the day, and maybe have some small talk if she couldn't get a meaningful conversation out of you.

but yet again, you weren't there.

                                     ⋆⋆⋆

the next few days were a blur. 

alysa was just going through the motions — wake up, go to the bathroom, shower, get dressed, pack your books, go to class, come home, eat, feed her cats, do homework, clean up, wait for you to respond to her text…

she was getting tired of it.

your absence was eating her up. 

she vowed she'd listen to her friend and lay off on the parties while she was recovering from everything that was happening, but the void in her heart was catching up to her, and she thought it wouldn't be long until she became part of it.

she tried to distract herself, to reassure herself that everything will be okay, but it was getting clear she was starting to crack.

when she realized nothing was working, she chose escapism and went back to what had always worked as a distraction — alcohol, drugs, parties.

friday came around, and somebody forwarded her a party invite. 

she couldn't resist.

she spent an entire weekend searching for a sign you still cared about her existence, let alone a sign you'd come back.

but nothing showed up.

“fuck it,” she muttered to herself. “im going. she won't care anyway..and i just need the drugs and alc.” 

she knew it was a terrible idea from the get go, yet she still let herself slip into the version of herself she spent the whole week condemning.

                                     ⋆⋆⋆

when she came to the party, she didn't have anything but getting high and drunk on her mind. usually she'd hoe around, but this time it didn't even cross her mind.

you took up all the space in her brain, and she hated it. she ran to parties as a distraction. 

she popped any pill offered to her, taking any concoction of a drink her peers thought up. 

the effects came rushing in not long after. her vision was becoming blurry, her speech slurring, and she couldn't tell faces and voices apart. everybody and everything looked the same to her, and she retracted to a couch tucked away in a corner. 

a group of girls noticed her, immediately rushing towards her. 

each girl started making their advances.

one asked for her number. another tried to make small talk in that flirty voice alysa loathed to hear when it came from anybody from you. some would touch her, running their hands up her thigh or waist. 

alysa was overwhelmed. 

she was clearly intoxicated, begging everybody to leave her alone. there were tears prickling at the corner of her eyes, sweat dripping down her forehead as she got more and more panicked. 

when a girl leaned in to kiss her, alysa almost froze. she pushed her off of her, and went to run to the nearest unoccupied room. 

that was when her eyes caught on the phones held up by her friends, clearly recording. 

betrayal flashed her eyes. its not like her friends were ever good ones..always pressuring her to go out, introducing her to new ways she can ruin her life, always leaving when the topic wasn't gossip or getting wasted.

but she didn't expect this from them. 

her only real friend saw her, and followed her to the bathroom.

“alysa, god, are you okay?”

“i want my girl back.” alysa begged between sobs. 

“lets calm you down first, and we'll call her, okay?”

“i want her now.”

her friend didn't bother negotiating, she just pulled out her phone and dialed your number. 

the phone rang for a bit until you picked up.

“hello?” you said.

alysa's friend handed the phone to her.

“um, y/n? can you..please come pick me up? i got really wasted..and everybody was all over me..and my friends didnt help..just recorded me..im so sorry..i know im an asshole..can you drive me to my place atleast?”

you'd never heard alysa beg like this before..you could tell she was crying. she wasn't even trying to hide it, you could hear her hiccups, sobs and sniffles through the phone, clear as day.

you sighed, panic setting in.

“send me your location.”

alysa did as you told her, sending you her location. 

“ill be there in 15.”

you were wearing a pair of oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair tousled from laying in bed the entire day, but all you did was fix your hair before rushing to your car.

you couldn't tell what you were feeling. some of it was anger for sure. but you weren't sure who exactly you were angry at. you were angry at her for continuing the partygirl lifestyle she knew she couldn't keep up. you were angry at her friends for being bystanders instead of trying to help. you were angry at yourself for not responding to her text. you were angry at the universe for putting you in this situation.

but you were also worried.

worried that she got alcohol poisoning or overdosed on whatever she took. 

worried that something worse might've happened if she didn't have enough strength to get away from those people, whoever they were.

worried that you might've never gotten the call, and something worse could happen to her.

so you sped all the way through, frantically looking for a parking spot as close as possible to the host's house.

when you finally arrived, your eyebrows were furrowed, and you were seething with rage.

everybody had quiet down, trying to process what just happened. 

you burst in, taking in the sight of her friends and everybody else just standing there, with alysa nowhere to be seen.

“seriously. what is wrong with all of you?” your voice crackled through the otherwise silent room.

“you useless fucks just sat there and recorded alysa while she was struggling? you're telling me, nobody thought of helping her get out of whatever she was in? she could've  been raped or some shit! and what were you thinking, making advances on somebody obviously too intoxicated to even think for themselves?” 

the anger in your voice was evident. 

nobody said anything. they didn't dare to make a peep. 

you sighed, realizing nothing would come out of this.

“where is she.”

alysa's friend came out of the bathroom, hearing the commotion, already knowing what it was about.

“in the bathroom.” she said.

“thank you.” you answered, making your way to the bathroom where alysa was hiding. 

once you got there, you didn't even bother knocking, just came straight in. 

alysa was curled up, leaning against the bathtub, her eyes shooting open when she saw who was standing in front of her.

“you came!” she said, her voice a little too hopeful than she'd like to sound.

“you called.” you replied, kneeling down to get on her level, bringing her in a warm embrace.

“y/n, i-”

“save it. i dont wanna hear it now.”

you pulled away, cupping her cheek.

“we're going to my place, and you're staying until you've sobered up, you hear me?”

“y-yeah.” alysa murmured, like she hadn't been begging to be near you for a whole week now.

you pick her up, carrying her to your car. 

everybody stared. its all they knew how to do. you paid no attention to them — they didn't deserve a morsel of your energy. 

you just focused on bringing alysa to the car as quickly as you possibly can, strapping her in the passenger seat and rushing to your own.

a soft, drunken smile appeared on alysa's face as her eyes caught on the “y/n’s passenger princess :)” she scribbled a few weeks ago, paired with a few hics as the tears kept streaming down her face.

you didn't notice, just got in and began driving back to your place.

“you scared me.” you mutter.

“im sorry.” alysa mutters back between sniffles.

“you'll be okay.” you tried to sound believable, you really did it. but you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel hopeless for her and your relationship.

the rest of the ride was quiet save for the soft sobs and sniffles coming out of alysa, making her entire body tremble.

she never looked so fragile. 

                                    ⋆⋆⋆

you carried her back to your apartment. 

alysa had become shamelessly clingy — burying her head in the crook of your neck, trying to memorize your scent while her arms clung to you like you'd disappear if her grip loosened a bit.

you pretended it didn't affect you. but the familiar ache in your stomach returned, and you tried to hold back the tears that were daring to escape.

you set her down on your bed. she didn't let you get up, immediately climbing into your lap, sobbing her heart out, gasping for air. 

by now the emotions she'd been suppressing the last few weeks had come back in full force, showing her no mercy. 

the sobs wrecked her body, having her shaking, holding onto you like a lifeline while you desperately tried to calm her down, playing with her hair.

“i-im so sorry hic i promise i tried! i really did, i- hic i cleaned my room every day, like you told me to! i did my homework, i stayed sober, i waited..and i dont kn-know why i gave in like that, i dont know why i went to the party.”

her voice was trembling, her eyes pleading with yours for understanding.

“lys-” you tried to calm her down, but she cut you off.

“i thought you'd never come back, so i thought if she's not here..what's the point? so i gave up..i'm so sorry..”

“lysa, baby, im sure you tried, and im proud of you, yeah? but you need to change for yourself and not others.”

“you're the only thing about me i like.”

your heart breaks at that, the defeated tone tugging at your heartstrings. her speech is still slurred, and you refuse to believe she's serious about this, but you play along in hopes she'll calm down. 

for a moment, you hesitate whether you should hold her, if you can show that side of yourself again without getting hurt, but she cuts off your train of thought and buries her head in the crook of your neck, her hands wrapping around you.

that's where you give in, and hug her tighter, burying your nose in her hair, her scent overflowing your senses. 

“alysa, promise me you'll stop. regardless of if i'm here or not. you know you can't keep this lifestyle, it's destroying you on the inside out.”

“but i want you to be here.”

“okay, lysa. come on, you want me to run you a bath?”

“no..” she answered petulantly.

“why not?”

“i just wanna stay close to you.” 

she tightened her grip on you, burying her face deeper in your skin, taking in your scent, eliciting a sigh from you as you spoke

“five more minutes, then you have to take a bath.”

“okay.”

her nose nuzzled your neck, the rest of her body pressing flush against yours, not allowing a centimeter of distance. 

“dont fall asleep on me.”

“no promises.”

her response gets a small laugh out of you.

“alright.”

she fell asleep. never took a bath.

when you realized, you carefully untangled yourself from her arms, walking to your closet to find her a comfy pair of PJs. 

you put them on her, careful not to wake her.

once she was comfortably dressed and covered with her favourite blanket (that you made sure was always clean, just in case she needed to sleep over), you laid next to her, letting yourself really take in her features.

she looked so soft while she was sleeping — it was hard to believe that alysa, the girl who mumbles things like “stay” and “so cozyy..” in her sleep while simultaneously pulling you impossibly closer, is the same girl who can party for days on end and sleep around with people like she's taught herself how to detach from the people inside the body, and somehow, she perfected being able to see everybody as just another body she'd entertain herself with for the night.

you could never understand it, because she was the sweetest girl when she tried. she held onto every piece of you — hair ties, polaroids, old hoodies, ripped tights, anything you'd give her.

the thought of it brought you to tears. you'd done so much for her to just keep you around, and somehow, it was never enough for you to be the only one, for her thoughts to never stray away from you, even when the alcohol slurred her speech, when the drugs enhanced her senses, when she was left alone with her thoughts. 

you were well aware that she slept around, that she never settled down. 

at first you thought you could handle it, that you wouldn't get attached, and it would be just another college fling.

you were left disappointed in yourself when you caught yourself frowning when she wouldnt return your “i love you’s”, the goodmorning-goodnight texts, or when she wouldn't call you back with the excited tone you felt like you had to work for.

and ‘work’ is just another word for sex, because it seemed like that was all she ever cared about.

like forming attachments was just something she couldn't find it in herself to care about.

normally you'd pump yourself up and convince yourself that you were special, that she cared about you at least a little bit more than she cared about her other girls, but this time, your bubble burst for good, no longer trying to justify or glorify the treatment you received. 

there was no point in it. 

she would wake up, you'd make her breakfast and she would be sober enough to walk home. 

and after that, you would never speak again. 

you'd change your courses, stop going to parties, cut off your mutual friends, throw away every photo, letter, gift, hoodie, every thing that reminded you of her, and alysa would become a distant memory you'd laugh at in a few years. 

just as you cut out your ‘flawless’ plan to move on from her, alysa's hands tightened around your neck, reminding you of your earlier conversation, where she wrapped herself just like that, and you held her the same way you did whenever she would have a nightmare or you would be making up after an argument. you held her with the amount of love and care reserved for when she needed reassurance, for when she showed you that she needed you. 

your chest ached at the thought that you would have to leave her tomorrow, knowing what she would do to herself. guilt and fear mixed up in your chest, blending together and creating a sense of protectiveness towards her. you wanted to protect her from what was about to come, to hold her and talk her through it all, but how could you protect her from your absence, knowing it's the only thing that protected you?

at the end of the day, if alysa really tried, she could replace you, but you could never replace her.

you were mistaken when you thought you could be just like her and detach yourself from everything. you cared far too much for this to stay a friday night stress reliever call. 

the sky changed into the lighter purple-blueish shade it always did when the sun was preparing to rise above the horizon. 

the clock on the nightstand confirmed your fears — there wasn't much time left until alysa would wake up, and you two would be forced to address the recent events. 

alysa’s grip remained tight, leaving you trying to decide if you wanted to act nonchalant and pretend you hadn't been craving this, or allow yourself to — no, acknowledge that you were already melting in her embrace and that you were far gone.

everything you thought you had understood up until this point started to seem absurd. 

you told yourself she didn't care. that you were nothing special.

yet here she was, clinging to you like a lifeline, begging for you to stay and actually seeming sincere.

part of you said she cared, that you mattered a little more than the other girls.

but then you would be discarded as soon as things got hard. 

the bar was low, really. she wasn't a good person in general.. but still, being engulfed by flames seems comforting to those who have spent their entire lives buried in snow. 

another thirty minutes of trying to make sense of it all passed until you noticed how heavy your eyelids had gotten. 

there was no point in staying up. the moment of truth was tomorrow, and no amount of overthinking could prepare you for whatever outcome the universe created for you, so you let yourself bury your nose in alysa's hair for what was most likely the last time, and let sleep take you.

                                    ⋆⋆⋆

alysa tried to untangle herself from your embrace, each limb taking a decent amount of effort to free.

just as she managed to fully untangle herself, your eyes fluttered open, vision a little blurry.

as soon as you processed what was happening, a long, embarrassing whine came out of you in an attempt to make it known that you were unapproving of whatever was happening. 

you didn't have enough energy to form a sentence — your brains were scrambled, and you were reduced to a whining mess.

alysa sat on the edge of the bed, scooting only a few inches closer to you in a feeble attempt to cease your whining.

“where are you going?” you asked, your tone a little higher pitched than usual.

“home.” she answered with a face that looked like she was clawing the words out of her mouth.

“aren't you staying for breakfast?” 

“no- i..” alysa began trying to form a sentence, but she was cut off.

“how are you gonna sober up with no food?” you asked with the same whiny tone.

“but..”

“alysa.”

a long sigh from her.

“fine.”

that caused a soft smile to grow on your face.

the next thirty minutes were a blur — alysa took a shower while you prepared breakfast.

once the table was set, she sat across from you, refusing to make eye contact. 

you'd prepared her favourite breakfast, and alysa thanked you for remembering, but to you, this wasn't something you did on purpose.

you always made her the exact same breakfast when she came over because you loved hearing her little squeals of excitement every time she caught a whiff of what was being prepared. to you this was instinct, routine, something you did absent mindedly.

for the first 10 minutes, you both picked at your food until alysa broke the ice, finally speaking.

“im not gonna tell you i'm sorry, because ive said it so many times, it doesn't mean anything to you..”

a beat of silence while you processed her words and the sudden shift in topic.

“but i..i did really try to improve the things you said i should improve.”

“like what?”

“i.. cleaned my room and the rest of my apartment..actually cleaned it, not just shove things in drawers and call it a day. i even wiped the counters and stuff. i also did my homework. poorly, but i did my best. and i stopped with the parties.”

“first, i have to see it to believe it. second, if you really stopped with the parties, how did i end up picking you up wasted from some rando’s house?” 

both of you were surprised at the harsh tone your words escaped in. you weren't intending to sound like that, not when she was being so vulnerable.

it was almost like your body was trying to protect itself, acting on its own without your input. 

for a second, you wanted to reach out, to wrap your arms around her and apologize for your harsh tone.

alysa cleared her throat, her gaze averting from your eyes and towards her food.

“well, you..you can check my grades, my room..i..you can even ask my friends, and they'll tell you that the party you picked me up from was the only party i attended since we fought.”

your glare burned into her forehead, disbelieving and full of frustration yet a want to believe her words.

a few moments of silence passed till alysa spoke again.

“i want to show you that i can be better.”

“i know you can be better..will you be better?”

“yes. please. just let me show you.”

“fine.”

you felt bad that you were giving her this treatment. you didn't like the words that came out of your mouth, you didn't like your voice, and you didn't like how alysa winced every time you opened your mouth.

                                  ⋆⋆⋆

alysa fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door. her hands were trembling, her body language and tense facial expression mirroring the fear and anxiety she was holding.

at first, you thought you walked into the wrong apartment.

the blinds were open — the sun illuminating the entire area, the usually cluttered chairs and tables now free of unnecessary weight (save for your hoodie she borrowed months ago still on the sofa), the counters shining, and the place filled with fresh air. 

nothing about this place said “alysa’s”. the last time you were here, it was dark, messy and suffocating. 

“oh wow,” you stammered. “i didnt think you were being serious.”

alysa remained silent, holding her own hands in a cowered stance.

“you did this?”

“i..yeah.”

you walked through the rooms. 

her cats came rushing to you.

“oh wow, you actually groomed them too.”

“i did.”

“damn, lys.” 

a slight smile tugged at her lips when she heard the nickname.

“well, okay..you got me there. i’m proud of you..i hope you keep this up.”

“i’ll try my best.”

“you better.”

you sigh and walk out of her bedroom, the door creaking behind you.

you clutch onto your bag, looking down to your feet and then up at the front door.

“i gotta go.”

“what?” alysa stammered.

“i have to go..got some chores.” lying through your teeth, trying to remove yourself from the uncomfortable atmosphere.

“wait– stay, we need to talk.” alysa insisted.

“what is there to talk about?” you questioned.

“i think you deserve some closure.”

“i have all the closure i need.”

“you think that but you really don't.”

“how are you gonna tell me what i need?”

“y/n.” her tone was whiny, eyes glossy and pleading with you. 

alysa letting go of her dignity like this was a rare sight.

“you better make this worth my time.”

“just let me explain myself. if you choose to stay, great, and if you dont, well..its your choice.” her voice faltered at the “and if you dont”, and you pretended to not notice it. 

you pretended the frown that grew on her face didn't bother you. how her shoulders being slumped instead of carried with confidence didn't overwhelm you with guilt, knowing you were the reason alysa was reduced to nothing but a pathetic, pleading mess.

the soft cushion on the sofa had the same cover you bought her months ago. it had a cat that resembled one of her past cats, and it threw you back to when you first gifted it to her, how she pretended not to care about it much, but she still softened and gave you a hug.

now you want to be in her embrace again, to let yourself melt and not let the outside world bother you any longer. 

you sat down, holding the cushion, tracing little patterns on it.

alysa hesitated to sit close to you, her mouth opening without anything coming out.

“sit.”

she sat next to you, her knee bumping yours.

“sorry.”

“dont apologize.”

alysa wasn't the kind to apologize for seemingly small things like bumping into you. this was a first.

“ive been an asshole to you and to everybody else.”

“you have.”

she sighs, her chest aching at your affirmation.

“i don't get it. you come over, and you hold me like i'm the most precious thing in the world, and the next day you're posted up on some other girl's lap. how does that work?”

“i..im just scared of getting attached. i’m scared of being let down. disappointment isn't really a thing when you didn't expect much in the first place. i was scared. i didn't know how to run from what i was feeling, i didn’t want to accept that you were starting to mean more than a fling to me.. and.. the only way i could really distract myself is parties.”

“so all those nights i begged you to stay, to try and be something with me, to commit..and you just ran off to parties. and..”

“i thought you'd leave! i thought if we got together, and i got too comfortable and you saw how i really was — obsessive, broken, complicated, you'd leave, and i would get hurt.” 

she was getting defensive, her voice raising slightly before she caught herself and lowered it, a little guilty from snapping like that.

“what makes you think that? i stayed through you hoeing around and i still tried to make something of us. you think I couldn't handle whatever else you could throw at me?”

alysa shut up at that. she realized she underestimated you. finally, she murmured: “she said the same, and she left not a month later.”

“..she?”

“my ex.”

“who?”

“there was this girl back in.. middle school,” only then did it fully hit her how stupid her whole thought process was. a small, embarrassed chuckle escaped her with the realization that this was something she should've gotten over years ago.

“she promised me she loved me as i was, that she'd stay..and when i started to get complicated, she left. and i got so attached, i really thought..this was it, i’ll marry her. when she left it broke me. i didn't let myself look at anyone how i looked at her ever again. when college rolled around, i dont know how this started, i dont know why i became this way. i promise. i'm not..i can love. i'm not completely broken.”

your heart broke a little at her confession, but your pain stood in the way of your sympathy making you forgive her and letting her off the hook. 

“you can't let a failed middle school relationship keep holding you back from forming any meaningful connections.”

“i know!” a self deprecating laugh came out of her mouth, a sheepish smile on her face.

 “i realize that now. and- and i hate how i handled this. because i care, okay? you were the only one on my mind for months, do you know how many bottles i had to down to run from my mind and find some distraction? i know this sounds insane, maybe because it really is.. but i don't want you to think that you weren't enough, or.. or that this was all surface level. i dont remember the last time i let someone hold me and kiss me like that. hell, our quick pecks were more intimate than the sex i had at random parties. my point is, if you thought you mattered to me more than others did, you were right.”

now the whole place was silent save for alysa's breath, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes.

you were at a loss of words, your mouth opening, but no sound came out of it.

“just- please, let me show you, let me prove to you that i can be better?”

“i dont understand what you're asking.”

“will you be my girlfriend?” alysa blurted out.

you could've sworn your heart skipped a few beats, followed by your eyes widening.

“h-huh?” you stammered, giving her a confused look.

“you heard me. will you be my girlfriend?”

“you're serious?”

“yes.”

“..girlfriend.. like.. you're willing to commit…?” 

the incredulous tone your words were spoken in made alysa wince and question how lowly you thought of her.

“yes. i'm..willing to do all the cheesy stuff, to do all the communication, the dates, the hard parts.. i’ll do it all if you let me.”

you bit your bottom lip, gauging her sincerity. 

this was all you've ever wanted. what you've been begging for for the past couple months, and now it's being handed to you. 

you couldn't tell if she was being serious, you couldn't tell if there was some ulterior motive behind this.

“please? just one chance?”

sigh.

“i’ll be your girlfriend.” 

alysa perked up at that, her smile instantly growing, her hand reaching up to rest on your thigh without her even realizing.

“really??”

“yes, really.”

she no longer tried to suppress the tears that were threatening to wash over her cheeks.

her arms came up to wrap around your neck, burying her head in the crook of your neck, her tears forming a wet spot on your shirt.

you crumbled, fingers flying up to play with her hair in a soothing motion.

“you're being serious?” she asked between sobs.

“yes, lysa, i’m being serious.”

her legs moved to wrap around your waist, straddling you as she made herself comfortable.

“god i’ve missed you.”

“i missed you more.”

having her in your arms like this felt weird. 

this was the first time you held her knowing she was yours, that she belonged in your arms and your arms only. 

obviously, alysa still had to prove that she would keep her word. 

she had to keep cleaning her place and taking proper care of her cats, keep parties on the low, stay loyal to you. 

she gave you a spare key to her apartment so you could check on her whenever you'd like.

sometimes you'd catch her staring at the alcohol on the shelves, clearly fighting with herself not to grab one by the neck and down it in a minute.

you'd catch her struggle to cope with her emotions, sitting across you and relearning how to form a sentence that would express the emotions she was experiencing instead of the ones she thought you could digest with ease.

she would invite you to every party she went to and would be glued to your side the entire time, and every time a girl approached her, her heart was heavy with guilt when she saw the insecurity in your eyes. 

alysa was still witty, nonchalant on the surface and complicated to understand, but this time she was willing to cooperate, to help you understand her and show you all the love she held for you in her heart. 

her gifts turned from bribes to displays of affection, her attention no longer felt like something you had to work for, and her arms were your safe space instead of something you feared would never be yours. 

each time she saw doubt creep onto your face, she made sure it disappeared as quickly as it came. 

each time you seeked reassurance, she gave it to you, no questions asked. 

her arms held you tight against her with love and care, gently squeezing you to let you know that you still belonged in her arms.

and you would always hum or squeeze back, reminding her that you were the only one who belonged in her arms.

[certifiedsushillover]

DADAMAN POSTED

[internetgurll]

(yuri) heated rivalry

alysa liu x russian figure skater reader

totally suggest listening to my moon my man wile reading

here it was, the 2026 winter olympic games in milan. these were your games to sweep, just like you did at worlds and nationals. your short program was the highest scored at 79.32, there was no doubt in your mind you weren’t going to win gold. the pressure on you was huge, you were representing a whole country on your own. your coach, eteri tutberidze, was banned from being on your side. your choreographer, michael, stepped up and played both roles.

you were under a lot of stress going into the free skate. you knew the way you were training was slowly ruining you mentally and physically, but you didn’t work your whole life to not be the greatest. anything other than gold would be unacceptable. you sat with you legs crossed on a random bench outside the olympic village. your hoodie covered most of your face as you took hits of a cigarette. it wasn’t your proudest habit but it was your way of releasing stress.

the village was quiet for the most part, a couple athletes walking past you from time to time. this was clam before the storm for you. you, yourself, and your cigarettes. no one to bother you, correct you on something, or remind you of what was on the line.

“boo!” someone lightly pushed you from behind. you got up throwing you cigarette on the floor.

“jesus liu don’t do that” you said shaking your head, reaching into you pocket for another cigarette.

“that’s like really bad for you i hope you know”

“i’m aware but we have our unhealthy habits” you offered her the cigarette and she shook her head. you sat back down on the bench.

alysa and yours friendship was somewhat complicated. you grew up together, best friends, then she retired and you moved to russia. you felt you weren’t getting the training you needed back in the states, so when eteri offered to coach you it was a no brainer. alysa tried to get you to stay with her in the states, but you knew it would set you back. you didn’t talk for two years, then she came back and things oddly went back to normal. whenever you two were in the same city you would see each, and it always felt like there was no time lost.

“are you nervous for tomorrow?” she asked drawing little things with her foot in the dirt.

“fuck you have no idea” you leaned you head back in the bench.

“you’re going to win”

“you just jinxed it thanks” you put the cigarette to your mouth.

“i mean, i could help you clam your nerves”

you looked at her suspiciously because you knew where this was going.

“i don’t think so, nice try” you kept looking up at the sky as her hand met yours. she slowly leaned into you and left kisses on your neck. you let out a sign before gently pushing her off.

“what if someone sees us?”

“you don’t have a roomate right? we could just go to you room” she suggested messing with the zipper of your jacket.

you couldn’t say no to her, she was the one person who you let your guard down for. anything she said or wanted you did it without hesitation. you had her follow a couple seconds behind you as you made your way back to your room. this was an idiotic mistake, you knew that.

the next morning you woke up alone, snoozing your alarm twice before eteri called. she was on her way to your room. you hurried to take a shower and get ready for the competition.

you walked into the elvator bag over your shoulder as eteri went over notes. you were half tuned into what she was saying, as the elevator stopped and alysa walked in with her coaches. you smiled at each other before eteri continued rambling. you shook your head fully listening now. you heard alysa and her coaches whispering. as soon as the elevator opened eteri grabbed your arm dragging you out.

“that girl is no better than you. don’t smile at her she’s competition not your friend” she whispered hardly into your ear.

micheal was already waiting for you two outside the venue. he was looking at his watch and looked relieved to see you two.

“what took you so long?”

“well this one didn’t wake up to her alarm twice” eteri answered dragging you inside the venue.

the vibes were tense, you laced up your skates and eteri checked them before you walked onto the ice. you started doing you basic warmups, slowly more skaters showed up. alysa was one of the last to show up, she smiled at you. you smiled back before eteri snapped at you to stop. warmups went well, you landed all your jumps and your spins were clean. everytime you thought you were done, you were ordered back to practice another move. exhaustion started to hit and you slowly started to loose your momentum. you underrotated some jumps and cut spins off short.

“what the hell was that?” eteri snapped.

“i’m sorry i just feel like im going to faint” you said reaching for some water. you took the smallest sip and gurgled the water. eteri was a tough coach, but she got you results.

“let’s not over exhaust her” michael stepped it. he wasn’t as hard as eteri, he was reasonable and looked out for you.

eteri didn’t say anything just walked away and micheal singled you to follow. alysa was standing talking her coaches as you went by. you offered them a smile and they returned it no hesitation. sometimes you felt envious of alysa. she was in charge of everything she was doing and her coaches actually cared for her. not that yours didn’t, they were just tough on you.

leading up to your free skate you were oddly clam. you were the last one to perform, so being able to see everyone else perform only grew your confidence. you were going to win there was no doubt in your mind.

“good luck” alysa whispered pulling you out of your thoughts. her hand hovering over your waist, before she skated onto the ice.

you counted to stretch and go over your routine watching her on the tv. you had seen this routine a handful of times but today it left you star struck. she skated with so much ease and confidence. for the first time you felt that maybe that gold wasn’t yours. you shook yourself out of your thoughts and did a final run through of your routine, as she got her score.

226.79 was the number to beat. easy enough for you considering your routine scored higher than that at both worlds and nationals. kaori sakamoto was the last person that came between you and the ice. her score 224.90.

eteri gave you a final pep talk, taking you jacket and skate guards.

“listen to me, this is your moment. i’m hard on you because i see you potential. you are going to win that gold, i love you” she smile wrapping you in a hug. you wrapped you arms around her waist as she kissed the top of your head. micheal was waiting for you at the opening of the rink, as you walked out into the arena. the crowd erupted as you walked out, there was dobut you weren’t the favorite to win. and that alone fueled you even more. alysa sat on the chair to the left of the kiss and cry, she watched as you did your laps around the rink. she clapped as you landed your practice quads and encouraged the crowd to cheer louder for you. you couldn’t help but smile as you made your way back to micheal for a final pep talk.

“listen to me, no one deserves this more than you. this is your moment and i’m so so proud of you” he took your hands and he helped regulate your breathing. you never realized how uneven your breathing would get so when micheal noticed it he started the tradition. one you you felt yourself take a full deep breath, you did your handshake and you took center ice. your music started and you went into autopilot, you had perfected this routine. you landed every one of your four quads your spins were controlled and your music ended you knew you won. you ran to micheal jumping into his arms and he span you.

“are you kidding me? that was insane” he screamed helping you put on you guards. you laughed with him before running to eteri, you hugged her quickly before going to get your results. you sat down grinning from ear to ear as you waited for your score.

“the scores please” you grabbed micheal’s hand as the crowd fell silent, “with a score of 146.56 in the free skate, overall score of 225.88”

your heart dropped and before you heard the words “second place” over the speakers. you started uncontrollably laughing and you heard gasps from the crowded. you couldn’t handle your emotions as your head fell into your hands and you started crying. micheal quickly wrapped you in a hug as he tried to calm you down.

“they’re just kidding right? like that isn’t my score” you were yelling now pointing to the board. you were angry and didn’t even think as you stormed off into the locker room. michael ran closely behind you and ereti caught up to you.

“hey calm down”

“clam down? i just lost the gold! you promised me if i pushed myself i would win! i should’ve won!” you were yelling like a maniac, “im not going back out there!”

you started undoing your skates.

up until this point eteri let you get your emotions out. she didn’t intervene, she understood your frustration. there was no logical way you should’ve come in second. the moment she saw you taking off your skates she finally decided to stop you.

“enough!” she startled you as she got on a knee and began lacing up your skates, “listen to me, i know this is frustrating but you won a metal that alone you should be proud of”

you scoffed as you crossed your arms. you bit your tongue as to not explode on her again.

“it’s a shame what happened tonight but go out there, smile and receive you metal”

the anger you felt turned into sadness again and you started to cry. she wasted no time wrapping you in her arms and petting your hair. she let you cry because she knew you were in pain. she worked you tirelessly to make you a champion and now that you weren’t, she felt the guilt start to creep in. once you were clam, she wiped the mascara from under your eyes and helped fix your makeup. you step out the locker room to be met with cameras pointed at you. you smiled before walking over to the backstage manger who instructed you to take your place in the hallway along with the other medalist. kaori tapped you on the shoulder first, opening her arms. you hugged tight and congratulated her. she was directed to take the ice for the medal ceremony. you could feel alysa’s gaze on you and you clenched your fists. you were mad at her, she knew how much you deserved this win.

“you were-“

“don’t” you said coldly before you were directed on the ice. you smiled and waved as you came out, the crowd exploding for you. you took your place behind the second place step of the podium. alysa was called out and you looked anywhere but her, you clapped lazily. this wasn’t her fault, you knew that, but it was so easy to blame her.

the next hours went by in a blur for you. you received your medal with the your best poker face, but as the chairman placed the medal around your neck you felt yourself hold back tears. you kept glancing at yourself on the jumbotron to make sure you looked somewhat okay, but the tears were visible. you wiped them away quickly with the back of you hand. as alysa received her medal you didn’t even try to hide it, you kept a straight face as you lazily clapped for her. pictures were taken with the three of you, alysa gripped your waist and you just hovered your hand above her back. the anthems began and since you were competing as a neutral athlete, you didn’t have a flag or anthem to sing. the two girls were instructed to pose with their flags and you escaped to find a stage manger.

“is it cool if i just head out?”

“why?”

“i don’t have a flag or anthem”

“i guess so yeah, well let know the press you’re going first instead of kaori” she was quick to talk over her headset.

you skated off with your head down, micheal was waiting for you. you handed him the medal off you neck.

“i just want to get the fuck out of here” you said putting on your guards and jacket.

“i tried to get you out the press conference but”

“i know it’s part of being an athlete” you smiled as you two walked to the conference room. flashes following you as you walked up to the table. you adjusted the in ear translator and took a deep breath before answering questions. you felt like a robot just nodding and answering the same questions over and over. how do you after your performance? are you happy with the results? do you plan on coming back in 2030 for the gold?

“are you happy for alysa? we know you were close as kids, do you still see her as a friend?”

you were taken a back, because no really asked such straightforward questions about other skaters. you thought about it before continuing, “yeah i’m happy for her, she deserves success. i obviously respect her a lot as a competitor.”

the press conference didn’t continue much longer after that, you thanked everyone as you left. you waited to the side with micheal and eteri for the group conference to start. kaori showed up first for her press conference, then alysa. she stood across for you with her coahes, they were whispering looking over to you. you coaches must’ve taken notice of this and they stepped in front of you to be blocked from their eyesight.

“probably talking about how they paid the judges” micheal shook his head.

“are you ready for the gala?” eteri asked to distract you.

“do i have to do it?” you knew the answer, but you had no motivation to skate. you were running through what to caption your retirement post in you head.

“yes and you’ll do great. the routine is so good, maybe if you would’ve today you-”

“not now micheal” you put your hand up, “i need to pee.” they both nodded and moved to let you go to the bathroom. you locked yourself into the closet stall. you didn’t actually need to pee, you just needed to get away from everyone. you sat down on the seat, putting your knees to your chest, this was the worst feeling. you had just failed not only yourself but a whole country. what would happen when you got back home? your thoughts were interrupted with the door opening and someone crawling under into your stall.

“get the fuck out”

“no what the hell is wrong with you?” alysa asked leaning back on the door.

“what’s wrong with me? you knew how much i needed that medal and you took it from me”

“i didn’t take it for you, i won” she crossed her arms.

“you cheated! i beat you at everything and suddenly you win the olympics? it doesn’t make any sense”

“so what are you saying i paid off the judges or something?”

“i would be surprised if you did” you got up to leave the stall but alysa blocked the lock. “god can you let me out?”

“no we’re going to talk”

“you’re insufferable, let me out”

“no because i can’t stand you being mad at me! this is a huge accomplishment for me and you can’t even pretend to be happy for me! you’re being selfish!” she yelled at you.

you were taken back, because alysa never yelled at you. you let out a breath because she was right. your pride, however, would never let you admit to being wrong though. you leaned into her, close enough your lips were almost touching. you held her face and she soften immediately to your touch. you smiled as you turned her around reaching for the door lock and leaving the bathroom.

“idiot” you laughed under your breath. you met with your coaches and went over what needed to be done for the gala. alysa came out the bathroom a few minutes after. she was walking with usual clam demeanor, you looked at her up and down. you winked at her and she scoffed. your coaches looked at you confused, they always had an idea something was happening with you two. they just never dared to ask about it, it wasn’t their business.

the joined press conference was next, you on the left next to alysa. she was mad at you, and rightfully so, but she wasn’t as mad as you were. she stole your medal. the press conference went fairly normal.

“have you all seen heated rivalry?”

you laughed because of course you had, who hadn’t.

“a lot of people would compare the two of you” she pointed between and alysa, “two the main characters is there any true to that?”

you two were stunned, it was a joke, but there was lots of truth to it.

“uh i think the competitive aspect i guess so” you looked over to alysa who nodded in agreement.

“my question is y/n” the next interview stood up and you nodded waiting for thier question. “you had a very emotional response to getting second, do you feel you overrated?”

you weren’t sure if this question was supposed to be passive aggressive or not but it sure felt that way. you thought a second before answering.

“i think my reaction was valid. i had been wining every competition leading up to this one. it got to my head and when i didn’t the results i wanted, it hurt” you nodded before they went onto the final questions.

once the conference was over you excited to finally be alone. you said your goodbyes to your coaches and once you were in your were you finally felt peace. you showered and got ready for bed. there was a knock at your door and you knew exactly who was here. you chose to ignore it, keep her on her toes a bit.

“i know you’re in there, open the damn door” she started trying to mess with the lock.

you rolled your eyes walking over and letting her in.

“look i don’t like whatever this tension is, i wanna squash it”, she was pacing before continuing, “i understand your mad and i would be to. i didn’t mean to take you medal, i just”

she kept talking and she sounded pathetic. you loved to see her this way, she played it cool with everyone else, but the moment she was with you she made a fool of herself. you smiled before walking over to her, kissing to shut her up. she melted right into it, your hands cupping her face and her pulling your waist. the kiss escalated quickly, you threw her down on the bed getting on top her of her and started working your way down. you kissed under her jaw and her neck before taking of her sweatshirt. she stopped you, sitting up in the bed.

“no we’re not doing this until we talk”

you rolled your eyes sitting on the edge of the bed.

“look i’m sorry about everything today, but there’s so much more to this. i like you, a lot and i don’t want to be just a competition hook up to you”

“oh my god alysa” you burried your head in your hands, “i’ve told you since the beginning this won’t work. i’ll be crucified back home if anyone found out about this”

“you don’t have to go back though, you can come back to cali and-”

“no are you dumb? why would risk my career for you?”

she was taken back at that. she didn’t say anything just looked at you stunned. you took a deep breath before continuing.

“look i love you and whatever we have going on, but i have built something for myself. i can’t let it be ruined”

“and i would do that? i would ruin your career?”

“you already did”

she didn’t say anything she got up and slammed the door. you sighed laying back on the bed. you were mad at yourself because you really did love her. you wanted nothing more than to be her girlfriend and love her the way she deserved. in this point of you life however skating was priority and no could come between that.

the next morning, you didn’t wake up to any of your alarms. your phone kept ringing and ringing, and each time you silenced it without even opening your eyes. then there was a knock at your door.

you groaned, dragging yourself up and opening the door.

“good morning, sleepyhead!” micheal beamed the second you opened the door.

“hello, micheal” you said monotone.

“don’t sound so excited, sweetheart,” he teased, tilting his head at you. “i’m thinking this, we go explore the city before practice?”

you nodded, a small spark of energy finally breaking through as you rushed to get ready. micheal made your bed and cleaned up your room, while he waited.

the city was beautiful in a way that almost made you forget everything else. you wandered through little shops, trying different foods, and taking pictures of everything. your mind wandered to last night and how regretful you were on how you treated alysa.

“micheal, can i ask you something?”

he nodded, still eating his gelato as the two of you walked back toward the arena.

“how did you know you liked men?”

he stopped walking, nearly choking on his gelato. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“why do you think i like men?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“you’re a figure skating coach.”

you both laughed. he took a second before answering, his expression softening.

“i guess… when i fell in love for the first time,” he said. “my best friend, back in school. one night we got wasted and…

one thing led to another.”

“ew, michael.”

“oh, spare me,” he shot back, rolling his eyes. “like you’re some kind of virgin mary over here.”

you shook your head, smiling faintly, letting him continue.

“he told me he had feelings for me,” micheal said, quieter now. “and i realized… yeah. i’ve never felt that way about anyone before. we tried to take things slow, but it scared me. you know how it is back home. so… i let him go.”

you frowned slightly. “what do you mean, let him go?”

he exhaled, looking down at the melting gelato in his hand. “i knew i wasn’t ready to be that person. not openly. not completely. and he deserved someone who wasn’t afraid to love him like that.”

his words lingered longer than the conversation itself.

you nodded, but your mind had already drifted back to last night.o you knew you messed up, and worse, you knew a part of you still wasn’t ready to give her everything she deserved. but the thought of losing her was unbearable. if you didn’t say something now, it might already be over for good.

“can i tell you something?” you asked quietly.

“always.”

“i really messed up, micheal. i really like someone, but i’m too afraid of what people will think.”

he didn’t hesitate. “then you need to let her go.”

“i can’t,” you said quickly, your voice breaking just a little. “i don’t want to lose her.”

he looked at you, softer this time. “then be honest. tell her exactly what you’re able to give right now. and let her decide if that’s enough.”

his words settled somewhere deep inside you.

by the time you walked into gala practice, you weren’t thinking about your program or your jumps or anything on the ice. you were thinking about her. running over every word you needed to say, again and again, hoping this time you wouldn’t get it wrong.

she was one of the last to arrive, smile on her face. you didn’t even think about what it would look like, you skated over grabbing her wrist.

“we need to talk” was all you said under your breath. you pulled her into the hallway.

“look i know ive been a bitch to you, you deserved the gold. i’m so proud of you for that. you deserve anything and everything good coming your way”

she looked at you puzzled crossing her arms inviting to you to continue.

“i love you so so much. i want to be able to show you how i feel but it’s hard. i can’t promise ill be the most affectionate in public or even at all but”

“yeah no im not doing this. you’re so selfish you know that?”

“what?”

“yesterday was the best day of my life and you couldn’t even pretend to be happy for me. i came to you trying to fix this and you shut it down, so i don’t care what you have to say im done” she walked off.

you stood there stunned. your nightmare was slowly coming true, you and alysa might be done.

the rest of practice went terrible, you weren’t picking up any choreo. you couldn’t land a single jump or complete a spin, you were falling apart. micheal noticed immediately telling you to leave it off the ice but you couldn’t. alysa seemed unfazed which only made you angrier. not at her though at full at yourself. she was right, you were selfish. how hard was it to suppress your disappointment and just be happy for her? not hard at all. you needed to fix this.

coming back to the village you had one mission, get her to forgive you. you texted and called her, no response. which you expected, so you did the next next best thing. you went to talk to her in person. you underestimated how hard it would be to find her room. you tried every floor, knocked at every door. everyone looked at you like you were some kind of maniac. you felt defeated sitting in one of the lounges. the elevator stopped on the floor and out came amber glenn. you weren’t close at all, just knew each other through competitions.

“amber hey!”

she looked at you confused, “hi what are you doing here?”

“i’m looking for alysa”

“yeah no”

“what? come on please help me. i’ve been knocking on doors the past hour like an idiot help me out”

she thought about it before telling you alysa’s room was upstairs, last door to the left. she texted alysa’s roomate to meet for dinner, so you could talk to her alone. you thanked her rushing up the stairs. you got to the room just as her roommate was walking out, you shushed her as you walked in. you closed the door quietly, alysa was in her bed phone in hand and you could hear your program music.

“can’t get enough of me?” you said scaring her.

“what the fuck? how did you get in here?”

“don’t worry about that, i just really need to talk to you.”

“yeah well i told you i was done. i don’t want to hear whatever bullshit is going to come out your mouth.” she turned her body so that she was facing the wall and not you.

“okay look im really sorry, truly i am. im a selfish piece of shit but seriously alysa look at me.”

she didn’t turn around, you walked to the side of her bed and kneeled in front of it.

“i really want to make things work with you, i don’t just want to see when there’s a competition. i want to be at all your practices, i want-”

“can you just stop? seriously it’s been years this whole on and off thing with you. how do i know you’re not just going to flake again?” she turned to look at you.

“i guess you have to trust me”

“you’re such an asshole genuinely, you think you’re being funny but you’re not. you told me i ruined your career! do you really believe that?”

“no i don’t”

“then why’d you say it?”

“i don’t know”

“you don’t know?”

“no i don’t know. i didn’t want to hurt you, i was just upset about”

“about loosing? yeah you’re such a sore loser dude”

“ouch okay. i know damn well roles reserved you’d be the same”

“no i would be happy for you!”

“really? you left for two years and when i finally started to hit the top you just had the urge to come back” you stood up backing away from her bed.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” she stood up getting in your face.

“you hated to see me winning and you just had to take alysa.”

she scoffed in you face, “you really believe that?”

“i know for a fact”

you starred at each other, there was truth in it. alysa would never fully admit it to you but with the rest of the russian team gone. she knew there was more of a likelihood for her to be at the top. she alyways knew that you would be a hard one to beat, but she didn’t mind. she liked the tension it created between the two of you. she loved when you would get petty with her.

you saw right through her. as much as alysa pretended she wasn’t, she was all about results. she wanted to win, she wanted to be the best.

“you’re really cute when you try to be all tough you know that?” you titled your head.

she rolled her eyes, “you’re really annoying.” she sat down on the bed.

you didn’t waste a second taking a seat next to her. you grabbed her hand encouraging her to look at you.

“i’m really sorry, i don’t like you being mad at me. i should’ve been happy for you” you leaned into her carefully. she didn’t pull back, you placed a light kiss to her lips.

she quickly pulled you back in, her hand already making a mess in your hair. the kiss was desperate. she pulled you down on the bed, you started kissing around her collarbone.

“does this mean you forgive me?” you looked up at her starting to mess with the waist band on her sweats.

“you’re so annoying”

you titled your head and stopped messing with her sweats.

“guess we shouldn’t do this then” you pretend to get up.

she pulled you back by the shoulders. you laughed beginning to undo the tie of her sweats.

there was so much that needed to be worked on between the two of you for this to last. you knew you were ready to take this seriously, trusted she did too.

only time would tell how things would play out.

tags <3 @bellecanelle @tomasaya03 @kozukenapplepi @luvlysssss @sani-sunny @katzzeye @aespicysstuff @lyzsaphrodite @certifiedliunatic @certifiedsushillover @prettyshittywriting @jemilysamour @eunchacha @petrolprettyplease @lovergirl1989 @curlygirl29 @urwavvy @huskypuppysblog @lizzygrantwrld @nanabongos @yournextdooralien @lexiidkwhattoput @maroonpickle13

[certifiedliunatic]

bitches stay up all night reading alysa liu fanfiction then be surprised they're sleepy all day

[certifiedsushillover]

Hiii I was wondering if u can do enemies to lovers with Alysa 👻 u can do wtv u want with the story

YES YES YES! (bare with me though I’ve been studying for finals and trying to get my community service hours in so it might be a little late😊🙏🏽)

[certifiedsushillover]

WASIAN CITY I REPEAT WASIAN CITY!! I almost shed tears seeing this like wdym all my girl crushes have united 🥹 genuinely freaking out and screaming rn this is my teenage girl dream

#PRINCESSESOFWASIA

all creds go to this amazing editor on tt @lius3rds

[certifiedsushillover]

friendly reminder that my inbox is very much open for any sorts of request or if you just want to speak with me (I love yapping with you guys and making new friends)🥹 okay bye!😊😊

[coolforthesummer00]

Make It Right - Part 1 (Prologue)

(Alysa Liu x masc artist! reader)

Summary: You and Alysa were once highschool sweethearts but just a month after graduating, pressure and diverging paths pulled you two apart. Now four years later...Alysa stays busy, fully immersed in skating and the life she's built for herself. You on the other hand, took the risk of pursuing music full time and it's paid off, your career's rising fast despite the fact your heart never moved on. One night, your two worlds collide again.

A/N: hey guys! i’m sorry this took literally forever to get out but it’s finally here!! I lowkey didn’t know if this would technically be considered the prologue or just part one but whatever, prologue AND part one it is! Let me know how you guys like it, feedback is ALWAYS appreciate! Much love😽

————————————————————————

You didn’t expect to fall in love your first year in Oakland.

Moving to California halfway through the year meant you were already behind on everything atleast in the social aspect. Everyone had their friend groups and their routines. You didn’t see a point in trying to force yourself into a group of friends, you kept to yourself anyways so you let the days pass without putting too much weight on them.

Most of your time went somewhere else anyway. You always had your headphones on, walking to class, sitting outside, during lunch. You’d rewind parts of songs over and over, looking for small details, observing how things were layered, why a section in a song hit the way it did. If you weren’t doing that you were messing around on your laptop, putting together little snippets and saving random ideas you told yourself you’d come back to later. It kept you mostly distracted, of course you still noticed people but no one interesting enough to notice twice.

Until you started noticing her.

It wasn’t instant, not like you saw her once and suddenly became fixated. You’d catch her in passing, once in the hallway, another time outside, then again in class. She was easy to pick out, not because she was loud or trying to be noticed but because she looked like she didn’t have to try at all.

You never spoke to her, didn’t plan to either. You just recognized her when she walked into a room. Until one day, when you were outside during lunch, sitting on the edge of a bench with your laptop open and one earbud in. You were looping the same five seconds of a song for the past five minutes, your fingers tapped lightly against your leg to the rhythm.

“You always listen to the same part like that?” You paused and glancing up to see it was her. You blinked once like your brain needed a second to catch up then paused the song. “What?” She nodded toward your laptop. “I’ve watched you replay that part like three times already, I was just curious as to why.” You looked back at your screen for a second and shrugged. “It’s the best part.” She then stepped closer and sat down beside you, leaning just enough to glance at the screen. “What makes it the best part?”

You hesitated for a second not because you didn’t have an answer, but because no one really asked you that. She stayed there, asking you random questions like what you were listening to, what kind of music you liked, why you moved, if you always kept to yourself like this. And you answered, not a lot and definitely not all at once. But enough that she came back the next day and the day after that. Then she just started sitting next to you more, walking with you sometimes.

“Remember me when you’re famous.” she said once, half joking after you showed her a snippet you made entirely by yourself at home, recording each instrument part played by yourself.

By the time the school year started coming to an end, being around her felt normal. Then summer came and you went back to New York for most of it. You thought maybe distance would help give you space, possibly help you get over your nagging crush on your best friend.

But it didn’t and if anything, it made it worse. You guys had constant late night calls that stretched longer than they probably should’ve, random texts about nothing, sending eachother things throughout the day just because it reminded you of the other. And by the time you got back to California, she was already waiting outside the airport.

-—-

Your second year felt way different.

Something about being away gave you space to figure yourself out, things like how you dressed, and how you carried yourself. You came back more comfortable and more settled into yourself. It fit you a lot better and you figured out that the people around you started to notice that pretty soon after too... you just didn’t suspect that Alysa was the first to notice.

Things shifted after that, she stood closer, touched you more without thinking about it, looked at you for half a second longer than usual. One afternoon after leaving school you ended up at her house, laying across her bed, watching a series you had both found interest in.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” she asked suddenly, her voice sounding just the slightest bit quieter than usual

For a second you thought you misheard her, your head turned fast, eyes landing on her as your brain tried to catch up. “What?”

She shrugged like it was nothing, and glanced away. “I don’t know. You just seem like you haven’t.” You were quiet for a moment then remembered that not responding at all would probably make it more awkward than it already was. “Uhm no… I haven’t.. but what do you mean I seem like I haven’t?” you question playfully, trying to seem unfazed by the question. Alysa turned her head to look at you now, studying your reaction a little more closely than before, “Really?”. You try to shrug it off as nonchalantly as possible, “Yeah really, why?”

“Nothing,” she said, but there was a small smile on her face now, like she found your reaction more interesting than your answer. “Me neither.” A small pause settled between the two of you and for a second no one said anything. You could feel your heart literally beating out of your chest and you were half convinced she would probably be able to see it too, your thoughts were also moving faster than your expression let on.

“We should practice.”

You let out a short breath that was like a weird inbetween of a laugh and a sigh, then looked away for a second, fully expecting her to laugh and yell out “just kidding!” when you looked back but she didn’t.

“So it’s not awkward later… you know, when we actually have girlfriends.” she quickly added to maybe make it seem more casual, like something every two best friends did. You raise your head to look at her from staring down at your fidgeting hands, “…as friends?”

“Obviously.” she said like she didn’t even want to allow the thought of the kiss as something other than friends come to mind. You huffed quietly, sitting up a little just to give yourself something to do. “You’re weird.”

“But you’re thinking about it.” You looked at her again, holding her gaze for a second longer this time. “…no I’m not.” you attempt to argue back, evident redness in your cheeks but she raises an eyebrow, ”You definitely are!”

“…fine,” you say after a second, a lot quieter now. “But if it’s bad, it’s on you!” Her smile widened just a little as she scooted closer to you, “It won’t be.” And when you leaned in and your hand found her arm, when your lips met… it didn’t really feel like practice or whatever it was even supposed to feel like at all. You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking to hers where there was another pause. “…again?” she asked, quieter.

You didn’t answer… just leaned in again.

-—-

After that, everything else came pretty easy. There was no big confession, no planned out moment. “You like me,” she said to you one day, smiling. You looked at her then nodded. “…yeah”

She held your gaze. “I like you too.” And that was it, from there it became you and her. You two walked to every class together, she wore your clothes like they were hers, you waiting for her after practice… sometimes even staying longer with her in attempt to learn how to skate. And you grew up together like that, obviously it wasn’t perfect but it didn’t need to be.

-—-

By senior year, there wasn’t much you hadn’t figured out about each other. One night, you were parked somewhere quiet after a late night drive, a bag of fast food placed between you. You two had gotten into the backseat for some more space… now your legs were stretched out as you passed fries back and forth, your shared playlist playing quietly through your car’s slightly busted speakers.

Alysa was mid sentence about something, school or practice most likely while you half listened.. focusing more on her expression and facial features than what she was actually saying. “Ugh you hate me! you’re not even listening,” she said, pushing your shoulder lightly. “I am!” you exclaimed, reaching into the bag again. “You said” you paused, thinking for a second before shrugging. “Something about practice.” She rolled her eyes but was still unable to resist smiling. “I can’t stand you.” You give her a fake offended expression “Wow Lys! that’s a new one”.

“Oh shut up.” She says rolling her eyes at you. You smile slightly, leaning back against the seat. The conversation drifted after that, slowing naturally into comfortable silence. Alysa looked at you first. You caught it out of the corner of your eye, turning your head slightly, “What?”. “Nothing,” she said but didn’t look away. You held her gaze for a second then reached over, brushing your hand against her waist before pulling her closer.

The kiss was familiar, the same one you two would always both melt into. She shifted toward you without hesitation, one hand coming up to your jaw, the other pressing lightly against your shoulder to steady herself. You leaned into it, slow at first then deeper. The bag of food got pushed off to the side as she climbed into your lap. You both stopped momentarily staring into eachother’s eyes, your forehead brushing hers for a second before you leaned in again. You felt her smile against your lips before she finally kissed you again. The windows around you guys fogged a little, your music still playing low in the background until you two finally pulled away from eachother after what felt like forever, breathing heavily.

You definitely wished it was forever.

-—-

The last night was at your place. Your room was quiet and dim, the only light coming from the street outside slipping through your window. You were both laying in your bed, facing each other this time. The conversation from earlier still lingered somewhere in the background. Alysa’s hand rested lightly against your shirt, fingers barely gripping the fabric like she didn’t want you to get up and leave her. You didn’t move, you were never planning to, instead you shifted closer… your arm wrapping around her and pulling her into you. She tucked her head under your chin so her face was pressed into the crook of your neck, your hand resting against her back. You pressed your face lightly into her hair, closing your eyes. She shifted just slightly, closer if that was even possible, like she was trying to stay there as long as she could.

No words were said for the rest of the time. Then at some point, your thoughts faded and your grip loosened just enough as sleep finally caught up to you and your body settled fully against hers. You fell asleep like that… holding her.

When you woke up your room was quiet, your arm was still stretched out beside you but it wasn’t around anyone anymore. The space next to you was empty, the sheets still slightly wrinkled where she was laying. You blinked slowly, your mind taking a second to catch up. Then you sat up and realized her stuff was gone… no hoodie thrown over your chair, no shoes by the door, nothing left behind like a sign she’d just went to the bathroom and would be back any second. You quickly grab and turn on your phone, your favorite picture of her smiling at a little toy she’d gotten from a blind bag displaying on your lockscreen, nothing. No texts. No miss calls.

The events and conversation from last night finally came back to you. You stared at your phone, at the picture of her, almost waiting to see if something from her would appear but nothing ever did. Not a year or even three after.

————————————————————————

did anyone else have any problems reading this?!? while I was writing my screen randomly got super blurry and wet idk it was really weird…

Taglist: @kozukenapplepi @sani-sunny @werewolfden @my-little-rockstar @simp4wom3n @rustlethoughts @gimbapab @slippinthrumyfingers @certifiedwhor3 @moltenessencepuppet @bellecanelle @kyerot @carlito07 @urwavvy @haerinkisser @zadpont @falleo4d @angelwings-fly @melaninjhs @lexakomsimpkru

[certifiedsushillover]

1978, baby. ⋆♱

In a nutshell ౨ৎ alysa liu x fem reader - As if your parent’s divorce wasn’t already hard enough, they decided to send you to a summer camp. You already dreaded having to go there but little did you know the horror lying beneath it and the beautiful people you’d meet just for it all to fall apart in the end. (FEAR STREET 1978 INSPIRED)

5k words; small smut scene, brief mention of “y/n” heavy swearing + blood and mention of suicide!

Author’s note 𓏲ꪆ hi! I just wanted to let you guys know that I had so much fun writing it but prepare to maybe hate me by the end… Anyways this is heavily fear street inspired and with that being said I highly recommend listening to an 80s playlist or some songs from that era just to really feel the vibes of this fic. With all that being said don’t be afraid to interact or reach out because I’m always open to moots! (also please take the smut lightly. it’s my first time actually writing this genre!) Thank you and enjoy!!

────୨ৎ────

The bus rattled along the gravel road as the sunlight beamed through the windows. Outside, towering pines blurred into shadows, their branches weaving in the wind. You pressed your forehead against the cold glass, clutching your worn duffel bag like a lifeline as you thought over and over again.

The sign loomed ahead. “CAMP NIGHTWING”— faded letters on weathered wood, swinging in the wind. You didn't want to be here. No one did. Your parents divorce is what sent you here and no matter how much pleading and crying, you were officially here and nothing could change that.

Your thoughts were interrupted when the bus jerked to a stop. You gathered all your things which was the duffel bag and a mini backpack essentially. Your converse hit the ground as you stepped off the bus. A tall man with a clipboard approached you as his eyes sharpened beneath a worn cap.

”New girl?” His voice was rough, like gravel. “Name’s Rick. Don’t cause any trouble, and you’ll survive.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared out, taking in the forest campus. Your heart was pounding as your gaze went to the weathered wooden cabins, leading to a murky lake on the edge of the forest.

“Look, no one likes being sent here”, he said, leaning closer. “But just like all the other teens around here, you’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Up to you”

And before you could ask any further questions, all you saw was him walking away and on the back of his shirt, it read “camp counselor” hm.

—-

The first few hours were hell. You had to follow another camp counselor around just to find out what cabin to put your shit in. Eventually, you were in your cabin and finished taking some of your things out. You had a few pairs of shirts and denim jean shorts as well as your other pair of converse. Other than your clothes and your Walkman, you honestly didn’t pack much because you weren’t sure on what you should pack at all. It was just you in the cabin. You didn’t even try to socialize with anyone because you knew you would find a way to not spend your entire summer here.

You were laying down, staring up at the ceiling for the next two hours until you heard the door open. Your heart dropped as there were voices already entering the cabin. You sat up to make eye contact with a group of three people walking in. Their conversation stopped as they saw you.

You noticed that there was a guy in the middle. He was tall and pretty skinny with baggy jeans and a layered shirt. To his left was an angelic girl with long curls that went past her shoulders and big brown eyes that sparkled in the sunlight that reached inside the cabin. And that’s when your gaze finally fell to the right. Holy shit. Your gaze locked with the other girl who looked just about your height or a little taller. She had pretty brunette hair with sick blonde rings that faded all throughout. Your heart also completely stopped as she tilted her head in the slightest, her gaze flickering down your face. No. You weren’t doing this. You won’t even be here for long anyway.

The little moment was soon interrupted as the guy in the middle closed the door behind him and awkwardly leaned against it. “You must be the new girl. y/n, right?”, “I’m miles.”

You studied him for a brief question before the words escaped your mouth. “Are you gay?” You internally cringed when you heard how blunt the question sounded but it faded just as quickly when you heard a small scoff and a laugh coming from both of the girls beside him. He didn’t look pissed, far from it actually. If anything, he looked amused as he shook his head. ”Wow, already asking questions before we got a name” A beat. “But yeah. Good gaydar”

You laughed slightly at that which you didn’t think you’d come close to doing here. The girl who was now sitting on the nearby dresser spoke up with a gentle look on her face. “Malia Cedar. We’re all your…cabin mates, I guess?” The other girl stifled a laugh as Miles just shook his head before speaking. “Yeah we’re basically all sleeping together. Okay…well not like that but you get the point.”

Your gaze falls back to the girl who was leaning against the bunk bed. Her gaze intently watched you as you slowly raised a brow. The two others gazed over at the two of you, already sensing the subtle tension before the girl spoke up. “Hey, I’m Alysa”

Something about her gaze wasn’t casual. It was like she was daring you to react a certain way.

Miles cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So how are you liking the place newbie?”

”I want to kill myself” Your voice came out flat and your expression unimpressed.

A beat.

Malia started laughing uncontrollably as her brows raised and dimples deepened. “Holy shit, we’re going to get along so well.”

You were surprised to say the least. Your joke didn’t scare them off. It didn't change the fact that you still were planning to escape somehow but you knew it would make your time here a little more bearable.

After a brief moment of silence Miles clapped his hands together before speaking with a dramatic expression. “Alright, team, campfire at twelve. Just us. Let’s see who’s the bravest.” He walked out without another word as Malia shot you a gentle smile before following after him, leaving you and Alysa alone.

Her gaze never leaves your face as she pushes herself off the wall. “You’re pretty blunt for someone fresh off the bus”

“Just being honest”

That’s when you see it. The metal piercing against her teeth as her lips slowly curve into something like a smile. She slowly nods before responding in a mock serious voice. “Well your timing’s perfect. I'm in the mood to mess with a new girl tonight.”

”Ah so you’re not as nonchalant as you seem” You say. Your lips curving upwards despite the way you feigned annoyance.

The air between you two thickened, charged with something unspoken as she stepped closer.

Her gaze was full of curiosity as she leaned in just enough to lower her voice. “You’re cocky... I like that.”

You meet her gaze, heart beating a bit faster than it should.”Better to be cocky than scared, right?”

Alysa’s smile deepens as she takes a small step back, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “We‘ll see how long that lasts”

The tension deepens before she starts walking towards the door before turning towards you slightly. “Don’t forget campfire’s at twelve. Don’t keep me waiting”

Before you could get another word out she was gone. What was that supposed to mean? What did this whole interaction even mean? You slumped back against the bed, tracing small circles on your arm the same way mom did to comfort you. Maybe camp wouldn’t be that bad.

-—

The campfire crackled, sending flickering shadows dancing across the faces gathered around it. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and smoke, and the sky above was a canvas of stars just starting to peak through the darkness.

You had kept on your denim shorts but thrown a hoodie over yourself before leaving the cabin. You settled onto a rough log beside the others, the warmth from a fire was a small comfort against the chill creeping in from the woods. It was surprising they had managed to set this up without any counselors noticing.

Miles was already animated, telling stories that were supposed to be creepy but were actually just questionable. His voice was loud and full of laughter that felt almost too bright for the tense atmosphere.

Malia leaned in beside you as she nudged your shoulder gently. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You shrugged, eyes scanning the group. Alysa sat a little apart, her posture relaxed but gaze sharp as her eyes flickered between Miles and you. Everytime your eyes met, the same spark of challenges and something deeper flickered between you.

About twenty minutes later, Miles actually starts to tell a story but this time no one cracked a smile.

The fire’s glow flickered wildly as he leaned forward, his grin stretching wide in the darkness. “Alright listen up”, he said, voice dropping to a mock serious whisper that barely hid the grin tugging at his lips. “You guys ever heard about the old legend about this camp?”

The three of you looked at each other and shook your heads.

“Legend says that every summer, one unlucky camper vanishes without a trace…no screams, no signs, just gone.”

He pauses, eyes gleaming in the firelight, then laughs casually. “But here’s the kicker, turns out, the “ghost” is just some asshole in a mask. Creepy, right? Nah, it’s just some counselors maybe trying to scare people for kicks. So don’t worry, no actual shit like that, just bad costumes and horrible acting.”

However, you were quiet and shoulders tense as Malia just laughed nervously but everyone could see right through it.

But you noticed Alysa’s smile was tighter, her gaze sharper. While Miles started to suddenly comfort Malia, you caught Alysa’s eyes. Something unspoken passes between you.

You found yourself wandering back inside the cabin, excusing yourself from the others. The cabin felt colder and emptier without the fire’s warmth. You heard the door close softly behind you, the creak echoing in the quiet, making you flinch.

“It’s just me” You turned around to see Alysa holding her hands up in surrender as you took a breath.

You stood by the hard cabin wall as you heard her speak. Her voice almost gentle. “You scared?”

You scoff despite that lingering feeling in your stomach. “no”

“you’re lying”

You just stare at her as she says that before you shrug. “I don’t know. I know it was all bullshit but something about that story…just doesn't sit right with me.”

She nodded slowly, leaning against the door as she spoke quietly. “Yeah, I get it…but Miles is known to say anything that comes out of his mouth so don’t take it to heart”

Your gaze flickered back to hers, noticing the subtle change in her demeanor. It was like all her nonchalance from earlier had faded in a second.

“what?” her voice came low when she said that as you just shook your head.

“nothing.”

The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and electric. Alysa’s gaze held yours, steady and unblinking, as if trying to read the parts you didn’t say aloud.

“You really want out of this place?” she asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

You blinked, caught off guard. You had forgotten all about that in just the span of two hours. “What do you mean?”

She shifted, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “I mean this camp isn’t just some summer getaway. I heard why you got sent here, you know.”

You instantly tensed and she noticed it. “You know nothing about me.”

Alysa’s gaze softened just a fraction, but the intensity didn’t fade. “Look I know we’ve known each other for like eight hours but you don’t have to pretend with me. I get it. Family shit and trouble back home”

You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly aware of how close she was, how her presence filled the small space. “It’s complicated,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other. The air thickened, your breaths syncing almost involuntarily. The tension wasn’t just about the campfire stories or the shadows outside, it was something raw and unspoken. A fragile connection sparking between two girls who barely knew each other but already felt each other deeply.

Alysa’s voice dropped lower, softer. “You don’t have to be scared here”

You met her gaze, something flickering as you did. “Maybe I’m not.”

“Yeah?” She tilted her head as she spoke.

That one simple word touched your soul.

“Yeah.” Your voice was quiet but firm like it was confirmation for something else entirely.

Her breath hitched just slightly as she took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until it felt like the whole world had narrowed down just to this.

Without another word, she reached out, fingers brushing your jaw and ith a featherlight touch that sent a jolt straight through you. Your heart hammered, breath catching in your throat.

Then, suddenly, she closed the distance. No hesitation or build up. Her lips crashed against yours in an instant. Your jaw tilted up more to get the perfect angle between you.

Your hands shot up, tangling in her hair, pulling her even closer until your back hit the wall, her body fully up against yours. The kiss was raw and desperate, a collision of need and something deeper that neither of you fully understood yet.

When you finally broke apart, both of your breathing were labored. Her hands didn’t once leave your face, instead they slowly slid down your throat tracing the curve of your collarbone, fingers light but deliberate.

Your gaze followed her hands as you looked back at her, seeing the subtle dilation in her eyes. One of your hands slowly came over hers as she caught your gaze.

“do you want…I think…”

a beat.

“are we about to fuck? because I’m kind of new to this and I can’t tell what this really is but I don’t want to dance around it so”

your voice came out rushed but somehow firm and confused.

She just blinked. Her eyebrows raised before a small laugh of disbelief escaped her lips. “look we don’t have to rush anything" she said gently before speaking again. “but yeah, I was kind of getting to that before you said that.”

You scoffed but couldn’t help the smile that started to form on your face as you nudged her.

And with that, her lips found yours again but softer this time as you reciprocated it.

When she broke away, her kisses slowly trailed from the corner of your cheek to down your jawline as your head tilted back, giving her more access. But the kisses started to trail from down your jaw to the curve of your neck.

As her lips lingered longer, your head tilted back fully against the wall, breaths mingling—heavy and uneven. Slowly, you pulled away, catching the flicker of confusion and concern in her eyes. But that look vanished the moment your hands reached up to the edge of your hoodie, peeling it off deliberately to reveal the bra underneath all while holding her gaze without breaking eye contact.

Alysa’s gaze flickered down to the exposed skin, then back to your eyes, a slow appreciative smile curling at the corner of her lips.

Her fingers twitched, hesitant for just a moment, then slid up to your side, tracing the curve of your ribs beneath the soft fabric of your bra. The warmth of her touch was electric, sending shivers that made your breath hitch and a small involuntary sound leave your lips.

“Your turn,” you said, trying to stifle your small laugh from both nerves and adrenaline. It’s as if you could feel the rush and warmth going through your body at this exact moment.

She nodded without hesitation as she complied instantly, gently pulling off her shirt as your gaze trailed down, letting out a breath.

She leaned in, lips brushing against your cheek as her voice lowered to a gentle whisper. “You know, you’re a lot less innocent than I made you out to be.”

Your pulse quickened, heart pounding in your chest as her hand moved lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts with a gentle, deliberate touch that promised more. Her eyes locked onto yours.

“You sure you want this? I’m not here to push you”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, your hands slid down her lower back, fingers splaying there as you slowly pulled her more against you.

That was all she needed. Her hands slid lower slowly undoing the small button of your shorts but making sure to not slide them down all the way. Instead, her fingers came over the damp fabric of your panties that were barely revealed. Just enough for her fingers to trace teasing strokes that sent shivers racing through you.

You gasped lightly, your lips parting in the slightest as your hips pressed more against her.

Alysa caught the sound, pulling back slightly just to see your reaction.

“You like that?” Alysa’s head tilted slightly, a slow, knowing smile curling at the corner of her lips as she studied your expression like a fascinating secret.

You couldn’t tell if you were more irritated or completely undone by her. Either way, you were fucking screwed. She hadn’t even fully touched you yet and already, you were drenched with need.

Her fingers lingered a moment longer on the damp fabric, tracing featherlight strokes over the most sensitive skin beneath. Then, with deliberate, almost reverent care, she slid her fingers lower—fully beneath your underwear. The sudden cool touch of her rings against against your heated skin made you shiver,

“Fuck,” She breathed, voice low and breathy, as if she could hardly believe what she was feeling. “You’re wet.”

A laugh, half disbelief and something else, escaped your lips. “No shit, Alysa”

Her grin deepened, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Actually calling me by my first name? Damn, we’re moving fast.”

You let out a scoff of exasperation though you couldn’t stop the smile starting to tug at your mouth.

—-

Above you, the rough wooden slats of the bunk creaked faintly, and the fejnt glow of moonlight filtered through the window, casting soft shadows across the cabin. Neither of you moved, just gazing upward at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the quiet.

Here you were, laying side by side with the girl you practically just met. You came to this camp with a goal. You wouldn't speak to anyone. You wouldn’t even try to make friends because what good was that anyway? But now you realized that maybe you don’t want that anymore or at least go through it alone. Having sex for the first time with a girl and making friends on the first night wasn’t on your bucket list at all.

After a long pause, your voice broke the silence—low and hesitant, but steady. “You should run away with me.”

Alysa turned her head slightly, eyes meeting yours in the dim light, surprise flickering there. A soft laugh escaped her lips, half disbelief, half something like hope. “You’re serious?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, voice firm despite the vulnerability. “I know we just met and I know this sounds insane. But I want that. I want whatever it is between us away from all of this.” You spoke as you gestured to the worn out cabin around the two of you.

The silence stretched between you again, but this time it felt different, charged with possibility. Alysa’s hand found yours in the dark, squeezing gently.

”We’ll figure it out,” she whispered.

——

Outside, the night held a different kind of tension.

Malia and Miles sat by the campfire, the flickering flames casting long shadows over their faces. The woods around them whispered secrets in the wind, but something felt off—an uneasy silence that pressed heavier than the dark.

”Where are they?” Malia finally asked, glancing toward the cabin.

Miles shrugged, unease flickering in his eyes. “Been an hour. Should’ve came back by now.”

The fire crackled, then suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the night.

Both froze, eyes wide with horror.

”Fuck,” Miles breathed, standing up abruptly. “That’s not right.”

They sprinted toward the lake where they heard the sound, the scream echoing behind him.

When they finally reached it, the scene was chaos.

Rick—the same counselor who had greeted you when you arrived—lay crumpled on a small boat right by the dock, blood staining his shirt and pouring out his mouth. He was barely there but still had some consciousness in him.

”What the hell happened?” Malia demanded, her voice trembling.

Rick gasped, struggling to speak. “Something…something’s out there. We’re not safe.”

——

The cabin door slammed open with a force that rattled the walls. Malia and Miles stumbled inside, faces pale, breaths ragged and quick.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Malia gasped, eyes wide with panic. “You won’t believe what just happened”

Miles nodded, voice trembling but firm. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

You and alysa sat up instantly, exchanging confused glances. The sudden chaos jolted you from the current hazy state the two of you endured.

”Okay, okay.” Alysa said, voice steady but cautious. “One at a time. What the hell happened?’

Malia swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. “Rick…he’s hurt. Badly. We found him by the lake, bleeding everywhere. He said something’s out there, something dangerous”

Miles took a shaky breath. “We heard a scream—thought it was one of you at first. But then when we got there, it was Rick. I don’t even think he made it.”

You and alysa exchanged a look, the weight of their words sinking in. The campfire story, the uneasy feeling outside…you knew something was up but this just confirmed it.

“What do we do?” You asked, voice barely a whisper.

Malia’s eyes darted around the cabin, searching for answers none of you had yet. “We stay together,” she said firmly. “And we don’t go outside alone.”

—-

The cabin’s dim light flickered as the group gathered closer, the weight of Malia’s words hanging heavy in the air. The reality of the night was sinking in, and none of you wanted to admit just how scared you were.

Miles let out a breathy laugh, trying to break the tension. “Well, that’s just great. So basically, we’re stuck in this old ass cabin with no snacks and Wi-Fi. Rad.” His attempt at humor was met with a few weak smiles, but the underlying fear was clear in his eyes.

Alysa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her usual collected confidence softened by the uncertainty. “Okay, so what’s the plan then? We can’t just sit here all night pretending the woods or whatever the hell is out there aren’t trying to kill us.”

You shifted on the bunk, the rough wood pressing against your back. “Maybe we set up some kind of watch? Take turns staying awake and keeping an eye out.”

Malia nodded, rubbing her temples. “Yeah, that’s smart. But we need to stick together when we move around. No solo trips, no matter what.”

The group fell into a tentative rhythm, voices lowering as you all tried to make sense of what was happening. The night seemed to press closer, the shadows thickening around the cabin’s edges.

Miles, trying to lighten the mood, pulled a crumpled pack of gum from his pocket. “Anyone want some? Might as well have something to chew on while we wait for whatever’s out there to come get us.” His grin was shaky but genuine.

You caught Alysa’s gaze and shared a small, tired smile. Despite the fears, there was comfort in this fragile camaraderie.

About an hour passed of whispered conversations and nervous laughter. Stories were swapped, some funny, some dark—each revealing who all of you really were beneath the surface.

Malia talked about her dreams beyond camp, her voice softening as she spoke of leaving this small town behind. “I’m not made for this place,” she admitted. “I want out. Somewhere new. Somewhere I can be someone else.”

Miles, quieter now, confessed his own fears masked by jokes. “I’m scared, okay? I’m not as tough as I act. But I know damn well I’m not gonna let that thing win.”

Alysa shared her reasons for being at this camp as well. How she felt outside. Her voice was steady but vulnerable, and you felt a deeper connection growing between the two of you.

When it was your turn, you spoke of your own reasons, specifically your parent’s divorce, the pain and hope tangled together. The group listened intently as the walls between you all started crumbling in the soft lighting.

But the fragile shattered suddenly.

Another scream just like Rick’s—sharp, piercing and filled with pure terror, cut through you guys like a knife.

Everyone froze, hearts pounding in unison.

Miles was the first to move, grabbing a flashlight and yanking open the cabin door. “I’m going out,” he said, voice tight but determined.

”No.” Malia snapped, grabbing his arm. “We said no one goes out alone!”

”And that’s how every main character dies first in horror movies.” You chimed in, shaking your head instantly.

He shook Malia off, eyes pleading. “I’m not scared” The cabin door creaked open, and he stepped out, the beam from his flashlight cutting a thin slice through the thick darkness. His jaw was set, eyes sharp with determination but you could see the faint tremor in his hands betraying his act.

”Wait up!” Malia called, already moving toward the door, her voice laced with worry.

You and Alysa exchanged a glance, then without a word, followed. The night air hit you like a cold slap—crisp, heavy with pine and something else, something wrong.

Outside, the woods swallowed Mile’s figure as he moved deeper into the shadows, the flashlights bobbing with each step. You all stuck close, the crunch of leaves loud in the eerie silence.

”Man, this is some bogus shit”, Alysa muttered behind you, eyes scanning the darkness like it might leap out at any second.

Miles kept walking, head low, the beam flickering as if struggling against the night itself. You felt your heart hammering, chest tight, every nerve screaming to run but your feet rooted in place.

Malia’s voice was barely above a whisper, “Stay close. Don’t let him out of sight.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. The group was tight, a fragile unit bound by fear and desperate hope.

Suddenly, the flashlight beam caught a flash of movement—just beyond the trees, something low and fast.

Miles stopped, shining the light toward the sound. Then, out of nowhere. A monstrous figure lunged-a grotesque silhouette, wild and twisted, with gnarled claws glinting in the moonlight.

Miles barely had time to scream before the creature swiped. The claw slashes across his throat in a brutal, ragged cut, blood spurting in a dark ark. He staggered back, clutching his neck, eyes wide with shock and pain.

His flashlight slipped from his grasp, spinning wildly and casting frantic, chaotic beams into the trees. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, blood bubbling from his mouth as life drained slowly.

You and Alysa sprinted forward, Malia close behind, hearts pounding in your ears. Miles lay on the damp forest floor, his pale face streaked with blood, eyes glassy and distant.

You reached out, trembling, but it was too late. Malia fell to her knees beside him, shoving, her voice breaking as she whispered. “Miles…Miles, we got you, hang in there, please. No…no, please…”

Alysa’s hand slowly found yours, squeezing tight as you glanced at her, her expression drained and her eyes heavy. “We all stick together now. No more solo trips. No more chances.”

You had to pull Malia up with you guys as the three of you rushed towards the cabin, hearts racing, breaths ragged and desperate. But then as you rattled the handle—shit—the door was fucking locked. Perfect timing. You yanked the handle, pushed, screamed, but it wouldn’t budge..

Malia collapsed against the door, shaking, tears streaming down her face. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening” she sobbed, her voice cracking like a busted record.

You grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “Hey, hey, snap out of it, alright? I refuse to fucking die in this pathetic camp.”

She looked up at you, wild eyed and broken. “Miles, he's dead. How the hell are the rest of us going to survive this?”

Your heart twisted, but you forced a steady breath. “I know how it looks but I won’t let either of you die, okay?”

You three looked around. The woods around the camp were alive with shadows—twisted trees clawing at the sky, branches scraping like fingernails on a chalkboard. The moon was silver, barely lighting the path, and the air was thick with something sinister.

Malia wiped her tears, her jaw clenched tight. “I’m not going out like a pussy. That thing’s gonna regret messing with us”

You nodded, feeling the fire ignite inside her. Her rage was fierce, raw—a weapon sharper than any blade as you looked over at Alysa, taking account the tiny grin on her face despite the horrible circumstances. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” She said and you almost laughed, just almost.

Suddenly, a rustle to your left. Something moved fast—too fast. A dark shape lunged from the shadows, snarling and rapid.

”Get back!” You shouted as Malia stepped forward, ready to fight. The creatures snarled again, claws flashing in the moonlight. Malia swung, landing a solid punch, but it barely fazed the thing. It retaliated with a swipe that grazed her arm, ripping fabric and skin.

She yelped but didn’t back down, eyes blazing. “Come on you freak!” You watched, heart pounding and tempted to make a run for it but Alysa stayed put so you did too. Malia didn’t stop throwing punches fueled by grief and fury but the thing was relentless, stalking her like a predator closing in.

Then, in a flash, it caught her ankle, dragging her down into the underbrush. She screamed, thrashing wildly, trying to break free.

You wasted no time to sprint forward, adrenaline surging, Alysa following right behind you. “Malia!” You yelled, grabbing a thick branch from the ground.

”Come and get this you motherfucker!”, you snarled, swinging the branch with all your might. The creatures hissed, recoiling from the blow, but it asn’t enough. Malia’s screams cut through the night as the thing managed to get her beneath its body, its claws sinking deep as blood gushed from her insides, letting the grass reflect the moonlight.

You dropped the branch, frozen in horror as her voice faded into a gurgled silence. Everything was in slow motion now, Alysa’s muffled voice fading in and out of your consciousness until you finally felt her firm tug.

“We have to move. Now.”

You nodded, swallowing back the lump in your throat. Your legs felt like lead, but the forest offered no mercy. You grabbed Alysa’s hand, and together you started to stumble in the shadows, away from the carnage.

Branches whipped against your faces, tearing at skin and clothes. The underbrush snagged your feet, threatening to trip you as you pushed deeper into the woods. Your breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning with every desperate inhale.

Alysa stumbled suddenly, a sharp groan escaping her lips. You spun around just in time to see a jagged root slice across her calf, crimson blossoming instantly. She gritted her teeth, trying not to cry out, but the pain was raw and fierce.

”Keep going,” you urged, gripping her arm tighter. “We’re almost out.”

But the forest was relentless. A low growl sounded behind you—closer now. You both broke into a run, hearts pounding like war drums, footsteps pounding the earth in a frantic rhythm.

Suddenly, a slender shape lunged from the shadow,slamming into alysa with brutal force. You shouted, reaching for a fallen branch, but the creature was fast, dragging her down with snarling claws that tore at her side.

Alysa’s gaze met yours, wide, terrified, but fierce. She tried to push the creature forward but the beast’s weight pinned her beneath it. Blood blossomed from a deep gash soaking her shirt and the forest floor.

You swung the branch as hard as you possibly could in this moment as it strikes the creature’s head. It groaned harshly, retreating just enough for you to grab Alysa’s bleeding arm and pull her free.

She collapsed against a tree, trembling and weak, blood pooling beneath her like a dark, living shadow. The forest closed in around you two like a tomb as you sank to your knees beside Alysa feeling the tears blurring your vision and blood pooling beneath her like a dark shadow.

”Please hold on,” you choked out, pressing your trembling hands against her wound as if sheer will could stop the bleeding or stop the nightmare unfolding around you.

A faint, fragile smile curved her lips, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You have to run. You’re strong…I know you can make it out of here alive.”

Your heart shattered a thousand pierces, and you shook your head violently. “No. We’re getting out together. Both of us.”

Her gaze softened, and when your shaking hand lifted to cup her cheek, she managed a weak laugh as you started sobbing uncontrollably. “We’re going to escape this place…together. Remember? We’ll run away and be free. We’ll talk through everything—the trauma, the pain and we’ll be together…”

Her sobs broke through, shaking her whole body as she shook her head. Was she…letting go?

“No, no, no—please. You’re all I have left. Please don’t leave me, Alysa,” you begged, clutching her hand as tears invaded your vision completely. Slowly, her trembling fingers reached up to your jaw, pulling your face close like she had before in the cabin. Your lips met hers, trembling and desperate—a kiss so fragile it felt like it might shatter at any moment, because it did.

Then, a low agonized grown echo edged behind you both and your heart plummeted.

When you pulled away, her eyes were heavy but resolute. “Go.”

You hesitated, tears streaming freely down your face, but with one final squeeze of her hand, you forced yourself yourself up and ran—pushing every aching muscle to the limit because survival was the only choice left. You couldn’t look back.

For Miles.

For Malia.

For yourself.

And for the girl you would never, ever forget.

[certifiedsushillover]

how we feeling about a fear street/1980 horror campish inspired fic x alysa??? super gay and possibly horror??? might start working on that rn and post it later😛😛 (doing everything but writing swim pt 3..🫩)