Always under construction

28. Fem. Black. A lot delusional

[javarisx-fightingthosedemons]

[anthraxenchiladas]

[vexheart]

[yourtryhard]

[chocoflagcutii]

Need this shirt real baddd

[dreday13]

Test 2

[freessstyle]

[sillycoffeedreamland]

[naturalhairhow101]

AFROS

[dreamstars]

[keyaho]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: how terry became the dominate he is.

story warnings: ⚠️ explicit sexual content not suitable or minors, vulgar language.

Naked, Terrence was bound to a chair. His hands were behind his back, tied at the wrists with his wrists together and his hands clasped. His ankles were cuffed to the chair, giving him a little movement. The most he could do was lift upwards a few inches before the burn in his shoulders pulled him back into the chair. There was a sheen of sweat on his bronze skin, precum leaking from his tip as it hung hard and heavy between his legs-untouched, and his mouth was dry as he swallowed thickly. He couldn't see. His green eyes were blindfolded and his hearing was cut off. 

Exploring sensory deprivation. 

The sweat beneath his thighs made sitting in in the plastic chair uncomfortable. He was already to large for it, limbs too long, body to heavy and thick, however he knew better to complain. The red welts on his inner thighs was a reminder of his last outburst. Counting out his flogs and the sound of the flogger hitting his bare skin wasn't going to be a repeated punishment tonight. He hoped. 

The headphones were removed from his left ear and he could hear how hard he was panting around the ball gag shoved in his mouth. A manicured nail trailed over the shell of his ear and his dick jumped, eliciting a giggle from his Domme. That same nail, long stiletto-painted in yellow, trailed along his neck and jaw before five of them dug into his chin, cranking his head backwards. 

"You're a very attractive man,' she praised. 

Her hands trailed from his chest, the tips of her nails scratching over his nipples, to the hard abs she watched him work out for. She stopped at his waist, circling his fingertips along his beltline, the defined V shape she licked an hour ago, and watched him jerk in his chair. 

"But you look so fucking sexy right now." 

Her tongue mimicked her fingertip, tracing his earlobe slowly before biting it between his teeth. The headphones snapped back into place and Terrence went back to silence and anticipation. At least if he hear her the anticipation wouldn't be to high. He wouldn't feel so out of control. Lost. If wasn't the loss of sight, she had to threaten him for his eyes to stay open. The lost of taste? It irked him, because women tasted so goo, but he could deal with it. Not being able to ear pushed his boundaries but when he settled into his own thoughts and relaxed he realized that despite not having tunnel vision he recognized the effect from field work. A sense of closeness surrounded him, warm and tight. He felt on the edge there. 

It was something else. 

Her wet mouth kissed his navel and he hissed, the sound choked. Terrence clenched and jerked. He thought he was going to swallow his tongue. Her mouth trailed lower and he could feel each snap of his resolve breaking. Terrence grunted, but tried to endure, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. He tried to roll his shoulder, to expel the sense of dread in his stomach. 

His eyes darted around beneath his blindfold as he tried to find a place for what he was feeling creep over him. 

Control. 

Control he had no part in. Control he was losing. There was no tangible benefit from this experience to him. His military tuned brain couldn't fathom a purpose for not having the ability to touch and engage the way he saw fit. 

Exactly three seconds passed until his Domme heard the zipties snap, the mouth ball gag hit the floor and the headphones thud as they bounced off the carpet. Anther two and the satin blindfold met up with the pile on the floor. 

Red. 

"Blazing, fucking, red," he growled, more to himself that her. 

He shouldn't have, but he looked down, feeling her mouth leave his body as the safe word slipped out. Her touch was fine, fucking torterous, but fine. He needed to touch her. Had to. The restraints on his ankles were released as he pushed up from the chair on shaky legs. He stumbled around for his pants, catching himself by one hand when he dropped towards the floor. His Domme came up behind him, hand between his shoulder blades and the other reaching towards his arm. 

Terrence snatched away as his body recoiled from her touch. Heat shot through his body right and he shouted his safe word again….unable to articulate what he meant by it just yet. 

Sabrina nodded and held her hands up while stepping back to give her space. 

His body was tense, back ram rod straight, and there was a tremor in his body she could see in his hands fumbling with his shirt. Terrence eventually dropped it to the floor and he grunted in frustration. 

"You need to come down from the scene," she whispered. "Let me help you," Sabrina offered, hand out stretched in his direction. 

She saw him glance at her open hand, palm up, in his direction. 

"I don't need help." 

He breathed through his nose to expel the pent up emotions he was feeling. His shoulders began to relax, but she could still see the inflexibility in them. He was holding it there, in his posture. Instead, she walked to stand in front of him, hands folded across her chest. The silk robe was closed, but he could still see her pebbled nipples he enjoyed sucking on poke against the fabric. He glanced up at her face, the arch brow taunting him. 

"You contacted me, remember?" 

He turned away, searching the room for his shoes in silence. The wall of floggers taunted him and his hands clenched. Terrence stood there, staring at them-his shoes behind him on the opposite side of the room. His room. Her makeshift play room had taken over his room and he was…repulsed? 

"Get all this out." He said. "I'm going to go take a walk. Have it down." 

"We're going to talk when you get back." She says, stepping towards his bathroom to get dressed. 

She had her share of introductory sessions, but never with someone like Terrence and she knew exactly what his problem was. 

2 years later…..

"I'm not a sub, verse, switch,' he explains, his first submissive staring up at him in apprehension, 'I'm a dominate. The type depends on you. I'm adaptable like that." He teased, flicking her gagged mouth with his finger tips. 

She was sitting on her knees on the floor, arms and hands bound together up to the shoulders in an intricate rope style, restricting her movements to what he allowed. He hummed in satisfaction. Praised himself for the beautiful piece of art in front of him. 

Sabrina watched from the side. A silent mentor to the new Dominate. 

Their talk two years ago had changed him. He had come to her knowledgeable in the word of BDSM, but lacked the real experience needed to engage with the community. Teachers were hard to come by and Sabrina had made a fortune on training submissives, however, she also helped people decide where the stood in the system. There were those that liked being on top and those who preferred the bottom. 

Terrence? 

He preferred control. It enticed him. Lured him in ways she hadn't seen since her own submissive days when she was at the whims of her Dominate. Even his language was natural, this was his position. Watching him in his element made her wet. If she would sub for anyone, she knew he would be at the top of her list. Maybe in a few years with more experience. Only when she knew she couldn't break him down. Now, he was figuring out his style. 

And boy was he strict. 

"You can go." 

His voice echoed in her hear, snatching her from the debauched thoughts she was thinking. He didn't even look in her direction as he took a seat in front of his submissive. Her hazel green eyes darted between them and Sabrina wished she could be a fly on the wall for this session. 

"Are you sure," she prompted, leaning forward in the chair, "I can assi-'

"Leave." 

His finality pulled her from the chair. She spared a single look before leaving, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Word travels in their community, she'd hear about the session sooner or later. 

The click of the door filled the empty silence between Terrence and his submissive.  

She looked up at him, eyes wide, as he stared at her. Eyes low and dark, his gaze was unsettling. Hard to read. It made her feel small and out of place, like a piece of furniture he was tying to put together. However, inside she was falling apart. Pieces of her sanity scattered on the floor at his feet. This was different. The energy between them as was intense. The connection undeniable. 

Had he really only been at this for two years? 

"I have rules and expectations. With each lesson you move up a new level with new rewards and privileges.' he explains, posture slouching slightly in the chair. "Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Are the restraints to much,' he asked. 

Leaning forward, he grabbed her neck and pulled her to her knees to test the ropes. Her pretty little mouth dropped open and Terrence smirked. 

"I…I…I can't move much, Sir."

"That's the point." 

He stood up, hand curled in her hair as he pushed his pants down with the other. The material stopped around the thickest part of his thighs. He nudged his dick against her lips, sliding the length back and forth across them. Her mouth opened slowly, tongue darting out to lick his tip. She followed his direction and sucked him into her mouth, eyes drifting shut at his taste. Clean. Head was much more enjoyable when the man took care of himself. Her thoughts of previous doms took over and the battery acid taste that came with them. She could get use to this. 

"I want to see how good you can be." He said. 

He released her head, but kept his dick in her mouth. Slowly, he reached over her, pushing himself further into her wet orifice until she gagged to unhook the rope holding her in place. Falling from her body, the ropes thudded to the floor and her arms fell to her sides before she could stop them. His hands went back to her head, guiding her up and down his length as his head rolled back. He stared at the ceiling as his pace quickened. He wasn't chasing the high just yet. 

Wet sloppy sounds cascaded over his ears. Gagging and choking sounded like a symphony. He soon felt the build up in his lower belly, clenching and releasing as he allowed himself to enjoy it. His submissive moaned and looked up at him. His face was serene, pleased, and she hummed in response. Then she got ahead of herself. 

She began to move her head on her own, swallowing him deeper into her mouth, down her throat so he could feel the tightness suffocate the head of his dick. Terrence stilled but didn't stop her. He dropped his hands to watch her work. Tunnel vision crept back up on him, reminding him of being tied to that chair two years ago. This time he thought he had all the control. Terrence was sure he was in charge this time. Not at the mercy of another person. 

Until-

His sub, knowledgeable of the rules he laid out prior, planted her hands on his thighs. His head began to swim and the nausea settled into his stomach as if he ate something bad. What was different this time? Terrence looked down, noticing the placement of her palms on his thighs and cringed at the heat there. He snatched away from her mouth and touch, his mind and body settling almost instantly. 

"Don't touch me." 

They relationship didn't last long and he found himself at dinner with Sabrina. Rigid in the booth, Terrence's nostrils flared as she smiled. 

"Its a hard limit for you Terrence." She dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "We all have them. What's going to be difficult for you is finding a submissive that will go at your pace. Experienced ones may be able to deal with it, but eventually they are going to push your buttons. Brats are…..tricky like that. A novice may listen, but finding someone okay with not touching you might be hard.” 

“Hm.”

“They will want to see you undone and uninhibited. Touch is the main part of what we do, Terrence.” She gave a long pause so he could digest what she was saying. "The black BDSM community is small and word travels fast, now you've managed to talk about confidentiality with her, but how are you going to navigate your reputation?" 

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. 

"What do you want to be known as? Or do you want to be known at all?" 

She prattled off aspects he hadn't considered and he formulated his own methods later that night when he got home. He surfed through kink sites, made a profile on one and kept it as neutral as possible while he learned and studied those around him. He found Play Rooms and Parties, attended munches and entertained a few curious submissives enamoured by a new face among Dominates. Sabrina was like a distant mentor and they would cross paths time to time, but he eventually found his footing and attended more themed events. 

Play parties and sessions hosted by other Dominates and their submissives where he watched and learned what not to do. He enjoyed the female body, ruining it disgusted him and he became vocal about what he did and didn't like very early on. 

His second submissive was a steep learning curve….foring him to deny brats access to him. He could only tolerate being disobeyed once. She got a rude awakening when he went soft in her mouth. 

Strict. 

They did what he asked. Moved when he told them to. Behaved according to his rules. 

His reputation preceded him before he walked in the room. Now, submissives avoided him, but were still curious about him and if they could handle Terry….a name he preferred to his full. 

His third and fourth submissives were simultaneously. He sated his desires of control with the 3rd, dressing her how he pleased. The 4th allowed him to explore his kinks and build his repertoire. Both eventually let go because they wanted to leave the lifestyle. By then he was five years in with submissive women…and some men, clamouring for the chance to be his. 

Instead he took a break. Needing a chance, he sought a more vanilla lifestyle. That's how he met Jasmine. 

It would never work the way he thought. 

"You're too fucking controlling!" She screamed. 

"It's ugly,' he admitted. "It looks ugly on you too." 

Another date night ruined because he wanted her to wear something he picked out. It was insignificant to him at the time but when she came out in another outfit, something too revealing, his eye had twitched. He was too truthful, too blunt, too much. 

"You fucking asshole!" 

A mantra that became normal in their "relationship". It was a  precursor to how the day would go. 

"You gonna be a asshole today, Terrence?" 

He'd correct her. "It's Terry." 

Those nights he found himself playing. A BDSM club had invited him to their opening and he was able to indulge a little. His feelings towards Jasmine drowned in wet pussy from a gagged and bound cute black woman who understood the needs he had. As fleeting as they were for the night.

He made Jasmine cry on it the following night. Dicked down until she was sobbing into the sheets about how good he felt. His own desires were neglected as he emptied into her, making her think he had enjoyed himself. Instead he rolled over in their shared bed….hating her presence in his space and scrolled through the kink sites he had signed up for. 

Desperation seeped from the messages, desires for intimacy, kinks he frown at were offered to him in exchange for his dominance. He had whatever he wanted at his finger tips and it all disgusted him. Where was the decorum? He scowled at images of naked women, pale skin triggering the gag reflex he had thought was suppressed from his basic training. He was almost at the stage of deleting his account when he received a notification. His thumb led the way and he found himself on the main page, a new post right there in black and white. He was a part of the main forum where all new members to the site were first required to post 

Before he read it he went to her profile and was amused to see other dominate clamouring over the new addition to the site. He scrolled through the few pictures she had up, the most recent a photo of her holding up the current date. A way to verify she was a real person. He preferred a video call. 

She was cute. Pretty brown skin, doe eyes he could envision filled with tears. His free hand came down, landing on his growing bulge. 

Let's see what you have to say. He thought to himself. 

New to the community. Hoping to connect with someone with knowledge. Seeking a relationship and kinkbased play. 

He was strict about his submissive preference. Black woman. ✅ Around his age. ✅ Novice, but not inexperienced in casual sex. ✅ 

The most important was that she, Nami, he learned, wasn't clamoring in his inbox. Instead, she was on his profile, commenting on his introductory post, showing she had read it by adding the correct phonetic combination.

His question at the end was answered. 

Do you understand? 

Yankee Echo Sierra, Sierra India Romeo. ✅

[chocoflagcutii]

Speak up

Warning: This is an unfinished draft of a series. So a draft of a draft. A piece of a chapter. I was a silent reader for a while and cooked this up one day then, just never finished... please enjoy my attempt at writing.

Summary: (set after the events of bpwf) Things are tense after saving Wakanda. The Princess turned Queen turned Panther is still processing it all. And with a budding relationship with the foreign minister of her nation. When her new love seems to be getting close with her enemy, she lashes out in the worst way possible. Will this push her away?

Warnings: Angst, mentions of murder, possessive Shuri

The sun is at its highest in the sky, the sand warm under my feet, the water a deep cerulean, its waves flutter, and the distinct smell of salt in every breath I take. This beach just southwest of the palace has been a constant for me.

The days have been hectic as my duty to hold peace has taken over. To create a bridge between the nations. As the Foreign minister of Wakanda, I've been visiting the city of Atlantis often to become more acquainted with the culture. More specifically, learning the language of the people. For some time, I met with a member of his people every day and went through 'lessons.' That may be a back-and-forth conversation of Xhosa and broken Yucatec Maya or donning a suit traveling the city. A truly wonderful experience. My presence there is for work purposes, but it's easy to fall into. I return with a smile and stories to share with the council and my queen. And each day, there has been another 'disagreement' with Shuri.

You were returning from another day out; today, you met with Namor again and discussed plans for members of the council to travel with you on your next visit. The goal was to show that the people of the water were no longer of harm to Wakanda. But this topic came up on the first day you met Attuma on the beach. They were wary of coming to the lands; many of them thought it was a trap to lure the voices of Wakanda to their demise. This had been your third, maybe, fifth, time visiting, so the emotion from the fight was still fresh on everyone's minds. But, this time, it would be different. You've seen with your own eyes. You entered the throne room, ready to deliver your pitch. A short, worded message had been sent to Shuri via her kimoyo beads, so there would be sufficient time for the meeting after your arrival. But when the doors opened, Shuri stood alone. 'Where is everyone? Did you receive my message?' You questioned. Shuri didn't respond; she didn't move from her spot either. Her back was facing you. She stared out of the glass toward the water you had just returned from. She could see exactly when you had resurfaced with Namor at your side, helping you out of the diving suit. She grits her teeth before turning around to speak. 'I got your message, but this a discussion you and I should have alone.' Shuri narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. This wasn't going to be a discussion but a lecture. She got a good look at you too. Your royal blue gown had been replaced with a much shorter Mayan-inspired dress. 'What are you wearing?' 'A traditional talokan gown. If I am to be with their people, I must dress of the people. Does it not look good?' She couldn't deny that the aqua green and purple beads looked glorious against your skin, but the meaning of it all boiled her blood. 'So, you leave your home as a Wakandan and return a Talokan? Should I be concerned about where your loyalties lie? After a few visits to his lands, you are very 'cozy' with him.' You tilt your head at those words. What would give her the gall to accuse you of wandering? Is she mad? The topic you came up with has since been forgotten. 'Are you insinuating that I am overstepping by taking my duties seriously? Or are you taking out your issues with Namor out on me? This dress is not the issue you wish to speak on.' 'I am saying; this dress is better seen in the fire than on my wife's body! You are mine. Eyam. Ndibona indlela akujonga ngayo. He takes my mother; now he plots on the only person I have left! I will null this arrangement and lock you away before he takes what is mine again.' You couldn't recognize the woman you were looking at right then. She was speaking nonsense. The loss of the Queen mother had taken a toll you didn't see. She had become a possessive monster. 'Even if I were to ignore your senseless babble about Namor's intentions, do you hear yourself? Do you understand that all this would have been for nothing? Every life loss, all this time putting our home back together, would be sacrificed for your jealousy? For Bast's sake, listen to yourself!' 'Oh yes, Bast has been so good to me! She gives me all the knowledge in the universe, yet I cannot save my brother. She drowns my mother in front of me, and again I cannot save her either. Bast has made me her favorite disciple! I can not bare anymore Y/N! If I am to suffer another loss, it would be too much. So, I hear myself; I know what is to come should I 'dispose of' Namor. In fact, I welcome it.' She closed the distance between you both quickly at your following words. 'You don't mean that.' She whispers something to you. But somehow, what was uttered was deafening. The words echoed in your head. 'oh, but I do.'

This happened a day ago. You haven't spoken another word to her in that time. It shook you terribly; the look in her eyes said it all. Shuri meant every word. She would wage war upon Namor and his people all over again because of her feelings…

Thats all I got. Hope you enjoyed it!

[icaseybaybee]

[spankerella]

I've seen some wild fucking takes online about Sinners after the Oscars. But missing the point that a literal monster was offended by racism? Crazy work.

It must be exhausting being this racist and joyless. "Oh, I can't enjoy this art because it doesn't hold up patriarchal white society." Because you sound stupid. Not all art is for everyone, and maybe that reason is you are smooth-brained and can't see beyond your own prejudices. Sinners was a beautiful film. Autumn Durald Arkapaw, Ryan Coogler, Michael B Jordan, and Ludwig Goransson have the Oscars to prove it. I said it when I first saw the movie and I will say it again now.

Sinners is a work of art, and if you don't get it, I actually feel sorry for you.

[thezenangel]

youtube videos for your 2026 rebrand

.・゜✧﹒ 𝜗𝜚 ﹒✧゜・．

🪷 general

12 healthy habits you need to exit your lazy era by mikayla mags

2026 vision board that actually works by tam kaur

change your life for 2026 by jasmine le

entering your disciplined girl era by fernanda ramirez

glow up guide 2026 by sanne vloet

how to change your life in 30 days by nadeen

how to create a personal curriculum by plant based bride

how to plan your 2026 rebrand by adelala

how to reinvent your identity for 2026 by mae alice suzuki

how to start over by janet ndomahina

how to use a vision board for your 2026 glow up by raianne kamiya

the 2026 glow up planning guide by brianna gomez

the 2026 reset by nika erculj

the 30 day glow up project for 2026 by mae alice suzuki

unlock your best year yet by nika erculj

your 30 day glow up plan for 2026 by tam kaur

🪷 for students

become the perfect student by sophie diloreto

how to romanticize school & become an a student by gigi mw

the ultimate guide to becoming an academic weapon by helaine zhao

🪷 beauty & health

2026 ultimate workout plans by hailey c.

how to always look put together by kelly

how to get glass skin for beginners by kelly

[blkgworlamplified]

WHEWWWWWW FUCK! Why is she so damn fineee?!?!? THE DUALITY OF A WOMAN 😩😮‍💨

[piedpip3rrr]

Thee kiddos

[malusokay]

focus on the likes and not the wants

you may not want to clean your room, but you like the peace and call it brings you after

you may not want to study, but you like the confidence and satisfaction you get from being prepared

you may not not want to apologise, but you like the relief and connection that reconciliation brings

you may not want to cook, but you like the satisfaction of eating a healthy come cooked meal prepared with love

you may not want to exercise, but you like how you feel afterwards and how it makes you confident

you may not want to journal or write, but you like the reflection and calm it brings you

you may not want to step out of your comfort zone, but you like the new experiences and growth you gain from it

my insta @ malusokay

[runfor-roses]

real house - g. williams (part two)

summary: part two of this

warnings: sexual content... minors take care, it gets semi-explicit but feel free to skip through it if it's not your cup of tea it's not exactly plot-relevant, mentions of depression, depressive episode, accidental self harm (is that a thing? you're like not really mentally present for it but you are hurting yourself), mental health crisis, that feeling when you give something your all and it's still not enough, use of y/n (like once), some angst, bum ass chicago, gabby williams claiming you

tags: gabby williams (warning), and they were teammates, bum ass chicago, mentions of ev*na westbrook (sorry), lesbians trying desperately to navigate long distance, wasted potential (i guess), refusal to name drop c*thy, gabby williams is there for you when you need her (warning), I Made Up Every Detail About The Draft Shhhhhhhh, now why was the entire chicago sky roster in new york for the draft? who knows, GAAAAAAAAAAAY 🫵, Just Teammates, gay people don't do separation well, brief paige bueckers glaze, candace parker mentions

a/n: hey! um! part two! lowkey ignored all my psych hw to write wnba fanfiction! There Will Have To Be A Part Three.

wc: ... 20.1k ...

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @empaws @b1lezy @infinityinakiss

summer 2019.

you threw yourself into training with a single-minded intensity that worried your teammates. you were in the gym before anyone else, left after everyone else, pushed yourself until mike had to physically stop you from overdoing it.

"you're going to hurt yourself again," he warned after finding you doing extra shooting drills at 10 pm.

"i'm fine."

"you're not fine. you're obsessed." he crossed his arms. "what's going on?"

you couldn't explain it—the desperate need to prove yourself, to make next year different, to not waste your last chance. so you just said, "it's my senior year. i want to make it count."

he sighed. "take tomorrow off. that's an order."

you took tomorrow off. spent it watching reruns of wnba games instead—specifically, chicago sky games. gabby was having an incredible season, and watching her play made your chest ache with pride and longing in equal measure.

you flew to chicago again in july. spent another week in her tiny apartment, went to her games, pretended for a few days that the distance wasn't slowly killing you both.

"one more year," she said one night, both of you squeezed onto her couch watching film of her last game. "one more year and then you'll be in the w."

"can't wait."

"have you thought about where you want to go? if you could choose?"

you looked at her. "chicago."

"that's not how the draft works."

"let me have my delusions," you said, echoing that first summer.

she laughed and pulled you closer. "okay. manifest away."

you had sex on that couch. in her bed. against the kitchen counter at 2 am when you couldn't sleep. in the shower before you had to leave for the airport. you were trying to memorize her, to store up enough of her to last another year of distance.

the goodbye at the airport was just as brutal as the first time.

your senior year, you started strong. the team was clicking. you were averaging 16 points, 7 assists, playing some of the best basketball of your life. gabby came to games when she could, texted you before and after every one, kept you sane when the pressure of senior year and final season and last chance threatened to drown you.

by march, everything was falling into place.

and then the world ended.

march 12, 2020. you were in the locker room, getting ready for the first round of march madness, when geno gathered everyone together.

"the tournament's been canceled," he said.

the words didn't make sense at first. canceled? march madness didn't get canceled. march madness was inevitable, sacred, the one constant in college basketball.

"what do you mean, canceled?" evina asked.

"covid-19. the pandemic. they're shutting everything down. the season's over."

the room erupted. questions, disbelief, someone crying. you just sat there, numb.

your senior season. your last chance. gone.

just like that. no warning. no final game. no championship run. just... over.

you called gabby from the locker room, hands shaking so badly you could barely hold your phone.

"hey—" she started, but you cut her off.

"they canceled the tournament."

"i know. i just saw. baby, i'm so sorry—"

"it's over. my college career is just over. i don't get—there's no final game. no senior day. no nothing. it's just done."

"i know." her voice was thick. "i know. i'm so sorry."

"i don't—" you couldn't breathe. "i don't know what to do. this was it. this was my last chance and it's just gone."

"can i come there? i can get on a plane right now—"

"no. everything's shutting down. they're saying don't travel, don't—" you were crying now, big ugly sobs that you couldn't control. "i need you and you're not here and everything is falling apart—"

"hey, hey, listen to me." her voice was firm, cutting through your panic. "this is awful. this is so fucking awful and unfair and i'm so sorry. but you're going to get through this. we're going to get through this."

"how?" the word came out broken.

"i don't know yet. but we will. we always do."

you wanted to believe her. but sitting in that locker room, your senior season cut short, your last chance at a championship stolen by a virus you couldn't fight or control, it felt impossible to believe anything.

the next few months were a special kind of hell.

the wnba delayed their season. gabby was stuck in chicago. you were stuck in connecticut. everything was locked down, and you couldn't see each other, couldn't touch each other, couldn't do anything except facetime and text and slowly lose your mind.

your mental health spiraled. you'd fought so hard to come back from your injury, had spent three years building yourself into a player who could compete at the highest level, and for what? for your career to end not with a bang but with a whimper, with a canceled tournament and an empty gym and no closure?

you stopped working out. stopped going to the gym. spent days in bed, curtains drawn, ignoring texts from your teammates and your family and everyone except gabby.

"you have to talk to someone," gabby said during one facetime call in late april. "baby, i'm worried about you."

"i'm fine."

"you're not fine. you haven't left your apartment in a week."

"there's a pandemic. we're supposed to stay home."

"you know what i mean." she looked exhausted, and you felt guilty for adding to her stress. "please. talk to your therapist. talk to geno. talk to somebody who's not me, because i don't know how to help you from a thousand miles away."

you knew she was right. so you called dr. peterson (who was doing sessions over zoom now) and started trying to claw your way back from the edge.

it was slow. harder than rehab after your injury, because at least then you'd had a clear goal, a path forward. now everything was uncertain. would there even be a wnba season? would you still get drafted? would your college career really just... end like this?

and then in may, the ncaa announced it: an extra year of eligibility for athletes whose seasons had been cut short.

you could come back. you could have a fifth year.

you called gabby immediately.

"i can stay," you said. "i can play another year. they're giving us an extra year."

the silence on the other end was long. finally: "is that what you want?"

"i don't know. maybe? i just—it feels like unfinished business. like i didn't get my real senior season."

"okay." she didn't sound happy. "then you should stay."

"You don't sound thrilled about this."

"i'm happy for you. i am. i just—" she sighed. "i miss you. and i was looking forward to you being in the w this year. playing against you or with you or just being able to see you more than twice a year. but if you need another year at uconn, then you should do it."

"will you wait for me?" you hated how small your voice sounded.

"of course i'll wait for you. i love you. i just—i really miss you. and this is hard."

"i know. i'm sorry."

"don't apologize. just keep me updated on what you decide."

you decided to stay. partly because you needed closure. partly because you were terrified of leaving uconn, of moving to the next chapter, of not being ready. partly because the world was still shut down and nothing felt certain.

you called it your super-senior year. tried to make peace with the decision.

summer 2020 was hell.

you hadn't seen gabby in person since christmas. seven months.

you'd spent the holidays together in connecticut—five perfect days where you'd barely left your apartment, just held each other and pretended the world outside didn't exist. she'd flown back to chicago on december 30th, and you'd both thought you'd see each other in a few weeks. maybe she'd come for a game in february. maybe you'd fly out for valentine's day.

and then covid happened. and everything shut down. and those few weeks turned into months.

march. april. may. june.

by july, you'd started forgetting what she felt like. not intellectually—you could still picture her perfectly, could still remember every detail—but your body was forgetting. your hands didn't remember the exact curve of her waist. your mouth didn't remember the taste of her skin. your chest didn't remember the weight of her head when she fell asleep on you.

it was the kind of forgetting that made you panic at 3 am, lying awake and trying to conjure the sense memory of holding her, and finding nothing but empty space.

and then the wnba announced the bubble. twenty-two games, no fans, everyone isolated in a hotel in bradenton, florida for months. players could opt out, but gabby was going. of course she was going. basketball was what she did, who she was.

"i have to go," she said during a facetime call in early july. "i need to play. i need—i'm going crazy here, baby. i need basketball."

"i know. i get it." you did get it. you'd have felt the same way. "when do you leave?"

"next week. we'll be there until october probably. maybe longer if we make the playoffs."

your stomach dropped. "october? that's three more months."

"i know."

"so we won't see each other until—" you did the math and felt sick. "ten months. we won't have seen each other for ten months."

the silence on her end was deafening.

"maybe you could visit?" she tried, but you both knew it was impossible. the bubble was closed. no visitors. no exceptions. that was the whole point.

"i can't. you know i can't."

"fuck." she rubbed her face. "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. i just—i don't know what else to do. i can't sit in my apartment for another three months. i'll lose my mind."

"i know. you should go. you have to go." you meant it even though saying it felt like swallowing glass. "i'll be here when you get back."

"promise?"

"promise."

but you could hear the fear in her voice. the same fear that was sitting in your chest like a stone. what if ten months was too long? what if the distance finally broke something that couldn't be fixed?

she left for the bubble on july 7th. you talked on the phone while she was at the airport, while she was on the plane (before takeoff), and as soon as she landed.

"i'm here," she said, and she sounded exhausted. "it's weird. everything's so sterile and controlled."

"are you in your room?"

"yeah. it's small. just a bed and a desk and a tv. and this tiny-ass window."

you tried to picture it. tried to imagine her there, alone, and felt your chest tighten. "that sounds depressing."

"it kind of is." a pause. "i miss you already."

"i miss you too."

"i love you. i'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"okay. i love you."

the call ended and you stared at your phone and tried not to think about how many tomorrows there would be before you could touch her again.

july melted into august in a haze of facetime calls and text messages and watching her games on tv.

the calls were hard. really hard.

you could see how the bubble was grinding her down. the isolation, the repetition, the artificial nature of everything. same hotel, same practice facility, same empty gym with no fans. games that felt hollow without crowds. days that blurred together until she couldn't remember if it was tuesday or saturday.

"how are you?" you'd ask, and she'd say "fine" in a tone that meant the opposite.

"gabby."

"i'm fine. just tired. it's just—it's a lot."

you could see it in her face. the dark circles under her eyes that got progressively worse. the exhaustion that sat in her shoulders, made her look smaller somehow.

"are you sleeping?"

"not really. it's hard to sleep here. the walls are thin and someone's always up, and i'm just—i'm in my head a lot."

"what are you in your head about?"

she looked away from the camera. "everything. basketball. the bubble. you. missing you."

"i miss you too."

"i know. i just—" she stopped. started again. "sometimes i lie in bed at night and try to remember what you feel like. like really feel like. and i can't. i can remember what you look like, but i can't remember how you feel in my arms, or what your hair smells like, or—" her voice cracked. "and that scares me. what if i forget you? what if by the time i get out of here, i've forgotten all the important parts?"

your throat was so tight you could barely speak. "you won't forget me."

"how do you know?"

"because i'm not forgetting you. i'm right here. waiting. and when this is all over, we'll remember together."

she nodded but didn't look convinced.

august was worse.

the calls got shorter. not because you wanted them to, but because it was too hard. too painful to see each other and not be able to touch, to talk about your days and realize how separate your lives had become, to say "i love you" through a screen and wonder if it was enough.

she was playing well—great, actually. averaging career highs, making plays that ended up on highlight reels. you watched every game, texted her after with analysis and praise, tried to be supportive.

but there was a distance growing between you that had nothing to do with miles. a gap that was widening with every day you spent apart.

"you seem different," you said during a call in late august. you'd been talking for twenty minutes and it felt like talking to a stranger. polite and distant and wrong.

"different how?"

"i don't know. just—different. distant."

"i'm in florida in a bubble. of course i'm distant."

"that's not what i mean. you're—emotionally you feel far away."

she was quiet for a long time. "i don't know what you want me to say."

"i want you to talk to me. to tell me what's going on in your head. you used to tell me everything and now i feel like i'm pulling teeth to get you to open up."

"maybe i don't want to talk about it. maybe i'm tired of being sad and i just want to get through this without falling apart."

"so you're shutting me out?"

"i'm not shutting you out. i'm trying to survive." her voice rose. "you're not here. you don't know what this is like. i'm stuck in a hotel playing basketball games with no fans to fake crowd noise, and i'm exhausted all the time, and i miss you so much i can't breathe, and i don't know how to talk about it without completely losing it."

"so talk about it. lose it. i'm here. i can handle it."

"i don't want you to have to handle it. i don't want to be this person who's always sad and needy and falling apart." she wiped at her eyes angrily. "i'm supposed to be strong. i'm supposed to be the one who holds it together."

"says who?"

"says—i don't know. me. everyone."

"fuck that." you leaned closer to the camera. "you don't have to be strong all the time. not with me. you can fall apart. you can be sad and needy and whatever else you need to be. that's what i'm here for."

"but you're not here." she said it quietly, and it hit like a punch. "you're there and i'm here and i don't—i don't know how to do this anymore. i don't know how to be away from you for this long."

"i don't either. but we're doing it anyway because we have to."

"what if we can't? what if this is too much?"

the question hung between you, heavy and terrible.

"are you saying you want to break up?" your voice sounded foreign to your own ears.

"no. god, no. i'm saying—" gabby took a shaky breath. "i'm saying i'm scared. i'm scared that by the time i get out of here, too much time will have passed. that we'll have grown apart. that this distance will have broken something we can't fix."

"nothing's broken."

"how do you know?"

"because i still love you. and you still love me. and everything else is just noise."

she looked at you for a long moment, eyes red and exhausted. "i do still love you. so much. i'm sorry i've been distant. i'm just—"

"i know. you're struggling. it's okay to struggle."

"i miss you." she said it like a confession. "i miss you so much it physically hurts. my chest hurts all the time from missing you."

"i know. mine too."

"how much longer?"

you checked your phone for the date. "two more months. maybe less if chicago doesn't make the playoffs."

"i hope we don't make the playoffs," she said, and then laughed bitterly. "is that terrible? i'm supposed to want to win and all i want is to get the fuck out of here and see you."

"it's not terrible. it's human."

"i feel like i'm losing my mind."

"you're not. you're just tired. and lonely. and in an impossible situation." you wished desperately that you could hold her. "but you're going to get through this. we're going to get through this."

"promise?"

"promise."

september was somehow even worse than august was.

chicago made the playoffs. of course they did. which meant gabby would be in the bubble until at least mid-september, maybe longer.

you could feel her slipping away with every call. not because she wanted to, but because the isolation was doing something to her. making her withdrawn and quiet and not herself.

"i had a panic attack last night," she told you during a call in early september. she said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather, but you could see the fear in her eyes.

"what? why didn't you call me?"

"it was 3 am. you were asleep."

"i don't care. you should have woken me up."

"and said what? 'hi, i'm having a panic attack in a hotel room in florida and i can't breathe?' what could you have done?"

"i could have talked you through it. i could have been there for you."

"but you're not here. that's the problem." she wasn't angry, just stating a fact. "you're not here and i'm falling apart and there's nothing either of us can do about it."

you didn't know what to say to that. because she was right.

"talk to me now," you said instead. "tell me what's going on."

"i don't know. everything feels wrong. i can't sleep. i can't eat. i play basketball and it doesn't even feel good anymore—it just feels like going through the motions. and i miss you constantly. like every single second of every day. i wake up reaching for you and you're not there. i turn to tell you something and you're not there. i come back to my room after games and you're not there."

her voice broke. "you're never there and i don't—i don't know how to exist like this anymore. i don't know how to be a person without you."

you were crying now too. "you're not a person without me. you're still you. you're still gabby. basketball player, sister, friend. you're all of those things separate from me."

"i don't feel like those things. i just feel empty."

"baby—"

"i know. i know i sound dramatic. i know people have it worse. i know i should be grateful to even be playing basketball right now when so many people can't work at all. but i can't—" she put her face in her hands. "i can't pretend i'm okay anymore. i'm not okay."

"then don't pretend. not with me." you leaned as close to the camera as you could, wishing you could reach through and touch her. "i love you. no matter what. even when you're not okay. especially when you're not okay."

"i love you too." she looked up, face tear-streaked and exhausted. "i just want to come home."

"i know. soon. just a few more weeks."

"that's what we keep saying. just a few more weeks. but it's been months and i'm so tired."

you were tired too. tired of the distance. tired of the facetime calls that left you feeling worse instead of better. tired of watching her deteriorate from a thousand miles away and not being able to do anything about it.

tired of being strong.

"we're going to make it," you said, even though you weren't sure anymore. "we've survived worse."

"have we?"

the question sat between you, unanswered.

chicago got eliminated in the second round of the playoffs. you watched the game live, watched gabby play thirty-eight minutes and leave everything on the court, watched them lose by six points.

and your first thought—your immediate, visceral reaction—was relief.

she could come home now. you'd see her in a week, maybe less. the nightmare was almost over.

you called her after the game. she answered on the first ring, still in her uniform, face red and splotchy from crying.

"you played amazing," you said. "that three in the fourth quarter was—"

"i don't want to talk about the game."

"okay. what do you want to talk about?"

"when can i see you?"

your chest ached. "when do you get out?"

"few days. maybe a week. they have to do exit protocols or whatever. but soon."

"come to connecticut. i'll pick you up from the airport. we'll go to my apartment and we won't leave for a week."

"that sounds perfect." she tried to smile but it came out wrong. "i can't wait to touch you."

"me either."

"i love you. i'm sorry i've been such a mess."

"don't apologize. i love you. all of you. especially the messy parts."

she nodded, but you could see the doubt in her eyes. the fear that too much damage had been done. that four months apart—seven months since you'd actually touched—had broken something fundamental.

you were scared of the same thing.

she flew into hartford on september 20th.

you got to the airport an hour early. couldn't sit still. paced the arrivals terminal until other people started giving you looks. your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

what if it was weird? what if you'd been apart so long that being together felt wrong? what if the distance had changed her, changed you, changed everything?

what if you'd built this reunion up so much in your head that reality couldn't possibly live up to it?

and then she walked through the doors.

you saw her before she saw you—she looked exhausted, thinner than she'd been, hair thrown up in a bun, wearing sweats and a sky hoodie. she was scanning the crowd, searching for you, and the expression on her face was so raw and vulnerable it made your chest crack open.

"gabby," you called, and her head snapped toward you.

for a second you both just stared. seven months. it had been seven months since december, since you'd touched her, since you'd existed in the same physical space.

and then you were both moving. running toward each other like something out of a movie, and when you collided it wasn't graceful or romantic—it was desperate and messy and you were both crying and holding on so tight it hurt.

"you're here," she said into your neck. "you're real. you're actually here."

"i'm here. i've got you."

she pulled back just enough to kiss you, and it wasn't pretty—you were both crying too hard, noses running into your masks, barely able to breathe—but it was real. she was real. solid and warm and finally, finally here.

"let's go home," she said. "please. i need—i just need to be alone with you."

you drove back to your apartment with her hand gripping yours so tightly it went numb. neither of you talked. the silence wasn't uncomfortable, just—full. full of relief and longing and seven months of missing each other.

the second you got inside your apartment, she was on you. pressed you against the door and kissed you like she was drowning and you were air. you kissed her back just as desperately, hands everywhere, relearning the shape of her after months of forgetting.

"bedroom," you managed between kisses. "let me—"

"here. right here. i can't wait."

so you didn't. fucked against the door, then on the floor, then finally made it to the bedroom where you could take your time. where you could map every inch of her with your hands and mouth, relearning her body, remembering what you'd forgotten.

she did the same to you. kissed every inch of your skin like she was trying to memorize it. whispered "i missed you" and "i love you" and "never again" against your throat, your collarbone, the space between your breasts.

when she finally slid her fingers inside you, you came almost immediately—months of missing her, of needing her, all concentrated in that moment.

"again," she said, and made you come two more times before you had to push her away, oversensitive and shaking.

you took your time with her, made her fall apart slowly, thoroughly, until she was gasping your name and clutching the sheets and arching into your touch.

after, tangled together in your bed, both of you exhausted and sated, she said, "i'm sorry."

"for what?"

"for being so difficult in the bubble. for pulling away. for making you think we weren't going to make it."

"you were struggling. you're allowed to struggle."

"i know, but—" she turned to face you. "i was scared. scared that the distance had broken us. that we'd see each other again and it would be different."

"is it different?"

she thought about it, hands trailing down your sides to rest at your hips. "yeah. but not in a bad way. it's—we're stronger now, i think. We survived the worst thing we've ever been through together. If we can survive that, we can survive anything."

you pulled her closer, breathed her in. she smelled like she always did—like home.

"never again," you said. "i'm never going seven months without touching you again."

"deal." she kissed your shoulder. "whatever it takes. i don't care. we're not doing that again."

you both fell asleep like that, holding each other like you were afraid to let go.

because maybe you were.

gabby stayed through october. two months of actually being together—waking up next to each other, cooking terrible meals together, existing in the same space without a screen between you. two months of remembering what it felt like to be whole.

when she left in november to go back to chicago, it hurt. but it was different this time. manageable. because you'd had two months to rebuild what the bubble had nearly destroyed, and because you both knew—really knew—that you could survive the distance now.

your super-senior year started in late november. weird covid-delayed season, limited fans, constant testing. everyone in masks, socially distanced bench, the whole surreal nature of playing basketball during a pandemic. but you had basketball back, and after everything that had happened, you were just grateful to play.

the season felt different. you were different. five years at uconn—longer than anyone was supposed to stay, longer than you'd ever imagined. you were the oldest on the team now, one of the leaders. it was strange, being the veteran presence when you still felt like the broken freshman who'd needed saving.

"you're good at this," christyn told you after practice in late november. "the leadership thing. us younger players, we look up to you. i look up to you."

"i'm just doing what gabby did for me."

"exactly. that's how it works. someone shows up for you, you show up for the next person." she bumped your shoulder. "circle of life or whatever."

you thought about that. about how gabby had refused to let you disappear. about how that had saved you. about how maybe you could do the same for someone else.

of course, every year you gained new freshmen. and this year, the freshman class included paige bueckers.

you'd heard about her before she even stepped on campus. everyone had heard about her. high school phenom, unanimous first-team all-american, consensus national high school player of the year, gatorade national player of the year. the most hyped recruit uconn had seen in years, maybe since maya moore. she arrived with a highlight reel that looked like something out of a video game and confidence that bordered on cocky.

your first practice together, you stood on the sideline during a water break and just watched her run drills.

she moved like fire.

that was the only way to describe it. quick and explosive and absolutely fearless, like she'd been shot out of a cannon and hadn't figured out how to slow down yet. she saw the court the way you did—three passes ahead, eyes tracking movement before it happened, always one step faster than the defense. her handles were absurd. her court vision was better than most professionals. and her confidence—god, her confidence was magnetic. she played like she knew she belonged, like she'd been born to do exactly this.

you felt something shift in your chest watching her. something that felt like recognition.

"she's something else, huh?" evina said, appearing next to you.

"yeah. she really is."

"reminds me of you. before—" evina caught herself. "i mean, your freshman year. before everything."

before the injury. before the spiral. before you'd learned that bodies could betray you and dreams could shatter and sometimes the portal you built could collapse.

you saw yourself in paige bueckers. the version of yourself that had existed before march 2017—hungry and reckless and believing the impossible was possible. the version who'd played like she had nothing to lose because she'd never lost anything yet.

it hurt a little, seeing that. but it also felt like hope.

after practice, you caught paige in the locker room. she was sitting in front of her locker, still in her practice gear, smiling at her phone.

"hey," you said.

she looked up and grinned at you, all teeth. "hey. what's up?"

"just wanted to say—you're really good. like, really good."

the smile widened. "thanks. you too. i've watched your film—all of it, not just the recent stuff. you're like everything they said. better, even."

something in your chest tightened. "you watched my film from before?"

"yeah. freshman year, before your injury. you were incredible." she said it matter-of-factly, not like pity. "different player now, but still incredible. just in a different way."

you didn't know what to say to that. most people didn't mention the before. acted like you'd sprung into existence fully formed as you were now.

"i see a lot of fire in you," you said finally. "don't lose that."

something in her expression shifted, became more serious. "i won't. i promise. thanks for—thanks for saying that."

"if you ever need anything—someone to talk to, extra film work, whatever—I'm here. that's what the older players are for."

"i might take you up on that." she hesitated. "can i ask you something?"

"sure."

"how'd you do it? come back from an injury like that? everyone said it was career-ending and you just—came back anyway. how?"

you thought about the answer. about gabby sitting on your floor. about physical therapy that felt like torture. about learning to believe in yourself again when your body had proven it couldn't be trusted.

"someone showed up for me," you said. "when i wanted to give up, someone refused to let me disappear. and that made all the difference. the work was still hard, but i wasn't doing it alone."

paige nodded slowly. "that's—yeah. makes sense."

"you're going to be great here," you told her. "like, special great. i can already tell."

her smile came back, a little shy this time. "i hope so. i wanna win a championship. multiple championships. i wanna be the best to ever do this."

there it was. that fire. that belief that anything was possible.

"then let's go get it," you said.

you made it your unofficial job to mentor paige. not in an overbearing way—she didn't need someone hovering—but in the way gabby had mentored you. showing up. being present. offering advice when she needed it.

she soaked it all in like a sponge. asked questions about reads and rotations. watched film with you after practice, the two of you breaking down possessions until your eyes crossed. stayed late to run drills, and you stayed with her, feeding her the ball, offering adjustments.

"you don't have to stay," she said one night in january. it was almost 9 pm and you'd been in the gym for an hour past when everyone else had left.

"i know. i want to."

"why?"

you thought about how to explain it. "someone did this for me once. stayed when they didn't have to. showed up when i needed them. i'm just paying it forward."

"the person who helped you come back from your injury?"

"yeah. her name's gabby. she plays for chicago now."

"gabby williams?" paige's eyes widened. "wait, the gabby williams?"

you couldn't help but smile. "yeah. the gabby williams."

"she's one of my favorite players. the way she moves, the way she sees the game—" paige caught herself. "sorry, i'm fangirling. but she's incredible."

"she is." you felt that familiar ache of missing her. "she's kind of everything to me. she's the one who taught me that sometimes the most important thing you can do is just show up for someone. be there. be present. don't let them face the hard stuff alone."

"is that what you're doing for me?"

"if you need it. i remember what it was like being a freshman. even when you're good—especially when you're good—the pressure is intense. having someone in your corner helps."

paige was quiet for a moment. "thank you. for real. i know i act confident, but i'm—i'm kinda terrified i'm gonna mess this up."

"you're not gonna mess it up. you're gonna be amazing. you're already amazing." you passed her the ball. "now show me that crossover one more time. i wanna see if i can steal it."

she grinned and went back to work.

you and gabby talked about paige during your regular facetime calls. usually late at night, both of you exhausted from practice and games, but making time anyway because you'd learned the hard way what happened when you didn't.

"she reminds me of you," gabby said one night in january. you'd been telling her about how paige had dropped thirty points on villanova and made it look easy. "that hungry thing. that belief that anything's possible."

"yeah," you agreed. "before my injury, i think i was like that. it's nice to see it in someone else. makes me remember why i fell in love with basketball in the first place."

"how's it feel? being the mentor instead of the one getting mentored?"

"weird. good weird. like i'm closing some kind of circle." you shifted on your bed, your phone propped up on a pillow so you could see her. "she asks me questions and i hear myself giving answers that sound like things you would say. it's kinda trippy."

gabby smiled. "that's how it works. the things people teach us become part of how we teach other people. you're passing on what I gave you."

"i couldn't have done this without you. you know that, right?"

"i know. but you did the actual work. i just showed up."

"showing up was everything."

she looked at you for a long moment, expression soft. "how's your body feeling? really?"

"good. better than good, actually. i think this is the strongest i've felt in years." you rotated your ankle, testing it like you did constantly. "the extra year—getting to come back and play at this level after everything—it feels like a gift."

"that's amazing." her smile widened. "i'm so proud of you. super-senior year looks good on you. you look happy."

"i am happy. i miss you, but i'm happy."

"miss you too. but hey—draft's in april. few more months and we'll figure out how to be together. for real this time. no more college schedule, no more long distance. just us."

you held onto that promise like a lifeline. let it carry you through the rest of the season—through wins and close games and the building pressure of one last chance at a championship.

"what if i don't get drafted to chicago?" you asked one night in march.

"then i'll figure out how to get to wherever you are. or you'll figure out how to get to chicago. we'll make it work." she said it with such certainty it made your chest ache. "we've survived worse than geography."

"have we?"

"we survived seven months apart during a pandemic with me in a bubble slowly losing my mind. we can survive anything after that."

she was right. you knew she was right. but the fear still lived in your chest—fear that you'd get drafted across the country, fear that you'd never get to play with her, fear that the distance would finally be too much.

"i love you," you said.

"i love you too. now get some sleep. you have practice in the morning and i need you to keep mentoring baby paige. she's going to be great, and part of that is because you're showing her how."

you fell asleep with your phone still on, her face on the screen, and dreamed about a future where you could fall asleep next to her instead of next to her image on a screen.

the season was good. great, even. paige was electric—won freshman of the year, became the face of the program overnight. you had one of your best statistical years—18 points, 8 assists per game. you and paige developed a chemistry that made opposing defenses panic. the team was rolling, ranked #2 for most of the season.

by march, you were ready. five years of waiting for this moment. five years of fighting back from an injury that should have ended you. this was it. your last chance.

you made it to the final four in san antonio. national semifinal against arizona.

gabby flew in. you saw her during warm-ups, sitting courtside, wearing your uconn jersey with your number. she blew you a kiss and you felt invincible. this was your moment. your redemption story. five years in the making.

the game started well. you and paige were clicking, the offense was flowing. by halftime you were up five.

and then the third quarter happened.

arizona came out on fire. hit everything. their guard—aari mcdonald—was unstoppable. you tried to slow her down, but she was in one of those zones where every shot looks good. and your offense went cold. shots that had been falling all season suddenly rimmed out. passes that should have connected didn't. the lead evaporated.

by the fourth quarter you were down eight. then ten. then twelve.

you played thirty-eight minutes. left everything on the court—20 points, 6 assists, but also 5 turnovers and missed shots that haunted you the second they left your hand. paige dropped twenty-one but it wasn't enough. nothing was enough.

final score: arizona 69, uconn 59.

ten points. you lost by ten points.

you stood at center court after the buzzer and felt nothing. just a vast, echoing emptiness where feeling should be.

this was it. your college career was over. not in the championship game. not even close. you'd lost in the final four, one game short, and you'd never get another chance.

five years. injury. comeback. covid. super-senior year. all of it for nothing.

you shook hands with the arizona players mechanically. hugged your teammates. listened to geno say something you didn't hear. and then you had to go to the locker room, had to shower, had to face the media.

the media availability was mandatory. you sat at a table with paige and geno, cameras everywhere, reporters asking questions you couldn't process.

"how does it feel to end your college career this way?"

empty. you felt empty.

"what do you think went wrong in the second half?"

everything. everything went wrong.

"this was your last chance at a championship. what's going through your mind right now?"

nothing. your mind was blank white noise.

gabby watched from the back of the room. you could feel her eyes on you, worried and afraid. you looked at her once and had to look away because the concern on her face made something crack in your chest.

you answered the questions in monotone. single sentences. your voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. one reporter asked paige a question and you just stared at the table, not even pretending to listen to her answer.

"are you okay?" a reporter finally asked, and you wanted to laugh because what kind of question was that?

"i'm fine," you said. "just disappointed."

but you weren't fine. you could feel yourself fragmenting, pieces of you breaking off and floating away. you sat at that table and felt like you were watching yourself from very far away—this hollow shell of a person giving hollow answers to questions that didn't matter because nothing mattered.

when they finally let you go, gabby was waiting outside the media room.

"hey," she said softly.

you looked at her and couldn't find words.

"come on. let's get you back to the hotel."

you followed her. let her guide you through the arena, into a car, back to the team hotel. you were aware of her hand in yours, aware of her talking to you, but you couldn't process the words. everything was static.

back at the hotel, she followed you into your room. you just stood there, still in your team gear, staring at nothing.

"baby," gabby said. "you need to change. get out of those clothes."

you didn't move.

"okay. okay, i'll help you." she moved slowly, like approaching a spooked animal, and started helping you out of your warm-ups. you let her. felt her hands on you but couldn't quite connect to the sensation.

she got you into sweats, sat you on the bed. "have you eaten?"

you didn't answer because you didn't know. couldn't remember. time had stopped making sense.

"i'm going to get you some food. i'll be right back. five minutes, okay?"

the second she left, the silence rushed in. you sat on the bed and stared at the wall and felt the emptiness expanding. five years. all of it for nothing. you'd come back from a career-ending injury, had done everything right, had fought so hard, and for what?

to lose in the final four. to leave uconn without a championship. to prove that sometimes fighting isn't enough. sometimes you can do everything right and still fail.

the thought was so big it had no edges. you couldn't see around it. couldn't see past it. it filled everything.

gabby came back with food you didn't eat. sat next to you on the bed and tried to get you to talk. you couldn't. the words were somewhere far away, out of reach.

"i'm worried about you," she said. "you're scaring me. please talk to me."

"what do you want me to say?" your voice sounded wrong. flat and distant.

"anything. just—anything. tell me what you're feeling."

"nothing. i'm not feeling anything."

"baby—"

"i'm tired. i just want to sleep."

she didn't leave. you could feel her watching you as you lay down, still in your clothes, facing away from her. you heard her move, heard her talking to someone—probably your coaches, probably her teammates, you didn't care—and then she was back.

"i'm staying," she said. "i'm not leaving you alone tonight."

you didn't respond. just closed your eyes and tried to disappear into sleep. it didn't work. you lay there for hours, eyes closed but mind racing in circles, replaying every missed shot, every turnover, every moment you could have done something different.

at some point gabby lay down behind you, arm over your waist, holding you even though you felt like you weren't really there to be held.

the next day was worse.

you had to pack. had to go through exit meetings. had to function like a normal person when you felt like you'd been scraped hollow.

gabby didn't leave your side. she packed your bag for you when you couldn't make yourself move. she answered texts from your teammates when you couldn't look at your phone. she stayed so close you could feel her presence constantly, and you knew—some distant part of you knew—that she was afraid to leave you alone.

"i'm fine," you told her when she followed you to the bathroom.

"i know. i just—i want to be here. that's all."

she stayed outside the door while you showered. came in when you were taking too long, found you just standing under the water, staring at the tile.

"hey," she said softly. "let me help you."

she undressed quickly, got in the shower with you, and washed your hair because you couldn't seem to make your arms work. you stood there and let her take care of you and felt nothing. just numb. blank. empty.

"i'm scared," she said, water running down her face—water or tears, you couldn't tell. "you're scaring me. please come back. please be here with me."

"i'm here."

"you're not. you're somewhere else and i don't know how to reach you."

you didn't know how to tell her that you weren't anywhere. that you'd hollowed yourself out so completely there was nothing left to reach.

self harm is included in this section. skip to the next bolded section if this is triggering.

days passed. you flew back to connecticut. gabby came with you, cancelled her flight back to chicago, just stayed. your teammates texted—paige especially, blaming herself, saying she should have played better. you couldn't respond. couldn't find the energy to tell her it wasn't her fault.

you went through the motions. ate when gabby made you eat. slept when she told you to sleep. existed in this gray space where nothing felt real.

one night—three days after the game—you were lying in bed staring at the ceiling when something inside you snapped. not broke. just... snapped. like a rubber band pulled too tight.

you felt your hand moving, felt your nails digging into your thigh under your sweatpants, felt the pressure and the pain and the relief of feeling something. you scratched and scratched, not thinking, not processing, just needing to feel.

"stop." gabby's hand caught your wrist, pulled it away. "stop, baby, stop."

you looked down and saw the blood soaking through your sweats. saw the torn skin. felt nothing about it except distant surprise that you'd done that.

"i didn't—" you started.

"i know. i know you didn't mean to." she was crying now, pulling your sweatpants down to see the damage. long scratches, some deep enough to bleed heavily. "we need to clean this. come on. bathroom."

she cleaned the wounds with shaking hands. bandaged them. didn't let go of you the entire time.

"i can't leave you alone," she said. "i'm sorry, but i can't. i'm too scared of what you'll do if i do."

"i'm not going to do anything."

"you just hurt yourself. you might not have meant to, but you did." she cupped your face, forced you to look at her. "please. please let me help you. please let me in. i can't watch you destroy yourself."

and something about the way she said it—the desperation, the fear, the love—made something crack.

you pitched forward into her arms and sobbed. not pretty crying. not gentle sadness. gut-wrenching sobs that came from somewhere deep and broken, sobs that shook your entire body, sobs that felt like they'd never stop.

pick back up here

she held you through it. held you while you cried about the game, about losing, about five years that felt wasted, about coming so close and falling short. held you while you said things that didn't make sense, while you apologized for things that weren't your fault, while you tried to explain the emptiness inside you that had no explanation.

"i worked so hard," you gasped between sobs. "i did everything right. i came back. i fought. i did everything and it wasn't enough. i wasn't enough."

"you were enough. you are enough." she was crying too now. "this wasn't about you not being enough. sometimes things just don't work out. that doesn't mean you failed."

"it feels like failure."

"i know. i know it does. but you came back from a career-ending injury. you played five years at the highest level. you became a leader. you mentored paige. you did all of that. that's not nothing."

"but i didn't win."

"no. you didn't win. and that's okay to grieve. it's okay to be devastated. but please don't hurt yourself over it. please don't let this destroy you." she pulled back to look at you. "i need you to promise me something."

"what?"

"promise me you'll talk to dr. peterson. promise me you'll get help. because i can't—i can't watch you do this to yourself. i can't lose you to this."

"i'm not going anywhere."

"you're already somewhere else. you've been somewhere else for three days. i need you to come back."

you looked at her—really looked at her—and saw how scared she was. saw the exhaustion in her face, the tear tracks, the way she was holding onto you like you might disappear.

"i'm sorry," you whispered. "i'm so sorry. i didn't mean to—"

"i know. i know you didn't. but you need help. professional help. more than i can give you." she kissed your forehead. "will you call dr. peterson tomorrow? will you talk to someone?"

you nodded because you didn't know what else to do. because she was right. because the emptiness inside you was too big to handle alone.

"okay. okay, good." she pulled you back into her arms. "i love you. i'm here. we're going to get through this."

you wanted to believe her. but lying there in her arms, bandages on your leg, face swollen from crying, you weren't sure you believed anything anymore.

the next day, you called dr. peterson. had a video session that left you exhausted and raw but maybe slightly less empty.

"clinical depression," she said. "acute episode triggered by the loss. not uncommon in athletes who experience a significant disappointing end to their career. but treatable."

treatable. the word felt both hopeful and overwhelming.

you started medication. started therapy twice a week instead of once. started the slow, painful work of crawling out of the hole you'd fallen into.

gabby stayed. cancelled everything in chicago, stayed in connecticut with you, and just... showed up. the way she'd shown up for you five years ago when you'd been broken in a different way.

"you don't have to stay," you told her one morning, two weeks after the game. you were feeling slightly more human—still sad, still grieving, but present. real.

"i know i don't have to. i want to." she handed you your coffee, made exactly the way you liked it. "draft's next week anyway. we'll go together. and then we'll figure out what comes next."

"what if i don't get drafted to chicago?"

"then we'll figure it out. like we always do." she sat next to you on the couch, took your hand. "we survived the bubble. we survived your injury. we'll survive this too."

you leaned into her and tried to believe it. tried to trust that the emptiness would eventually fill with something else. tried to have faith that you'd find your way back to yourself.

"thank you," you said. "for not leaving. for staying even when i was—"

"you don't have to thank me. this is what love is. showing up. especially when it's hard." she kissed your temple. "you showed up for me in the bubble when i was falling apart. i'm showing up for you now. that's how this works."

and maybe that was the portal after all. not basketball. not some destination. but this—the showing up, the staying, the refusing to let go even when everything else falls apart.

magic built from scraps. from stubbornness and love and the choice to keep fighting even when you're not sure what you're fighting for anymore.

you were still broken. still grieving. still working through the depression that had settled in your bones like winter.

but you weren't alone.

and maybe that was enough to start building yourself back up again.

april 15, 2021. wnba draft.

two weeks after the breakdown. two weeks after gabby had cleaned blood off your leg and held you while you sobbed. two weeks of therapy and medication and slowly, painfully, coming back to yourself.

you were still fragile. still grieving. but present. here. real.

gabby had stayed the entire time. cancelled everything in chicago, moved into your apartment, just existed next to you while you put yourself back together piece by piece. she'd been there for every therapy session (waiting outside, always waiting), every morning you couldn't get out of bed, every moment you felt like you were drowning again.

and now she was coming with you to new york for the draft.

"you don't have to come," you'd told her when you bought the plane tickets. "i know you need to get back to chicago—"

"i'm coming," she'd said. "i'm not missing this. and you're not doing this alone."

so here you were. new york city. draft day. sitting in the green room at basketball city with your family and gabby, wearing a dress that gabby had helped you pick out because you couldn't make decisions about anything, waiting for your name to be called.

gabby looked devastating. that was the only word for it. she was wearing a fitted black suit, boho braids with blonde highlights, and every time you looked at her you had this moment of holy shit i'm dating her. holy shit she's mine.

"you okay?" she asked, catching you staring.

"yeah. just—you look really good."

she smiled, soft and private. "so do you. you look like yourself again."

you did feel more like yourself. not all the way there—maybe you'd never be all the way back to who you were before the loss. but closer. human. present.

the cameras kept finding you two. gabby sitting next to you, close enough that your shoulders touched. her hand on your knee when you were bouncing it too much. the way she leaned in to whisper something that made you laugh—actual laughter, the first real laugh in a week.

espn's broadcast kept cutting to you. the announcers were talking about your comeback story, your injury, your college career. they showed highlights—freshman year before the injury, the injury itself (you looked away), the comeback, this season with paige.

"five years at uconn," one announcer said. "came back from a career-ending injury to become an all-american. incredible story. and there she is with gabby williams from the chicago sky. they were teammates at uconn, and williams was instrumental in her recovery."

gabby squeezed your hand under the table.

the draft started. first pick. second pick. third pick.

your heart was hammering. you'd worked so hard for this. survived so much for this. injury. comeback. covid. losing in the final four. depression. all of it leading to this moment.

fourth pick. chicago sky.

your breath caught. this was it. this could be it.

"with the fourth pick, the chicago sky select amy atwell from marquette university."

not you. okay. that was okay.

fifth pick. sixth pick. seventh pick.

"with the eighth pick, the chicago sky select—"

gabby's hand tightened on yours.

"—from the university of connecticut—"

you couldn't breathe.

"—y/n l/n."

the room exploded. your mom was crying. your dad was hugging you. someone handed you a chicago sky jersey and hat and you were putting them on with shaking hands.

but all you could see was gabby.

she was crying. really crying, tears streaming down her face, and she pulled you into a hug that knocked the breath out of you.

"you did it," she said into your ear. "you actually did it. you're coming to chicago. we're going to be teammates."

"we're going to be teammates," you repeated, and the words felt too big for your mouth. "gabby, we're going to play together."

"i know. i know." she pulled back to look at you, hands on your face, and there were cameras everywhere but you didn't care. "i'm so fucking proud of you. five years. you fought for five years and you made it."

"i couldn't have done it without you."

"you did the work. you fought the fight. i just showed up."

"showing up was everything."

they were calling you to the stage. you had to go take photos, do interviews, all the official draft stuff. but you looked at gabby one more time before you left.

she was smiling so wide it had to hurt, and she mouthed i love you, and you mouthed it back, and then you were walking to the stage to accept your jersey from the commissioner.

eighth overall. chicago sky. you'd made it.

standing on that stage, holding your jersey, cameras flashing everywhere, you felt something shift inside you. something that had been broken since the final four loss. not fixed—you weren't fixed, might never be fully fixed—but less shattered.

because this wasn't the ending. losing to arizona wasn't the ending. your college career ending without a championship wasn't the ending.

this was the beginning. the next chapter. the next portal.

you'd built yourself once before, after the injury. piece by piece, scrap by scrap, until you'd constructed something that looked like magic. and then it had fallen apart again in san antonio. shattered. broken. you'd thought maybe you couldn't rebuild again.

but standing on that stage, you realized—you could. you were. the portal was still there. the dream was still there. it just looked different than you'd expected.

not a college championship. but this. the wnba. chicago. gabby.

magic built from scraps. from stubbornness and love and refusing to give up even when everything fell apart.

you looked out at the crowd and found gabby immediately. she was standing now, clapping, crying, looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

and you thought—i'm going to be okay. maybe not today. maybe not tomorrow. but eventually.

i'm going to be okay.

after the official stuff—photos, interviews, espn asking you about your comeback story and you giving the same answers you'd given a hundred times—you found gabby waiting in the hallway.

"hey," she said.

"hey." you couldn't stop smiling. "i got drafted."

"you got drafted." she pulled you into another hug, and this one was longer, tighter, both of you just holding on. "eighth overall. chicago sky. we're going to be teammates."

"i can't believe this is real."

"it's real. you're real. this is all real." she pulled back, hands on your shoulders. "how are you feeling? really?"

you checked in with yourself. the emptiness from last week was still there, but smaller. more manageable. and underneath it—underneath the grief and the depression and the disappointment—was something else. something that felt like hope.

"good," you said. "i feel good. like—for the first time in a week, i feel like maybe everything's going to be okay."

"it is going to be okay. i promise." she kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "now come on. your mom wants photos and then we're getting dinner. the entire sky team wants to take you out to celebrate."

"the huh?"

"i may have told them we were drafting you. they're all excited to meet you." she grinned. "welcome to the sky, rookie."

dinner was at some italian place in manhattan, the kind with low lighting and candles on every table and wine lists thicker than textbooks. long table in a private back room, full of your new teammates—candace parker at one end looking regal and amused, kahleah copper across from you, courtney vandersloot and allie quigley sitting together like the married couple they were, diamond deshields, stephanie dolson.

the entire chicago sky core. here to meet you. to welcome you.

gabby sat next to you. close enough that your thighs were pressed together under the table, close enough that every time she moved you felt it, close enough that her perfume was all you could smell. she was still in that devastating black suit, hair catching the candlelight, and you kept having these moments of complete dissociation where you'd look at her and think—holy shit. holy shit, i'm dating her. this woman is mine.

"you good?" she murmured during appetizers, catching you staring.

"yeah. just—you're really pretty."

she laughed, quiet and pleased. "you're really gay."

"can you blame me?"

"not even a little bit."

across the table, candace was watching you both with barely concealed amusement. "so," she said, voice carrying over the conversations. "you two played together at uconn?"

"yeah," you said, trying to sound normal. "gabby was a junior when i was a freshman."

"and she helped you come back from your injury?" candace's tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. knowing.

"yeah. she—" you glanced at gabby, found her already looking at you. "she saved my life. basically. i was in a really dark place after my injury and she just—showed up. kept showing up. wouldn't let me give up."

"basically saved your life," gabby echoed, rolling her eyes but smiling. "so dramatic."

"you literally sat on my dorm room floor three times a week for months. you brought me coffee at six am physical therapy sessions. you—"

"okay, okay." gabby's face was red now. "maybe i showed up a little."

"a little," you repeated, and squeezed her knee under the table. she caught your hand, held it there.

"that's beautiful," allie said, and something about the way she said it—warm and genuine but also pointed—made you realize she definitely knew. "we love a good comeback story. and we love teammates who support each other." she emphasized the word 'teammates' just slightly, eyes twinkling.

your face got hot. under the table, gabby's thumb was rubbing circles on the back of your hand.

"we're excited to have you," courtney said, clearly deciding to take mercy on you. "gabby talks about you constantly. and i mean constantly. 'my friend from uconn did this' and 'my friend from uconn is so good at that' and 'you should see her court vision' and 'did i mention my friend from uconn—'"

"i do not talk about her constantly," gabby protested, but she was laughing.

"you absolutely do," kahleah said. "it's honestly kind of cute. annoying, but cute. we've been hearing about you for like three years."

"three years?" you turned to gabby. "you've been talking about me for three years?"

"you've been my favorite topic of conversation for three years," she said, shameless now. "sue me. you're interesting."

"i'm interesting," you repeated flatly.

"very interesting. compelling, even. i could talk about you for hours. have, actually. multiple times. the team can confirm."

"we can confirm," diamond said. "we know everything about you. your stats, your game, your injury, your recovery timeline, your—"

"okay, we get it," gabby cut her off, face fully red now. "i talk about her. she's impressive. i'm proud of her. is that a crime?"

"not a crime," candace said, smiling wider. "just very sweet. very dedicated. very—" she paused meaningfully. "—supportive."

you wanted to die. or crawl under the table. or both. instead you just sat there, face burning, while your new teammates all looked at you and gabby with varying degrees of amusement and affection.

"thank you," you managed finally. "for—for welcoming me. i'm really excited to be here. to play with all of you." you paused, gathering courage. "to play with gabby especially. i've been dreaming about that for three years."

the table went quiet. everyone was looking at you now.

"three years?" candace said slowly. "you've been dreaming about playing with gabby for three years?"

"since she left. since she—" you glanced at gabby again, found her staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "since she showed me what it meant to really show up for someone. i wanted to play with her. wanted to be her teammate in the league. wanted—" you stopped, aware you were about to say too much, reveal too much.

"wanted to be close to her," courtney finished gently. "we get it. trust me. we get it."

she squeezed allie's hand on top of the table, and the gesture was so casual, so accepted, that something in your chest loosened.

"yeah," you said quietly. "wanted to be close to her."

under the table, gabby's hand tightened on yours.

"well, you're here now," candace said, raising her wine glass. "to new beginnings. to teammates. to three-year dreams coming true."

everyone raised their glasses. you raised yours with your free hand, the other still tangled with gabby's under the table.

"to teammates," gabby said, looking right at you, and something about the way she said it made you think she was saying something else entirely.

to us. to this. to three years of waiting finally being over.

the dinner stretched on. pasta and wine and bread and more wine. you ate actual food for the first time in a week—since before the final four loss, since before the breakdown—and it tasted like life. like coming back to yourself.

your teammates were funny. warm. welcoming in a way that made you feel like maybe you could belong here. candace told stories about her olympic experiences that made everyone cry laughing. kahleah and diamond argued about the best pizza in chicago. courtney and allie were disgustingly cute in that way that long-married couples are, finishing each other's sentences and sharing food off each other's plates.

and gabby—gabby was in her element. laughing and joking with her teammates, telling stories you'd never heard, her whole face bright with happiness. at one point she threw her head back laughing at something stephanie said, and her hand squeezed yours under the table like an unconscious reflex, like even in her joy she needed to make sure you were still there.

"you're staring again," she murmured when the attention had shifted away from you both.

"can't help it. you're—" you gestured vaguely at all of her. "you're a lot."

"a lot good or a lot bad?"

"a lot 'i can't believe you're real and also mine.'"

her eyes softened. "i'm real. and i'm yours. have been for years, even when we couldn't admit it."

"we can admit it now though."

"we can." she glanced around the table—everyone was engaged in their own conversations, not paying attention to you two. "do you want to? admit it, i mean. to the team. to—eventually—everyone."

your heart stuttered. "you'd be okay with that? going public?"

"baby, i've been ready to tell the world about you since that day in the gym when you kissed me. i've been waiting for you to be ready."

"i'm—" you thought about it. about what it would mean. about people knowing, about cameras always watching, about becoming 'gabby williams' girlfriend' instead of just 'the eighth pick.' about losing your privacy, your anonymity, your ability to just exist without scrutiny.

but also about getting to hold her hand in public. about not having to hide. about being able to look at her the way you wanted to look at her without worrying who was watching.

"i'm not ready yet," you admitted. "but i want to be. eventually. is that okay?"

"of course it's okay. we'll go at your pace. always." she kissed your temple, quick and casual, and you heard conversation pause. looked up to find several of your teammates watching with knowing smiles.

"subtle," kahleah said dryly.

"wasn't trying to be subtle," gabby said. "but we're not—we're keeping things quiet for now. so if you could all just—"

"we won't say anything," courtney promised. "your business is your business. but for what it's worth—" she looked at you. "we're happy for you. both of you. you clearly love each other. that's beautiful."

"we do," gabby said simply. "love each other, i mean. so much it's kind of stupid."

"so stupid," you agreed. "embarrassingly stupid."

"disgusting," candace said, but she was smiling. "you're going to be one of those couples that everyone hates because you're too cute."

"probably," gabby said, shameless.

"definitely," you said.

"well, as long as you can separate it on the court," candace said, more serious now. "i don't care who's dating who as long as we win. can you do that? play together professionally even when you're—" she gestured vaguely.

"even when we're disgustingly in love?" gabby finished. "yeah. we can do that. we've been preparing for this for three years. we know each other's games better than we know our own. we're going to be scary good together."

"good," candace said. "then welcome to the team. both of you." she looked at you. "i know you've been on the team for like four hours, but you're already part of the family. that's how this works. we take care of our own."

"thank you," you said, and meant it. "that means—thank you."

"don't thank me yet. wait until training camp when i'm yelling at you for missing rotations." she grinned. "but seriously. welcome home."

home. the word settled in your chest, warm and right.

later, after dinner, you and gabby walked back to your hotel through manhattan streets that were still busy despite the late hour. she'd taken off her suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, and you were holding hands openly because it was dark and you were anonymous here, just two people in a city of millions.

"that went well," she said.

"they definitely know we're together."

"oh, they absolutely know. have known, probably. i haven't exactly been subtle about how much i talk about you." she squeezed your hand. "is that okay? that they know?"

"yeah. it's—yeah. it's nice, actually. not having to hide around them." you leaned into her side. "your teammates are great."

"they're the best. you're going to love playing with them. and they're going to love playing with you." she pulled you closer. "we're really doing this. you're really coming to chicago. we're really going to be teammates."

"we're really doing this," you confirmed. "after three years. after everything. we're finally here."

"how does it feel?"

you thought about it. about the injury and the comeback and covid and losing in the final four and the breakdown last week. about all of it leading to this moment, walking through new york city at night with gabby williams' hand in yours and her jacket around your shoulders and your future spread out in front of you like an open road.

"like magic," you said finally. "like the portal worked after all. it just took longer than i expected."

"and looked different than you imagined."

"yeah. better though. the imagined version didn't have you in it. not like this."

she stopped walking, pulled you into a doorway away from the foot traffic. kissed you slow and deep and thorough, one hand cupping your face, the other on your waist.

"i love you," she said when she pulled back. "i've loved you for five years. i'm going to love you for five more. for fifty more. for however long you'll let me."

"forever then," you said. "because i'm not letting you go."

"good." she kissed you again, softer this time. "come on. let's go back to the hotel. we have an early flight tomorrow and i want to spend the rest of tonight memorizing you."

"memorizing me?"

"you're about to become my teammate. my actual on-the-court teammate. i need to update my mental file on you. see how you've changed. what's different from uconn."

"i'm the same person."

"you're not though. you're stronger. steadier. you came back from something that would have broken most people. twice." her hand found your face in the darkness. "you're incredible. and i get to play with you. i get to watch you be incredible every single day. i can't wait."

you kissed her because you didn't have words for how much you loved her, how grateful you were that she'd stayed, how impossible this all felt and yet how real.

you made it back to the hotel. spent the rest of the night doing exactly what gabby had promised—memorizing each other, learning each other all over again, celebrating five years of waiting finally being over.

and in the morning, you flew to chicago together. your new home. your new team. your new beginning.

the portal had worked after all. you'd just been building it together the whole time without realizing it.

magic made from scraps. from showing up and staying and loving each other through everything.

magic that looked like her hand in yours and a future you got to build together and the dream that had never really died—it had just been waiting for the right moment to come true.

later that night, back at the hotel, you and gabby lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

"i got drafted," you said.

"you got drafted."

"to chicago."

"to chicago."

"we're going to be teammates."

"we're going to be teammates." she turned on her side to face you. "how does that feel?"

you thought about it. "surreal. good. scary. all of it at once." you turned to face her too. "a week ago i was—i was in a really dark place. and now i'm here. drafted. going to play professional basketball. with you. it feels impossible."

"but it's not impossible. it's real. you made it real." her hand found your face. "you fought so hard for this. through the injury, through covid, through losing in the final four, through last week. you kept fighting. and now you're here."

"we're here," you corrected. "i wouldn't have made it without you."

"maybe. but you did the actual work. i just reminded you that you could."

you kissed her then. soft and slow and full of five years of longing and fighting and loving her through all of it.

"thank you," you said when you pulled back. "for staying. for not giving up on me. for being here."

"always," she said. "i'll always be here."

and lying there in that new york hotel room, your draft cap on the dresser, your future spread out in front of you like an open road, you believed her.

the portal was still there. the dream was still there. it just looked different than you'd expected.

not a championship. but this. the wnba. chicago. gabby. a future you got to build together.

magic made from scraps. from showing up and staying and refusing to let go even when everything fell apart.

you fell asleep holding her, and for the first time in a week, you didn't have nightmares.

you flew to chicago together the next morning.

the flight from new york to chicago was only two hours, but it felt significant. you were leaving as a uconn graduate and arriving as a professional basketball player. as gabby's teammate. as someone building a life instead of just visiting one.

gabby had the window seat. you had the middle. she held your hand the entire flight, thumb tracing patterns on your palm while she looked out at the clouds.

"what are you thinking about?" you asked.

"you. us. how we're really doing this." she turned to look at you, and her expression was so soft it made your chest ache. "five years ago you were a freshman who'd just gotten hurt and i was a junior trying to figure out how to help you. and now we're here. both of us in the w. on the same team. together."

"together," you repeated. "i like the sound of that."

"me too." she kissed you, quick and sweet, and the guy in the aisle seat definitely noticed but you didn't care.

when you landed at o'hare, there were people. fans. waiting at baggage claim with jerseys and sharpies and phones ready.

"is that gabby williams?" someone said, loud enough for you to hear.

"oh my god, and that's the girl chicago just drafted. from uconn."

"they came together?"

you and gabby exchanged a look. she raised an eyebrow—you okay with this?—and you nodded.

"hey," a girl around sixteen said, approaching nervously. "can i get a picture? both of you?"

"of course," gabby said, all warmth and professionalism. you stood next to her, close enough that your arms touched, and smiled for the photo.

more people approached after that. autographs on jerseys and notebooks and phone cases. a kid who couldn't have been older than ten who told you he'd watched your comeback story on youtube and you were his hero. a woman in her thirties who said she'd had an acl tear and you'd inspired her to get back to running.

"you flew in together?" someone asked while you were signing their sky jersey.

"yeah," gabby said easily. "had press stuff in new york. easier to fly back together."

it wasn't a lie. it also wasn't the whole truth. but people seemed to accept it, and twenty minutes later you were finally in gabby's car heading into the city.

"that was wild," you said.

"get used to it. you're in the w now. people care." she glanced over at you, smiling. "they're going to love you here. they already do."

"because of you. you've been telling them about me for three years apparently."

"i regret nothing." she turned her attention back to the road, but her hand found yours on the center console. "you're going to be amazing here. i know it."

she took you to her apartment first. the apartment you'd visited before but never really stayed in—always just a few days, always with a flight back to connecticut looming.

"welcome home," she said, unlocking the door.

home. the word sat strange in your mouth. you'd lived in connecticut for five years. before that, your hometown. chicago was new. foreign. except—

except gabby was here. and anywhere she was felt like home.

her apartment was exactly as you remembered. small but nice, big windows overlooking the city, decorated in that minimal way that said she'd tried but hadn't quite committed. a couch you'd made out on multiple times. a kitchen where she'd made you terrible eggs. a bedroom where you'd—

"i can hear you thinking," gabby said from behind you.

"just remembering. all the times i've been here. all the times i had to leave."

"you don't have to leave anymore." she wrapped her arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder. "you live here now. in chicago. with me. well—" she paused. "you're going to live in this building. i found you an apartment on the third floor. but you can stay here as much as you want. you can stay here all the time if you want."

"you found me an apartment?"

"had to. for appearances. can't have the rookie living with the veteran right away. people would talk." she kissed your neck. "but between you and me, i don't think you're going to spend much time there."

"no?"

"no. because i'm not letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future." she spun you around to face her. "i've waited three years for this. for you. i'm going to be extremely annoying about getting to see you every day."

"i'm okay with annoying."

"good. because it's happening." she kissed you properly then, deep and slow, and you melted into it.

when she pulled back, she said, "you hungry? we should eat. and then i need to show you around. introduce you to the neighborhood. get you familiar with—"

"or," you said, backing her toward the bedroom, "we could do that later."

"later?"

"much later." you were kissing her jaw, her neck, any skin you could reach. "right now i want to celebrate being here. with you. finally."

"oh," she breathed. "yeah. yeah, we can do that."

you made it to the bedroom this time. barely. gabby kept stopping to kiss you, to touch you, to press you against walls and doorframes like she couldn't wait the extra five seconds to get to the bed.

"you're impatient," you said, laughing against her mouth.

"i've been patient for three years. i'm done being patient."

she got you onto the bed, and this time there was no urgency. no desperate need to prove this was real. you were here. she was here. you had time.

she undressed you slowly, reverently, like she was unwrapping something precious. when you were bare before her, she just looked at you for a long moment.

"what?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious under her gaze.

"nothing. just—you're here. really here. not leaving in two days or a week or even a few months." her hands skated up your sides, and you shivered. "i get to have you. like this. every day if i want."

"you've always had me."

"i know. but this is different. this is—" she stopped, searching for words. "this is waking up next to you and going to practice together and coming home together and just—existing in the same space. the same city. the same life." she kissed you softly. "i get to have you in all the boring ways too. not just the big moments."

"the boring ways?"

"like—making coffee in the morning. doing laundry. grocery shopping. all the mundane shit that makes up a life." she was blushing now. "i've been dreaming about the boring parts as much as the exciting parts."

your chest felt too full. "i love you."

"i love you too. so much. so much it's kind of embarrassing." she kissed you again, deeper this time. "now let me show you exactly how much."

she did. fucked you slowly, thoroughly, until you were shaking and gasping and saying her name like a prayer. she learned your body all over again—every place that made you gasp, every touch that made you arch, every word that made you fall apart.

when you came, it felt like coming home.

later, you returned the favor. took your time with her, made her fall apart under your hands and mouth, made her grip the sheets and moan your name, made her come so hard she cried.

"fuck," she breathed after, pulling you up to kiss her. "that was—"

"good?"

"understatement of the century." she tucked hair behind your ear. "you're really here. in chicago. in my bed. this is real."

"this is real," you confirmed. "we're really doing this."

"we're really doing this." she pulled you close, and you settled against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. "welcome home, baby."

"is that what this is? home?"

"yeah." she kissed the top of your head. "anywhere you are is home. but this—chicago, the sky, us finally together—this feels like the rightest thing in the world."

you fell asleep like that, tangled together, and for the first time in five years you didn't dream about distance or goodbyes or countdowns. you just dreamed about her.

the next few days were a blur of activity. press conferences where you stood next to candace and answered questions about your game and your recovery and your goals. media obligations where you smiled for cameras and pretended you weren't exhausted. meetings with the coaching staff about plays and rotations and expectations.

and through all of it, gabby was there. not hovering—she was too professional for that—but present. in the background during press conferences. waiting outside meetings. texting you between obligations with things like *doing great* and *proud of you* and *can't wait to get you home*.

home. you were starting to believe it.

your apartment was nice. third floor, big windows, newly renovated. gabby had clearly had input on finding it because it was perfect for you—close to the practice facility, near good coffee, in a safe neighborhood.

you moved your stuff in but you were right—you didn't spend much time there. most nights you ended up at gabby's, falling into her bed, her life, her routine.

she had this habit of just staring at you. you'd be doing something completely mundane—making coffee, folding laundry, reading on the couch—and you'd look up to find her watching you with this expression that was part wonder, part disbelief, part so much love it made your chest ache.

"what?" you'd ask.

"nothing. just—you're here. in my apartment. drinking coffee like you belong here."

"i do belong here."

"i know. it's just—i spent so long imagining this. and now it's real. and you're more beautiful doing boring things than i ever imagined."

"you're so gay."

"for you? absolutely."

it happened constantly. you'd be brushing your teeth and catch her reflection in the mirror, just watching. you'd be putting on shoes and look up to find her leaning in the doorway with that soft smile. you'd be literally just existing and she'd be staring like you'd hung the moon.

"you're staring again," you said one morning, catching her watching you eat cereal.

"can't help it." she didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "you're very distracting."

"i'm eating cereal."

"i know. it's very attractive. the way you—" she gestured vaguely. "you know. chew."

you threw a piece of cereal at her. she caught it and ate it, grinning.

"you're ridiculous."

"you love it."

"i do," you admitted. "i really do."

a week after you arrived, you had your first practice with the team. real practice, not just media day stuff. the full roster, the coaches, the whole operation.

you were nervous. had been nervous all morning, pacing gabby's apartment while she got ready, unable to sit still.

"hey," she said, catching your hand. "you're going to be great. you know that, right?"

"what if i'm not? what if i'm not good enough? what if—"

"you're good enough. you're better than good enough. you're incredible." she pulled you close. "and i'm going to be there. right there on the court with you. we're doing this together."

"together," you repeated.

"together." she kissed you softly. "now come on. let's go show them what uconn guards can do."

practice was intense. the kind of intense that reminded you this was professional basketball, not college. faster. harder. more physical. the plays were more complex. the rotations more demanding. the expectations higher.

but gabby was right there. running plays with you. throwing passes that found your hands like they had magnets. moving with you like you'd been playing together for years instead of days.

because in a way, you had been. you'd watched so much of her film. she'd watched so much of yours. you knew each other's games, tendencies, habits. the chemistry was instant.

"okay, that was disgusting," kahleah said after you and gabby ran a perfect pick and roll that ended with an easy layup. "how long have you two been playing together?"

"officially? twenty minutes," gabby said.

"unofficially?" you added. "two years. and then the rest of that was just in our heads."

candace was watching you both with that knowing smile again. "you two are going to be dangerous together. i can tell already."

she was right. you could feel it. the potential. the possibility. the magic of playing with someone who understood you, who moved with you, who knew where you'd be before you knew yourself.

after practice, in the locker room, you were sitting in front of your new locker (your name already on it, jersey hanging ready) when gabby sat down next to you.

"so?" she said. "how does it feel?"

"surreal. amazing. terrifying. all of it."

"good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

"good terrifying. like—holy shit, i'm really here. i'm really doing this. with you." you looked at her. "we're really teammates."

"we're really teammates," she confirmed, and then she was kissing you—quick and soft and probably inadvisable in the locker room but you didn't care.

someone whistled. you pulled apart to find several teammates watching with various degrees of amusement.

"locker room's probably not the best place for that," courtney said, but she was smiling. "just saying. for future reference."

"noted," gabby said, not looking even slightly sorry.

you were home. really home. in chicago. with gabby. living the dream you'd been building for five years.

the portal had worked. magic was real. and you were just getting started.

your rookie season with the sky started in may.

the first practice, walking into the facility wearing the sky uniform, seeing gabby already on the court warming up—it took your breath away. she looked up when you walked in, and the smile that spread across her face was pure joy. uncomplicated happiness. like everything she'd been waiting for had finally arrived.

"ready to do this?" she asked when you joined her.

"with you? always."

you weren't wrong about the chemistry. you and gabby on the court together was magic—the kind that came from knowing someone so well you didn't have to think, just react. no-look passes that found her hands every time. defensive rotations that were seamless. an understanding that went deeper than basketball, deeper than the years you'd spent apart, all the way down to something cellular.

the season was everything. you were playing professional basketball—actually getting paid to play the game you loved. you were starting, contributing, proving that you belonged at this level despite the injury that should have ended you. and you were doing it alongside gabby, the person who'd saved you and loved you and believed in you when you couldn't believe in yourself.

every game felt like proof. proof that you'd made it back. proof that the portal had worked. proof that magic was real after all.

after games, you'd go home together—always together now, usually to gabby's place because you still barely used your apartment. you'd order food and watch film and talk about the game, dissecting plays and rotations and defensive schemes. and then you'd take her to bed and remind each other why you'd waited five years for this.

"this is everything i dreamed of," you told her one night in early june, both of you sprawled on her couch after a win against new york. you'd combined for 38 points. the chemistry was undeniable. "playing in the w. playing with you. being with you without counting down the days until we have to say goodbye."

"me too." she pulled you closer, pressed a kiss to your temple. "i spent five years trying to imagine what this would feel like. reality is so much better."

"yeah?"

"yeah. because in my imagination, i couldn't quite capture how happy i'd be. how right this would feel. how much i'd love waking up next to you every morning." she kissed you properly. "i love you. i love this. i love our life."

"i love you too." you meant it with everything you had. "thank you for waiting for me. for not giving up on us."

"i'd wait a lifetime for you." she said it simply, like it was obvious, like there had never been any other option. "you're worth everything."

mid-june. the olympics.

gabby got the call-up for team france. you'd known it was coming—she'd played for them before, was one of their best players—but knowing didn't make it easier.

"it's two months," she said, packing her bag in her bedroom while you sat on the bed watching. "in france, training with the team from mid june to mid july. in tokyo from late july through early august. i'll be back before you know it."

"two months." you felt something tight in your chest. "we've only had two months here. together. and now—"

"i know." she stopped packing, came to sit next to you. "i know, baby. i don't want to go either. but this is—it's the olympics. i have to."

"i know you do. i'm proud of you. i just—" you took a shaky breath. "i just got used to having you here. every day. and now you're leaving."

"not forever. just two months. and we'll facetime every day. and when i get back, we'll have the rest of the season together." she cupped your face. "we've done worse. we survived three years of mostly distance. we can do two months."

you wanted to believe her. but something in your gut felt wrong. like this was the beginning of something breaking instead of just a temporary separation.

"promise me you'll come back," you said.

"i promise. nothing could keep me away from you. not even olympic gold." she kissed you softly. "two months. that's nothing. we've got this."

she left june 20th. you drove her to the airport, kissed her goodbye at security, watched her disappear into the crowd. and then you drove back to her apartment—your apartment now, kind of, since you were staying there while she was gone—and felt the emptiness settle in.

two months. you could do two months.

in july, your whole world changed.

you were doing okay. it was hard—the apartment felt wrong without gabby in it, the bed too big, the silence too loud—but you were managing. you facetimed every day. watched her practices, her games, told her about your own games and practices. counted down the days until august when she'd come home.

july 15th. you had a morning practice. came home after, showered, was making lunch when your agent called.

"we need you to come to the facility," she said. "the team wants to talk to you."

your stomach dropped. "about what?"

"just come in. i'll meet you there."

you knew. some instinct, some premonition. you knew before you got in your car, before you drove to the facility, before you walked into that office.

the gm was there. your agent. the head coach. all of them looking uncomfortable.

"we're trading you," the gm said. no preamble. just—that. "seattle needs a starting guard. we need cap space. you're going to seattle."

the words didn't make sense at first. you heard them, but they were in the wrong order. seattle. trade. leaving.

"when?" your voice sounded far away.

"you need to be there by july 20th. five days. training camp starts—"

you stopped listening. all you could hear was the rushing in your ears, the panic rising in your chest, the world tilting sideways.

seattle. across the country. away from gabby. away from the life you'd just started building, the home you'd just found.

two months. you'd had two months of perfect, and now they were taking it away.

"can i—" you couldn't breathe. "can i go?"

they let you go. you made it to your car. sat in the parking lot trying to remember how to breathe, how to exist, how to process this.

you needed gabby. needed her to tell you it would be okay, that you'd figure it out, that distance didn't matter.

but gabby was in france. in olympic training. you couldn't—you couldn't call her crying about this. couldn't put this on her when she needed to focus.

you drove back to gabby's apartment—not yours anymore, would never be yours now—and made it inside before you fell apart.

you didn't call anyone. didn't text. just sat on the floor of her living room and cried until you couldn't anymore, until you were empty and hollow and so tired you could barely think.

this wasn't fair. you'd fought so hard for this. survived a career-ending injury, three years of distance, covid, depression, all of it. you'd finally made it. finally got to play with gabby. finally got to build a life together.

two months. that's all you got. two perfect months before everything shattered again.

you must have fallen asleep on the floor because you woke up to your phone ringing. candace's name on the screen.

"hello?" your voice was wrecked.

"hey. you okay? you didn't show up to the thing this afternoon."

"i'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence.

"coach told us about the trade. i'm sorry. that's really shitty." a pause. "are you alone right now?"

"yeah. gabby's—she's in france. olympics."

"i'm coming over. what's the address?"

"you don't have to—"

"address. now."

you gave it to her.

candace showed up twenty minutes later. found you still on the floor, eyes swollen, barely holding yourself together.

"oh honey," she said, sitting down next to you. "this is bad, huh?"

"i can't—" the words wouldn't come. "we just—two months. we've been together two months and they're sending me to seattle and gabby's in france and i can't—i can't do this again. i can't do more distance. i can't—"

you were spiraling. could feel it happening. the same way you'd spiraled after the final four loss, that same emptiness opening up inside you, threatening to swallow everything.

"does gabby know?" candace asked quietly.

"no. she's—olympics. she needs to focus. i can't—"

"you need to tell her. she'd want to know."

"i can't put this on her right now."

"this isn't something you should carry alone." candace pulled out her phone. "i'm calling her."

"no—"

but she was already dialing.

gabby was in her room at the olympic village when candace called. she almost didn't answer—it was late, she had practice early the next morning—but something made her pick up.

"candace? is everything—"

"your girl got traded to seattle. she's at your apartment having a breakdown. thought you should know."

gabby's entire world stopped. "what?"

"seattle traded for her. she found out today. she's—she's not doing great. i'm with her now but she needs you."

"put her on."

"i don't think—"

"put her on the fucking phone, candace."

movement. rustling. and then your voice, small and broken: "hi."

"baby." gabby's heart was breaking. "what happened? talk to me."

"they traded me. to seattle. i have to leave in five days and i—" your voice cracked. "i can't do this. i can't do more distance. i can't leave. we just got here."

"fuck." gabby was pacing now, one hand in her hair. "fuck. okay. okay, we're going to figure this out."

"how? you're in france. i'm going to seattle. we just—we finally got to be together and they're taking it away after two months. two fucking months."

gabby could hear the edge in your voice. the same edge that had been there after the final four loss, right before you'd broken down completely.

"i'm coming home," she said.

"what? no. you have the olympics—"

"i don't care about the olympics. i care about you. you're falling apart and i'm not there and i need to be there."

"you can't leave. your team needs you. france needs you."

"you need me more." gabby was already throwing things in her bag. "i'm getting on the next flight. i'll be there tomorrow."

"gabby, please. don't throw away the olympics for me. i'll be—i'll be okay."

"you're not okay. i can hear it in your voice. you're not okay and i'm coming home."

there was a long silence. then: "they won't let you come back if you leave."

gabby stopped. "what?"

"if you leave the olympic village, you can't come back. covid protocols. you know that."

she did know that. and it meant—it meant if she left now, she'd miss the olympics entirely. would let her team down. would lose her chance at a medal.

but you were breaking and she wasn't there and the olympics suddenly felt like the least important thing in the world.

"i don't care," she said.

"i care. i can't—gabby, i can't be the reason you miss the olympics. i can't live with that."

"and i can't live with you falling apart alone in my apartment while i'm across the ocean playing basketball." gabby's voice broke. "baby, please. let me come home."

"no." you sounded more firm now. "no. you stay. you play. you win. and then you come home and we'll—we'll figure out the rest."

"i can't just leave you alone with this—"

"candace is here. and i'll—i'll call dr. peterson. i'll get help. but you need to stay. please. do this for me. win a medal. and then come home."

gabby wanted to argue. wanted to get on a plane anyway. but she could hear in your voice that this mattered to you. that you needed her to stay, needed to not be the reason she missed this.

"okay," she said finally. "okay. i'll stay. but you have to promise me you'll get help. that you'll talk to dr. peterson. that you won't—" she couldn't finish the sentence. wouldn't let herself think about you hurting yourself again.

"i promise. i'll be okay. i'll figure it out."

"and you'll call me. every day. multiple times a day. i need to know you're okay."

"i will. i promise."

you talked for another hour. gabby making you promise things, talking you down from the edge, doing everything she could from 4000 miles away. when you finally hung up, gabby sat in her olympic village room and cried.

she was angry. furious. at chicago for trading you after two months. at the timing—right when she was gone and couldn't be there. at the universe for dangling happiness in front of you both and then snatching it away.

but mostly she was scared. scared you'd slip back into that dark place from april. scared she wouldn't be there to pull you out. scared that this time, distance would break something that couldn't be fixed.

she played in the olympics. won bronze. and when they put the medal around her neck, all she could think was that she didn't care. she'd trade every medal she'd ever won to be home with you right now.

you moved to seattle july 20th.

candace helped you pack. helped you ship your stuff. helped you hold yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart.

"it's going to be okay," she said at the airport.

"i don't think it is."

"it will be. you and gabby—you're going to figure this out. you always do."

you wanted to believe her. but flying to seattle, watching chicago disappear below you, you felt like you were leaving more than a city. you were leaving home. leaving the life you'd just started. leaving the happiness you'd barely gotten to taste.

gabby called when you landed.

"i hate this," she said. no preamble.

"me too."

"when i get back, i'm coming to see you. immediately."

"okay."

"and we're going to figure this out. we're going to make this work."

"okay."

but you both heard the doubt in your voice. the exhaustion. the way you'd stopped fighting.

because you'd done this before. distance. waiting. fighting for scraps of time together. and you'd told yourself—promised yourself—that once you both got to the w, it would be different. you'd finally be together.

except you weren't together. you were in seattle. she was in chicago. and the distance felt insurmountable again.

the portal had worked. and then it had shattered.

and you didn't know if you had it in you to build it again.

but seattle was good for your game. you started immediately, dropped 15 points in your debut, earned praise from coaches and teammates who said things like "immediate impact" and "exactly what we needed" and "future all-star."

the storm was a good organization. professional, supportive, full of talented players—sue bird, breanna stewart, jewell loyd—legends who made you better just by existing in the same space. they welcomed you, included you, treated you like family.

but it wasn't chicago. it wasn't gabby.

you facetimed every day. multiple times a day. morning coffee calls where you were barely awake and she was already at practice. lunch check-ins where you'd eat together over video. late night calls where you'd fall asleep with your phones on, just to feel less alone.

you texted constantly. game updates and random thoughts and i miss you at 2am when you couldn't sleep. she sent you pictures of things that reminded her of you—a coffee shop with your favorite drink, a sunset over chicago, her hand on her empty passenger seat with the caption you should be here.

you counted down the days until you'd see each other again. gabby was coming back from the olympics mid-august. seattle played in chicago august 20th. thirty-one days from the trade. it felt like thirty-one years.

august 15th. gabby got back from tokyo with a bronze medal and exhaustion in every line of her body.

"i'm so proud of you," you said during your first call after she landed. she looked wrecked—jet lagged and emotionally drained and not at all like someone who'd just won an olympic medal.

"i don't care about the medal," she said flatly. "i just want to see you."

"five more days."

"that's too long. i've already been away from you for two months. five more days feels impossible."

"i know. but we're almost there. we can do five days."

she didn't look convinced.

august 20th. chicago vs seattle.

you barely slept the night before. got to the arena three hours early, ostensibly to get treatment on your ankle (which was fine) but really just to be there. to exist in the same building as her.

you were on the court shooting around when the chicago team bus arrived. watched through the windows as they unloaded, and then she was walking through the tunnel into the arena and you forgot how to breathe.

two months. you hadn't seen her in person in two months—since mid-june when she'd left for the olympics. and she looked—

she looked tired. thinner. the bronze medal glow had worn off and underneath was just exhaustion and missing you.

she spotted you on the court and stopped dead. for a second you both just stared, forty feet of hardwood between you, and then she was moving. not quite running but close. and you were moving too, meeting her at half court, and fuck the cameras, fuck the early fans filtering in, fuck everything that wasn't this—

you hugged her. just wrapped your arms around her and held on and felt her shake against you.

"hi," she said into your neck, voice rough.

"hi." your throat was so tight you could barely speak. "you're really here."

"i'm really here. god, you're—you're real. i've been staring at you through a screen for two months and i forgot—" she pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still gripping your shoulders. "i forgot how it feels to touch you."

"i know. me too."

you were both crying. standing at center court in an arena that was slowly filling with people, crying and holding each other like you hadn't seen each other in years instead of months.

someone whistled—one of your teammates probably, calling you back to the locker room. you had to let go. had to walk away. had to pretend your heart wasn't trying to crawl out of your chest to follow her.

"later," she mouthed.

"later," you mouthed back.

the game was brutal.

coach put you on gabby. of course she did. you knew gabby's game better than anyone, could predict her moves before she made them, had spent five years studying her. you were the logical defensive assignment.

but guarding the woman you loved—the woman you'd been apart from for two months, the woman you'd just gotten to hold for thirty seconds before having to let go—was torture.

every time she drove, you had to stay with her. every time she went up for a shot, you had to contest. you stole the ball from her twice—read her crossover perfectly because you'd watched her do it ten thousand times—and each time you saw the frustration flash across her face and hated yourself for causing it.

she was guarding you too. matched up every possession, playing you tight, not giving you space. and it was different than guarding anyone else—more personal, more intense. she knew all your moves too. knew your tells. you couldn't get any separation.

in the third quarter you drove baseline, tried to split the defense, and she stepped in front of you. you collided—hard, hard enough that you both went down—and for a second you were tangled together on the court, her hand on your hip helping you up, mouths close enough that you could feel her breathing.

"you okay?" she asked, quiet enough that only you could hear.

"yeah. you?"

"no. but not because of the this."

"me too."

the ref was calling for you to get up, break apart, keep playing. you did. went back to guarding her, stealing from her, trying to beat her. pretended your heart wasn't breaking with every possession.

chicago won by six. you'd played well—17 points, 5 assists—but not well enough. and as the buzzer sounded, all you could think was i have to wait three more weeks to see her again. three more weeks of this.

you met at center court after. the handshake line, teammates congratulating each other, the cameras trying to catch every moment. when you got to gabby, she held your hand just a second too long.

"hi," she said.

"hi." you wanted to kiss her but there were cameras everywhere, fans in the stands, teammates watching. "you played great."

"you too. that steal in the third quarter—you know that one really pissed me off, right?"

"learned from the best."

her smile was sad and small and exhausted. "can i see you? after you shower? before i have to get on the fucking bus back to the hotel?"

"my apartment. i'll text you the address."

"okay." she squeezed your hand once more before letting go. "okay. i'll be there as soon as i can."

you showered faster than you'd ever showered in your life. were out of the arena before half your team, already in your car, heart hammering the entire drive home.

she texted when she was on her way. texted when she was in your building. texted i'm outside and you were opening the door before she could knock. and then she was there. in your doorway. in your apartment. in your arms.

you were kissing her before the door closed, desperate and hungry and two months of missing her concentrated into this. she backed you against the wall—not the door, the wall, three steps deeper into your apartment like she couldn't wait even that long—and kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside your skin.

"i missed you," she gasped between kisses. "god, i missed you so much. so fucking much."

"me too. so much." your hands were everywhere—her face, her hair, under her shirt. "two months. two months without touching you."

"never again." she was working on the buttons of your shirt now, shaking hands struggling with them. "never doing that again. i don't care what it takes."

you helped her with your shirt, helped her with hers, and then you were both in your bras and jeans and she was walking you backward toward the couch.

"bedroom?" you tried.

"too far. need you right now. right fucking now."

you understood. needed the same thing—immediate, desperate confirmation that this was real. that she was here. that you could touch her.

you didn't make it to the couch. ended up on the floor—your living room floor, carpet rough under your back—with gabby above you, her hands working your jeans open, mouth hot on your neck.

"is this okay?" she asked, even though you were arching into her touch, even though you were already gasping.

"yes. god, yes. please."

she got you out of your jeans, your underwear. got herself out of hers. and then she was between your legs and you were finally, finally getting what you'd been desperate for since june.

her fingers inside you. her mouth on your neck. her voice in your ear saying "i've got you" and "i missed this" and "you feel so good" until you were coming apart under her, gasping her name into the empty apartment.

"again," she said, not letting you come down. "need to feel you come again. need to make up for two months."

she made you come three more times while she sucked marks into your collarbone that you'd have to explain to your trainer tomorrow. you were sobbing by the end, overwhelmed and oversensitized and so full of love for her you couldn't contain it.

"your turn," you gasped, trying to sit up.

"no. not yet. just—let me hold you for a second." she gathered you into her lap, both of you still naked on your living room floor, and just held you. "i needed this. needed you. needed to know this was real."

"it's real. i'm real. you're real." you kissed her shoulder. "and i love you. so much. too much."

"no such thing as too much." she tilted your face up to kiss you properly. "i love you too. so much it scares me sometimes."

you sat like that for a while, just holding each other, trying to memorize the feeling before she had to leave.

eventually you made it to the couch. got semi-dressed—underwear and t-shirts, that's it. curled up together with her back against the armrest and you between her legs, head on her chest.

"how long do we have?" you asked.

she checked her phone. "forty minutes. team bus leaves at nine."

forty minutes. you'd gone two months without her and now you had forty minutes before she left again.

"i hate this," you said into her chest. "i hate that we only get these little pieces of time. i hate that i have to watch you leave. i hate all of it."

"me too." her hand was in your hair, fingers running through it slowly. "i can't do this for three more years. i meant what i said. my contract is up after this season. i'm going to find a way to get to seattle. or you'll find a way to get back to chicago. or—something. we're going to fix this."

"what if we can't? what if the front offices don't want to trade, or there's no cap space, or—"

"then i'll retire."

you sat up to look at her. "what?"

"if it comes down to basketball or you, i choose you. every time." she said it simply, like it was obvious. "i love basketball. but i love you more. and i'm not spending the next five years of my career seeing you six times a year for forty minutes at a time. i'd rather quit."

"you can't quit. basketball is—it's who you are."

"no. basketball is what i do. you're who i am." she cupped your face. "everything good in my life comes back to you. the person i've become, the way i see the world, the fact that i know what real love feels like—that's all you. basketball is just a game. you're my life."

you were crying again. "i love you. so much. but please don't quit basketball for me. we'll figure something else out."

"okay. we'll figure something else out." she pulled you back down against her. "but if we can't—if there's no other option—i need you to know that i would choose you. that i will choose you. always."

you kissed her because you didn't have words for how much that meant. kissed her until you were both breathless, until kissing turned into touching, until you were sliding your hand between her legs and making her gasp.

"we don't have time—" she tried.

"we have twenty minutes. i can work with twenty minutes."

you made her come twice—once with your fingers, once with your mouth—and the second time she cried. actually cried, tears streaming down her face while you held her through it.

"what's wrong?" you asked, alarmed.

"nothing. everything. i just—" she wiped at her face. "i love you so much and i hate that i have to leave in ten minutes. i hate that this is all we get. i hate that i spent two months at the olympics not caring about basketball because all i could think about was you being alone in seattle. i hate that we did everything right and the universe is still keeping us apart."

"hey." you climbed up to lie beside her, pulled her into your arms. "we're going to figure this out. you said it yourself—we'll find a way. we always do."

"what if we don't this time?"

"then we'll keep trying until we do. because the alternative—giving up, walking away—that's not an option. i'm not losing you."

"promise?"

"promise." you kissed her forehead. "now come on. you need to get dressed. can't have you showing up to the team bus looking like you just got thoroughly fucked on your girlfriend's living room floor."

she laughed—watery but real. "pretty sure they'll be able to tell anyway. you left marks."

you looked at her neck, at the hickeys you'd definitely left. "oops."

"oops nothing. you did that on purpose."

"maybe." you grinned. "wanted everyone to know you're taken."

"like there was any doubt." she sat up, started looking for her clothes. "i've been yours since the day i found you in that gym five years ago. everyone knows it."

she had to leave too soon. kissed you goodbye at your door, held on too long, promised to call as soon as she got back to the hotel.

"three weeks," she said. "chicago plays in seattle in three weeks. i'll see you then."

"three weeks." it sounded like forever.

"we can do three weeks. we've done worse."

"have we though?"

she didn't have an answer for that. just kissed you one more time and left, and you closed the door and slid down to sit with your back against it.

three weeks. then what—another three weeks after that? another month? another year of this, seeing each other in scattered forty-minute increments stolen between games?

you'd done distance before. for three years at uconn, through the bubble, through everything. but this felt different. worse. because you'd tasted what it was like to have her every day, to wake up next to her and fall asleep next to her and exist in the same space. and now you were expected to go back to crumbs.

you didn't know if you could. didn't know if either of you could survive this without breaking something that couldn't be fixed.

but you also knew you wouldn't give up. couldn't give up. because the alternative—a life without gabby—wasn't a life at all.

so you'd do three more weeks. and then three more after that. and however many more it took until you figured out how to fix this.

the portal had shattered. but maybe you could build it again. maybe this time it would be stronger. maybe this time it would last.

you had to believe that. because the alternative was too painful to consider.

a/n: hi don't kill me i know it ended sadly but tumblr literally won't let me write more so uh... to be continued

[chocoflagcutii]

This deserves so much more love! I cried multiples times, had to put it down and come back. 👏🏾 Bravo