Leona found the note tucked beneath her shield at dawn.
Hidden inside the narrow groove behind the sun crest, folded so carefully and neatly it would have escaped anyone else’s notice. It was a secret compartment known only to two people. Leona had shown it to her, back when trust between them had still come easily, before faith and fate had driven a blade between them. No signature, but then again, none was needed.
The previous night had left Leona exhausted. Being the new leader of the Ra’Hok and training with them had stretched long past sunset, and the moment her head touched the pillow, sleep claimed her completely. Yet sometime during the night, someone had entered her chambers unnoticed. No footsteps against the cold stone. No rustle of fabric. Not even the shift of air beside her bed had stirred her awake. Leona frowned faintly at the thought. Most people would have woken her instantly, her being a trained soldier and all, being constantly on alert. But not her. Never her.
Dawn usually arrived gently in Rakkor lands, warm light spilling across stone and gold, but this morning her pulse stumbled awake before the rest of her. Leona turned the parchment over in her hands carefully, almost reverently. She recognized the sender immediately.
The faint scent of magnolia still lingered on the paper, delicate and maddeningly familiar. It filled her nostrils, captivating her like sweet nectar. It curled through her thoughts before she could stop it, stirring memories she had spent years trying to bury. But more than that, Leona knew her handwriting as well as she knew the phases of the moon. The elegant curves of the letters, the sharp strokes pressed too deeply into the parchment, the connected script made uneven by haste. She had always written as though her thoughts moved faster than ink could follow.
It was unmistakably her. And for a long moment, Leona simply stared at the note, thumb brushing over the darkened ink, reminiscing of their old times together. A strange ache settled deep in her chest, quiet, consuming, the same ache that always emerged whenever she looked upon the moon.
Gods, she had missed Diana. The words in the letter sounded in her head with Diana’s velvety voice.
You know where and when.
Her gaze drifted instinctively toward the open balcony of her chambers, toward the pale morning sky hanging over Mount Targon. The lunar eclipse. It would arrive within the next few days, though Leona supposed nights would be more accurate, a habit of thought that made her almost correct herself. They’re nights. It is a big event, the celestial event the Solari treated with uneasy reverence and, in Diana’s case, with quiet devotion. Sun and moon crossing paths for only a fleeting moment before parting once more. Quite fitting, Leona thought bitterly.
But where?
Perhaps where they had first met within the Solari temple, back when they were still students stumbling through endless scripture and combat drills together. No. She would despise that place now. The prison cells, perhaps? The place where chains and accusations had first driven them apart? Of course not. The summit of Targon, where they had Ascended together beneath blazing celestial light? No, that place has been cursed to them, as it was the start to their separation.
Diana would choose somewhere untouched by bitterness. Somewhere that still belonged to them. It surely had to be the Silverleaf Spruce. Their Silverleaf Spruce.
A solitary tree rooted along the cliffs high above the mountain paths, where snow gathered between overgrown violet bushes and pale roots that gleamed silver beneath moonlight. Years ago, they had carved their initials into its bark surrounded by uneven little hearts, laughing the entire time as Diana complained Leona was making them crooked.
It was also the last place Leona had seen her before Diana vanished into the night. In fact, the memory surfaced uninvited. The cold wind tore through the cliffs. Moonlight caught against curved blades. Diana stood beneath the spruce tree, eyes bright with hurt and fury alike. Leona remembered reaching toward her, desperate to stop her from leaving, only for Diana to step back as though the distance between them had already become insuperable. Then came years of silence, filled only by mountain wind and the emptiness Diana had left behind, not only beside her, but within her. Of course, Leona had not returned to that place since.
“Oh, Radiant One,” a priest interrupted without so much as knocking, “the elders request your presence later today. Preparations for the eclipse ceremonies have already begun.”
Of course they had. To the Solari, the eclipse was an uncomfortable reminder that even the moon could dare stain the heavens red despite the sun’s divine supremacy. Leona closed her hand instinctively around the note, careful not to crumple the delicate floral parchment. It belonged to Diana. Somehow, that alone made it precious. The Solari would expect her to stand before the people during the eclipse, blazing and unwavering beneath the darkening sky. A symbol. A weapon. The host to their god. And most definitely not their leader slipping away into darkness to meet the one person she was never meant to love.
She told herself she should burn the note. Or at least to forget it, ignore it. Let the past remain buried where it belonged. That way she wasn't exposing her already aching heart to more damage. Meeting Diana now would only reopen wounds that had never truly healed. If the Solari discovered it, the consequences would be catastrophic… for both of them. But every time Leona tried to set the small piece of floral paper aside, her fingers tightened around it instead. Years had passed, and still Diana’s absence lingered like a phantom beside her.
She could not ignore this. She could not ignore her. That had always been the problem with Diana.
No matter how fiercely Leona tried to bury her beneath duty, prayer, or years of silence, Diana always returned to her thoughts with terrifying ease. She is like moonlight slipping through the cracks of a shuttered room, subtle and impossible to keep out for long. Even now, all it had taken was a scrap of parchment and the faint scent of magnolia for the careful walls around Leona’s heart to begin crumbling apart.
“I understand. I'll be there in a few moments,” she steadied her voice before adding, “you’re dismissed.”
And perhaps the cruelest part of all was that some small, yearning part of her had never truly wanted to forget. By nightfall, her decision had already been made. She didn't have to make a choice, her heart never gave her one.
“It’s been too long, my love,” she thought as she wiped a tear forming in her eye, “I’ll be there on time, I have to make sure of it”
But making the decision only made the waiting harder. Every passing hour suddenly felt unbearable, stretched thin beneath anticipation, excitement and dread alike. The eclipse still lingered days away, but Leona’s thoughts had already abandoned the present entirely. The rest of her days passed in fragments; she attended meetings she barely remembered afterward, standing tall beneath golden banners while priests and warriors spoke around her in blurred voices. Reports of patrol routes. Supplies for the eclipse ceremonies. Concerns about the heretic near the lower mountain paths. She answered when required. Nodded at the appropriate moments. Issued commands with practiced precision.
Yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere entirely, back to Diana. Back to her grey eyes beneath moonlight, her lustrous ink-black hair now transformed into luminous white beneath the silver goddess's blessing. Back to the intoxicating magnolia perfume. Back to a secluded spruce tree waiting high above the cliffs. Back to the times they snuck out of training or prayers to kiss.
Leona could still recall the way Diana used to laugh afterward, breathless and triumphant, as though stealing moments beneath the Solaris’s nose was the greatest victory imaginable. Then she would press their foreheads together and murmur promises about leaving the mountain someday, about seeing oceans and cities far beyond Targon’s reach. They would hide among quiet corridors or secluded mountain paths, hands tangled together while the rest of the world carried on unknowingly around them. Even still, she remembered the thrill of it all with painful clarity. Diana had always been reckless in ways Leona never dared to be, forever tugging her away from crowded temple halls with a grin that promised trouble. Sometimes it was during combat drills beneath the scorching afternoon sun, Diana slipping her hand around Leona’s wrist the second their instructors looked away. Other times it was during long evenings of scripture and prayer, when Diana would lean close enough for her breath to brush against Leona’s ear and whisper some scandalous remark about the elders; Leona would immediately murmur a quiet reprimand beneath her breath, insisting Diana should show more respect within the temple halls, yet the sternness never truly lasted. Not when Diana looked at her like that. Not when amusement danced so openly in those silver eyes, and she knew that too. She always knew that she was Leona’s weakness.
Hidden corridors behind the temple archives. Narrow stairways carved deep into Mount Targon. Quiet cliffside paths untouched by the rest of the Solari. Diana always seemed to know places where the world could not reach them. Places where Leona was not the most promising warrior, and Diana was not a girl condemned for asking dangerous questions. In those stolen moments, they were simply two young women tangled together beneath the stars, sharing hurried kisses while their hearts hammered violently in their chests at the risk of being discovered.
And gods, the way Diana used to look at her–
“Radiant One?”
Leona blinked. A young soldier stood before her expectantly, having apparently repeated himself twice already. “My apologies,” she murmured, straightening slightly. “Continue.”
As time passed, the entire Solari temple had transformed. Golden braziers burned along the extravagant halls, their smoke curling upward in heavy ribbons scented with sandalwood. Priests draped ceremonial banners from towering pillars while acolytes whispered prayers beneath their breath, fearful of the celestial event looming ever closer. It was clear that the eclipse unsettled them, Leona could see it in the tension hidden behind practiced devotion. To the Solari, the moon swallowing sunlight was no natural wonder. It was an imbalance. An omen. Blasphemy painted across the heavens.
Yet despite her duties, despite herself, Leona found her thoughts wandering toward Diana again. She wondered whether Diana would already be watching the sky with anticipation instead of fear. Everything reminded her of Diana. During training exercises, the clash of curved blades sent memories surging through her mind of long-ago sparring matches beneath the temple courtyard. Diana had always fought differently from the others, less disciplined but far more instinctive, moving like flowing water beneath lunar glow while Leona struck with the certainty of sunlight itself. At meals, she barely tasted her food. At meetings, entire conversations blurred together into meaningless noise. Even prayer had become dangerous. One evening, while kneeling alongside the elders within the temple sanctuary, Leona caught herself staring through the dancing flames of the braziers instead of listening to the sacred hymns surrounding her. The incense thickening the air reminded her too much of magnolia. The realization unsettled her enough that she nearly missed her cue in the prayer entirely.
Everything seemed to lead back to Diana, and the questions would not leave her alone. What would she say when they finally stood before one another again after all these years? Would there still be anger hidden behind those grey eyes? Would she look at Leona with regret? Or worse… indifference? That possibility unsettled Leona more than she cared to admit.
By the night of the eclipse, her thoughts had become impossible to silence entirely.
As night of the eclipse descended upon Mount Targon, the Solari temple sealed itself away from the heavens. Heavy warm-coloured curtains embroidered with golden suns of metallic thread were drawn across open archways and balconies, shutting out the moonlight wherever it dared to enter. Priests flooded the halls with sacred fire until every corridor glowed amber and gold, as though they could drown the eclipse beneath artificial sunlight alone. Prayers echoed endlessly through the temple walls, desperate almost. Leona could feel it plainly beneath their devotion: fear.
The eclipse had begun, and Leona’s pulse quickened instantly. For a long moment, she remained motionless beside the balcony, fingers tightening around the folded parchment hidden beneath her robes. Somewhere beyond the mountain paths, Diana was waiting for her beneath the Silverleaf Spruce. The thought pulled at Leona more fiercely than duty ever had.
Quietly, she extinguished the final brazier in her chambers and slipped into the dark. The mountain air struck cold against her skin as she climbed the familiar paths above the sleeping Rakkor settlements. Snow crunched softly beneath her boots while silver light filtered weakly through drifting clouds overhead. The higher Leona climbed, the redder the moon became. At first, the change was subtle. Pale silver softened gradually into delicate shades of rose, the lunar glow turning almost tender against the dark heavens above Targon. For a dangerous moment, Leona found herself reminded painfully of the faint blush that used to warm Diana’s cheeks after they kissed for too long or after a compliment.
Then her thoughts drifted lower, to Diana’s lips. A soft pink touched by silver moonlight, always curling upward afterward in that infuriatingly mischievous smile whenever she managed to pull Leona away from duty once again. Leona’s breath caught softly in her throat.
By the time the Silverleaf Spruce finally emerged through the darkness, the eclipse had reached its peak, the moon hung a deep scarlet above the cliffs. And beneath its blood-red glow stood her past lover, now turned enemy by faith.
“Diana–” the name left Leona’s lips almost breathlessly, carried away at once by the ice-cold mountain wind.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The ruby shine of the eclipse spilled across the cliffs and snow alike, bathing Diana in blood-red moonlight that made her appear almost unreal. Her pale hair shimmered with blood-red beneath the darkened heavens, stirred gently by the wind sweeping through the mountain pass. The familiar crescent blade rested against her back, yet Leona’s eyes barely lingered on the weapon.
Instead, she found herself staring at Diana’s face as though trying to memorize every detail all over again. A long time had passed, and still, she was beautiful enough to undo her completely. The sharp elegance of her features had only deepened with time, softened now by exhaustion and moonlight alike. Pale strands of silver-white hair framed her face wildly, shifting with every breath of mountain wind, while the crimson glow of the eclipse painted delicate shades of red across her skin. Her silver eyes, once so bright with reckless curiosity and defiance, carried something heavier within them this time. Grief, perhaps. Loneliness. Yet they still held that same impossible intensity that had always made Leona feel as though Diana could see straight through her armor and into the parts she kept hidden from the rest of the world.
Diana regarded her in silence at first, pale eyes tracing slowly over Leona’s figure. There was caution in her expression. Distance. Yet beneath it all lingered something far more dangerous, something softer that neither of them seemed willing to name aloud.
“You came,” Diana finally spoke, the coldness of her voice stung her more than anger ever could.
Leona swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how violently her heart hammered against her ribs. She had imagined this moment endlessly over the years, replaying countless possibilities within her mind during sleepless nights beneath the Solari temple. Yet now that Diana truly stood before her again, every carefully prepared thought vanished like smoke.
“You asked me to,” Leona answered softly, “how could I have not?”
There was a long pause.
“I missed you,” Leona admitted gently, looking at Diana searching for any clue of reciprocity in feelings.
Diana’s expression faltered almost imperceptibly. Just for a second, the distance in her glance softened beneath the red-stained moon. Leona caught it immediately. Then again, she had spent years memorizing every subtle shift in Diana’s face. The tightening of her jaw whenever she was trying not to say too much. The faint crease between her brows when emotions threatened to betray her composure.
And now, that same look again. “You shouldn’t have,” Diana murmured at last, though the words lacked conviction.
Her heart tightened painfully, “then why ask me to come?”
The wind howled softly through the cliffs between them, carrying snow and silver strands of Diana’s pale hair across her face. For a moment, Diana said nothing. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the sanguine moon hanging above Mount Targon before lowering once more toward Leona.
“Because despite everything,” she admitted quietly, “a part of me still wanted to see you.”
The confession struck Leona harder than any blade ever could. Slowly, cautiously, she took a step forward through the snow, and Diana did not move away this time.
“I thought about you every day,” Leona confessed, the words escaping before pride or restraint could stop them. “I tried not to. The Solari gave me every reason to hate you after what happened, but…” Her voice faltered softly, “It never mattered. Not to me.”
Something fragile flickered across Diana’s expression then. Pain. Longing. Perhaps both intertwined too tightly to separate anymore.
“You were supposed to move on,” Diana whispered, almost bitterly. “That would have made this easier.”
Leona let out a quiet, humourless breath, “For who?”
Silence settled between them again, softer this time. Above them, the eclipsed moon bathed the cliffs in reddened light while cold wind swept through the Silverleaf Spruce, stirring its pale branches overhead with a whispering rustle. The wind stirred through the cliffs, carrying the scent of snow and cedar between them while moonlight bled across the mountainside. Diana’s gaze drifted away from Leona briefly, toward the distant Solari temple.
“For you,” Diana answered inaudibly at last. There was no bitterness in her voice this time. “You still have your people. Your title. Your community.” Her ashen eyes lowered slightly, the eclipse’s glow catching against pale lashes. “Your siblings.” A faint pause followed before she continued more softly, “You still belong somewhere, Leona.”
“And me?” Diana let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh though entirely devoid of humor. “I became the enemy the moment I questioned that place.” Her fingers tightened faintly against the fabric around her arms, as though warding off a cold far deeper than the night air. “So tell me honestly…” she finally looked back at her then, her stare unbearably vulnerable, teary, beneath the eclipsed moon. “Why would you still risk everything for me after all this time?”
Leona’s chest hurt at the question because Diana sounded as though she genuinely could not understand it. As though she still did not realize what she had always meant to her. But before she could answer, Diana’s gaze shifted elsewhere suddenly, toward the overgrown patches around the mountain cliffs, away from their secluded place.
“…The duskpetals are blooming again,” she murmured instead, trying to deflect the subject.
Clusters of blue and purple duskpetals swayed softly near the cliffside, their luminous petals glowing faintly beneath the lunar eclipse. Further uphill, beneath the shelter of the Silverleaf Spruce itself, the familiar patches of wild violets still curled stubbornly through the snow just as they had years ago. To Leona, nothing had changed.
Diana always used a distraction whenever emotions cut too close to the bone. She would redirect the conversation elsewhere, toward the stars, the mountain, flowers growing between stones and snow. Anything to avoid standing defenseless inside her own feelings for too long. Years had passed, and Leona still knew her too well.
“You’re changing the subject,” Leona stated.
Diana’s jaw tightened faintly, “I asked you a question first.”
Leona took another careful step forward, closing the distance between them more, her gaze never leaving Diana’s face. The night radiance painted soft shadows across her features, yet Leona could still see it clearly: the uncertainty hidden beneath all that restraint. The fear, as though Diana genuinely believed she was no longer worth choosing.
“The fact that you think I wouldn’t,” Leona admitted quietly, “that’s exactly why.”
Diana frowned slightly, confusion flickering briefly across her face.
Leona’s voice trembled despite her efforts to steady it. “You speak as though you became impossible to love the moment you left Targon.” Her gaze softened painfully. “As though being alone somehow made you worth less to me.”
A sharp silence followed.
“The Sun knows I tried to let you go,” Leona continued. “I buried myself beneath duty, prayer, responsibility… anything that might silence thoughts of you.” Her breath caught softly in her throat. “It never worked, Diana, I–”
For the first time since Leona arrived, Diana looked genuinely shaken. Leona could see it in the way her gaze widened slightly, in the faint parting of her lips beneath the carmine glow overhead.
Her words escaped more easily now, years of buried longing cracking apart beneath the eclipse-shadowed sky. “I loved you then,” Leona confessed confidently. “And after all these years… after everything that happened between us…” She swallowed hard. “I still do.”
The mountain wind fell strangely silent around them, even the world itself seemed to pause beneath the beautiful moon. For a moment, Diana said nothing at all.
The crimson moonlight trembled softly across her pale features while Leona’s confession lingered between them, raw and exposed beneath the eclipse-shadowed sky. Leona could almost see the war unfolding behind Diana’s silver eyes: disbelief colliding painfully against hope she had long since taught herself to bury.
Just a small fracture in her composure, and suddenly every buried emotion spilled free. And before she could speak again, Diana crossed the remaining distance between them.
The impact of her embrace stole the air from Leona’s lungs. Cold fingers clutched desperately at Leona's back while Diana buried her face against her shoulder as though terrified this might vanish if she loosened her grip even slightly. Leona froze for only half a heartbeat before her arms wrapped around Diana instinctively, pulling her close with years of buried longing finally unraveling all at once.
Oh Sun, she had missed this. The feeling of Diana against her chest. The warmth of her body beneath the freezing mountain air. The familiar scent of magnolia tangled with snow, violets, and spruce. She slipped her hand gently upward into Diana’s pale hair while the other rested firmly against her back, grounding both of them against the storm of emotion threatening to consume them whole.
“I’m here,” Leona whispered shakily. “I’m here.”
Diana laughed softly against her shoulder then, though the sound broke unevenly halfway through.
“You always sound so certain,” she murmured, trembling. When Diana finally pulled back, tears shimmered visibly along her lashes beneath the full umbra. Dark makeup had begun smudging faintly beneath her pearly orbs, streaked softly by the freezing wind and emotion alike. Somehow, the sight only made her more beautiful to Leona.
Carefully, almost reverently, Leona lifted one hand to cup Diana’s cheek, and she leaned into the touch immediately. The reaction felt instinctive, like muscle memory neither of them had truly lost.
“You’re crying,” Leona whispered softly.
“So are you.”
Only then did Leona realize tears had slipped free down her own face as well. A weak laugh escaped them, breathless and disbelieving all at once. Diana smiled faintly through the tears before lifting her own hand to Leona’s face, thumb brushing carefully beneath her eye to wipe the moisture away. Her touch remained achingly gentle despite everything standing between them.
Slowly, Diana kissed her. It began almost timidly, as though she still feared Leona might disappear if she moved too quickly. Their lips met softly beneath the vermillion light, icy at first from the mountain air before warmth slowly returned between them. The kiss deepened gradually after that, years of longing and grief pouring silently into every desperate second of contact.
Leona melted into it immediately, with one hand tightened against Diana’s waist while the other remained cradling her cheek, thumb brushing softly against damp skin streaked with ruined makeup. Diana kissed her like someone starved, like someone trying to reclaim years stolen from them both.
And, Leona kissed her back with equal desperation, as if not getting enough of her. When they finally parted, both of them remained close enough for their foreheads to rest together beneath the Silverleaf Spruce. Neither seemed willing to let go completely.
“We can’t keep meeting like this often,” Diana admitted quietly after a long silence. “If the Solari discover you sneaking away to see me…”
“They already hunt you,” Leona interrupted softly, pain tightening her chest. “The elders speak about it constantly. They believe the Lunari are gathering strength again. They blame you for it too.”
Diana’s expression darkened slightly. “They’re not entirely wrong.”
Leona frowned faintly. “You found others?”
“A few.” Diana hesitated briefly before continuing. “I… I can’t tell you a lot.” A small pause followed. “Two in particular have been helping me recently– or one… it’s complicated.” Something softened faintly in Diana’s expression at the mention of them.
“They remind me of us sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Still foolish enough to believe devotion can survive cruelty.”
Leona ached at the words. Carefully, she brushed another tear from beneath Diana’s eye with her thumb. “Then we’ll be careful,” Leona whispered. “No messages left carelessly. No meetings near the temples.” Her gaze lifted briefly toward the crimson moon overhead before returning to Diana again. “But eclipses…”
A faint smile touched Diana’s lips. “Eclipses are harder for the Solari to watch.”
“Then we meet when the moon turns red.” Leona matched the smile.
Diana’s hand tightened gently around hers. “A secret between sun and moon,” she murmured.
“No,” Leona whispered softly before leaning forward to press another lingering kiss against her lips. “A reason to come back to you, a promise that I will find you again.”
How would y'all feel if I undoomed the yuri out of nowhere. Just like that BAM Leodia is back to being happy. I need this for research purposes. Yes yearning is included, obviously.
I set myself some goals like going to the gym for a full body recomp but that and having braces...? I swear it makes me feel like sometimes my ED is back. Its been 10+ years since I recovered but like Im noticing the same trends/things i did back then that Im slowly repeating??
Like right Ill skip meals and snack on very small things during the day, scratch my arm/chew my tongue,, and then Im like "oopsies Im feeling dizzy I wonder why"? HELLO TO MYSELF ITS BECAUSE YOURE NOT EATING!?!?!??! Anyways-
TW: mentions of suicide and SH. Read at your own risk.
I wanted to (again) share what happened to me that made my mental health especially bad. Or rather, how everything led to my previous post (the happy anniversary to me).
"I used to not like myself"
Have you noticed how you don’t trust people anymore?
How betrayal rewired the quiet machinery of your thoughts, changed the way you measure your worth? Every good moment with people feels like a risk assessment. Opening up means exposure. Every laugh, every text, every meetup carries the same silent question. Is this the last one? Will they grow bored of you? Will your weirdness finally outweigh your value?
You stand in front of the mirror and stare too long. The glass flickers, and suddenly you’re not alone. A little girl looks back at you, blue eyes wide, bright, still holding entire futures in them.
“What happened to you?” you ask.
She tilts her head, studying you with a softness that hurts.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
You were once a child with a bright smile, the kind that invited conversation without trying. A girl who collected friends like seashells, who didn’t rehearse sentences or second-guess laughter. You existed without apologizing for it, or doubting it.
Then came the misfortunes. Middle school, where being different stopped being harmless and started being noticeable. Where people learned how to point without using their fingers. You didn’t understand why you were treated differently, why teachers watched you with impatience instead of curiosity. You just knew something had shifted, and no one had told you why.
High school quickly followed, louder and sharper. You thought you had found safety in friendship, only to realize too late that familiar cruelty still counts as cruelty. Then, university arrived with the promise of reinvention, and instead delivered the same story in new buildings. Outcast again, and again, and again. Each time carving a little more caution into your bones.
It's never enough makeup to be pretty and blend in. Your changing personality always has something off. No matter how hard you try in exams you're still met with comments about your stupidity and that when the imposter syndrome kicks in. In this world surrounded by people, you’ve never been so alone and isolated. How does it feel to not like yourself? To be a puppet aimlessly in your own body? Why are you going to uni when you have no friends? Why do you talk to people expecting change?
You look at the shine of the silver blade and slide it between your fingers. It would be so nice to not feel the pain anymore. But would you really force your parents to look at a red bathtub? The people who have always showered you with love are not deserving of that. Okay, scrap that idea, the ceiling is high enough and to reach with a stool to kick it later… But no, also no, why would you make your own mother weep at your feet? A bus, that would be it: likely enough, discreet enough...
You look at yourself now and feel a rush of fear at your own thoughts. When did you start being so unkind to yourself? When did survival turn into self-blame? You flinch, imagining how this sounds to her. That little girl. Why would you speak about her like that? Why would you hurt her? You'd miss your parents too, and they'd probably miss you even more.
“I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry too.”
There’s a pause, the kind that only exists between people who already know the truth.
“If it makes you feel any better,” she says gently, “I don’t think you, we, are the problem. I think you’re just looking at this from the wrong angle.”
That catches your attention. You blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs, small shoulders lifting. “Maybe this was just unfair to you. Maybe you aren’t broken or difficult or too much. Maybe being different just makes boring people uncomfortable.” She presses her lips together. “That’s their problem, not yours.”
You exhale. “Right. So what do you propose?”
She smiles, sheepish but hopeful. “We’ve done this before. You could talk to someone. A therapist.”
You scoff, gesturing at your reflection. “And you’re gonna tell me third time’s the charm? Look at me. Future you sucks.”
She laughs, and it sounds exactly like it used to. “I don’t think so. What if this is just the universe where you’ve been unlucky?” She leans closer. “That doesn’t mean it stays that way. You can still change things.”
“Uh-huh,” you mutter. “And cows fly too.”
She grins, eyes lighting up. “They can if they’re fast enough,” she says. “Like rockets. You just need escape velocity. Or in this case, a little nudge in the right direction.”
Talking to a therapist, right. It would have to be a new one, no? Your old therapist discharged you and erased your files. Oh yeah and she's also in a completely different country. Well, the doctors office recently sent a newsletter about how they have now incorporated mental health facilities, that's the easiest way to get a new therapist. The little girl in the mirror still believes in absurd possibilities, and somehow, she believes in you.
Because despite everything, it’s still you. You're still her. You still have a chance and also the right to have a bright future and to follow your dreams.
The first session, you meet your psychologist and your psychiatrist, and you can’t stop shaking. Part of it is nerves. Part of it is simply your body, always humming, always in motion. The soft rasp of denim against denim becomes unbearable, a sound that lodges itself in your head and refuses to leave.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I can’t make my leg stop shaking. It’s annoying me too. I swear I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“It’s alright,” they say easily. “It happens. We get it.”
And somehow, that alone feels like permission to breathe.
Session by session, you begin to open. You talk about the friends you lost, both the ones from long ago and the ones you thought would stay. You talk about the bullying, relentless and quiet and loud all at once. You talk about how uncomfortable it feels to exist inside yourself, like you’re constantly taking up the wrong amount of space.
Your voice breaks. “I have this thought that won’t leave me alone,” you say. “That I’ll never be likeable. That I just… aren’t. And maybe that wouldn’t hurt so much if the world didn’t keep proving it to me.”
Silence settles, careful and kind.
“I don’t agree,” one of them says. “I think it’s incredibly admirable that you walked away from people who mistreated you. But more than that, I think it says something important about you.” They smile softly. “You’re still open. You still want to connect. After everything, you still want to try. That’s not unlikable. That’s brave.”
Your voice breaks. “I have this thought that won’t leave me alone,” you say. “That I’ll never be likeable. That I just… aren’t. And maybe that wouldn’t hurt so much if the world didn’t keep proving it to me.”
Silence settles, careful and kind. Not the kind that demands filling.
“I don’t agree,” one of them says at last. “I think it’s incredibly admirable that you walked away from people who mistreated you. But more than that, I think it says something important about you.” They offer a small smile. “You’re still open. You still want to connect. After everything, you still want to try. That isn’t unlikable. That’s brave.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching for a tissue, hoping it might also rescue your runny mascara. “I just need a moment. I am listening.”
“Please stop apologising,” he says gently. Then he hands you a small stack of papers. “This will be your new journal. Whenever something upsets you, write it down. The situation, your feelings, your thoughts. As much detail as you can.”
You look at the pages, blank and intimidating.
“This is part of your CBT treatment,” he continues. “The goal isn’t to erase your thoughts. It’s to challenge them.” A pause. “And, eventually, to help you start liking yourself.”
The journal feels light in your hands. Almost fragile. You’re afraid that if you hold it wrong, it will confirm everything you fear. That the pages will fill with proof that you’re difficult, unwanted, too much.
At first, you barely write. A few sentences. The feelings wheel. You downplay your feelings the way you’ve always learned to. But the entries keep coming anyway. One bad interaction. One intense day at uni. One day where your body feels too loud and your thoughts won’t slow down.
You write, and then you argue with yourself in the margins.
I'm not smart because I failed an exam.
No. Alternative thought: I am smart, I just needed more practice.
It feels fake. Forced. Like reading lines from a script you don’t believe in. But you write them anyway. Some days you hate the journal. Some days you forget it exists. Some days you scribble so hard the pen dents the page. Slowly, something shifts. Not all at once though, but it's small enough for you to notice it anyways.
You start catching the thought before it finishes forming.
“They don’t like me” becomes “I don’t actually know that.”
“I’m unlikeable” becomes “I haven’t found my people yet.”
It's important to understand that likability isn’t a universal trait, but you've known this already. It’s not something you earn by sanding yourself down until you’re easy to hold. It’s being strange in a way that matches someone else’s strange or more of a “matching someone else’s freak.”
You repeat it to yourself, in your head, all the time.
“I am likeable.”
It doesn’t erase the past. The exclusions still happened. The loneliness still put a dent, or a scar even, in your soul and permanently too. But at least it stopped defining the future quite so tightly.
And one day, you catch your reflection again. The girl in the mirror looks tired, yes, her dark circles framed like a windowsill by her glasses. A little guarded, but she’s still there. Still capable of joy that doesn’t need permission.
The little girl with blue eyes hasn’t disappeared either. She’s grown sharper, wiser, more careful about who she gives herself to.
And this time, the interaction between you two goes differently.
You tell her, gently, “You were right, we’re okay. We just needed another chance.”
TIL the word autism comes from autos (self). It means hyper aware of oneself, one in their own world.
This honestly makes complete sense I love being in my own little world with my knitting and crochet and writing and 3D motor replicas and—
Anyways ya girl will finally have more time to finish the fanfic and then start other ones + a writing piece about how I struggled in uni will drop after my exams 🔥‼️
This is what has happened basically this past year since I created this blog. I wanna say it went from a hate to love letter to myself. Read at your own risk, the start isn't the nicest, because I wasn't the nicest to myself. And yknow what lets play a guessing game: what is the diagnosis without looking at the tags!?!?!? YAYAYAYAYAY
"From hate to love letter"
“You [redacted], you failed,” you think as you leave the therapist’s office.
But how did you get here? It was never unusual for you to feel like a broken human being, like you missed some big memo everyone else received. A “normal human being” meeting was held and you missed not just the first one, but every one of them.
At first, being different was comforting. “Youre special. All of our family is special. We take pride in it”, but that pride faded away with time, with bullying, with feeling left out. Well, it's your fault, you missed the meeting didn't you? And now you can't fit in. You want to, but somehow no one lets you. You have a very small group of people that you like, that you trust, but you live with the constant fear that they'll leave.
They always leave eventually. So maybe you are the problem.
You feel eyes on you constantly, whispers behind every corner. You keep yourself in check at all times: remember to make eye contact, remember not to over-explain, laugh just in case it’s a joke you’re missing, keep your opinions to yourself so you don’t accidentally hurt someone. One mistake, and they'll know you're different. The black sheep. You don't belong in the herd. You never did. You never will.
Then the days came where you couldn't do anything. “What set you off this time?” You wonder yet again, but you don't know. It's a day where getting out of bed is a chore, it's a day where showering feels like sandpaper, and it's a day where you can't function no matter how hard you try. The car doors slam like explosions, the screams of the neighbourhood kids are like nails on a chalkboard. “FOCUS!” you beg yourself, but there’s too much happening all at once.
To cope, you take a “spa day”. You lock yourself in the bathroom for hours and only dedicate your time for skin care, waxing, makeup, or what you call “making yourself look pretty to feel pretty”. If you were a chameleon, would this be your camouflage? You're painting colours over a green skin, but despite being pretty, there's always something off about you. And people always find out.
Most importantly, this will definitely do the trick, right?
But not long after, you cry lightning, fresh blonde curls bouncing with every sob. You feel so alone. Why? Why does trying so hard still leave you feeling broken? The fruits of your labour never ripen; they always taste bitter. Snot mixes with your painted rosy lips and irritated skin, and it burns from all the biting and picking, your nervous ticks leaving maps on skin that should have been porcelain.
“Something is wrong with me,” you finally say out loud.
A small step for you, but a giant leap for your mental health and decide to check out the new therapists office at your doctors. You tell the story of your life, the loneliness that has engulfed you since you were little, from forever, and permanently lurking in the shadows to strike again. She nods, types rapidly, listens. But you feel empty. You’ve told this story for what, 21 years now?
“The therapist can see you in a week,” she says and looks at you with pity, “I think you really need it.”
A year passes. You try CBT, group therapy, peer groups. You don’t break down as much anymore, but something dark still lingers inside. Every five sessions, a psychiatrist checks in. They say you’re doing great. You might even be discharged.
Headphones mute the kids, you bounce from joy because the train is not delayed, your small knitting projects have become a pile of warm and comfortable clothes. Life is good, you are happy. You connect more with your friends, you talk more with your mom and feel like uni is no longer a social burden. Life is good, you are happy. You learnt to love yourself, to accept yourself, you somehow even like being yourself.
Life is good, you are happy.
“We’d like to evaluate you for [redacted]. You have a history of anxiety, and we want to understand the cause. We think you’re prone to relapse.”
“Oh… okay,” you say weakly. But a part of you resists. Maybe you shouldn’t have come to therapy at all. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe everything is your fault.
The following two sessions were two interviews (which had a neat questionnaire), one alone, and one with your parents through a video call. “I think I did well,” you think, grasping at optimism. But you aren’t ready for what comes next.
“We've made a report, and we believe you have [redacted]. Please take your time to process it”
People talk about the four stages of grief. But how do you grieve yourself, someone who is alive and well? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression… all for something that has been with you your entire life. “Other people have it harder. Keep it together,” you whisper to yourself.
You read the report. Everything falls into place. It all makes sense. And when you tell your inner circle, what do they say?
“Oh, we knew”
How can they know something about yourself that you didn't? Oh right, those meetings. Your normal is not their normal, everyone’s normal. It never was. Your daily life was screaming at it, even. But clearly not loud enough for yourself, because here you are at 22 with a brand new diagnosis.
But what people don’t tell you about grief is that acceptance eventually comes. Peace eventually comes. The hatred you carried for years loosens its grip. You learn to be gentler with yourself.
Finally, you look at yourself in the mirror. Even after everything you've been through, yup, that's still you, and you can't change it. But you learnt that not being able to change yourself is okay. You learnt to love yourself, and even congratulated yourself when you looked back at the hard work that got you “looking fine” (the prettier version of “undiagnosed”) for 22 years.
You hold the rulebook you created to navigate the world, and you hold it with pride. You love being outspoken and opinionated. You love that some people dislike you for embracing yourself. You celebrate your spa days, what used to be a cry for help is now a moment of comfort and rest.
You are happy with yourself. You love yourself.
Note, if you feel identified with this, please do talk to a therapist, they'll help. You're not alone, and I was scared and confused too trying to explore this overwhelming world. It doesn't have to be like that.
A girlypop guide because hot girls don’t gatekeep in this blog
Ok so babes, first things first: I used Canva.
"Why?"
Because it’s FREE and I simply refuse to pay for anything I can finesse for $0.00. Paying? no thank you xoxo
🧠 STEP ONE: be smarter than the templates
You can use them if you want (safe route), but the real deal is using aspects you like of them: use the images for fonts, grab the colours, anything if it’s cute,,, then make something new, a remix!
This is not a font on Canva, they're images! They can be found as 3D liquid chrome by Kieth Rivera from Trendify on the Canva element search bar. However, I actually found them in a group presentation template!!!
📸 STEP TWO: the girls who google, win. DONT GIVE UP!
Google images and blank pngs? your new besties.
Need a cute background? google it.
Need sparkles? Hearts? Want it animated? GIPHY and Tenor have plenty.
You just HAVE to make sure that the background is transparent in case of adding images/gifs. It can take a couple of tries but its 100000% worth it!!
🎨 STEP THREE: layout like a baddie
Create a blank canvas in canva with whatever dimensions twitch/obs likes (usually 1920x1080).
Then start adding:
Cam border (maybe with a lil glittery trim? we’re cute. I don't have one, but I made one for my gameplay instead)
Alerts space (mine is just in the corner and covers chat temporarily)
Just chatting screen? scene labels? BRB screen? make each one its own page in your canva project.
✨ STEP FOUR: export and slay
Download them as pngs (or MP4 like me, in case you added gifs or moving elements/animations), upload to OBS or whatever you use, and ta-da! Your stream is now hotter than you even knew possible.
If you have a gameplay screen like me, you'll need to learn how to add a green screen filter on OBS too (or whatever colour u decided to add), but there's plenty of tutorials on youtube and how to adjust those settings too. You'll also need to put all screens on a loop unless they're static images (iirc, don't trust me on that one tho, but you defo need that for MP4)
💋 DIY itttttttt
Made with love, sparkles, and a healthy disgust over paying for things that can be free.
This is what I made with Canva for my streams!!!!
For the record, I also used Canva for ALL my Tumblr things too! My animated banner, my pfp, all sorts of things!!!
(Lastly, I'd like to briefly mention, I am willing to make templates for you guys, commission style, since not everyone has the patience or time to make these)
Finally revamped my twitch and streaming League!!!
You can find me as bxnsheeee_ttv on twitch, insta, and tiktok!!! I'll be sharing my stream overlays here as a diff post and also explaining how I created them for OBS <3
content warning - none. it's just my life. and of course i'm gonna infodump about myself so... enjoy i guess? i wanna add that this is the first time i've written a story with 2nd person POV (i usually write in 3rd, unless it's a matchup exchange) so this is new.
word count(?) - 1.2k
author's note - thank you to my pookie @coolearistrashcollection for this challenge, i received this at nearly 3AM and two hours later i was rushed to the ER. in that moment, i started to think about my life and yeah🥴
"For the last time, CGI can't be done just by clicking here and there. It takes a whole team to finish this, and you're demanding a fifth revision?"
You're startled, peeking at the woman across from your desk from your computer screen. Whoever it is at the end of the line, they're screwed when she had said that infamous line when she's about to go off the rails.
She was visibly frustrated, rubbing her eyes for the upteenth time that afternoon, hunching over her desk and peered at her computer screen. Her eyebags had gotten darker for the past few days.
That can't be good.
"I need to render which can take 8 hours MINIMUM. Do you have an ounce of- you know what? I'll finish it tonight but don't expect too much. Have a day you deserve."
She was at her wit's end. Her iced breve latte, now watered down was sitting for a while on her workspace, along with her worn-out Pantone color guide, sketches, pens, and unfinished projects strewn about.
Everyone in the office knows to not look in her direction in this state, she looked like she could explode at any moment. She closed her eyes briefly, her head hung, her jet-black hair covering her face like a curtain.
You walked towards her desk despite everyone eyeing you not to. You placed a hand on her shoulder, noticing the tension that had been there for a while. She hadn't left her desk since she clocked in, and it was way past lunch.
"Huh? What do you want? I'm working." She muttered, not looking away from her notes.
"You haven't eaten anything. Let me take you somewhere. My treat. Under one condition: you're not bringing sketchbooks or anything that has to do with work."
She thought to herself for a while, her exhausted brown eyes fixed on the loading screen of a design software, her screen was as cluttered as her desk. Her computer had been making weird noises for a while, practically screaming at her to turn it off.
"Yeah. Sure." She stood up from her chair and slung her Kånken tote bag on her shoulder, not bothering to zip it all the way. She shoved her noise-canceling headphones rather recklessly, stretching her joints on her way out with you.
You couldn't help but wonder, how did she fit everything inside that bag, and manage to decorate it and make it even heavier? Didn't she say she takes the train to work? Let alone her intricate outfits. Seems like she spends a lot of time making it herself or thrifted it.
Must be impractical, you thought to yourself.
But those are questions for later. You really need to get her out of here.
You walked out with her, the heat of the bustling city was creeping up your skin. She grumbled and put her hair up in a ponytail, looking left and right to cross the busy street to your destination.
"Thanks. I didn't realize how hungry I am just now," She smiled as the two of you approached the restaurant. Once you both arrived, she opened the door for you and took a seat at a booth while you placed your orders, mentally taking note of hers.
Buttermilk chicken burger, a smoothie bowl and a side salad... and another glass of an iced coffee. She didn't even touch the breve latte on her desk.
You took a seat across from her, taking in the ambiance of the restaurant: the chatter, the soft sound from the air conditioner, and the cars passing by from the floor-to-ceiling window as you waited for your meal.
"So? What's the occasion?" She broke the silence. You were glad that she had started the conversation first, but you know what follows after.
"Do you need help with another pitching? I'm still busy with this advertisement and the upcoming photoshoot for a perfume brand. And the upcoming fashion week? God, these clients are going to drive me insane,"
You shook your head, "No. I just want to take you out for a meal. Is that so wrong?"
"Eh," she shrugged, "I just have too much on my plate. The endless revision with a minimum budget is killing me." She paused and thanked the waiter when their drinks were served.
You nodded understandably, and your mind flew to a year ago, when you met her for the first time. She took the empty seat next to you, pulling out her laptop which has a ton of stickers. She was your typical art kid with niche outfits that hides her semi-permanent tattoos, her highlighted strands atop of her thick jet-black hair is hard to miss in a crowd.
Slowly but surely, you learn everything about her despite rarely hanging out outside work— how she takes the last train home because she wants to hang out with her friends after work, how she's always at an event or just... outside.
On top of that, going overdrive with her personal and academic life. You learned that she wanted to be a lecturer and followed her great-grandfather's footsteps, who was a renowned professor of arts and humanities in his time. That explained her masters degree.
But when she disappeared, it's either she's in the ER or something happened, or maybe she was just taking a good chunk of time to relax and unwind after her social battery runs out.
And now here you are, a year later. The creative agency that you've been working at is now expanding its wings—you and her are now a team, taking workloads after workloads. Maybe this is one of those days where she just needed to rest and recalibrate.
"Sometimes I regret it, you know?" she said, and you could've sworn you catch a hint of vulnerability in her voice. You look up and studied her face, seeing the subtle change in her features.
"I miss my old self before I study arts and design in college. I used to do all this out of love. Because I want to. Because honestly? I ace at school so I can fuck off and enjoy being an artist."
"Fuck the people who said 'oh, you should monetize your hobby' and 'do what you love as a job-' blah, blah," she spoke in a high-pitched, mocking tone. You nod, encouraging her to unload her mind as you retrieved your meals.
Throughout the meal, you exchange stories about your life. Sometimes she would ramble, a mixture of Dutch and your native language. And just share practically everything—inside jokes, office drama in which she swore she was never interested in, but she was lowkey invested anyway, and just... be.
"Thank you. I really needed this." She said, swaying her bag as she walked beside you.
The stuffy office, deadlines and everything else was forgotten when you realized she enjoyed this as much as you do. What was meant to be a lunch break is now strecthed into an afternoon stroll, dragging your feet through the pavements as you made your way back to the office building.
And when you come back... your computer dings with a new project alert. She sighed and massaged her head.
"Well. It seems like we're working late again."
But neither of you mind. Because you're a team, and you'll get through this together like you always did.
