in the past year, julie has talked about her mother in a number of ways. most common was factually – mom passed a year ago, cancer, it all happened suddenly. we’re doing fine. it makes her feel like a journalist reporting her own life, but it gives her the most protection. ( it’s easy to ward the pitied glances if she doesn’t look upset. ) the second was sentimentally, only with carlos, dad and flynn. little stories, funny memories, pieces just within reach, a safe distance from the heart of things.
this, with alex, felt like uncharted territory. there’s a rough guideline from the excruciating days in the after, where all she could do was sob. dad and carlos were held at a distance, like their very presence was enough to drown her in even more reasons why she wasn’t okay. flynn had heard the most of it, every thought, every story, each shard of the broken heart that rose molina had left in her wake.
she damns the small, vulnerable sound of her breath as it shudders, shaking the seams of someone held together by her own shaky patchwork. “i really hope so.” the music, the studio, the band that she’d known in another life. each thread is there, tying the molina women together in a way that, literally, defied death. julie catches the end of his encouragement, the kindness in his expression, and laughs. tears, held at bay until this burst of emotion, spring forth, streaming down her cheeks. she can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. maybe both. there’s a long moment before she feels composed enough to speak, to shift topics, to take the vulnerability and turn it around.
“do you remember your parents?”
he sits there, allowing the silence to stretch over them. while he cannot hug her as she cries, he can give her the space to do so. 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. time passes slowly, his body almost touching hers. a quiet promise on its own. he waits ⅋ puts the conversation in julie’s control. once she finally manages to muster the courage to speak, he isn’t surprised by her question.
still, there’s a sharp pain in his chest at the inquiry. knew vulnerability was a two - way street, but everything about it made his breath shudder, panic rising deep within his chest. 𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆. presses his nails into the flesh of his palms as he considers a response. —— there’s the good memories : family holidays, movie nights, the christmas they gifted him his first drum set. he doesn’t really have to dig for those. most of his life had been good. almost perfect, even . . . but that was the before. 𝚓𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛.
❝ yeah. they weren’t like reggie’s, who fought a lot ⅋ they supported the band, unlike luke’s. so i guess that means they were 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨, right? ❞ he poses it as a question, but his lips twist into a lackluster smile, knowing that things were never truly that simple.
his fingers tap against his leg. there’s a scene of a time when he was still alive, playing behind forest hues. 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳, a broken plate shattered on the floor, salty tears in eyes that resembled his own. he’s pulled in ⅋ he doesn’t know how to get out. —— logically, he knows that he’s not there. 𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗷𝘂𝗹𝗶𝗲’𝘀 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺. yet his lungs refuse to fill with air. he chokes on the panic clawing its way up his throat. he gasps for breath but all that fills him is 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑. he’s dying all over again ⅋ he doesn’t know how to stop.
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