Im Chilling💙

|Girl| She/Her 21| MULTIFANDOM NSFW Content is reblogged here

[voudkiss]

manon icons

[tacobellandbdsmgohandinhand-dea]

[itsnotyouithink]

without you ii

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: grief wasn’t new to tara carpenter, but nothing prepared her for the kind where the person she’s mourning is still breathing.

warnings: implied mature themes

word count: 2.0k

author’s note: highly requested part 2 of without you. hope u enjoy! (also keep sending requests i love the ideas)

part one

———————

Tara Carpenter never understood how grief could be quiet.

The grief she'd known before was loud - aggressive. It came with blood on the kitchen floor and police sirens and painkillers in orange bottles. It came with her sister gripping her too tightly in hospital hallways, with nightmares that made her scream awake, with shaking hands and broken locks and Ghostface masks behind every closed door.

That kind of grief was obvious. Violent. Tangible.

It took something from her all at once.

But this?

This was different.

This was the kind of grief that built slowly, molecule by molecule, until her body felt heavier for no reason. Until her lungs stopped expanding the way they used to. Until waking up wasn't relief - it was just another stretch of time without your voice.

There was no crime scene. No breaking glass.

No blood.

Just your name on her phone that stayed grey.

Just a silence that made her ears ring.

This grief didn't arrive screaming. It just stayed - long after you left.

And it's quieter now.

But it's no less brutal.

Because at least when she was bleeding, people knew something was wrong. Now, no one sees it.

No one sees her grief.

Because it looks like her, sitting on the floor of her apartment, holding a piece of paper with your handwriting on it and realizing she let the only person who ever loved her without hesitation walk away.

Like the way she lost you was the same way she held you - not tight enough.

She thought heartbreak would scream. Would bleed. Would throw dishes or rip out her lungs or leave claw marks down her back like in the movies. But this is worse. This is the soft decay of everything she once held in her hands, unraveling in silence. It's the ache that wakes her at four a.m. when the radiator clicks. It's the moments in between - between class and sleep, between unlocking her phone and deciding not to call.

It's the sound of nothing.

Because you're not here.

And she knows now - truly, devastatingly knows - that you're not coming back.

And it hits her in pieces.

First, in the café you used to love when you came to visit, the one with the uneven tables and the polaroids on the walls and the playlists you always said felt like a movie. She stands in line and sees your drink on the menu: medium chai, two shots, oat milk. And suddenly, her lungs seize up like someone's poured ice down her throat. She orders water. Sits in the corner. Pretends she doesn't feel you in the chair across from her.

Then again, days later, when she opens her notes app to jot down something stupid - some joke Mindy made, some grocery item she keeps forgetting - and sees the reminder she wrote about you. “Pick up oat milk, and say something nice to her today. She's doing better than she thinks." Dated three months ago. Still pinned. Still open. Still from the time she listened close enough to know you felt like you didn’t deserve the ivy league lifestyle.

She doesn't cry. She doesn't breathe. She just stares at it, like if she stares long enough, maybe it'll become a text. Maybe it'll buzz in her hand.

But you won't. You never will.

A few weeks after you’ve left, she dreams about you.

You're sitting on the grass outside your dorm, legs crossed, hair up, the kind of casual pretty that used to make Tara blink too many times before speaking. You're scribbling something into a journal, laughing under your breath like someone just told you a secret you want to keep. You don't see her. She calls out your name, but you don’t turn around.

She wakes up with your name in her mouth and tears in her eyes.

She doesn't fall back asleep.

She doesn't tell anyone what she did or said.

Not Sam. Not Mindy. Not Anika.

She doesn't say your name out loud. Doesn't talk about that night with Chad where she fell into his lap, his bed, him. She doesn’t explain the way her hands were shaking or how she cried after or how, halfway through, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the sound of your breath against her neck.

Because it wasn't sex. It wasn't closure. It was an attempt at resurrection - a pathetic, desperate imitation of intimacy.

But it wasn't you.

You were soft and slow but rough when she wanted you to be. She would press a hand against your stomach, entwine your legs with hers afterwards with a million ideas of where to eat later. Post-sex celebration, she would say with a cheeky grin as you just laughed against her chest.

And it felt like a lie now.

Your name still lives in her phone.

Still starred. Still pinned to the top of her texts.

Every few nights, she opens your thread and scrolls.

The photos. The playlists. The plans.

"Bring your scarf next time, it's colder than it looks."

"I wish you were here."

"I love you even when I don't know how to say it right."

She reads them like scripture.

Like proof she was once capable of being loved.

When she visited you in Boston, she was already losing you. She just didn't know it yet.

You were so happy to see her, almost glowing. Nervous and soft and talking too fast, like you were trying to squeeze everything you wanted to say into the time she'd given you. You held her hand like it meant something, showed her your dorm with shy pride, introduced her to your roommate and friends like she was meeting your family.

And she stood there, half-present, half-wishing she hadn't come. Not because she didn't love you - she did, fiercely yet silently - but because she didn't know how to hold what you were becoming. Didn't know how to love a version of you that didn't need her the same way anymore.

She mistook your independence for distance.

And instead of stepping closer, she backed away.

She watched you reach for her again and again, in ways so small she didn't know how badly they'd matter later. Your pinky brushing hers in bed. Your head on her chest during a movie. The way you whispered, "You don't say much lately," like it didn't hurt to admit it.

She remembers that.

Every night.

And now?

Now she walks the streets of New York and sees you in every bookstore window. In every girl with your jacket. In the back of cabs when she's crossing the street.

She'll glance up, heart racing -

But it's never you.

You're not here.

And even if you were, you wouldn't be hers anymore.

She wonders if you're seeing someone.

Not often. Just enough to torture herself and not because she thinks she has a right to know.

But because she wants to believe someone's kissing your forehead and reminding you to sleep.

Someone's hearing the weird facts you blurt out when you're nervous.

Someone's walking you back to your dorm and offering you their coat even when you say you're fine.

She hopes they hold your face when you get quiet.

She hopes they don't pull away.

But she hates them anyway - she hates the possibility.

She wonders often if you’d even pick up if she called.

Would your voice catch? Would you ask how she's been? Would you tell her you still dream about the apartment with the yellow curtains and the tiny dog you both said you'd get once you had more money and less distance?

Or would you answer like a stranger?

Polite. Cold.

Moved on.

She doesn't know what's worse.

When she finally told Sam, it was in a whisper. She didn’t say much: “long distance just doesn’t work for us anymore.” Her older-sister nodded with a tired expression. She liked you - approved of you the moment she met you in the cold hospital room while you were hunched over Tara’s sleeping form crying. Sam thought you would end up being a Carpenter one day - a part of the family, officially.

She told Tara to write her feelings out, to not let them consume her like the grief with Amber did.

So, she wrote a letter.

Three pages, ink-stained, creased from folding and unfolding. It sits in her drawer, between old birthday cards and ticket stubs from that one museum date where you got lost in the wrong exhibit and she kissed you under a Monet.

The letter says things like, "I was scared," and "You deserved more of me than I knew how to give," and "I miss you in ways I didn't know were possible."

She won't send it.

She already knows you're gone.

And maybe that's what real heartbreak is.

Not the yelling. Not the drama.

Just the soft, unbearable ache of knowing that you had everything - and let it walk away.

She doesn't hear from you again.

Not after the last text of you asking if she was okay a few days before you showed up on her doorstep. Not after the silence stretched so long it started to rot. Not after the day she sat on the floor of her apartment, staring at your contact name, wondering if this was what it felt like to lose something slowly enough that you didn't even notice it was dying until it was already gone.

It's not dramatic.

You don't block her. You don't post about someone new. You just... fade. Quietly. Deliberately. Like a door she left cracked open, thinking you might come back. And now there's only wind coming through.

She still checks.

Your name. Your location.

Still scrolls too far down your Instagram like she's looking for the girl who used to kiss her on the shoulder just to make her laugh.

But you're not there.

Not really.

There's a new glow in your smile. A softness that doesn't belong to her anymore.

You look lighter.

And she is the weight you dropped.

Some nights she thinks about calling.

About saying: "I didn't mean to lose you."

About saying: "I know I made you feel like I didn't need you. But I did. I do."

But she knows you won't answer.

And even if you did - it wouldn't change anything.

You already left. You're already free.

So she deletes your number.

Not because she wants to.

Because she has to.

Because someday she's going to meet someone new, and they'll ask her if she's ever been in love.

And she'll smile, and say yes.

And then go home,

And bury her face in a pillow,

And cry for someone who doesn't miss her.

Not anymore.

Not for a long time now.

[itsnotyouithink]

without you

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: long distance isn’t for the weak, especially when you visit your girlfriend in new york city - just to see her all over somebody else.

warnings: mentions of ghostface & blood

word count: 7.0k

author’s note: that viral video of the girl surprising her boyfriend while another girl is sitting on top of him and all his friends are like “yoo holy shit wtfff” and laughing at the girlfriend haunts me to this day.

part two

——

You were the smart girl. The golden girl. The one with annotated poetry books and hair that always looked a little too perfect in the wind. Your teachers loved you — that kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for prodigies and people who already had TED Talks queued up in their futures. You wore Harvard on your chest before you even applied. Because of course you'd get in. Of course you did.

But none of it ever made you feel like Tara did.

Tara Carpenter — with her bite and her bruises, her too-dark eye circles and the way she rolled joints like it was an art form. She used to call you "Valedictorian Barbie," but only when she was feeling flirty. Which was often. She made you feel like being brilliant was hot. Like being soft and sharp at the same time was something to be worshipped, not tolerated. You loved that she didn't treat you like you were breakable.

And she loved that you saw her.

Not Sam's little sister. Not Ghostface bait. Not the girl who almost didn't survive.

You knew her before all that.

Before Amber's house. Before the hospital.

You were the one holding her hair back while she cried on the bathroom floor the week after her stitches came out. You were the one who wiped blood off her collarbone and kissed her anyway. You were the one who told her she was more than what happened to her. That she was still here. Still worth everything.

You spent your last year in Woodsboro fused. That was the only way to describe it. Two people who knew they wouldn't survive the year unless they clung to each other. It was desperate. Beautiful. And when you got your Harvard acceptance letter, she screamed louder than your mom did.

"I told you," she said that night, sprawled across your bed, a bowl of grapes between you. "You're gonna be running the whole world by 30."

"And you're gonna be directing horror films in a basement somewhere," you teased.

"With Chad holding the boom mic," she grinned. "And Mindy threatening producers."

You looked at her and said it without thinking:

"I wish you were coming with me."

She had blinked at that. Quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet.

Then: "We'll be fine. I'll be in New York. You'll be in Boston. It's like—what? A four-hour train ride?"

That was the plan.

Or so you thought.

Harvard was cruel in a subtle way. It didn't punch you in the face so much as bleed you dry by a thousand little paper cuts. It didn't feel like success at first.

It felt like punishment.

You sat in lecture halls the size of churches and felt like a fraud. You got A-minuses and wanted to scream. You called your mom crying twice in the same week because your roommate played club lacrosse and thought Nietzsche was "just okay." You started eating dinner at 9 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night. You excelled, of course — you always did — but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like surviving.

Like a fever dream made of fluorescent lights, frigid air, and classrooms that smelled faintly of erasers and old money. You walked through campus in your thrifted wool coat like a ghost wearing someone else's skin — the only person in the lecture hall taking notes by hand because you couldn't afford a new laptop after your financial aid went toward books in the first month of school.

But then you met them.

Gwen. Samira. Alex. Cassie.

The weird girls. The brilliant ones. The ones who built forts out of unread textbooks and spoke about grief and girlhood like it was a second language. You found them on the floor of a dorm hallway during a fire drill. Someone quoted Adrienne Rich. Someone else cried. You stayed until 3 a.m.

They didn't just like your mind. They saw it.

You weren't too intense or too emotional or too ambitious here — you were exactly enough. And when you spoke, people leaned in. You started to laugh again. You started to write again. You stopped apologizing for taking up space.

But the thing is, when you start becoming more of yourself... Sometimes the people who loved the earlier version of you start to disappear.

You were halfway through a half-eaten pack of seaweed snacks, balancing a laptop on your knees while everyone around you argued about which sad girl singer deserved the "haunting voice of the decade" crown - it was clearly Mitski - when your phone lit up.

Tara Carpenter ❤️ calling.

Your heart stuttered.

You dropped the snacks.

"Shh—guys, shut up—Tara's calling."

They all fell dramatically silent.

You answered on the second ring, suddenly too aware of the chaotic mess behind you.

Her face filled the screen. Sleepy, soft. She looked like she had just climbed into bed, hair half-damp and hoodie swallowing her frame.

"Hey," she murmured. "Did I call too late?"

Your chest ached. Her voice still did that to you.

"No, it's perfect."

From behind you, Samira waved dramatically. "Is that the famous girlfriend?!"

You laughed, startled, and turned the phone slightly so Tara could see the room: Gwen wearing Alex's hoodie like a cape, Samira eating instant oatmeal with chopsticks, Cassie in your bed pretending to meditate.

Tara blinked at the screen, clearly caught off guard.

"Oh... wow. You have a cult now."

"They worship me," you deadpanned.

"Obviously," said Gwen.

"Duh," said Samira.

Tara laughed. Kind of. But there was something off in her voice.

"They're cool," she said. "Different from Woodsboro."

"They're insane," you grinned. "But in the best way."

Tara nodded slowly. But didn't say anything right away.

Then: "You look happy."

You glanced down. That kind of compliment — simple, sincere — shouldn't hurt. But it did. It made you think about how long it had been since she'd said anything like it.

"I am, I think," you replied. "It's hard, but... yeah. They make it easier."

More silence.

Tara's thumb brushed the edge of her screen. Her eyes flicked somewhere just out of frame.

Then: "You're still coming here next month, right?"

"Yeah. I booked the train. Didn't I tell you?"

"You didn't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm glad."

And for a second, it almost felt normal. Easy. Like you were still the girl who patched up her stab wounds in a bathroom and whispered "I'm not scared when I'm with you."

But then Gwen asked if you wanted to stay up for tarot readings and Samira announced she was making "grief popcorn" — and Tara suddenly looked very far away again. "I should let you go," she said. "Looks like you've got a whole... thing going on."

You frowned. "No, wait, stay on. I'll kick them out."

Tara shook her head.

"It's fine. I'm just tired."

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Call ended.

No I love you.

No goodnight.

Just a gray screen and a slow, sinking ache in your chest.

Then, it just got worse.

"I'm just tired, babe," she'd say, voice raspy. "Long day. I'll call you tomorrow."

Tomorrow turned into the weekend. The weekend turned into "shit, sorry, I forgot."

You told yourself it was okay. She had her own life. You couldn't expect everything to stay the same. You were both adjusting. But something shifted in the silence. Something you couldn't name.

You started overanalyzing her texts.

Started noticing how often Chad's name came up. Started wondering why she laughed in his stories but never in your calls.

You visited her once in early October. Took the Amtrak with an overstuffed bag and nerves like static in your chest. It was a surprise. You brought her favorite cold brew, wore her favorite sweater. You imagined the way her face would light up when she saw you.

She answered the door in someone else's hoodie.

It smelled like cologne.

The apartment was buzzing with noise — Mindy was yelling about a horror remake, Chad was tossing popcorn into his mouth like a Labrador, and Tara... Tara was tired. You could see it in her eyes, the way she hugged you like she was checking off a box.

You stayed two nights.

She kissed you once. She slept facing the wall.

By November, you'd memorized what it felt like to fall asleep without her voice in your ear. You'd stopped telling her about your day unless she asked. (She didn't.) You'd stopped sending cute videos you saw on Instagram because she rarely watched them anymore. Your late-night-post-essay-due-date drunken pictures of you just in the Harvard sweatshirt and the pair of black lace panties she loved on you stopped.

You caught yourself wondering what the point of it all was. Of you. Of her. Of trying.

You called her on the anniversary of the attack.

You cried. She didn't.

She said she didn't want to "dwell on it." Which, obviously, you understood. She was the one to get stabbed while you were just the one who found her bloody on her kitchen floor.

She said Chad took her to Coney Island to cheer her up.

She said she'd call you later.

She didn't.

It became a kind of masochism — loving her. You started to feel embarrassed when you mentioned her in conversations with new friends. Like it was obvious you were the only one still in it.

You kept trying anyway.

You remembered what she was like in Woodsboro, when she'd press her forehead to yours and whisper things like "I didn't know I could feel this much without falling apart."

You thought maybe — maybe if you just showed up again, you could remind her of that version of yourselves.

Of the "us" she used to cry over.

The train into Manhattan rattled like a pulse beneath you. Loud and relentless.

You sat pressed against the window with your cheek resting on the glass, watching the East River blur past like a half-forgotten memory. Your duffel bag was jammed under your legs, your phone was dead, and your head ached in that particular way it always did when you hadn't eaten properly in two days. The cold from the window crept through your coat and up your spine, but you didn't move. You didn't want to miss the skyline.

You hadn't seen her in 62 days.

You counted.

You told yourself you weren't counting, but of course you were. That's what people do when they miss someone. They count days. Silences. Excuses. And lately, you'd had too many of all three.

Still—this wasn't some dramatic last-ditch attempt. This was love. A surprise. A grand, spontaneous thing you used to dream about when you were fifteen and scribbling your future into the margins of your AP Lit notebook.

You imagined her opening the door, eyes going wide, smiling so hard she forgot how to speak. You imagined her pulling you in by the collar, kissing you like the wait was unbearable.

You imagined it so clearly it started to feel like a memory.

You got off at Penn Station just before sunset. The city buzzed around you in that way only New York could — like it didn't care who you were, what you were carrying, or why your hands were shaking slightly as you pulled up her address from memory. The air was sharp with early winter. You could taste metal on your tongue.

Brooklyn wasn't far. You'd made this trip before — once, back in September, when things still felt like they were holding together. When she met you at the subway stop in that green jacket you loved, kissed you like she needed you to breathe, and made you pancakes at 1 a.m. even though she didn't know how.

But tonight, you went alone.

No warning. No texts. No "I'm outside :)"

Just your bag, your college sweatshirt, and that familiar pressure in your chest that always showed up when you were about to do something brave or stupid.

Her building looked the same. Beige brick and flaking paint, a crooked buzzer panel and the smell of someone cooking aggressively seasoned lentils on the first floor. The hallway was dim, light flickering above the stairs, the sound of a muffled bass line bleeding through someone's door.

You climbed the steps slowly. Your legs felt heavier than usual. Each floor seemed longer than the last.

You reached her apartment and stood there for a full ten seconds.

Just breathing.

You adjusted your hair. Wiped your hands on your jeans. Told yourself to relax.

Then knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Her laugh.

Muffled, but unmistakable. That slightly raspy, breathy little sound she made when something actually got to her. When she wasn't faking it.

You smiled.

And then you waited.

Waited for the sound of her footsteps.

Waited for her to fling the door open, throw her arms around you, gasp "oh my god, you're here."

But nothing happened.

Another laugh — and a second voice. Deep. Familiar.

Chad.

You knocked again. A little louder.

A beat.

Then the doorknob turned.

And there she was.

Her face was flushed from laughing. Hair pulled back into a loose bun, a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she'd rubbed it in the middle of a joke. She was wearing a hoodie. Too big to be hers. You recognized it instantly.

She froze when she saw you.

And something flickered behind her eyes — not joy. Not even shock.

Panic?

"Y/N?"

Her voice cracked on your name. Like she wasn't sure it was really you.

"Hi," you said, heart thudding. "Surprise."

There was a pause. Too long. Like she had to recalibrate her entire brain to process what she was looking at.

You smiled, nervous. "I couldn't stay away anymore. Midterms ended yesterday. I took the train."

Her mouth opened. Then closed again.

You watched the confusion settle into something else — a practiced calm. Controlled. Neutral.

She stepped aside.

"Oh. Uh... come in."

Not come here.

Not I missed you.

Just... come in.

And that's when the noise behind her hit you fully.

Voices. Laughter. The rustle of blankets. The glow of a paused TV.

You stepped through the doorway and into the warmth.

And stopped.

Chad was on the couch, controller in his lap, half-turned toward the door like he'd already seen you coming. Mindy was curled up in the bean bag, legs tucked under her, phone glowing in her hand. Anika waved weakly from the kitchen. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Two mugs of something warm.

It wasn't a party.

But it was close.

It was a night in.

And she hadn't told you.

She hadn't said, I'm busy tonight.

She said she was tired. Ready for an early night.

Because she hadn't expected you to come.

Because maybe she hadn't wanted you to.

And yet, here you were — still smiling like an idiot. Still holding your bag like you didn't already know.

Still pretending you didn't notice the way she didn't hug you.

"Hey," Chad said, nodding like you were a regular delivery guy, not the girlfriend who hadn't been here in weeks. "Didn't know you were visiting."

You swallowed. "Yeah. I wanted to surprise her."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Well... you certainly did."

No one laughed.

Tara cleared her throat and sat down — not beside Chad, not exactly, but close enough to make your stomach churn. Her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"We were just watching something," she said quickly, gesturing to the screen. "You can sit if you want."

You sat.

Of course you sat.

In the far corner of the couch. Bag still in your lap. Sweatshirt still on. Like a guest.

Like a stranger.

And the worst part?

You told yourself it was fine.

Because you were tired.

Because you loved her.

Because you'd made it this far.

Because if you let yourself really feel what this was turning into — you might not be able to crawl back out of it.

So, you stayed.

Because what else could you do?

You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, half-perched like a piece of misplaced furniture, still clutching your bag like it was armor. No one told you to relax. No one offered to take your sweatshirt that was obviously overdressed for the warmth of the living room. You waited for her to shift closer. She didn't.

The movie started again. Something loud and gory, the kind of film she used to tease you for squinting through. She used to tuck herself under your arm during the bad parts, fingers curled into your hoodie, whispering things like "okay that part was kinda hot actually" when someone got their arm chopped off.

But tonight she sat three feet away, laughing too loud at Chad's dumb commentary, chewing her nails like nothing was wrong.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Then a steady stream.

You didn't have to look to know who it was.

HARVARD GAYS 💌 — the groupchat.

Samira:

are you THERE???

what's happening is she like sobbing in your arms rn or what

Gwen:

PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

don't make us go all poetically unhinged for you

Alex:

if she didn't jump into your arms like a war widow I'm gonna be sick

Samira:

y/n 👁👁

You let the screen fade to black.

Didn't answer.

Your chest buzzed with something sticky and slow, like syrup over a wound. You could almost hear your own heartbeat in your throat — that tight, pulsing ache that came whenever you forced yourself to stay in situations that didn't love you back.

It didn’t get any better. The feeling in your gut, your mind, your heart, your soul. It didn't help that she didn’t touch you once.

Not even a hand on your knee. Not a passing brush of fingers. You watched her laugh at Chad's jokes and lean her chin into her hand and mouth the words to some stupid commercial on Hulu and all you could think was—

This isn't the girl who used to fall asleep on your chest.

The girl who cried when you left for college.

The girl who wrote you a letter the night before you moved into your dorm. A real one — with her messy handwriting and a pressed flower between the pages.

The girl who was obsessed with you - always wanting you underneath her in her bed. In her clothes. In her hands.

The girl who said you're my safe place.

But this girl sitting beside you?

This one wouldn't even meet your eyes.

By the time the movie ended, your bones ached from how still you'd been.

Tara stood up and stretched, then mumbled something about getting ready for bed. She didn't look at you when she said it. Didn't invite you to come with her.

You followed anyway.

It felt pathetic.

It was pathetic.

But you followed her down the hallway, past the peeling paint and the poster of Jennifer's Body Mindy taped to the wall and the echo of Chad's voice yelling something behind you. You tried not to think about how different this walk was from the last time — how you used to race each other down the hallway, out of breath and laughing and already half-undressed before the bedroom door even closed.

Now it was just footsteps.

Hers first.

Yours echoing after.

Her room was small.

She clicked on the lamp and stepped out of her hoodie. You tried not to notice how she didn't offer it to you. How she folded it and set it neatly on the chair instead, like it meant something.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

She rummaged in a drawer. Pulled out pajamas. A pair of soft shorts and a worn t-shirt. Not yours. Not anything you recognized. She changed with her back to you, and you stared at the cracks in the ceiling to give her privacy.

She climbed into bed without a word.

Didn't ask if you were coming.

Didn't ask anything.

You stood for a second too long, waiting for her to say something. Anything. A glance. An invitation.

Nothing came.

So you slipped off your jeans, peeled off your socks, and eased in beside her.

She didn't reach for you.

She didn't turn toward you.

She just laid there.

Like sleep was something she owed to someone else.

Throughout the night, you stayed very still.

So still your back started to cramp. So still your throat felt like it might close.

You thought about texting Samira. About typing something's wrong, and waiting for her to send a voice note, one of those soothing ones with sleepy affirmations and stupid jokes and a promise to egg your ex's dorm if things went south.

But you didn't.

Because that would mean admitting it.

Admitting that this trip — this grand romantic gesture — wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

That you were losing her.

That maybe, somehow, without you even realizing it… You already had.

Like always, you didn't sleep.

Not really.

Your eyes stayed closed, your breathing even. But your body never softened the way it used to in her bed. You laid perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside — the occasional honk, the distant thrum of a train, the rhythmic creak of the radiator. You used to find it soothing. Now, it just felt like a countdown.

You felt her shift beside you. Not dramatically. Not the exaggerated toss of someone trying to fall asleep — more like the quiet, guilty stir of someone who never planned to.

Her breath caught. Just for a second. You could feel it.

She thought you were asleep.

And maybe that was the only reason she whispered, "Shit," under her breath. Like the night was closing in on her too.

You opened your eyes.

The lamp was still off, but a thin strip of light from the hallway cracked through the door and cast a sharp outline of her back. She was sitting up now, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid.

"Tara?" you said, voice hoarse, small.

She didn't answer right away. Just tilted her chin toward you, not all the way.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't.”

A pause.

Then: "Couldn't sleep?"

Another pause.

She nodded.

You sat up slowly, the comforter falling from your shoulders. The bed was still warm beneath you, but your skin was starting to go cold.

"Tara," you said again. This time with more weight. "Talk to me."

Her eyes closed like the sentence physically hurt.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie."

You said it gently. Not like an accusation — more like a confession.

She inhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Like she was bracing herself.

You stared at her, really stared, and realized how small she looked in that moment. Not physically — emotionally. Like she was pulling every piece of herself inward, trying to disappear inside her own silence.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore," you said. Quiet. Not a threat. Just a truth you'd been trying to avoid for weeks.

Tara didn't flinch. But she didn't deny it either.

"You've barely looked at me since I got here."

Still nothing.

You reached for her hand — tentative, slow — and she let you hold it. But it was limp. Heavy. Not how it used to be. Not the way she used to need you.

You squeezed anyway.

"I'm not mad," you whispered. "I just... I need you to be honest with me. Please."

Her thumb twitched against your palm.

And finally, finally, she turned toward you.

Her voice was so soft it nearly disappeared.

"I didn't think you'd actually come."

That shattered something in you.

You tried to keep your voice steady. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked at you like the answer should've been obvious. "You're at Harvard. You're... happy. You have this whole new world."

"So do you."

"No, I have this," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "I have late-night movies and dumb jokes and group projects with people I barely know. I have Chad."

Your mouth went dry.

The name hit like a slap. Not because she said it with affection. But because she said it instead of you.

"You could've told me you were struggling," you said. "You could've called."

"I didn't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

Her voice cracked: "You. Everything you're building."

You wanted to scream. Shake her. Tell her that she was never a distraction. That she was part of the dream. That every hard night at Harvard still ended with you whispering her name into your pillow like a prayer.

Instead, you said: "Tara, you don't have to protect me from your sadness.”

"I wasn't protecting you," she said. "I was hiding."

Silence.

You stared at her. Your Tara. Or the girl who used to be.

"I'm still here," you said. "Even now."

And for a second — just a flicker — she looked like she might believe you.

But then her gaze dropped to your hands, still loosely clasped.

And she said: "I don't know if that's enough anymore."

—————

You woke up cold.

The kind of cold that doesn't make sense at first — the kind that feels like it came from inside you. Like it had been building overnight, slow and secretive, seeping through your bones while you pretended everything was okay.

The bed beside you was empty.

Her side: cold. Sheets slightly wrinkled. Pillow still shaped like her head had been there hours ago. She didn't just get up. She'd been up. Long enough for the impression to start fading.

You sat up slowly. Blinked against the light filtering through the cheap blinds. The room looked almost exactly the same as it had last night. Except now, it was unbearable.

Your throat was dry. Your heart felt like it was bruising itself against your ribs.

Still, you gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe she ran out for coffee. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe she—

—maybe she didn't want to be there when you woke up.

You tried not to think that.

You tried not to think anything at all.

You got dressed without turning the light on. Pulled your jeans on quietly. Tugged your sweater over your head like you didn't want to disturb ghosts. You didn't brush your hair. Didn't fix your face.

You didn't want to see yourself.

When you stepped out into the kitchen, the apartment was alive in that half-awake kind of way — music playing low from someone's phone, the scent of cheap coffee burning slightly in the pot, a pan on the stove with something scrambled and overcooked inside it.

Chad was at the counter. Shirtless. Making eggs.

Mindy sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, thumbing through something with a blank expression.

Anika leaned against the wall, sipping from a chipped mug, eyes flicking up when you entered.

No one said anything at first.

You could feel it.

The thing in the air.

The quiet kind of discomfort that stretches across a room like a spiderweb. No one wants to touch it. No one wants to be the first to speak.

"Morning," you offered, voice raw from not talking.

"Hey," Anika replied, like someone cautiously approaching a dog they don't trust not to bite.

Chad gave a small nod. "Tara ran out. Said she had class."

You stood there.

Still.

"I thought she had Fridays off."

Chad shrugged. "Maybe she picked up a makeup lab?"

Mindy didn't look up.

She didn't say anything.

That's when it hit you.

Not all at once — not like a gunshot or a scream.

More like drowning. Like realizing, slowly and too late, that you're already underwater.

They knew.

Not everything, maybe. Not the details.

But they knew something.

And none of them would meet your eyes.

You sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Didn't ask. Just sat. Folded your hands together and stared at the chipped tile on the counter, willing yourself not to cry.

You didn't belong here.

Not anymore.

This wasn't your place. This wasn't your girl. Not the way she used to be. Not the way you still were.

You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn't check it.

You knew who it was.

Samira. Gwen. Alex.

Asking for updates.

Sending jokes.

Probably picturing you wrapped up in Tara's arms, happy and safe and home.

And you couldn't bear to tell them the truth.

That she didn't stay.

That she left before you could ask her to.

That maybe this entire time — while you were holding your breath in Massachusetts, counting the days, promising yourself this would all be worth it —

She was already letting you go.

————

She came back around three.

Sunlight was bleeding through the blinds in that slanted, golden way that made everything feel too soft for how sharp the ache in your chest was becoming. You'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since noon, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bag zipped tight and ready by your feet. It had started to feel like you weren't even waiting anymore — just sitting with the loss.

When you heard the key turn, your body stiffened.

Not with relief.

With resignation.

The door creaked open. You listened to her boots hit the floor, the scuff of her tote bag against the wall. She was humming. Humming.

Like nothing was wrong.

She walked into her room half-distracted, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn't see you until she was already inside.

"Oh," she said, nearly dropping her coffee. "You're still here."

You blinked up at her slowly. "Of course I am."

The way she stood there — surprised but not sorry — made something nauseating bloom behind your ribs.

"I thought..." she trailed off. "I figured you'd be gone by now."

"Yeah," you said flatly. "So did everyone else."

Tara's expression faltered. She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. Defensive. Tired. Distant in a way you were starting to recognize as permanent.

She nodded at your bag. "You're leaving?"

You stood. Slowly. Shoulders heavy, breath uneven.

"I don't think I ever really arrived."

That's when she looked at you. Really looked.

There were bags under her eyes, purpled and sunken from sleepless nights. Her lips were chapped. Her posture curled inward like she was trying to become smaller — less real. She looked like a person unraveling quietly. Like someone who'd long since forgotten how to ask for help.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

And god, you wished she had. You wished it had been intentional. Because at least then you could be angry instead of just... broken.

You shook your head, voice tight. "But you did, you stopped choosing me.”

It came out quiet, but it landed like a bomb. Not because of how loud it was, but because of how true it was. The kind of truth that makes people flinch. And she did. Not dramatically — not like someone slapped her — just a blink, a recoil. A subtle, almost imperceptible jerk of her chin like her body had finally caught up with the thing she'd been pretending wasn't real.

"You say you love me," you continued, voice rising now, shaking in that way that meant you were either going to cry or break something. "You say you didn't mean to hurt me. But you didn't fight for me either. You didn't reach. You didn't try. You let me show up here with hope in my chest like an idiot while you've been slipping further away every single day and letting him fill in the blanks."

Tara's arms crossed tighter over her chest, like she was trying to contain herself — or maybe cage something in. Her eyes were glassy but hard, like she was tired of being accused of something she didn't mean to do. But meaning didn't matter anymore. Intentions didn't keep people warm at night.

"I told you," she snapped. "It's not about Chad. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" you shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you replaced me with convenience."

Her expression cracked, sharp and sudden. "Fuck you."

You blinked, stunned for just a second.

"Fuck me?"

"Yes, you," she said, stepping forward, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak tangled together. "You come here and act like I'm the villain for needing someone when you're not around. You say I stopped trying, but when was the last time you asked if I was okay? When was the last time you noticed I was falling apart and didn't just tell me I'd be fine?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off.

"You send pictures of your weird little study group and talk about how seen you feel and how you've finally found your people. And that's good. I'm happy for you. But you talk about it like I'm not one of them anymore. Like the version of you that loved me is someone you already buried back in Woodsboro."

"That's not true," you breathed. But it was weak. Paper thin.

"Isn't it?" she said, voice cracking now. "You say I stopped calling, but half the time when I tried, you were too busy or too tired or in some deep, intellectual spiral with Gwen or Alex or whatever the fuck. You outgrew me. I just didn't realize it until I was watching you shine from across a screen like I didn't even belong in your orbit anymore."

The room felt too small. Too hot. You wanted to scream or run or throw something just to make the pressure in your chest stop.

You stepped closer, teeth clenched.

"You think I outgrew you? I built everything around you, Tara. I made space for you everywhere. I wrote you into every story, every plan, every thought about my future. You were the constant I was holding onto, even while everything else felt like it was swallowing me whole."

Her breath hitched.

"I was drowning too," you whispered. "But I kept calling out for you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back fast, stubborn.

"You weren't supposed to need me," she said, voice suddenly small. "You were supposed to be the one who made it out."

"And you were supposed to be the one I came home to."

Your voice wasn't quiet when you said it this time. It wasn't trembling. It was full. Solid. Final. It echoed through the small bedroom like a bell toll — sharp and sickening and absolutely true. And Tara didn't move. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She just stared at you with that same hollow, stunned expression — the kind people make when they realize the building is already on fire, and it's far too late to save anything inside.

And that was what pushed you over the edge.

"Oh my God," you snapped, stepping back, your hand running down your face like you could wipe the pain off your skin. "You're not even gonna try, are you? I came here, Tara. I showed up. I left everything I had going for me to be here with you, and you're just gonna stand there and let me fall apart in front of you like it doesn't fucking matter?"

Her jaw tightened. "You think it's that simple?"

You laughed — sharp, bitter, like broken glass under bare feet. "It was simple. Until you made it complicated."

"I never asked you to come," she said, and there was venom in it now, like she was trying to hurt you first. "You showed up without warning, expecting me to—what? Drop everything and wrap my arms around you like it's still high school?"

"I showed up," you hissed, "because I missed you. Because you wouldn't answer my calls and I started to wonder if maybe something was wrong—and guess what? I was right."

Tara's voice rose, suddenly sharp. "You think I don't miss you?"

"You have a hell of a way of showing it."

"You think I'm not trying?" she yelled. "Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to sit in this apartment every night, surrounded by people who only know the broken pieces of me and pretend that's all there ever was? You think Chad knows me? You think I want him?"

"Then why does it look like you do?" you screamed back. "Why did I walk into your space and feel like a guest in my own relationship?!"

Tara shook her head but didn’t respond, her mouth opening and closing while she tried to find a word, a phrase, a sentence - anything, to say back to you.

You felt the tears slide down your cheeks, you never cried. “I miss my caring girlfriend, Tara. The one who used to send me letters every two weeks with flowers and small drawings between the words. The girlfriend I made plans to have a future, a family, a life with!”

"I don't think that version of me exists anymore," she said.

And for a moment — a single, frozen heartbeat — the entire room went quiet. Like even the walls were waiting to see if you'd break.

You didn't. Not right away.

You just stood there, blinking at her like you couldn't quite comprehend the weight of what she'd just said. Like you were waiting for the punchline.

But it never came.

Just her. Just that look on her face — exhausted, hollow, wrecked in all the wrong ways. Like she wasn't sorry enough to take it back. Just sorry enough to say it.

And that's when something inside you snapped.

"You don't think that version of you exists?" you repeated, slowly, voice rising with every syllable. "Then what the fuck have I been holding on to, Tara? What the hell have I been fighting for all this time?"

"I never asked you to fight," she bit back, voice sharp now, ugly.

"No," you spat. "You just let me."

You were shaking — full-body shaking — like your grief was trying to claw its way out of your skin. You took a step toward her, not to threaten, but because standing still hurt too much. "You let me call. Let me text. Let me write letters. You let me lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering if you were okay, if you still loved me, if I'd done something wrong. You let me keep giving when you knew you'd already checked out."

"I didn't know!" she snapped, stepping forward now too, fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing! I was scared and numb and just trying to survive and every time I looked at my phone and saw your name I felt like I was drowning in all the ways I was failing you."

"You weren't failing me," you shouted. "You were leaving me!"

Tara's face twisted. "I didn't know how to be with you and be broken at the same time."

"And I didn't know how to be without you," you said, and it came out a sob. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a raw, trembling ache you couldn't keep down any longer. "But I tried. I tried so hard. I tried when you went quiet, and when your texts got short, and when you started saying Chad's name more than mine. I tried when it felt like I was talking to a version of you that had already decided I was part of a different life. One you were trying to forget."

She flinched at that.

You kept going, because there was no turning back now.

"You think I'm thriving, don't you? That because I have people and lectures and some bullshit little academic glow-up, I don't need you anymore? That I forgot what it felt like to kiss you with blood still on your shirt? That I stopped waking up in the middle of the night wanting to hear your voice just so I didn't fall apart?"

"I didn't want to be your trauma!" she shouted suddenly, like the words had been rotting inside her for months. "I didn't want to be the thing that held you back! I didn't want to be the reason you couldn't fucking breathe."

"And now you're not," you whispered. "Now I'm just the girl you forgot to say goodbye to."

Tara's face collapsed.

But you weren't done.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it felt to walk into your apartment and realize everyone knew before I did? That your friends had already seen you pull away and just let me show up like some lovesick idiot begging for scraps? That they watched me sit on your couch while you laughed at Chad's fucking jokes like I was invisible?"

Her mouth opened. Her voice cracked. "It wasn't—"

"I loved you more than anything," you said, stepping back, chest heaving. "And you let me come here thinking we were still us."

"I didn't know how to tell you," she said, breathless.

"You didn't even try."

You said it like it was the last thing you'd ever say to her.

And maybe it was.

[girl-rotting-xoxo]

[ari3ll-arii]

He was so gorgeous💕

Serious doe he was finee

[ceevee5]

[poisonlove]

SAVE YOUR TEARS

Part 1

Pairing: Jenna Ortega X reader

⚠️ Warning ⚠️ no happy ending, angst, refusing to say goodbye!

I’m fine.

Really, it’s not a big deal! I can handle it.

I love you

Jenna bit her lower lip as her eyes skimmed over the messages y/n had sent her in the last three days. Her heart tightened in a painful squeeze at the thought of having ignored her after that video call.

She felt terribly guilty.

And yet, at the same time, she needed space.

She couldn’t bear to see her like that. She couldn’t accept that her girlfriend was losing, day after day, that light that had always made her unique.

That natural glow of hers.

That desire to live, to smile and joke with everyone.

Her stomach twisted even more with guilt and she felt bile rise up her esophagus, that bitter and disgusting aftertaste—acidic—that prickled her throat with an irritating insistence. Fortunately she hadn’t eaten anything that morning otherwise she would have surely thrown up.

Her fingers tightened around the phone and her eyes lingered on the last message she had received.

She knew what she had to do.

She had to let her go.

She pressed the side button and darkened the screen. A trembling sigh slipped past her lips and she lifted her head, fixing her gaze on the door of her house in Los Angeles. Jenna had asked Tim if she could—because of family reasons—take a day off and return to America to deal with something important to her. After all, she was fairly sure that if she didn’t face the situation with y/n she wouldn’t be able to focus on work.

Her stomach churned and her fingers curled into fists, her nails carving small half-moons into her palms.

She was nervous.

She let her bag fall onto the porch and, hesitantly, opened the door knowing that her girlfriend never locked it when she was home (unless it was night). Blood rushed through her veins, her heart pounding—almost excited—at the thought of seeing again the one who made it beat so hard.

Her feet moved on their own toward the living room while anxiety and anticipation sent her body into overdrive.

When Jenna entered the room her dark eyes immediately fell on y/n sitting on the couch: the tired expression, the dull gaze, an aura of sadness that seemed to wrap around her. The young actress swallowed with difficulty, the knot in her throat making the gesture almost painful.

Y/n blinked and noticed her out of the corner of her eye. She did a double take, as if to make sure she wasn’t imagining her, then sprang to her feet. A smile lit up her face, and that was painful for Jenna to see: the dark circles were deeper than the last time, the pallor more evident. Her lips were thin, chapped and every now and then her tongue darted out to moisten them, without much effect.

And that clenched, tense jaw, which had become all too familiar.

Jenna sighed, feeling her heart hammer furiously in her chest while her mind screamed at her to go on, not to back out. Y/n reached her before she could even form a coherent thought.

Her arms wrapped around her waist and Jenna found herself trapped in a needy embrace. She blinked as she felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes and allowed herself that moment of vulnerability. She squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to memorize the moment.

Her head dipped forward and she pressed her lips to y/n’s collarbone.

Y/n's scent—so familiar, perhaps even stronger than she remembered—shot through her like an electric shock, making every nerve vibrate.

She swallowed again.

Y/n tightened her hold and brushed her temple with a gentle kiss.

That gesture made the last defenses crumble. Tears clouded her vision, thick and heavy, streaking down her cheeks, passing over her mouth and finally slipping from her chin. Jenna sniffed, biting her lower lip.

The pressure in her throat was becoming unbearable.

Y/n noticed.

Y/n pulled back slightly to look at her, eyes full of confusion as she tried to understand what was happening.

Jenna wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“Hey, are you okay?” y/n murmured in that soft, velvety voice she used to calm her. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Jenna took a deep breath but the air got stuck in her lungs as if her own body were rebelling. Every muscle was tense, her arms still around her, instinct and habit refusing to let her go. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt, yet she couldn’t find the courage to pull away even by a single inch.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, fighting that desperate urge to hold her tighter, to pretend that nothing was changing.

But she couldn’t be that selfish.

“I…” Her voice came out broken, hoarse. She cleared her throat, swallowing several times. “I can’t pretend everything is fine anymore.”

Her body wanted to stay.

Her heart wanted to stay.

But her mind knew what was right.

Y/n remained still, as if she feared that even the slightest movement might break something fragile. “What do you mean?”

Jenna slowly lifted her eyes finally meeting hers. There was exhaustion, yes, but above all there was that love that was destroying her with guilt. How can you leave someone you love, and who loves you this much? she asked herself. Her gaze returned to y/n’s eyes, vision still blurred by tears, yet she could see the feeling behind those irises.

And she could also see the physical consequences her girlfriend’s body was suffering because of her job as an actress.

“I look at you…” her voice came out faint, her throat so tight it made speaking difficult.

“…and I don’t recognize you anymore,” she finished in a thread of a voice, her jaw trembling.

She felt another wave of tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Y/n’s lips parted but no sound came out.

“I see you forcing yourself to smile, to be strong for me…” Jenna went on, her voice breaking more and more. “But your eyes give you away. Every day you seem a little more tired, a little more empty. And I can’t… I can’t keep watching you waste away like this.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/n shook her head slowly. “I’m trying to get better. You know that. For us.”

“I know.” Jenna let a tear slip. “And that’s exactly what breaks me."

She moistened her lips.

“It’s clear you can’t handle my job, love” Jenna murmured gently.

Y/n’s hands clenched into fists as if she needed something solid to stay standing. “So what are you saying?”

Jenna closed her eyes for a second, then reopened them, shining with tears. “I’m saying that maybe.. maybe we have to break up”

Even if I don’t want to she told herself.

Those words fell between them like lead.

“No.” Y/n instinctively took a step forward. “You can’t be serious.”

Her hand gently took Jenna’s with a tenderness that clashed with the pain that was breaking her apart before the young actress’s eyes.

“I wish I weren’t.” A sob shook her chest. “But staying, pretending that love is enough to fix everything… it’s only hurting us.”

Tears began to stream down y/n’s face.

“I need you, Jenna.”

Jenna cupped her face in her hands, brushing her wet cheeks with her thumbs. She allowed herself a moment to take in her features, wanting to burn them into her memory: every line, every curve, the shape of her eyes, those small imperfections that, precisely because of that, made her unique and irreplaceable. Jenna sighed and, with two fingers, traced the outline of those lips she had kissed countless times and longed for every day she had been away for work.

She drew her closer and their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling, both trembling.

“I love you” Jenna whispered. “Damn it, I love you to death” she added in a shaky voice. A dull ache pressed against her chest, conflicting feelings screaming at her NOT TO LET HER GO, YOU’RE HURTING YOURSELF, tearing her apart.

But reason prevailed.

“And sometimes loving means having the courage to let go.”

[poisonlove]

𝒩𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑒𝒹

part 2

Status: request

Pairing: jenna Ortega X fem reader

Summary: On set for Wednesday, Jenna Ortega struggles with work stress but can’t stop thinking about her girlfriend, Y/N, whose exhaustion and anxiety reveal a growing emotional strain in their relationship. Jenna ends the call shaken, realizing their love may be becoming unhealthy.

A/n: i tried my best!

The costant vibration of the phone caught Jenna Ortega’s attention.

The young actress sat with her back rigid against the chair, chin lifted, forcing herself to remain perfectly still during the makeup session. The makeup artist worked in silence, lips pressed into a thin line that betrayed her concentration.

Jenna blinked and tried to distract herself by thinking about the next scene she was about to film. The wig designated for the character of Wednesday Addams itched at the back of her neck in an irritating way, a constant discomfort that made her fingers tingle with the urge to get rid of it.

Not to mention the wires inside the wig, pressing oppressively against her scalp.

Jenna pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose at the ticklish sensation. You just have to endure a couple more hours, she encouraged herself mentally. Then I can focus on fencing and cello lessons… they’ll keep me busy until late, she realized with a hint of dismay.

And yet, even as she tried to distract herself by listing everything she would do after the day’s shooting (especially taking off the damn wig) a name kept slipping into her mind, insistent and sweet: Y/N.

A gentle warmth bloomed in her chest; the corners of her mouth lifted on their own, betraying her feelings. Her heart fluttered, caught in that pleasant vertigo. It felt like floating, weightless.

Hopelessly in love.

A soft shiver ran through her body at the mere thought of her girlfriend. Jenna chuckled quietly to herself and earned a reproachful–curious glance from the makeup artist who was applying blush over her freckles.

“Sorry” Jenna murmured, biting her lower lip to hide her smile.

The phone vibrated again and coffee-colored eyes returned to the device resting on the makeup station. Jenna squinted slightly and her heart did a somersault when she saw the ID:

Love 👑♥️

She bit into the soft flesh of her lower lip and her black-painted nails lightly scratched the fabric of the Nevermore Academy uniform provided by production. Brown eyes darted toward the makeup artist, then back to the phone. Almost without realizing it Jenna leaned forward to grab it.

“Jen—” the makeup artist called out.

Jenna interrupted her almost immediately.

“It’s Y/n… it’ll take ten minutes.”

Her voice was calm, controlled, but her gaze betrayed an urgency she could no longer hide.

The woman rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Ahhh, young love” she muttered, leaving the room to give her privacy.

Jenna smiled to herself and immediately accepted the video call. Her free hand rose to her Cupid’s bow lips and she began to nibble at her nail in a nervous habit. She leaned forward, squinting slightly to focus on the image on the other side: a completely dark room, lit only by a lamp that faintly illuminated the desk—open books, scattered papers, handwritten notes.

Her lips stretched into a smile that revealed her dimples, and for a brief moment a golden glimmer surrounded her eyes at the sight of her girlfriend sitting on the desk in her bedroom.

“Hi, Darling.”Jenna’s voice came out soft, almost caressing.

“Are you still awake?”

Her girlfriend was at their house in Los Angeles and Jenna knew all too well about the ten-hour difference caused by the time zone between America and Romania. Talking was complicated, between her packed schedule for Wednesday and y/n’s university commitments. Still, she always tried to carve out every possible second. For her, just seeing or hearing her on the phone was enough to keep going—even though she knew that a long-distance relationship, no matter how much they loved each other, wore them both down.

Y/n’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“I’m studying” y/n replied, trying to sound light. “I’ve got my Cinema and Audiovisual exam in a few days.”

The voice was tired. Too tired.

Jenna smiled and tilted her head slightly. “Did you sleep?” she asked gently.

Y/n hesitated. Just for a moment.

“Not much.”

Jenna felt a dull ache bloom behind her sternum.

She sighed softly through her nose and leaned a bit closer, allowing y/n to see the Wednesday wig. Y/n chuckled and leaned in as well, tilting her head with a mischievous smile while pointing at the hairstyle with her index finger.

“It suits you.”

Jenna shot her a look—more theatrical than genuinely annoyed. Then she composed herself and turned her head toward the door, checking if anyone was about to come in.

Y/n watched her profile: the sharp, defined jawline, sculpted enough to cut paper.

When Jenna’s gaze returned to her, she really looked this time. Y/n’s eyes were reddened, glossy with exhaustion. Dark circles hollowed out her face. Her skin looked pale, dull under the artificial light. Her cheeks were more sunken than usual. Every so often, she clenched her jaw—a nervous tic that repeated itself, as if her body were in a constant state of alert.

Something sank inside Jenna.

“Love…” she began softly. “You know I love you, but… shouldn’t you rest?”

Concern cracked her voice. She tried to hide it, but failed.

Y/n clenched her jaw and furrowed her brows, confused. A flash of panic crossed her eyes. Her posture stiffened, shoulders lifting slightly.

“NO!” The answer came out too fast, too charged. “I miss you, Jenna… you have no idea how long I wait just to talk to you.”

Y/n swallowed hard. Her hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of the desk. Her breathing grew shallow, uneven.

“I’m fine” she added immediately, too quickly. “It’s just… the exam. And you work so much.”

Jenna drew her shoulders in, lips pressed tight. Her chest tightened painfully and the awareness of her girlfriend’s physical and mental state sent a sharp ache through her heart—she wasn’t okay. A knot formed in her stomach, her eyes stung.

She was gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

How could I have been so blind?

Was I really so absorbed in my work that I failed to see how my girlfriend was slowly wearing herself down?

She didn’t seem like herself anymore.

“I have to go, okay?” Jenna murmured softly. “We’ll talk later.”

She tried to smile but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.

On the other side of the screen, Y/n let out a trembling sigh. Jenna felt a sharp pain in her chest at the sight of that expression—pure fear, fear of abandonment—etched into her features. Y/n opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out; her jaw visibly trembled.

Jenna ended the video call unable to bear seeing her like that any longer.

The silence of the room crashed down on her.

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to hold back tears, breathing still uneven. Jenna brought a hand to her mouth and stifled a sob, the lump in her throat growing harder to manage.

None of this was healthy.

And for the first time, Jenna knew it with a clarity that hurt.

[sukiiverse23]

the type of bf ⌖, 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

Jobe is the type of bf that would act nonchalant in front of people, but is truly the clingiest, caring guy in the world

Jobe, that type of bf to hold your hand when y'all are out

Jobe is the type of bf to think about you all day

Jobe is the type of bf to keep his private life only to close friends and family, so when his teammates or other friends hear he has a gf, they were shocked.

Jobe is the type of bf to carry all your stuff

Jobe is the type of bf that stresses when trying to pick out the right gift

Jobe is the type of bf to cuddle at any given moment

Jobe is the shy type

Jobe, who would save you as his screen saver on all devices

Jobe, who spams his gf text with updates all day

Jobe, who hates when you have to leave for work, because he does not want you to travel abroad and just wishes you would stay

Jobe, who is begging you to quit your job and stay, but know how much working means to you

Jobe, who genuinely gets the ick when other girls try to ask him out

Jobe, who smiles from ear to ear when you surprise him by coming home randomly

requested by: @muse666s

Sorry for the delay!!

[yyeahhx10]

https://www.tumblr.com/yyeahhx10/820794386892881920/jude-bellingham-hc?source=share

hii I loved this reading of yours, can you also do Jobe?? 🥹

Jobe Bellingham hc

Masterlist

Jobe Bellingham head canons as your footballer boyfriend.

Note: ty for the request! Remember everything is fictional 🫰

BallerBf!Jobe who always texts you during trainings and games. The minute he gets benched as substitute he grabs your phone to text you and update on how the game is going as if you’re not watching every minute of it.

BallerBf!Jobe who knows you’re not as athletic as him but still goes easy on you and purposely plays bad in order for you to do well.

BallerBf!Jobe that tried his best to teach you some football tricks that you absolutely botched, in which he never lost patience and could only laugh and repeat to learn you the right way.

BallerBf!Jobe who sees you get embarrassed when you kick the ball the opposite way and gets all giggly like it’s the cutest thing ever.

BallerBf!Jobe who got you a custom football shirt made with ‘Jobe Bellingham#7’ on it. And for himself he got one too but with your last name instead.

BallerBf!Jobe who then kept wanting you to wear his shirt while he wore he shirt with your last name on it to show you off.

[runneski]

“They look at each other like they were almost lovers, like they should have kissed and made love and laughed in bed together, but they chose to stay friends instead. They look at each other with what ifs and could haves and hearts full of regrets.” — Nikita Gill

𖨠──··· ONESHOT ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ 🦋 ་༘࿐

╰┈➤Pairing: Katara x reader

a/n: for a world that appreciates my girl more

Summary: She’s trying so hard to pretend she’s not in love with you.

wc: 2.3K

Contains: little bit of angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, staring lovingly, soft kisses, friends to lovers, reader has warm hands, bad writing

⤷ ゛ ᯓ★ ˎˊ˗ 𓏲ּ𝄢 . . . START NOW .ᐟ.ᐟ

There were women whose beauty was simply unreal. Women who seemed to have been blessed by the world and, even in their most difficult moments, looked gorgeous.

Katara belonged to that group of women.

Because even right now, filled with disappointment and regret, it was still hard not to admire her. To not want to hold her and be with her forever.

You understood why Aang had proposed to her. Because Katara wasn't just beautiful. She had a multitude of qualities that made her almost perfect.

There was a saying that no one could achieve perfection, but the truth was... you doubted it.

Your best friend, even in her mistakes, still had redeeming qualities.

Although... you shouldn't think that way about a friend.

Katara sighed sadly when you finished braiding her hair. She didn't even react.

Since the night Aang proposed, she had been like this. Sad and tired. You dared to say she was disappointed… because she had said no.

They were supposed to take some time apart, but Katara preferred to end things before hurting him further or wasting any more of his time. She knew they wouldn't recover from that incident. Although, Aang didn't agree with that.

"Hey." You murmured sweetly and affectionately touched her chin.

Katara reacted to your touch and smiled fondly before touching her hair absently, acknowledging the braid.

"Thank you." She said in a low tone before shrugging, her expression still somber and distant.

You missed seeing her smile so much.

"You know you can talk to me about how you feel, right?" you asked gently, touching her shoulder. "I'm here for whatever you need."

The girl seemed to hesitate. Her mouth opened, but she couldn't utter a word, as if something in her heart wasn't yet ready to... communicate.

As if an invisible chain held her back.

The brunette shook her head and offered you a strained smile.

"It's best if you don't," she murmured. "You're already doing so much for me."

"Katara, I'm your friend," you replied. The last thing you would allow was for her to feel guilty for... seeking help. "You needed a place to stay; obviously, I wasn't going to leave you stranded on the street."

"I know, y/n. It's just... I feel heavy. Like it's all my fault. Aang loves me, and for years I believed that... i loved me too, but it wasn't until he officially asked me to build a life with him that I felt like the world was crashing down on me."

Katara almost sounded... annoyed, actually. Although the sadness and frustration were greater... heavier. You could hear how upset she was. "Is that what you want to hear me say?" Her voice became a thread.

"Yes, Katara." You answered without hesitation in a soft tone. "Because you need to allow yourself to heal. You're not 'heavy' like you say. Besides, this isn't your fault."

"Except it is." The woman argued. "You know it is, y/n. Why would I stay with someone I don't love for so many years? You should have seen his face when I said no." Katara shook her head and placed a hand on her chest, her voice trembling; as if she were about to cry. "It was almost like I destroyed his life, y/n."

"Then why don't you go back?" you asked, taking her hands as you looked into her eyes. "There must be a reason you regret it, right? Maybe the shock made you react the wrong way. You clearly care for him, Katara."

"Yes, I care for him," she murmured almost in a cry. "But I don't love him, and I realized that too late."

Silence filled the room, instantly killing the conversation. You didn't know how to help her with something like this.

It wasn't just about Aang and a long-standing relationship lost. No.

Katara herself seemed lost.

"Hey," you murmured, gently touching her cheek.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but you froze and your breath hitched.

For a moment, you thought she would push you away, in fact, you wished she would, but she didn't... so you made the decision yourself.

It was wrong.

What you felt for her, and how much those feelings had intensified since the first week she'd stayed.

It was wrong.

You let out a breath and feigned calm with a small smile.

"I think you really need someone," you said gently. "Well... more than someone, it's a whole place."

The woman's brow furrowed, and she looked at you, confused, waiting for you to continue.

"Katara," you insisted, as if it were obvious, but still polite. "The Southern Water Tribe. Where your dad, your grandmother... Sokka is." You said, then shrugged. "If I'm honest, I mean your brother more than anyone. You've been through so much together, and then you started making separate lives."

"Where are you going with this? Do you want me to leave?"

"No. I don't want you to leave, Katara. I like having you here, but you don't want to be here," you replied.

"But I don't even know where I want to be, y/n! I made my whole life in republic city. It's all I know now!"

You remained silent, watching her finally react and release the frustration that had been consuming her. Because at least Katara was doing something. Saying something. Even if it was with anger, you were glad she was finally letting it out.

The brunette covered her face in embarrassment and sighed wearily.

"I'm sorry.”

You shook your head and smiled at her.

"You should rest. Let's talk about this in the morning." And before she could argue, you left.

Which, truth be told… she hated. At least now she felt like she could breathe normally again. Lately, whenever it came to you, her heart would race, and she had no idea how to act.

Although... "lately" was nothing more than an old excuse, one she repeated over and over again.

She had been able to look through it.

She had been able to ignore it.

She even thought she could forget it.

Until Aang asked her for his life... officially. At that moment, panic gripped her chest, and she couldn't even utter a word. At least not that she remembered.

Katara assumed she had said no, because she remembers Aang's sudden change of heart and the disappointment that spread across his once-excited face.

The truth was that Katara simply couldn't keep lying to herself for another day. Especially not when one more day would mean an eternal seal... where the lie would have to become a reality from which she could never escape.

She refused to do that to a friend.

Because before being her boyfriend, Aang had been her friend, and he didn't deserve a life filled with lies, even though for years... she had pretended.

And it wasn't as if loving Aang was difficult. Of course not.

Aang was one of the kindest people she knew. Any woman would be lucky to call herself his wife.

Only that said woman wasn't her, and not because she hadn't tried, but because there was someone else buried deep in her heart, so deep and hidden that she no longer even knew what it meant.

Or perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to ignoring it, to the point that seeking it out now felt illogical, confusing, and... wrong.

Katara groaned softly and lay down on the bed, defeated.

She was going to agree with you. The best thing to do was go to sleep and... maybe wake up with a clearer head. Now, she was only going to become more frustrated than she already was, which was completely counterproductive.

The following days were a battle in themselves. She couldn't sleep, she hated having to talk about Aang, while you insisted she had to.

You only wanted to help her, but Katara didn't feel ready to be helped. Especially when one of her problems involved you in such a... intimate way.

Even the way you said his name. Nothing was... normal anymore. Everything made her nervous and made her tremble with desires she couldn't control. At least not anymore.

Katara sighed and placed her teacup on the table before looking up at you. You were sitting quietly, eating your breakfast, but you realized her attention was on you.

"Katara?"

The woman bit her lower lip and closed her eyes briefly.

"Maybe you're right," she murmured, and you raised an eyebrow.

You sat up straight and pushed your food aside. It was happening, or so you thought. But even if it wasn't, you had to pay attention to whatever she was about to say.

"I think... I think I should go home," she said quietly, looking away.

Katara heard you get up and winced slightly as her heart raced. She was glad to have you around, but she couldn't help wishing you would go away.

"Are you sure about that?" you asked gently, which made her stifle a sigh.

You were driving her completely crazy.

"Yes," she finally answered, looking up. "Before... when you made the suggestions, I got upset and wasn't thinking straight. Although, I am grateful you didn't bring it up again, I haven't been able to... stop thinking about it."

The brunette stopped, not because she needed air or because she thought you were going to say something. She just stopped because telling the truth was always complicated.

Leaving meant changes. Many more than she was already facing, and she hated it... she had become so accustomed to the life she had with Aang that sometimes she longed to run back into his arms.

But again, Aang didn't deserve a half-life.

Aang deserved a full, peaceful life filled with genuine love, with someone who didn't fill it with lies and fake "I love yous."

She didn't deserve a life as sad as that either.

"I was upset because I didn't think I could handle another change. I was clinging to everything I know... to the present. As if nothing would be different." She muttered and felt your hand on her shoulder. A warm touch, a living touch. "I haven't visited the South in years, I don't even think I can imagine what it really looks like. It's almost embarrassing."

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Katara." You said gently, touching her chin to lift her gaze. You smiled at her. "You had a life here, you were happy."

"That's no excuse to forget the life I used to have." Katara replied, her voice cracked slightly. “I used to love my life there too.”

"But you didn't forget it, you're coming back." You insisted.

"Because now I need it back," she said instead.

Then you pinched her, and she pulled your hand away from her shoulder, making a face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, annoyed.

"You're so stubborn." You sighed, ignoring her question, and shrugged simply.

Katara hit you on the shoulder. She didn't really mean to hurt you, but it was hard enough to be annoying, just like the pinch you gave her before.

"Hey!"

She smiled.

"An eye for an eye." Katara said as if that was enough justification.

She was… playful.

Your face was a picture, and Katara couldn't help but laugh before backing away, wary but still playful.

"Until we go blind," you said before going after her.

For several long minutes, maybe even an hour, the two of you played all over the house. You ran all over the house, making a mess in the process. But neither of you really cared.

You didn't care because Katara was finally acting like your best friend again.

No.

Katara was finally acting like the woman you loved.

Katara didn't care because it was the first time in a long time that her mind was blank and focused on the beauty of the present. No past mistakes, regrets, or sadness.

For the first time in a long time, she felt light.

Now, you both were on the ground, catching your breath, but still smiling and happy.

That’s when she urned to look at you.

She knew. She'd been aware of it before, and she was especially aware of it now. Now that her heart, for a moment, seemed to stop and the tips of her fingers seemed to go numb.

Katara was the best healer in the world. She knew perfectly well that she wasn't dying and that this wasn't a case, not at all, for a doctor.

She was in love with you, and right now she was dying to kiss you.

Katara imagined herself doing it. Slowly cupping your face in her hands, looking into your eyes, waiting for permission.

Katara pictured your warm hands on her cheek and neck, drawing her closer to your lips. She imagined kissing you slowly, tenderly, and carefully.

Because it was a kiss she had waited so long for, she didn't want to rush it. She wanted it to last forever.

Katara wanted that, at least, to be real.

Then you turned to look at her.

And for a moment, brief and tender... for a moment, you understood each other beyond friendship.

You saw more than just a friend.

"Y/N," Katara murmured.

You moved closer to her and placed your hand on her cheek. Katara sighed at the warm sensation, and before she could even think twice... she kissed you.

The truth finally overflowing in the kiss she gave you, and which you eventually returned.

When you parted, you couldn't bring yourselves to go far apart. They stayed close, their hands on each other's faces, trying not to move too much.

It was too precious and sacred. Almost like a dream you wished would never end.

"I'm going to miss you when I leave," the brunette murmured, and heard you complain under your breath.

"Now I regret ever suggesting anything," you replied in the same tone, but no less petulant.

You made her laugh.

"You’re so dramatic," she whispered, and before you could respond... Katara stole a kiss.

But more than that, it was a promise.

⤷ ゛ ᯓ★ ˎˊ˗ 𓏲ּ𝄢 . . . THE END .ᐟ.ᐟ

© N E S K I • 2026 — any reposts or translations of my works are strictly prohibited unless granted permission. Do not feed my work into any AI programs.

[vivilvr]

Rendezvous - 33.

Manon misses her ex and is determined to win her back. But first, she must know how her ex is feeling. This is when she decides to hire her younger friend Megan to do some spy work and scope out if there's still a chance. What begins as harmless plan soon backfires, unravelling into uncovered emotions, shifting loyalties and new relationships.

is this a prank

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[vivilvr]

Rendezvous - 32.

Manon misses her ex and is determined to win her back. But first, she must know how her ex is feeling. This is when she decides to hire her younger friend Megan to do some spy work and scope out if there's still a chance. What begins as harmless plan soon backfires, unravelling into uncovered emotions, shifting loyalties and new relationships.

#hacked

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[vivilvr]

Rendezvous - 31.

Manon misses her ex and is determined to win her back. But first, she must know how her ex is feeling. This is when she decides to hire her younger friend Megan to do some spy work and scope out if there's still a chance. What begins as harmless plan soon backfires, unravelling into uncovered emotions, shifting loyalties and new relationships.

funky night

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[vivilvr]

Rendezvous - 30.

Manon misses her ex and is determined to win her back. But first, she must know how her ex is feeling. This is when she decides to hire her younger friend Megan to do some spy work and scope out if there's still a chance. What begins as harmless plan soon backfires, unravelling into uncovered emotions, shifting loyalties and new relationships.

a new friend

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[vivilvr]

Rendezvous - 29.

Manon misses her ex and is determined to win her back. But first, she must know how her ex is feeling. This is when she decides to hire her younger friend Megan to do some spy work and scope out if there's still a chance. What begins as harmless plan soon backfires, unravelling into uncovered emotions, shifting loyalties and new relationships.

snake (wc: 1k)

Both the girls jumped at the sound of the door, their souls leaving their skin. Y/n stood there. Her breathing was uneven, one of the water bottles still clutched so tightly it looked like it might explode in her hand while the other had clearly been dropped somewhere in the hallway. Her expression looked almost unreadable at first but her eyes gave everything away.

Was it shock? Humiliation? Anger? All of the above. And hurt. So much hurt it radiated off of her and filled the room, making Megan’s stomach drop instantly.

“Y/n-”

“So you didn’t even like me like that?” Her voice cracked through the room before Megan could say anything else.

Manon’s face drained of color.

Y/n laughed once, but there was nothing remotely amused about it. “What the fuck have we been doing this whole time then?”

Megan immediately pushed away from the mirrors. “No, listen to me-”

“No!” Y/n snapped, backing away from her. “No, because I just stood out there listening to you both talk about me like I’m some fucking experiment.”

“That’s not what this is.” Megan said quickly.

“Oh really?” Y/n’s voice rose. “Because from what I heard, you were spying on me for her!”

Manon looked horrified now, finally realizing exactly how much Y/n had overheard.

“Y/n-”

“And we kissed Megan!” Y/n shouted over her, eyes glossy now with anger more than sadness. “We kissed. I spend every single day with you. Did that mean nothing to you?”

“I know,” Megan said immediately, panic creeping into her voice now. “I know, okay? It did I-”

“What the fuck Megan?” Manon suddenly cut in.

Both girls looked at her. Manon stared at Megan in disbelief, anger flaring all over again. “You literally JUST fucking told me there wasn’t anything going on between you two.”

Megan looked completely trapped now, eyes darting between both of them.

“Manon..”

“No seriously what is wrong with you?” Manon barked. “You knew I still liked her. You knew I wanted her back, and this whole time you were what? Having your own fun with her behind my back?”

“It wasn’t like that!”

“You fucking snake.”

“Don’t call me that.” Megan snapped back instantly.

“Then what should I call you?” Manon shot back grabbing at the collar of the pink haired girls shirt. “Because this is insane!”

Y/n stared at both of them like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Like somehow the situation just kept getting worse and worse.

“You know what’s actually insane?” she said, voice shaking now. “The fact you’re both acting like this is about you.”

Neither of them answered. Y/n looked at Manon first, rage finally boiling over completely. “You had this planned from the start.”

Manon stepped forward ready to defend herself. “Y/n, I-”

*SLAP.*

The sound cracked through the practice room so loudly it echoed. Manon stumbled slightly from the force of it, one hand flying to her cheek in shock. For a second, nobody moved at all. Even Y/n looked startled by herself for half a heartbeat before the anger came flooding back harder.

“Don’t stand there acting entitled,” she spat at Manon. “You started this.”

Manon stared at her, stunned speechless.

“You wanted someone to spy on me because you were too much of a coward to talk to me yourself?” Y/n’s voice shook violently now. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You fucking inconsiderate evil selfish bitch.” Y/n spewed out curse upon curse, almost running out of breath, which she had seemingly been holding in ever since the breakup with Manon.

“Y/n..”

“No!” she shouted. “You don’t get to say my name right now.”

Megan stepped forward carefully. “Okay, everyone just calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Y/n yelled, spinning toward her now. Megan stopped immediately.

“You both treated me like some pawn,” Y/n continued, tears finally spilling over now out of pure fury. “Like I’m just some object you can pass around while you figure your feelings out.”

“That’s not what happened,” Megan said desperately.

“Then what did happen?” Y/n shot back. “Because right now it feels like everything was fake. Genuinly what the fuck is wrong with the both of you?”

Megan’s lips began trembling at that, her eyes glossing over. She was trying so hard to hold her tears back, her throat was in pain.

And somehow that only made Y/n angrier. “Don’t tear up on me now, you are not the victim here.” She snapped.

Megan opened her mouth again, but nothing came out. For once, she genuinely didn’t know what to say.

Y/n laughed bitterly, wiping angrily at her face. “God, you’re both actually unbelievable.” She turned sharply toward the door.

“Wait please~” Megan reached for her instinctively grabbing lightly at her wrist.

Y/n ripped her hand away immediately. “Don’t touch me.”

The quiet words hit harder than the yelling had. Megan physically recoiled slightly like she’d been burned.

“I’m leaving,” Y/n said, voice breaking completely now. “Stay the fuck away from me. Both of you.”

Then she was gone. The door slammed behind her hard enough to shake the mirrors. A ringing silence crashed down over the room. Megan stood frozen in place, breathing unevenly, eyes fixed on the door like she still hadn’t processed what just happened.

Manon looked shaken too, one hand still pressed against her cheek. For a long second, neither of them moved. Then suddenly Manon turned and hurried after Y/n.

“Y/n wait!”

The hallway outside was almost empty now, fluorescent lights harsh against the dark windows lining the corridor. Y/n spun around immediately when she heard footsteps behind her.

“You couldn’t stay before,” she shouted, voice raw from crying and yelling, it was obvious that it was taking a lot of effort for her to speak. “Why the fuck are you following me now?”

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