So I received the most vile anonymous ask tonight asking me why I ‘pretend to write a crazy amount of fic in a week’ and it’s impossible so I must be using AI to write.
Not only is this untrue, it’s also hugely insulting and has just made me really sad.
So, even thought I shouldn’t have to explain myself, I thought I would after having a good cry about it all. I don’t use AI. Some of these fics are written from as far back as 2024. I’m also currently unemployed after a breakdown at work so I have ALOT of spare time and get hyper fixated on writing often through the night.
I didn’t have to share my work but I did and now I have no idea why I did if I’m going to get nasty anonymous messages about things I worked really hard on.
So I’m going to delete my AO3 account and step away from my tumblr account to think about if I ever want to come back because it’s truly not worth getting panic attacks over mean people on the internet at my big age.
vai se foder porra, por causa de gente idiota e estúpida, que não tem coragem de mostrar a porra do rosto na internet e fica se escondendo atrás de anônimo, as pessoas estão só decidindo parar de publicar > em sua própria conta < o que escreve
o quão infeliz o ser humano tem que ser pra ficar perturbando os outros, isso me estressa demais
Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.
So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.
She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.
Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.
Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.
People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.
Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.
Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.
It was the dream Ghostface scenario.
But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.
"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"
And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.
So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.
But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.
She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.
It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.
She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.
"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."
Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."
Sam blinked. "Just no?"
"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"
Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.
It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.
So she tried again.
"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"
"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."
Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.
Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."
Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."
"But you've never met her?"
"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."
Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"
Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.
Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"
Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"
"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"
Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."
"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"
"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"
Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"
"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"
Sam didn't answer.
Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."
"And you think she's the answer?"
"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."
Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."
Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"
"That's not what I—"
"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."
Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.
She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.
She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.
So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.
It was with Tara. With you.
Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.
Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.
But it didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.
After that, it just... continued.
One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.
She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.
"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."
She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.
Sam hated how familiar it sounded.
She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.
But she didn't like it. Any of it.
Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.
"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.
"What does that mean?"
Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.
But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.
"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."
Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.
Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.
And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.
And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.
Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.
But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.
The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.
The door was open an inch.
Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.
Just familiar.
Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.
Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.
It just looked easy.
Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.
Sam's jaw clenched.
She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.
It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.
Too comfortable. Too fast.
You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.
Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.
There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.
But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.
She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."
It didn't matter.
She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.
Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.
You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.
You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.
"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"
She didn't take it.
"I'm just here to pick up my sister."
The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.
There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.
You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.
"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."
That was when Sam felt it.
The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.
Sam hated it.
She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.
Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.
She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.
Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.
"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."
"Traffic was light."
Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.
Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.
You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.
Sam watched all of it.
You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.
Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.
Sam didn't believe that for a second.
Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"
"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."
"No, Monday's good."
You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."
And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.
The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.
She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.
"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."
Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.
"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.
"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."
"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."
Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.
It wasn't jealousy.
But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.
The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.
Then she started talking.
Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.
Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.
Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.
"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."
Sam didn't respond.
She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.
And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.
Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.
And this time, it wasn't going away.
The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."
At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.
But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.
You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.
It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.
But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.
Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.
You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.
She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.
And then there was that afternoon.
Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.
Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.
But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.
When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.
But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.
"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.
Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."
Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."
Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"
"Like what?”
"You know what."
Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.
From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.
A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.
She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.
And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.
You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.
A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.
It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.
She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.
Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.
You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.
You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."
You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.
None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.
What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.
It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.
But it was something else. Something worse.
It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.
That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.
She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.
She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.
But she already knew how that would go.
They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."
And then you had entered the picture.
And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.
But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.
It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.
Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.
You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.
Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.
"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."
Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.
But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.
"You let her come here?"
Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."
"You didn't think to tell me?"
"I didn't think you'd care."
That part stung most of all.
Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.
And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.
Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.
But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.
Because Sam didn't trust anyone.
Not really. Not anymore.
Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.
She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.
So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.
You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.
That was the worst part.
You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.
Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.
So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.
And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.
She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.
And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.
Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.
She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.
And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.
Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.
She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.
She saw it coming.
She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.
You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.
And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.
Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?
She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.
So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.
Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.
No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.
And Sam didn't know what it was yet.
But she was going to find out.
Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.
And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.
She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.
And today had been hell.
The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.
By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.
All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.
But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.
It was you.
There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.
Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.
Of course Tara had invited you over again.
Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.
Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.
She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.
Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."
"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."
You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."
She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.
She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.
Because there you were again.
In her space.
In Tara's space.
And Sam could already feel what was coming.
The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.
She headed straight for the sink.
The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.
Of course.
Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.
Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.
One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.
"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.
"Fine," Sam muttered.
She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.
But she couldn't not.
Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.
And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.
She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.
No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.
And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.
That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.
It made something snap loose in her chest.
She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.
Her stomach twisted.
Because she knew she wasn't being fair.
But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.
And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.
Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.
You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.
She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.
She wanted you gone.
"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"
Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.
Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"
You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."
Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.
"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."
Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.
Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."
Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.
So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."
Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."
You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.
And that made Sam's chest clench.
Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.
And Sam couldn't fucking take it.
The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.
"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”
You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.
"Or is this really just tutoring?"
The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.
Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.
"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."
Your throat tightened.
Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"
"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."
A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.
This was thick. Charged.
"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.
But she wasn't done.
"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"
Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.
"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"
Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."
Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.
"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."
You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.
"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"
Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.
"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"
That one echoed. That one stuck.
You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.
But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.
"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."
And then, silence.
Still and tight and ugly.
Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.
And now it just sat there between you all.
Burning.
That was it. That was the one that landed.
Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.
And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.
She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.
Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.
Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.
Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY
___
Everything shifted after that night.
You hadn't raised your voice.
Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.
You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”
Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"
But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.
"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."
Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.
"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.
You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”
And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.
The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.
"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."
Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.
Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.
"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."
Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.
"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"
"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."
"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."
"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"
Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."
And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.
Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.
And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.
A week passed.
Tutoring didn't happen.
There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.
But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.
Still — she noticed.
She noticed everything.
She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.
She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.
And Sam could connect the dots.
Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.
You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.
And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.
Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.
She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.
But she thought about it.
At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.
She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.
And Tara wasn't letting it go either.
She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.
Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.
It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But it was punishment.
And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.
Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.
Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.
Sam thought Tara would get over it.
And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.
But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.
Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.
And the sessions started again.
No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.
Still good for tonight?
Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.
yeah. of course.
And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.
But it wasn't the same.
Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.
You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.
But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.
You were her tutor. That was it.
And Tara noticed it right away.
The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.
By the second session, it was a pattern.
You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.
Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.
But it was obvious something had changed.
And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.
"Did something happen?"
You looked up, caught off guard.
Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.
She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.
Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"
And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.
"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."
Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.
"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."
Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."
You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.
Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."
That caught Tara off guard. "What?"
You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."
Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"
"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."
But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.
And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.
"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"
"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."
Tara blinked. "What?"
You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."
And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.
Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.
You didn't want to come over anymore.
You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.
"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."
She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.
But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.
Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.
So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.
That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."
Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"
And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU
Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.
And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.
But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.
And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.
And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.
Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.
Tara could feel it.
And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.
She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.
But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.
She took it as confirmation.
You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.
And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.
So she started paying attention.
Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.
She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.
And she'd just... paused.
Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.
It didn't mean anything.
Except it did.
Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.
It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.
To make sure.
To be sure.
To prove she was right.
Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.
That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.
And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.
So she followed.
Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.
But because she knew something was wrong with you.
And she needed to see it for herself.
At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.
But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.
You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.
You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.
Just... distant.
Like you were only halfway there.
It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.
You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.
Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.
By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.
You were just... sad.
Moving through your day like a ghost.
And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.
So she buried it.
Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.
And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.
"Errands."
"Walked around a bit."
"There's this new place opening on 9th."
"Needed some air."
None of it true.
But all of it necessary.
Because she had to be right.
Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.
Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...
She wasn't sure she could live with it.
So she kept watching.
Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.
The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.
She just needed to see.
You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.
You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.
That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.
You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.
You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.
That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.
But she didn't stop following you.
She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.
And that's when she saw it:
In loving memory of Harper L/N
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece
★ November 20 2002
✞ April 23rd 2021
More than anything we could've wished for.
She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.
It hit her like a punch to the ribs.
Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.
You'd just seen her.
Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.
Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.
But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.
She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.
And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.
Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.
So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.
And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.
But she couldn't.
She tried.
She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.
But it didn't pass.
Days went by, and it stayed.
It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.
And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.
Sorry.
After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?
It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.
Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?
Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?
Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.
And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?
It pissed her off. All of it.
She didn't want to care.
She wasn't supposed to care.
But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.
And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.
But Sam always had the same answer.
You don't know what people are.
That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.
But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.
Harper.
She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.
So yeah — she wanted to apologize.
Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.
But the chance never came.
She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.
But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.
And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.
She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.
So she tried something else.
"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."
She said it again the next time. And the next.
Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.
But every time, it ended the same.
You were "in a rush."
Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.
And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.
But she didn't believe it.
She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.
And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.
She couldn't blame you.
But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.
And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.
When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.
But she was.
She was waiting for you.
She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.
You saw her before Tara did.
Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.
Tara clocked her a second later.
"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."
Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."
You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.
Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"
You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."
You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.
"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."
You both looked at her. Tara blinked.
"Why?"
"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."
Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”
"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."
Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."
"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."
That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"
"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."
Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.
And that was all Sam needed.
"Go wait in the car."
Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.
Then it was just you and Sam.
And that silence — it hit hard.
You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.
Sam didn't waste time.
"I was wrong," she said.
Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.
"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."
You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.
"Thank you."
That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.
And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.
Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.
She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.
But you hadn't.
You forgave her like it was easy.
Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.
And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.
The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.
The way Tara always texted you first.
The way you never asked for anything.
The way no one else really said your name.
She hadn't seen it before.
Now she couldn't unsee it.
And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.
No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.
Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.
She didn't ask what was said.
And Sam didn't offer.
But the silence was lighter than usual.
That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.
So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.
She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.
You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?
She tried to let it go.
But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.
You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.
Small things.
After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.
Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.
"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.
So she did.
And it didn't stop there.
Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"
Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"
Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."
"You want her to come?"
"I don't care."
But she did.
Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.
Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.
You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.
And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.
She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.
She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.
And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.
It wasn't about proving a point anymore.
It wasn't about earning forgiveness.
She just... liked you.
More than she should.
And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.
And that... made her angry.
Because she wasn't supposed to like you.
That wasn't what this was.
You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.
And then Tara had said it.
"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"
Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"
"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."
Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.
"It's not weird. I'm being polite."
"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.
"I'm trying," Sam snapped.
Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."
And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.
So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.
You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.
"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.
You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.
"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."
You blinked. Confused.
She kept going — because stopping would be worse.
"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."
You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.
Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."
Sam's chest tightened.
"I just didn't want to get in the way."
She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.
"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."
You nodded. "Okay."
Another silence.
Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.
She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.
Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.
"Thank you," you said.
Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.
But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.
She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.
She just... did.
And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.
She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.
She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.
She wanted to know you.
That was it.
Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.
And you — you changed too.
Gradually. Carefully.
It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.
One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.
You said yes.
It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.
She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.
At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.
"Get home safe," you murmured.
"You too," she said, like it was habit now.
You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.
She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.
It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.
You were just you.
It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.
You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.
You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.
And she started to notice things.
Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.
She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.
You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.
And those were the nights that lingered.
One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.
You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.
That was new.
And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.
She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.
It didn't happen all at once.
But it happened.
And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.
She let herself want you.
Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.
She started noticing the small things.
How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.
She started listening more.
Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.
And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.
It was you.
The way you leaned into her when you were tired.
The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.
The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.
She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.
But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.
It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.
In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.
In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.
And then
And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.
So did she.
And for a second, neither of you moved.
You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.
And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.
Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.
She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.
Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.
You kissed her back.
Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.
When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.
And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.
She just felt... full.
Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.
You pulled back first. But only barely.
You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.
She didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.
She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.
She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.
And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.
Rio is Bold / Professor Rio Vidal / Professor Calderu / Billy and Peter Parker are friends / Dead Poet Society Feels / Fluff and Hurt / Art College Aesthetic / Fine Art / Painter / BULLYING / Harassment / Longer vibes gone wrong / Found Family / Art Studio Aesthetic / No Agatha in this /
My Masterlist
You had heard a lot about Professor Vidal.
That she was cruel and liked to make fun of students thaat didn’t come prepared. You’d heard her grading system was nuts. That she never used a TA. Because she demanded perfection on every level.
Professor Vidal taught Fine Art classes, but you had to take all of the prerequisite classes first. So, only Seniors ever really got to work with Vidal.
She hated stupid questions, she despised mediocre attempts at art.
When you’d first arrived in New York City you’d walked into a gallery and it just so happened to be showing your future professors work.
It was a random Tuesday, and you were gawking at her landscape paintings. She had a way of painting greenery, these gorgeous plants, like she herself created plants, like some sort of green witch.
You were staring at a smaller painting she’d done of a tree being caught on fire by lightning. It held everything in it. And you wish you could have bought it. But you were a broke ass college student.
The art curator noticed how long you’d been looking at it. She came over and introduced herself as Jennifer Kale, you knew who she was. She and her girlfriend ran most of the SoHo art galleries. They even worked with the MET. Alice, her long-time partner was a curator of big names. She got the goods into museums and into her girlfriend's collection. Lorna, Alice’s mother, had started one of the biggest art collectives in all of New York. They were legendary, practically artist royalty.
“Do you like it?” Jennifer asked and you didn’t know how to answer simply.
“It’s exactly what love and fear feel like.” You said and Jennifer smiled at you, you wondered if she thought you were some cute fresh face shit, and knew nothing of her world. But she was kind, and told you about the artist.
‘Rio Vidal’
You never forgot the name of your favorite artist.
You’d returned many times since that first visit, and Jennifer knew you by name. You’d even met Alice twice, and they’d asked you about your art. You’d been uninterested in talking about yourself and would change the subject as often as you could.
But you started to bring them coffee, not because you wanted anything in return. Just because you were sure, it must be annoying for a broke college student to stare at art in their gallery and not buy anything.
“Girl, you are broke. Stop buying me coffee. When am I going to see what you make?” Jennifer teased as you sat on the bench, sipping coffee with her and staring at one of your professor's newest pieces.
“What she means is thank you! You are very sweet! You don’t need to buy coffee for us! We would let you in here to stare at art after we close if thats what you want!” Alice yelled form the backroom and Jen smiled at her girlfriend.
You looked at Jen and pointed to your ring finger asking ‘when are you gonna ask?” Jen rolled her eyes and put her finger to her lips to shut you up.
They’d become a sort of found family for you, yet you kept them at arm's length.
“How’s school going?”
“Good, ya know what. I have class! I’ll see you later.” You tell Jen, and she looks peeved at you for running away from her.
“Just like that? You do this all the time! You know, friends talk to one another!” She calls after you, but your art bag is slung over your shoulder, and you blow her a kiss before leaving.
You toss your empty coffee cup out on your way towards the subway entrance Swiping your phone across the scanner and going through the turnstyle. You put your airpods in before just catching the right train.
Sitt crossing your legs, you’d been smart and not worn your boots today. Going instead with a pair of red vans. You’d dropped so much paint on them you couldn’t completely tell the original color anymore.
You had class with Professor Vidal, in an hour.
Yesterday you had gotten the letter. And you were nervous to see Rio again.
It was a small red envelope with a black heart on the back. You’d opened it to see a combo to the locked room a studio at the top of the building. It had the biggest windows and huge skylights. It wasn’t a very large studio space. But in your art college this was..everything. Professor Vidal’s invites were elusive and impossible to get.
This was better than honors or getting on the Dean’s list. This was far more hard to accomplish.
There were artist who had been shown in museums all over the world or even worked for big studios in L.A who never got an invite when they’d attended the college.
Rios predecessor was an artist and professor who started this almost Dead Poet Society type of club.
Professor Calderu, she’d gotten a little older and retired from teaching but she was still a head member on the board.
The rumor was that Calderu taught Vidal back in the day. Vidal had experienced having her art shown in Tokyo, Paris, Rome and had lived abroad in Germany. Where she’d made a big name.
Vidal had won prizes and had a small fortune from her art.
But one September Calderu called her home, and it was like Vidal had made a deal with the devil. Because she dropped everything and came to take Calderu’s position.
Everyone wanted to know why someone would give up their fame and fortune to return to teaching. But Lilia called Rio and she had done just that.
Like she’d been groomed for it. Like they’d had a deal all along.
That was ten years ago now, and Rio Vidal had been just as scary as Calderu. You’d seen Calderus work now, it made sense that they were kindred spirits.
Calderu painted these gorgeous women in various dangerous situations, their face full of ecsticy, naked, about to be killed. A lot of them were witches about to be burned. The images were enough to make you cry.
The two of them had such a way of capturing emotion, bottling it almost. It’s what made them the best.
You didn’t completely understand how you’d gotten the invite then.
You knew you were talented, to an extent. Obviously being a young artist who grew up in a bad home. You never completely believe you were talented. But you got into this college from your portfolio. So that had to mean something.
You knew your classmates were talented.
So when Rio’s dark black fingernails dropped the invite you thought maybe she’d made a mistake. Perhaps she meant a different student?
You didn’t belong in her Dead Poet Society. You were sure of that.
Thought you couldn’t ignore how Professor Vidal had started to talk about you.
It all started with her grabbing you painting off your easel. Walking in front of the classroom and demanding their attention.
You were holding your breath, paintbrush not even dropping from midair where you were about to add to it.
She’d just yanked it off and was using it as a demonstration piece now.
You waited for the axe to fall. For her to tell them all your values were that of a childs. You waited for her to take her knife, the one she always carried. And split the canvas down the middle, snap the wood over her knee.
You’d seen this happen plenty of times now.
What you didn’t know how to handle even more the rejection was the words she said.
“Can someone tell me why I’m holding this?” Vidal said holding the large canvas up and turning it so everyone could see.
“It’s ugly.” Pietro said and you tried not to show any emotions. You didn’t need to feed the frenzy of animals. They wanted blood and they’d get it no matter what you did.
“Maximoff, get out. While art is subjective I think you should subject yourself to the crap you made today. Take your stuff, go figure out how to draw a fucking hand. Maybe you’ve gotten so used to your own that you don’t know anything else. Or perhaps Professor Barton can teach you the color wheel again. When you know how to behave in my class I’ll think of adding you back to the roster..maybe next semester we’ll give it another go?” Vidal snapped at him and he’s so shocked.
The room grows so uncomfortable to be in.
Your teacher isn’t joking, she waited for him to leave. He gathers his stuff and scoffs mumbling curses under his breath. But the room is still as you feel second hand embarrassment.
“Before you go, can anyone else tell Pietro why I’m holding this painting?”
No one wanted to answer now, that’s for sure. But you would never have guessed the person who raised their hand would do it.
But Peter Parker did, and Vidal nodded at him.
“It’s a beautiful piece, you asked us to show exaggerated lighting, and this piece demands us to look. It...It’s got something that makes you want to stay in it. The lighting isn’t just exaggerated it feels real, like a moment you could touch.”
It was a picture of a chair in your childhood home. It was dim lighting, because that was the only time in your adolescence you felt safe. When it was the wee hours, everyone else was asleep.
And you could bee in a common space and draw.
That’s why you’d picked it.
The classrom grows quiet and you turn to Peter.
You’d never spoken to him, but you knew he was friends with Billy. And they both were quiet as hell in classes.
But they always made really emotionally charged paintings too. You’d always thought they both had talent.
Then one day you’d seen Peter draw his Aunt for portrait classes. That’s when you realized how Peter could capture someones likeness like no one else. You admired them both, but had never spoken to anyone in your classes. Not one to make friends.
Wanda slept next to you and you’d denied her every attempt at polite conversation.
Never been great at playing well with others.
Your mother had always said you weren’t likeable, too brash, too sarcastic. She’d tell you to sit down, and be quiet. Stop drawing on your napkin or in the margins of your homework.
Your mother made it clear; no one would ever want to spend time with you.
You started to believe her as the years progessed.
Now you weren’t sure now where her words started and you ended.
“That’s it Parker. She didn’t give us a spotlight. She didn’t give us another fucking apple. You want to reach in this room and sit for as long as you could. In this space of comfort that is so hard to find. If you are here in this class to draw some fruit. Go take Romanoff or Bartons art class. They’ll teach you how to draw the same five things that everyone in this school has drawn before you. It’s fucking absurd really. But you want to make art, make something important. You look at what she’s painting. Maybe she can teach you something.”
Vidal pointed to you before walked back over, her boots cliciking on the floor. Your eyes fell to the ground as she set your piece back on the easel.
Those compliments were the worse for you.
You’d gone back inot your dorm and sobbed in the shower.
You didn’t want to be seen. That was what was hard sometimes.
How were you meant to walk by Pietro. You were roomates with Wanda and you’d just had her twin get dropped.
But people started to notice you more as time went on. In classes yes, on campus in general, in the dorms. They’d whisper and point at you.
You started to get considered a teachers pet.
A favorite. You couldn’t believe it. And you thought it would pass, but Vidal kept talking about your art. Which made everything much worse. Vidal started showing it to other classes too. So people you’d never seen in class now were talking about you.
You wanted to dissolve into the floor.
It was a week of Rio Vidal showing you off. When there was a big conference for the teachers and board. You only knew about it because everyone was talking about how they wanted a new ceramic wing and the animators wanted new Cintiques for class. But when you were walking to the the mess hall down the stairs. A large group of teachers were passing you, you looked for Vidal but didn’t see her.
You were always trying to spit Rio.
The way she moved was hypnotizing. The curve of her spine, the sway of her hips, her hair tossed over a shoulder, the sound of her shoes. You could paint for the rest of your life and you could never mix the colors right to get her irises perfect.
Your thoughts were cut off by the familiar new feeling of being watched.
But someone was looking at you now, without disgust.
Lilia Calderu walked like she owned New Yorks art scene. She was surrounded by all the art teachers and board members, almost like they were trying to absorb her. It looked a little like a walking Last Supper actually. But she stopped in her tracks. Her stiletto heels coming to a halt. Her grey hair curling just right around her forehead.
All the teachers and board members stopped with her, like she was the one to part the red sea.
Lilia Calderu was looking at you.
That couldn’t be right?
No way, you turned around to see if someone was behind you. Eyes turning back at her she smiled at you now, obviously finding it funny that you looked around to see who she was admiring. Her face didn’t seem scary, in fact it looked downright warm and loving towards you.
A person she’d never met.
All of the teachers followed her eyeline to you. It felt like you were sharing something, some kind of mutual understanding. But somehow you’d missed the memo.
Calderu smiled wide and then nodded at you.
You nodded back, because it would have been rude not to.
There more than half the teachers and board members and tons of students to witness it.
You wondered if this was what it must have felt like to get approval from Miranda Priestly.
Not a day later the harassment went to a new level. You were curious if Wanda and Pietro started it.
But you’d gotten the new nicknames…
‘Vidals Valiant Virgin’ was the first you’d heard whispered as you bought coffee in the morning.
‘Rio’s Right Hand Ringer,’ was said to your face as you picked out a large piece of butcher paper in Barton's anatomy class an hour later.
It seemed teachers pet was so 90’s. Or at least so three weeks ago.
They were all trying to make a fun turn of phrase. You had to admit they did have a fun ring to them. You weren’t a virgin but that didn’t matter. And you’d never actually spoken to Calderu or Vidal, but why would facts get in the way of a good story.
Everyone believed you were the next art teacher. That you’d been picked and groomed by Calderu and Vidal.
Most believed that they were fucking you. That Calderu fucked Rio and now the two were having an orgy with you.
You were their sex slave, their muse, their house gimp.
You’d seen that someone in animation class had made a gif loop of you. Calderu was smiling and forcing a paintbrush down your throat, you were giving it head.
You didn’t complain, not to anyone.
You had no friends, and no confidant. You were in your senior year. This wasn’t how you’d remember your college experience, you didn’t care really.
You sorta wished they were right.
What you weren’t expecting was one of your charcoal drawings in Romanoffs class next day to be destroyed…someone had vandalized your art.
You bit your lip to keep your anger at bay.
‘Rio’s Little Whore.’ Was in red sharpie on top of your charcoal drawing of a famous ship. It had taken you thirty two hours and wasn’t even done yet.
You thought it was a bit of a let down, the other names at least held some thought. Whore was such a silly thing, to try to weaponize for you. You liked sex, you’d liked when someone called you a whore in bed.
They could call you a whore, but the drawing had taken you so long..
You wished you were sleeping with your professor. Then at least the bullying would be worth it. To hear Rio moan as you fucked her.
You grabbed the charcoal drawing and crumpled it up, throwing it out.
When Romanoff asked where your piece was you told her you’d forgotten it at home. She’d eyed you curiously, you’d never gotten a bad grade in her class before, but given you a zero.
That was fine.
After that night you got to your dorm.
The day wasn’t over it seemed.. On your dorm door differen’t people in different hand writing had all kinds of things to call you. But in big letters over the number of your door was another zinger;
‘Calderu’s Next Cunt’
Ok this was gonna start being a problem.
Two weeks into the names and vandalism you were getting sick of the attention. And you didn’t want to retaliate and get expelled from the school. Because you were pretty sure it was the clique of Rogers and Maximoff but you didn’t want to stir more shit.
The Professors were oblivious to your new life changes.
Romanoff started to display your work more often in her class and Barton asked if you wanted to be his TA. You kinda felt gross around them. Like they didn’t have thoughts of their own. They liked you because Rio and Lilia had decided you were talented. But you’d been in their classes too. So was this just to get on Mrs. Calderu’s good side?
And as you turned down Professor Barton you did feel a little bad; anyone else would have found it a dream. The attention of so many powerful people in the art scene in New York.
Not you, you liked being anonymous and now you weren’t.
Your crush felt even more on display now. Rio was everywhere.
You thought it would eventually die out.
But then gotten the invite.
You waited until the end of class and everyone cleared out. Vidal was brining paint brushes to the sink that was covered in decades of paint, and would never be white again. You mustered up the courage to walk over to her.
“Professor, there’s been a mistake.” You said to her back. You saw her chuckle before getting a papertowel. Letting the paintbrushes sit on the counter.
“No mistake. I did wonder how long it would take for you to actually talk to me though.” She turned and you tried to not blush.
Holding her gaze felt like warfare. But you did it.
Ok so you had a really bad crush. You’d stalked her work at the art gallery, and you’d died when Vidal had turned out to be your professor.
But it was Rio Vidal!
She was goth meets Daddy meets artistic genius. Anyone with a pulse would get hard under her gaze.
“Professor, you should really give this invitation to Billy or Peter.”
“Bold of you, to think you get a say in that. But you are bold aren’t you. You have a lot of spunk in you. Which they don’t know because..You have this…wallflower thing down to an act. You don’t speak, even though you know the answers to all my questions. You try to sit in the back. Never one to make a fuss. You thought I’d just let you stay under a rock. But I see you. I see your art too. You are loud and colorful, you have so much passion. I’m sure someone told you to shut up. But I think they did you a disservice.”
That was more than anyone had ever noticed you. And you tried not to shake in front of your professor.
Rio is drying her hands still, getting the paint off, but her eyes are weighing you. And you can’t stand how good her words feel against your body. You are holding the invitation in your hands like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.
To be seen by her, to be with her.
“Professor Vidal, it’s very nice. But I’m going to have to refuse your offer.” You couldn’t do this with Rio.
“Oh, that’s cute. But it’s not an offer. You don’t get to ignore it. I’ll just keep after you. And you can ask this entire school. I’m a pain in the ass. Plus I already told Calderu, and she’s seen your work too. You can’t hide anymore sweetheart.”
You gulp and look around the room.
You think about leaving the school, maybe you could transfer?
Rio seems to push through your fear with more bravery.
“Nowhere to hide. I did want to talk to you for a while now. But I figured I’d wait until you were ready. Jen called, says she hasn’t seen you in a few weeks. Asked if I’d gotten the courage to ask you out yet.”
You forgot to breathe.
Rio didn’t let you panic long though.
“I told her I was waiting for you to say something to me. But it’s been months. Then here you go and start churning out these pieces. Now what went from my little secret crush, is well.. Now I feel like I actually know you. God, you have something special. And you sit in the back with your head down. It’s truly the most upsetting thing I’ve seen in..my entire career here. Itjust isn’t right.”
Rio’s talking about you, but you are convinced you are being punked.
“So the invite is because you want a date?” You say and there’s hurt in your tone. But you are curious if this at all real.
“No, it’s not like that. I told Lilia I couldn’t keep teaching you. Because I want to date you. And she said I was being a chicken shit. But she walked in here to go to lunch the other day. And out of all the paintings drying, of course she sees yours. She knew it was you. You stand out, even though you try so hard to fade into the background. Must be exhausting being so gorgeous inside and out. And wanting to be so ordinary.” Rio smiles but there’s something so melancholy about it. Like she felt bad for how much work you were putting into the lie.
“I don’t think-“ You try and she cuts you off again.
You are about eight feet away from each other, yet you feel too close.
“I’m going to keep teaching you. Because I’m a moth drawn to you. But Lilia is teaching upstairs again. She’s not on the payroll. It’s an under the table type of deal. Peter and Billy got their invites already. I waited to give you yours. I wanted you to talk to me.” Rio says it and you wonder if she’s cocky. How did she know you’d talk to her? Tell her no.
“Professor-“ You try again.
“Let’s start here, you can call me Rio. Please don’t make me chase you. I will if that’s what it takes..But don’t fight this opportunity; go to the studio. You have the code. Lilia and I basically live up there. Spend some time with us. We’ll have you gallery ready by the end of the semester. We will write you a bunch of recommendations and open doors you never thought possible. Spend some time with us. If you don’t want the date that’s ok. I mean I’ll be butt hurt but…I did already grocery shop and included some ice cream to drown my sorrows, just in case.”
Rio jokes and it’s so sweet that you wonder if her tough professor act is wrong. Perhaps Rio Vidal is a big mush. Maybe she’s demanding perfection from her students, but in her personal life. Maybe she’s a hopeless romantic?
“Really?” You scrunch your eyebrows and Rio shrugs one shoulder and then divulges more.
“Ok it may be bourbon. But listen, I like you. But that’s not why you are getting this invite. You earned it.” Rio wants that to be clear, it’s obvious in the way she’s looking at you.
So, you figured one time going wouldn’t hurt.
And something about the space and Lilia and Rio. It made you feel more at home than you had ever before.
Lilia put on music that was too loud. She dances around the room throwing her paintbrush in the air like she’s conducting the orchestra.
Rio and Lilia painted next to you three, they didn’t just teach. It was a studio space for all of you to create. They laughed and talked the whole time. Peter and Billy talked to you, really talked to you. Not the half ass polite surface level conversations.
You found it hard to not talk about yourself in the four of their presence, they were all so much fun.
Peter started to bring his Aunt May’s food, because none of you left the studio. So you began to have these big family meals. Drinking and laughing sat around telling stories.
But it didn’t end with lunches and dinners.
It would be four am and Lilia would throw her jacket down as a pillow on the desk. Rio would make another coffee from the shitty Keurig Lilia had brought for them. You all used it and Billy, who had never had coffee before this group, looked like he needed a glass of water.
You eyed him as Rio put a bunch of power creamer into a mug she’d gifted from her collection for you to use.
“Should we be worry?” You asked her as you both looked at Billy tweaking out and pushing pastel sticks around with his fingers. It seemed he was obsessing over rats demolishing his piece.
“If he goes another two hours on the rats, we’ll get him a smoothie or IV or something.” Rio jokes and you reached for the coffee. Rio’s fingers and yours meet and you look down.
“Sorry.” You say and take the coffee mug.
“Don’t apologize, unless you don’t plan on doing it again.” Rio flirted and you smiled at her.
“You are oftly sure of yourself. You do this with other students Professor?” You tease her and she shakes her head.
“No, never. I just for the first time in my fourty years of life found my muse. I’m trying to court her, but she hasn’t let me take her out on a date yet. So I keep making her shitty Keurig coffee.” Rio has more rizz in her pinky finger than all of your exes combined.
“Muse huh? Sounds like you are putting her on a pedestal. That can get lonely.” You push your luck and Rio thinks about it for a moment.
“No, there’s a difference. I don’t put her on a pedestal, I see her. There’s a difference between idolizing someone and finding their very being makes you want to …love.” Rio admits and Peter snaps to attention having fallen asleep on a table.
“Holy shit, what time is it? Where are we?”
You grab Rio’s wrist turning it to see her watch and she smiles at how comfortable you are manhandling her.
“It’s three am Pete. You don’t have to meet MJ until six. Go back to sleep.”
He nods before falling back against the plastic table.
You look at Rio again and wonder if she wants you to say something about the ‘L’ word she just dropped. But she eyes your coffee mug before looking at your face again.
“You don’t think that…You might have a crush on a professor just because she’s your professor?” She asked like maybe you had a fetish for teachers.
You wondered if talking like it wasn’t happening between you and Rio was easier for her in this moment. You take a sip of the coffee, for being kiuerig Rio had learned how you liked your coffee quickly.
“No, I don’t think it has anything to do with any of that. I mean I like that my professor is older. But that’s not why..It’s..” You trail off and Rio lets her fingertips play with the rim of her mug.
“Yes?”
Lilia snores loudly and then her alarm on her phone goes off. She wakes up and your alone time with Rio is over once more.
Your Dead Poet Society was taking over your life, all of your lives really.
You all ate every meal together, you drew, you painted, you got lost in their warm embrace.
Nothing was off limits, Billy came in on Friday night to where all of you were no longer working.
Lilia put on a foreign film on the projector she’d stolen from another epartment. And at one point you’d all abandoned your art projects and were watching the movie. Rio had gone into the staff room and stolen a box of microwave popcorn. You had Lilia and Rio next to you and you held the bag. As the two of them talked through the whole film. Lilia threw a few kernels at the screen when she thought someone made a stupid choice.
You realized that Rio thought of Lilia like a mother, not just a mentor. They teased each other but Lilia cared for Rio. It was such a gorgeous dynamic. You felt bad for all the rumors about them.
Billy made the art door beep and you all turned to see your fifth member. Peter had fallen asleep within the first five minutes of the film. His face had charcoal all over it.
“How’d it go kiddo? Get laid?” Lilia asked him and he brushed his eyes, smearing the eyeliner.
“Oh Billy! What happened?” You asked him and he walked over to you three. Rio got up to pause the movie. Lilia grabbed his shaking body and kissed his cheeks over and over.
They all talked about Billy’s terrible date. Eventually Billy wasn’t sad anymore, he was instead laughing at Lilia’s recounting a terrible time she’d have giving a blowjob.
She’d told him only to blow models in Soho during fashion week.
You laughed along with them and Rio winked at you.
It felt like your lives were getting better from each other.
Lilia came in on a Tuesday and she asked Billy for help. Her god child Eddie had just come out and she didn’t know how to best support him. Billy was honored, and in the end Billy and Eddie met up. Turned out that Billy no longer hung out on Friday nights with the Dead Poet Society, he had a new boyfriend.
You found it impossible to go to your dorm at the end of the night. Peter threw down a sleepingbag a few weeks ago and your club was thrilled at the idea. Rio laughed and said she’d wished she’d thought of that her senior year. Lilia attempted to doordash a bunch of them from REI.
You guys rarely left the room. Lilia was preparing for a new gallery opening, Rio had to give more of her finished work for Jen. You three had a mountain of homework, so there just wasn’t an end to it.
And the space of artists working on something made it collaborative and gave everyone new ideas.
Like a party that never found the close at the last bit of the night.
Like a family finding each other after a storm.
And Rio.
Oh Gods, Rio was the best, she was everything you’d ever wished for. And you’d not gone on a date yet.
You stole moments.
The two of you laughed and whispered to each other. Rio always sat next to you in the studio and Lilia would be merciless making jokes about you two being the cutes couple.
You’d been so embarrassed at first, hoping that Rio wouldn’t get in trouble. But it seemed Calderu wouldn’t ever let anything happen to her adopted daughter. Not even if she fucked a student.
God you wished Rio would make a move. But she continued to flirt with you until your body felt like jello.
But Rio was a gentleman. She never pushed, she liked the build it seemed. She wanted you to get to know her, outside of the scary facade she gave the class.
You learned about all the things that made Rio. Like her obsession with plants, or how she ordered pesto pizza with mushrooms. You learned that she’d had her heart broken bad with a marriage in her early twenties and it ended quick. You liked the little things that Rio didn’t let anyone know too. Like how she said she liked German screamo, but on her phone you found she had a playlist dedicated to 60’s folk. Her most listened to including Joan Baez.
Which her mother loved and used to sing to Rio. Sadly her mother had died very young, and you knew Rio ached to talk to her one more time.
Rio in her sleep spoke Spanish. And that’s how you found out her father was actually from Puerto Rico. So when he called her on Saturday to ask if she was working too hard, you heard them speak spanish back and forth together. You liked hearing Rio speak Spanish, it was so sexy.
So was impossible to leave for more than just the art. Something about having non stop access to Rio’s warmth, her flirtatious attention, her friendship. It was impossible to go back to your dorm.
You’d all go to class and in between you’d meet at the studio. Using the code only you five knew. You were there in the mornings and evenings, you hadn’t spent more than a few hours in your dorm in you don’t know how long. You used the showers and that was about it. Your back started hurting from sleeping on the stupid studio floor.
But you couldn’t complain, not when Rio would throw her sleeping back next to yours.
Every night it got a little closer to yours.
And you were hoping that one day you’d join zippers and make it one stupid sleeping bag. Because last night your bags touched for the first time. And Rio’s hand had found yours.
You couldn’t believe it. But holding Rio’s hand was your knew favorite high. You woke up and her fingers still clung to yours. It was all too good to be true.
Which is why a month into your Dead Poet Society you were suprised when Rio didn’t smile at you as you walked into her class.
She looked furious and you wondered what had happened.
But she waited for everyone to sit before she walked up to the front of the class. She didn’t have her easel set up, ready to demonstrate. She didn’t tell everyone to get out their supplies and continue what they’re working on.
Instead she walked over to her desk and then back over.
Holding your ship, the one you’d thrown out, the one with the red ink on the top in front of the class.
Oh fuck.
‘Rio’s Little Whore’ it read, it was crumpled from when you’d thrown it away.
“Hey Rogers and Carter, do you want to tell me what this is?”
Peg looked at Steve and then back at Rio.
“I don’t know Professor.” She lied and you felt eyes turning to look at you. Because of course they knew it was yours.
Oh god.
“This is your last chance, the Maximoffs are in the admin building right now being expelled from this stunt. We will be black listing them from Ivy league schools in the region as well. They’ll never show art in this town either, Calderu and I have seen to that. So last chance, Carter, I know Rodgers is an air head. Now let’s see if you can make a decision for yourself. Do you want to tell me what happened?” Rio offered her and she nodded. Rio stood up and Peggy did as Steve’s face turned dark red in irritation at his girlfriend.
But Rio and Peg walked out of the class and you flinched as the door closed.
All eyes were on you.
‘Rio’s Little Whore.’
No one said it but it rang in your ears.
You grabbed your stuff left as fast as you could. Billy and Peter tried to stop you. But you were out the door so quick. Billy was shouting your name down the corridor.
You left the school building and walked the streets of New York. Your world coming down fast onto the cement around you.
You thought you’d lost Billy but he grabbed your shoulder.
“Stop! Listen to me! Forget them! Why didn’t you tell any of us?” He was panting as he ran to get you.
“Rio and I aren’t, we haven’t even kissed or gone on a date! It’s not -” You defend, because you don’t want her to get in trouble. Because what was sweet is now twisted.
Billys curls bounced as he shook his head. His black eyeliner really making his eyes pop. You both were bumped as New Yorkers slammed into you, annoyed you’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He guided you to the side of the walk way under a Deli’s neon sign.
“No, not about Rio. I’m talking about how people have been bullying you! How they destroyed your art! That’s a reason to get expelled! It’s in the handbook for the school. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have fought for you. We’re friends you know? I know that Maximoffs are my cousins but..I don’t like them. I like you! We’re part of Dead Poets Society. You can trust me.” Billy tells you and you can’t form a sentence.
Peter runs over and he’s holding both Billy and his art folders and backpacks.
“You guys were hard to catch up with. It was me..I told Rio. I’m sorry if you are mad. I saw your dorm room and it had a bunch of graffiti on it. So I told Rio. And then Calderu was there and the two of them confronted the other teachers. Pretty sure they’re in trouble too. I guess Romanoff pulled your drawing out of the trash. It’s a mess, I should have told you first.” Peter looked like he felt so guilty.
You didn’t know what to say.
On one hand it was sweet her wanted to defend you, but this was a fucking mess.
“Rio’s probably wondering where you are.” Billy said but he turned around and looked into the Deli.
“Let me buy you lunch.” Peter quickly stated and you eyed him like he was crazy. “Matzaball soup in this deli is actually pretty good. And they make good subs and they squish them with the chips just right. Let me do that, please? I have to do something.” Peter asks and you can see it’s an apology.
This is why you didn’t make friends. Because people always made things worse. But did they?
Because you’d spent the past month next to to these two men. You’d grown to love them. Love Lilia Calderu as she smiled and kissed your cheek telling you what you were making was special.
Peter had drawn you your favorite cartoon characters and he always told his Aunt to pack an extra thermos of tomato soup. Because he knew it was your favorite.
Billy asked for your spotify username, because on the small occasions Lilia didn’t play her Opera music. Rio had given you the bluetooth speaker and Billy had loved it. Billy was always asking you for your opinion on his work. He looked up to you. Which was insane.
They were a family now.
And Rrio.
Oh god Rio.
She was…everything.
You’d died the first time she’d nicknamed you ‘cariño’ it wasn’t fair.
Maybe your mom was wrong.
Maybe this was better than being alone.
You eyed Peter as he was practically begging with his eyes to fix it. He knew realistically that soup and sandwich didn’t fix what you’d just went through. But he grew up with his Aunt. And food soothed most things in his experience. So this was his apology and his declaration of friendship. An act of service, a way to express his love.
And you could tell him to fuck off. Put his sub sandwitch where the sun don’t shine.
Tell him you didn’t want him or his stupid soup.
But his eyes pleaded and you turned to Billy who grabbed your hand and squeezed.
This was so much better than alone.
You nod and they both smile before pulling you into the Deli.
_____
You don’t go back to the studio. Even though Billy and Peter beg you to come see Lilia and paint for a while. Knowing it’s what makes all of you feel better. You refuse.
“Rio is gonna ask us where you went.” Peter points out and you shake your head.
“That’s why I’m not telling you.” You tease him but they both look worried.
“Do you want us to go with you? I’m worried about what Wanda might do to your stuff at your dorm. I can come with.” Billy says and you shake your head.
“You are gonna be ok right? Please don’t go Awol. You are our fearless club leader.” Peter smiled lamely and added. And you didn’t think of yourself as their leader at all. But you hug Peter and then turn and hug Billy.
You pull your old black backpack and head towards the subway.
You go to the MET for five hours. Walking around the sections you know Alice picked.
You buy an over priced cup of hot tea, your hands shake.
You thought being around all this art would help, but as you stare at the amazing artist who came before you. You just feel lost.
You leave and find yourself just aimlessly walking.
Until you are in front of Jen’s gallery. Because of course you are.
You open the door and no one’s there. Jen isn’t behind the corner and you are almost glad she’s not here. You don’t think you can face her.
But you go to the space at the back of the gallery and it’s got all of Rio’s new art.
You stop at the one that just got hung up, you can tell because it doesn’t have a plaque yet.
But you know it’s Rios.
Because it’s you.
She painted you, you are in a tanktop and paint spalltered jeans. You have your hair in your face as you are bent over a canvas. You look so focused, it’s morning. Because you can see the pink and blue of the sunrise. New York is outside, and you are at home in the studio.
You’d not even seen her painting this.
But somehow through Rio’s lens, you looked really beautiful.
You feel horrible.
You plop onto the floor.
Sitting criss crossed on the nice gallery floor, alone.
As you look at how this amazing artist see’s you.
You stare at it and you start to cry.
You aren’t sure if it’s because of all of the emotions you feel for Rio. You aren’t sure if it’s the bullying you were getting. You aren’t sure if it’s because for the first time, you are clear your mom was wrong.
Because how could you be so terrible.
If someone saw you like that.
You jump when you hear the front door.
Wiping your eyes you try to hide the tears not ready to have Jen ask why you are sobbing.
But it’s Rio who comes around and she’s got keys in her hand.
“I knew you’d be here.” Rio says and then she walks over to you and she sits down, crossing her own legs. Putting the keys down on the floor in front of her, next to your backpack. She puts a hand on your knee.
“Did Jen call you?”
“No, I called her and told her I was going to use my key and close her shop early.” Rio answered and you put your hand ontop of hers, and she turns her hand to hold yours again.
It feels really right.
“Professor.” You say and Rio lets out a self deprecating chuckle.
“I think you can stick with Rio, don’t you?”
“This is a mess.” You say.
“I thought I was getting through to you, I really did.” Rio said and the sadness in her voice had you floored. You turn and feel hurt now.
“What are you talking about?”
“You waited this whole time, you didn’t come to me. The second this started, you should have told me. I would have protected you.”
“It wasn’t for you to fix.”
“Bullshit.”
“Rio, it wasn’t a big deal-”
“They ruined your art. That’s the biggest deal. That ship was incredible. I know artist twice your age who couldn’t get close to that.” Rio compliments and you wipe your tears again.
“Rio, I think you just made it worse. Now they have more fuel.” You admit and Rio shakes her head.
“No one is doing that to your stuff again, Lilia and I won’t let them. I won’t let any of them hurt you.”
“It’s not so bad you know…”
“It’s horrible, your dorm door looks like a club bathroom stall!” Rio yells a and it echos in the empty space. You wonder if the art is judging you on the wall. You had hoped Rio hadn’t seen the dorm slurs. But it seemed this was not your day.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What then?”
“I didn’t mind being Rio’s Little Whore. I wanted to be yours.” You say softly, and it hurts. God it hurts all over.
And you feel her eyes on you.
And it is so much better than everyone elses eyes on you. All their gross attention.
But this was all the audience you’d ever wanted.
Rio Vidal
The artist who could paint ‘exactly what love and fear feel like.’
You’d fallen in love with her before you even knew her name. You’d seen her in every brush stroke.
You’d sunk even harder seeing her that first day of class.
Becoming hypnotized and utterly mad with her talented hands moving against a canvas. And you sat silently going crazy every day from the back of the class room.
As Rio taught something unteachable, something so effortless to Rio. Because she oozed talent.
She haunted your dreams and every waking moment now.
You’d imagined her voice as you drew alone, Rio was everywhere to you. You couldn’t get a fucking slice of pizza without imaging her pesto and mushroom slice. Rio was always with you, like paint under your fingernails that you can’t reach.
It had always been Rio Vidal.
And what you hadn’t planned for.
Is for her to see you in return.
You were supposed to blend into the background. You never accounted for her to see you.
Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But Rio made the world full of color, and now you couldn’t go back to the greys.
You are knocked flat onto your back as Rio climbs ontop of you. You don’t have a moment to gasp as her lips find yours.
Rio knows exactly what love and fear feel like.
And you taste it all on her, and you have never felt more happy to be a muse.
dededos
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
baratheonpilled
annaxmalina
