﹒ ୨୧◞ 。summary .ᐟ what do you do when the man you built your entire life around disappears without so much as a goodbye for another woman? do you love him enough to stay? or do you respect yourself?
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。before you interact .ᐟ divorce, emotional infidelity, substance abuse, addiction, mental health struggles, medication, anxiety, panic attacks, grief, codependency, public scrutiny, paparazzi harassment, family conflict, legal disputes, custody proceedings, fainting, unhealthy coping mechanisms, weight loss, weight depiction, and complex relationship dynamics. age gap in relationship (reader is now 27, michael is 36). “im your freaky nikki :)” reference for the girls!
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。disclaimer .ᐟ this work contains depictions of addiction, substance abuse, and deteriorating mental health. this piece is not an accurate depiction of any real life individuals. — 22k word count.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.
Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.
It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.
Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.
But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.
Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.
The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.
It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.
It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.
She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.
The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.
The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.
The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.
(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.
The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.
As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.
Twenty seven.
Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.
But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.
There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.
She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.
That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.
There he was.
Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.
He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.
On the coffee table sat three things.
The remote.
The small amber prescription bottle.
A bottle of vodka.
She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.
Her thumb found the rewind button.
The tape whirred backwards.
She watched it again.
Then again.
Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.
There wasn’t one.
Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.
Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.
The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.
She pressed rewind one more time.
Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.
Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.
It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.
Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.
(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.
As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.
The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.
It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.
For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.
Then somebody recognized her.
She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.
(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.
“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.
The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.
The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.
It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.
“(Name)! Over here!”
“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”
“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”
“Is the marriage beyond saving?”
“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”
“Are the reports about your health true?”
“Did Michael cheat on you?”
“Do you still love him?”
The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.
Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.
Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.
Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.
Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.
Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.
She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.
The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.
HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?
They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.
A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.
Another flash burst through the tinted window.
Then another.
Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.
The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.
She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.
But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.
The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.
“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”
(Name) smiled politely.
She could picture them too.
That was the problem.
She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.
She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.
The first house was beautiful.
So was the second.
The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.
Every realtor’s dream.
Every magazine’s dream.
None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.
The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.
He had known what questions to ask.
He had noticed things she hadn’t.
He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.
He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.
Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.
And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.
Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.
It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.
It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.
Choosing where her son would sleep.
The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.
After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”
(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.
Everything.
Everything except herself.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”
And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.
Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
The closet was the worst.
She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.
Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.
His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.
Those were the things that hurt the most.
She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.
Because he always had.
Until he didn’t.
She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.
She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.
The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.
What belonged to her? What belonged to him?
At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.
Packing was supposed to feel productive.
People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.
It wasn’t that simple with her.
By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.
She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.
Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.
She frowned and pulled it free.
It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.
For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.
“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
She remembered.
They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.
Michael refused to believe him.
Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.
Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.
Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.
Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.
Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.
“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.
She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”
“It was an investment.”
“In what?”
“Our future.”
Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.
“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.
The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.
The gift itself was absurd.
Cheap.
Completely impractical.
By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.
KEEP.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.
The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.
Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.
She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.
Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.
A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.
Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”
“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”
She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”
For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.
“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.
Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”
No one corrected her.
Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.
Mrs. Jackson.
A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.
Not on a television screen.
The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.
Not in photographs.
Not through lawyers.
Not through headlines.
Him.
The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.
The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.
She wasn’t driving to see her husband.
She was driving to negotiate the end of him.
Her breathing changed before she realized it had.
It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.
She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.
Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”
The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.
She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.
“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.
The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.
The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.
Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.
Again.
Again.
Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.
It was him.
In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.
The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.
What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?
The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.
Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.
His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.
The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.
“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”
She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”
“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.
He simply acknowledged the truth.
She wasn’t.
Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.
“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”
He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.
“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”
“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.
Just someone else.
Just another meeting.
Just another signature.
Just another chapter he’d already closed.
Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”
She frowned. “I feel—“
“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”
Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”
His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”
“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”
Silence settled between them.
After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.
“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.
Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”
She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.
“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”
She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.
He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.
“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”
She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”
She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.
She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.
One.
Two.
Three.
Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.
By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.
The building came into view through the windshield.
Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.
Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”
The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.
When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”
She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.
Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.
The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”
Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.
“They’re expecting you.”
Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..
The thought tightened something in her chest again.
“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.
The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.
As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.
They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.
“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.
The hallway fell silent.
(Name) couldn’t move.
At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.
The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.
It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.
They refused.
A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.
It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.
Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.
She looked down.
Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.
Stress hives.
She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.
Not even metaphorically but,
Literally.
Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.
Run.
The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.
Run.
Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.
“..Hey.”
She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.
He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”
She tried.
God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.
It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.
“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.
“You can.”
She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”
Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.
“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”
He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”
She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”
She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”
“Your feet.”
She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”
“The floor underneath them?”
Another swallow. “Yes..”
“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”
Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”
His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.
“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.
Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.
“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”
She stared at him. “No..”
“But I’m staying right here.”
“No..”
“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”
“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”
For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.
Helpless.
If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.
“(Name).”
Neither of them turned.
“It’s time.”
The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.
She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.
One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.
The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.
She felt them before she saw them.
Eyes.
They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.
She kept her gaze lowered.
One step.
Then another.
The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.
Familiar.
Warm.
The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.
His cologne.
It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.
Now it made her feel violently ill.
She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.
Don’t look up.
The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.
Don’t look.
If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.
Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.
The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.
A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.
It was something to look at.
Something that wasn’t.. him.
Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.
Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”
The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.
The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.
“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”
The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.
She kept her eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.
Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.
He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.
Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”
A pause.
The room tightened slightly.
Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”
There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..
Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.
Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”
Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.
Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”
Documented instability.
A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.
Her fingers tightened under the table again.
Fifty-fifty.
Supervised visits.
The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.
Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”
“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”
She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.
Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.
The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.
Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.
“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”
Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”
Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”
“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”
“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”
His attorney gave a small nod.
“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”
Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”
Husband and wife.
As though those were just words.
As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.
As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.
As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.
And now..
Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.
(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.
Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.
“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”
Across the table, no one interrupted.
He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”
He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”
His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”
The discussion continued for another two hours.
Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.
Together, they sounded grotesque.
The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.
Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”
No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”
“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”
There was a quiet chorus of agreement.
Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.
(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.
Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”
The room stilled.
It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.
“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”
Silence settled over the room.
One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.
Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”
Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”
She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”
"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”
She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.
Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”
Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”
One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.
The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.
And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.
The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.
The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.
“Can you..” His voice stopped.
An uncertain pause.
Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.
“Can you look at me?”
The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.
That somehow made it harder.
“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.
She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.
But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.
Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.
Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.
It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.
She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.
And then the question came out before she could stop it.
“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.
“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.
“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.
“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”
“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”
“(Name), please..”
“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.
“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”
He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.
“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”
Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”
He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.
“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”
Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.
“You at least owe me that much.”
The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”
Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“No.”
She blinked. “What?”
“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”
The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”
“Nothing happened between us.”
Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.
A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”
He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.
If nothing happened, then why?
Why had everything changed?
Why had she been left behind?
Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?
Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”
His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”
“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall. “What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”
He looked away.
That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”
She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. ”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”
Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.
If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.
Something before.
Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”
A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”
Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”
He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.
“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”
She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.
“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.
“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”
The question lingered between them.
He didn’t answer, of course.
He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.
She felt the air leave her lungs.
“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”
Still nothing.
The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.
“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.
It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.
Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.
“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”
“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”
Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”
The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.
Neither of them spoke after that.
The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Neither of them responded.
Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.
“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”
She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.
Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”
She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.
It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.
“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”
Everyone remained still.
She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”
No one said anything immediately.
There wasn’t anything to say.
Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”
She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.
“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.
He knew it was a lie.
She knew he knew.
Still, he respected it.
The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.
“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.
(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”
Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.
Only then did she let herself unravel.
The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.
Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.
“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.
“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.
Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.
Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.
When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.
The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.
His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.
“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”
He closed his eyes.
Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.
Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.
He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.
“You don’t even know if you love her.”
He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.
It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.
But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.
That was her melting point.
Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.
She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.
There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.
Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.
Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.
There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.
There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.
I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.
But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.
A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.
From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.
A curtain shifted.
Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.
But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.
The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.
She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.
There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.
“She’s not—” Someone started.
“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.
A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.
Someone was talking about timing.
Someone else was talking about canceling.
Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.
Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.
Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”
Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”
And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.
“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”
She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.
The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.
Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.
Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.
A hand touched her back lightly.
“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”
The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.
There wasn’t.
The curtain up ahead shifted.
And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.
Michael almost didn’t attend.
The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.
Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.
You dont even know if you love her.
It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.
Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.
Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.
By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.
“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.
“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.
“Michael..”
“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.
The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.
“What happened?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.
“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.
A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.
“She collapsed.”
The words struck him with almost physical force.
“What?”
“She passed out after she came offstage.”
For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.
“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.
“I’m sorry.”
Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”
“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”
For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”
The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.
He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So yeah… You've been gone for months.
Not like forever. Just... away for a bit. You told them you needed space. Adult stuff. Life Stuff. Responsibilities that didn't involve a bunch of monsters. they respected it. well, tried to. pierrot left like seventeen tearful voicemails. But weeks turned into months. Texts stopped. Visits stopped. and somewhere along the way, you stopped explaining and just... vanished.
They've had enough and they will not leave until you are given the attention you deserve.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 5.8k
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · hurt/comfort · fluff and angst · emotional hurt/comfort · burnout · depression · established relationship · post-avoidance.
Life has been... life-ing.
If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much.
You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities.
You have a life. Or, you had one.
You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over.
You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.
At least maybe even feeling good.
But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.
You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.
Your boss has noticed. Fuck.
“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."
“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.
they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say.
Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say.
Same words. Same tone. Same lie.
You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.
You ignore it because ignoring is easier.
Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what?
Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?
You don't have the energy for any of that.
Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see.
He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.
So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.
Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced.
You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes.
You play pretend.
“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."
They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.
All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.
Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters.
You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.
It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.
Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.
You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.
But at last, nothing comes.
Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.
A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.
"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.
You turn your head slow.
And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass.
Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
“…Pierrot?"
Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.
You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.
The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.
Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.
“My dear," he breathes.
And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.
“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."
HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough.
His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.
“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"
You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—
Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."
You close your mouth.
He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit
“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."
You don't have an answer.
You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.
Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.
He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."
You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.
He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.
“Pierrot, what are you—"
“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Eventually, you're going to feel better."
“You don't know that."
“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."
He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.
So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.
“You're safe."
“I’m here."
“You don't have to be anything right now."
His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.
“Pierrot?"
“Yes, my dear?"
“…Thank you. For coming."
Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
“What the fuc… Harlequin?”
You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"
“Uh, just... come in."
You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.
“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."
You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand.
“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"
“I wasn't ignoring you—"
“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."
You open your mouth. Then close it.
The truth is, you've watched every single one.
You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.
You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.
“I watched them," you mumble.
“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"
“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich."
Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."
You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.
Except.
Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.
“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"
You don't look up.
“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"
“No."
You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.
The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.
“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"
“I sleep."
“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.
One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression.
Something almost like... guilt?
“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"
“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.
“Okay," he says.
“…Okay?"
“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."
You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."
“I have other good qualities."
“Name three."
“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
“The hell, Jester…?”
You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens.
He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.
“You took longer than expected to open."
it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.
He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.
His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.
You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."
One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"
You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."
"the truth is usually a good starting point."
You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.
He does, like for a long time.
And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.
“You have no food," he states.
"i have... some food."
“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”
Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.
“What are you doing?"
“Ordering groceries."
“You… you can't just—"
“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”
And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."
“You don't have to—"
“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."
You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.
“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."
You blink, "how do you know about—"
“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."
It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.
“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."
He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.
"Give it to me."
“What? no—"
“Give me the phone, little human."
There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.
But you hand it over.
He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."
“That’s… terrifying."
“Good. Fear is motivating."
He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."
You hesitate then you sit.
His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.
“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.
“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”
“I disappeared for months."
“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you."
You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”
You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.
You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.
But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.
“I know—"
“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."
You open your mouth. close it.
he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.
“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."
He closes the notebook with a snap.
“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."
"Restrictions?"
“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."
the words hit harder than you expect.
“I didn't—"
“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"
You don't answer.
He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."
“Like what exactly?"
“Like someone who has given up."
The words hang in the air between the both of you.
And something in his expression just changes, a little softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.
He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.
“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation.
You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.
He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."
He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.
He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.
“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.
“I don't know," you admit.
He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."
You think about it. "i'm tired."
“Obviously."
“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."
He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."
“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."
“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."
“Yeah."
Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."
He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.
“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."
He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.
“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."
“You can't know that."
“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."
You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"
His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."
You do.
He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.
Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
“Is that, Doctor??”
You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.
You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus.
Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse.
Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.
So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday?
You're either dreaming or he's lost.
But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is.
Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.
“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”
"...Hi?"
"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”
"I don't know. Two week ago?"
“Disgraceful."
He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”
"I'm not being dramatic—"
"You're flinching. That's dramatic."
He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.
"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”
"I have a lamp—"
“A lamp is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.
"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”
"Wow. Thanks…”
"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.
"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."
"You came all the way here though."
"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."
He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."
He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."
"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"
"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."
You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.
"...That was a joke."
"Ah. Well. I can see that."
"Was it funny?"
You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.
He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."
Again, you didn't answer.
He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.
"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."
"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"
"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."
You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."
"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."
"You could just say you care."
"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.
"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."
"...You?"
"Surprised?"
"A little."
He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."
He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.
"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."
"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"
"Yes."
You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.
He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.
"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.
You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Hello everyone ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-, I apologize in advance if you notice any mistakes here, this is my first experience in writing such a thing and in general English is not my native language. So I'm using a translator here. and before you start reading, please read the text below:
If it seems to you that the format is similar to Destiny squared, then yes, you're right, mostly when writing, I was inspired by their work, I hope they won't mind that I copy their format, hehe..
In the future, I plan to add various characters from the novel to the collection, and you can find out which ones will be on my channel ٩(^ᗜ^ )و -
If it seems to you that the writing format is similar to Destiny squared, then yes, you are absolutely right. I was very inspired by the fanfiction of this wonderful man To create this fanfiction, I hope they won't block me for copying their format, ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀) hehe....
All the pictures here belong to me, so if you want to take them, then be sure to specify the name of the channel, this is the only thing I want to say, and so have fun reading
𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
It was a very difficult day, but you managed to get through it, even though you had used up all your energy.
There was only an hour left before the end of your shift. At this time, people usually stopped coming in, and you could enjoy your solitude.
That's what would have happened if you hadn't met someone.
The evening bell above the door rang, distracting you from your cleaning. You looked up and saw him, the tall guy in the colorful red clothes who you had helped earlier.
That day, the poor man was lying on the ground, and a nasty guy was standing over him, shouting at him.
If it weren't for the laws and simple humanity, you would have kicked his ass, but all you could do was stand between them and engage in a verbal altercation with him.
You were taking a big risk: you weren't particularly strong, and your height was modest. He could have knocked you out with a single blow. Fortunately, the man didn't argue, grumbled something, and quickly retreated, leaving you alone with the victim. As he left, you turned around. His round, saucer-like yellow eyes stared at you in amazement. You just smiled back and extended your hand.
As you found out later, his name was Pierrot. Due to the circus rules, he couldn't speak in public, but he made an exception for you. From that day on, you had a new friend.
Pierrot's face was illuminated by a wide smile. You had long wondered how he managed to maintain such an expression. It seemed as if it wasn't a mask at all, but his true face, covered in thick makeup. You tried to imitate his smile, but you ended up pulling your facial muscles, which made you feel sick for a week. You couldn't even talk properly, which scared poor Pierrot to death.
"Good evening, my lady," his voice was soft as a whisper and sweet as marshmallow.
He came every night at exactly this hour, when there were no customers, and ordered a sweet drink. Most often, it was a strawberry milkshake, just like the one he had ordered the day you first met.
But tonight, something was different. His usually impeccable hair, along with his clown hat, was ruffled by the wind, and a small red leaf was adorned in the silver strands.
Noticing it, you smiled, wiping your hands with a napkin.
"Hello, Pierrot. It seems like there's a strong wind outside," you pointed to your hair, hinting at it.
The smile faltered on his face. The clown blinked in surprise several times and then looked at his reflection.
"I'm sorry, my lady, for coming to you in this state." Pierrot smiled apologetically and began to fix his hair, but you stopped him.
"Let me help," you offered, gently squeezing his large hands. His round yellow pupils stared at you in delight.
"I'll be very grateful to you, my lady." He brought your hand to his face, as if he were about to kiss it.
This gesture made your cheeks blush. You smiled awkwardly, looking away, and the clown closed his eyes in satisfaction.
"O-okay! Then sit down, and I'll get a comb."
Pierrot nodded, reluctantly let go of your hands, and sat down on a round chair by the counter.
You left for a while and returned with a comb that you kept in your bag. You rarely used it, usually tying your hair back so it wouldn't get in the way while you worked. If the boss found out that you were walking around with your hair down, you wouldn't be working here anymore.
When you returned, you walked around the counter and stood in front of Pierrot, who was now looking at you from a lower angle. He placed his hands on his knees and watched your movements with curiosity.
You carefully reached out your hand to his long locks, which were tangled with each other due to the wind.
They were surprisingly soft, like the finest silk. Of course, you've never touched such a thing, but you were sure that his hair was beautiful. It was immediately felt that Pierrot was carefully caring for them, despite the harsh circus conditions. As you brought the strand closer, you caught a glimpse of the scent of your favorite shampoo—the one you recently bought and which surprisingly ran out so quickly.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Putting those thoughts aside, you ran the comb through his hair, starting at the ends and gradually working your way up.
From Pierrot's perspective:
Pierrot sat still as you focused on his hair. If only you knew how his heart was racing, ready to burst out of his chest and fall at your feet. How he adored your touch, the feel of your skin through the rough black gloves. How he wanted to take them off and explore you with his fingers, find out where you liked to be touched.
But not yet, it's too early. The last thing he wants is to scare you off. He knew that humans were fearful creatures. They have only to differ slightly from them, and they begin to be afraid, to bite for the sake of their imaginary safety. If they had been given free rein, they would have destroyed each other, and even the Circus would not have had to strain.
Ah, the Jester's great dream, which is not destined to come true, no matter how much he wishes it.
But you were different. So charming, so sweet. If you were like those delicious milkshakes you make, he'd have diabetes—because how could you blame him when you're the only person who doesn't fear him? The only one he'll love forever.
Ah, your touch... The way you gently run your comb through his hair, as if you're afraid of hurting him, drives him crazy. And your focused face is so close. The urge to reach out, embrace you, and feel your sweet lips with his own grows stronger. But he only clutches the fabric in his lap, reminding himself of the consequences. I wonder how you would react. Would you be happy or afraid? Do you feel the same way about him?
"Your hair is beautiful," your soft voice broke through his dreams.
He looked up from your hands to your face, blinked several times as if digesting what you had said, and then closed his eyes again with pleasure.
"Thank you, my dear."
A blush spread across his face. He clenched his jaw, trying not to scare you with his unnatural smile.
You moved higher, to the roots. Here, the work required more patience. The tangled knots resisted, but you didn't pull or tug. You approached each one like a small puzzle, finding the beginning, carefully unraveling it with your fingers, and only then passing the comb through it. It was like a dance—smooth, rhythmic, almost meditative.
The comb's teeth touched his scalp, and he made a soft, deep sound, like a contented cat's purr. Each stroke was like a caress on his soul, sweeping away his worries and the rough traces of the day.
The hair became more manageable. They streamed through the teeth like black silk, shimmering in the lamplight. You divided them into strands and worked through each one with special care, feeling how perfect smoothness was born at hand.
From time to time, you moved around Pierrot, trying to get all your hair in order. After finishing with the top strands, you moved to the right side. As you picked up a silver strand, you noticed dark, wound-like cracks on his neck, mostly hidden by his hat.
Shock showed on your face at the sight, You didn't even notice your hand reaching out on its own, but a large black-gloved hand gently grabbed it, golden eyes staring at you.
"My lady, what are you doing?"
Pierrot's soft, gentle voice reached your ears. You only now realized what you almost did.
"Are those your wounds?... Were you hurt again?"
Pain and compassion were written all over your face. It wasn't uncommon for people to bully Pierrot. Anyone could hurt him, and he couldn't defend himself. You assumed that he simply didn't want to cause trouble for the circus. You longed to help him, but unfortunately, you weren't always there for him. This thought caused your heart to ache.
Noticing your concern, Pierrot gently squeezed your hand, as if to reassure you.
"Don't worry about me, my lady. The Doctor said they'll go away in time."
You felt his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.
"Besides, they're just scratches. Please don't worry about them."
Piero really didn't want you to worry. Your sad face was hurting him. Plus, he knew that if he told you what happened, you'd immediately rush to find the perpetrators, putting yourself in danger. Even though you were fragile, you were always ready to fight back against bullies, like a Chihuahua barking fearlessly at big dogs.
He remembers when you were walking in the park and some guys shouted insults at him.
It was a familiar sight for Pierrot, but not for you. He remembered how you turned around, identified the bullies, and marched towards them, shouting insults in their direction.
Pierrot frantically waved his arms, trying to show that everything was fine, but you were unstoppable. He had no choice but to embrace you from behind, hoping that you would stop.
And
Did it work?
You froze, and your cheeks turned so red that the bullfinches would have thought they were ripe berries.
In addition to his fear for you, he was touched by your impulse. Your desire to protect him, even though he was 196 cm tall and outgrew both you and those guys.
But if they had said something bad about you or caused harm... he wouldn't have turned a blind eye. He would have put on another magnificent performance for you. Only this time, there would be two victims, but he would have found a way to spice up his show.
But it didn't make you feel any better. The wound (?) looked horrifying, as if the hair had been brutally ripped out.
You pursed your lips and looked at the clown again.
"Then can I just look? I promise I'll be careful."
Piero's eyes widened in surprise, and your pleading gaze met his.
How could he refuse?
Your beautiful eyes were fixed on his, and your hands were clasped around his. The sight left him breathless, and all he could feel was the rapid beating of his own heart.
He paused to consider your words, but then slowly removed his jester's hat, and only the bells chimed in response.
The sight mesmerized you. You froze, staring at the hair he had so carefully concealed.
The long hair fell onto his shoulders, cascading beautifully. He looked like a handsome prince from a children's fairy tale.
You knew he had long hair, but you had never imagined it to be so beautiful. Your fingers gently touched the silky white strands, pushing them aside. Your breath caught as you saw the wound more clearly. A large crack gaped just to the left of the center of his neck, with smaller cracks radiating out from it. Fortunately, they didn't spread any further.
You took a deep breath, trying to calm your anger towards those who had done this. The question that immediately came to mind was: when did they do this? You were quite close to Pierrot, but you had never noticed these wounds because of his bangs.
However, you decided not to push the issue. If Pierrot didn't want to talk about it, you shouldn't intrude on his personal space. He had always been kind to you and helped you whenever he could.
Lifting his hair even higher, you leaned in to where his ear should be.
Your breath touched his skin in a hot, wet whisper, making the cracks look even more fragile.
"I hope they really do heal..." Your whisper was barely audible, but to him it was louder than any doorbell. "Otherwise, I'll find whoever did this and make them pay."
And before fear or doubt could stop you, you closed your eyes.
Your lips, soft and warm, touched his skin. It was fleeting, like a breath of wind, but incredibly focused. You touched exactly where the rough, jagged line of the crack began to fade, to an area of unbroken, almost hot skin. You felt the subtle pulse of his blood beneath your lips, running deep beneath the surface, and the subtle, almost imperceptible scent of makeup, powder, and something elusive that was the essence of Pierrot himself.
In that heartbeat-long moment, the world shrank to the point where your lips met his neck.
In response, his body responded with a crushing wave. He wasn't breathing. His entire powerful frame was frozen in absolute, stone-like stillness, as if he were under a spell. You could hear the dull thud of his gloves clenching the fabric of his trousers at his knees. Then, a sharp, ragged breath escaped from his chest, almost like a moan of relief that he couldn't allow himself to express.
You pulled away as quickly as you had touched, leaving only a ghostly, burning memory on his skin. But that moment was enough to turn everything upside down.
"In the meantime, I will take care of you, my dear Pierrot."
When you opened your eyes, his gaze was fixed on you. His yellow pupils, usually round and innocent, had narrowed into two thin, burning slits. The flickering light of the lamp danced in them, along with a storm of emotions—shock, gratitude, adoration, and something wild and primal that he was struggling to contain. His famous smile faltered, momentarily genuine, and a shiver ran down his neck, right where you had just touched.
"My... lady..." His voice broke into a hoarse, choked whisper.
"...Besides, I said I'd help you with all your hair, and this counts," your voice was a gentle whisper, and your fingers began to gently divide the silver mane into three wide, flowing strands, as if by themselves.
The idea came to you instantly—not just to put it in order, but to create something beautiful, something that would protect this delicate beauty from the harsh world.
You began to weave.
The left strand over the middle, the right over the left—the movements were smooth, hypnotic, creating a living, breathing pattern. And so it went on until you reached the ends of his hair.
When the braid, long and shining like polished moon silver, was ready, you let your hair down so that you could tie it with your own hair tie.
You gently pulled on the end of the braid, causing him to tilt his head back slightly, and then stood in front of him again to see the result with your own eyes. There was a sea of tenderness and quiet joy in your eyes.
"Look," you said, gently turning him towards the large mirror on the wall.
Pierrot slowly, almost reluctantly, raised his gaze to the mirror. He touched the braid with the tips of his rough-gloved fingers, almost reverently, as if to verify that it was not a mirage.
Suddenly, his fingers slipped into his pocket and pulled out a delicate, paper-wrapped bud of a scarlet rose, slightly crushed as if it had been carefully carried around for a long time. Without saying a word, he quickly stood up from his chair and, with incredible precision, used his large fingers to straighten a crushed petal. Then, with bated breath, he extended his hand towards you.
You froze, and he slowly, with infinite care, intertwined the stem with a lock of hair at your temple. His palm, huge and warm even through his glove, lingered for a moment on your cheek
Y/N...
"Well, well, aren't we in a cheap romantic movie?"
The idyll was shattered by a voice that was painfully sweet but also caustic.
"Even there, the actors weren't as slow as you. And a paper rose?" You're not very original, Pierrot."
Harlequin was leaning against the doorframe. His patchwork quilt of a costume, a garish shade of poison-green, seemed to flaunt itself in the doorway, and the frozen mask of mocking surprise on his face was the exact opposite of Pierrot's soulful expression. He drew out Pierrot's name, weaving in years of honed-to-perfection hatred.
Without waiting for an answer, he gracefully detached himself from the doorframe and approached
"I'm here on behalf of the Jester," his voice was sweet, but his eyes, visible through the slits in his mask, gleamed with cold triumph. "He asked me to tell you that if you don't bring your ass to the circus within five minutes, he'll bring it himself. And believe me, it won't be a pleasant journey."
Then his attention shifted to you. The mask curved into a polite yet taunting smile.
"Hello, dear." He bent down deliberately slowly and, looking straight at Pierrot, brought your hand to his lips. His kiss was quick, but deliberately provocative. You pulled your hand away in embarrassment, feeling the color rise in your cheeks.
Pierrot remained silent, but the tension emanating from him became palpable, as if the air was filled with static electricity before a storm. Suddenly, his hand shot up and gripped Harlequin's shoulder with force.
"Come on," he growled, looking him in the eye
Harlequin just chuckled, roughly shaking off his grip. "I'll see you later, beautiful," he said, turning gracefully and waving goodbye as he left you alone again.
You exhaled, realizing that you had been holding your breath, and looked at Pierrot. He was standing with his fists clenched, his back tense.
"I have the day off tomorrow," you said quietly, trying to dispel the dark shadow left by Harlequin's visit. "So... I can come to your place tomorrow. To the circus."
The words had an immediate effect. The tension melted from his shoulders as if by magic. He turned to you and his smile bloomed again, wide and bright and this time completely genuine. He clutched his jester's hat in his hands, which he had not yet put on, and the neat braid that you had woven with your own hands shone beautifully in the lamplight, highlighting the change in him.
"How long are you going to be in there?" Harlequin's caustic voice came from outside, interrupting the moment once again.
Pierrot rolled his eyes for a moment, he took a step back, toward the exit, and looking at you, he raised his hand to his heart in a graceful, almost chivalrous gesture.
“Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, Pierrot,” you replied, and your voice was soft and warm.
He left, and the glass door closed behind him with a soft chime. Suddenly, the cafe was filled with a hollow silence. You took a deep breath, looking around the empty room, and then your gaze fell on the wall clock. The hands showed that your shift had ended ten minutes ago.
As if waking up from a dream, you closed the door and went to the back room. You quickly took off your work uniform to change your clothes. Before leaving, you paused for a moment in front of the mirror, adjusting your collar, which was adorned with two pins: one with a yellow star and the other with a green heart. Your gaze fell on the reflection of the paper rose that still adorned your hair. You gently touched it, and a smile naturally appeared on your lips.
Leaving the room, you went to the electrical panel. The lever fell down with a quiet click, and the cafe was plunged into darkness, with only the sweet, creamy smell of milkshakes and the memory of a warm glove on your cheek.
After locking the door, you turned and walked away, taking another paper flower with you.
Whenever i think about how gentle Pierrot tries to be with MC despite the fact that hes a monster whos killed several and will kill again,all i can think about is how much the others are probably thinking
What are you supposed to do when a child and mother slowly start to soften your heart towards a race you had spent hating most of your life? Have an existential crisis and break into her house in the middle of the night, obviously
"Oh my god Kayli why do you keep making single/widowed mother AUs"
Because I fucking CAN and no one can stop me. Found family is what I'm here for and none of you can convince me it's not super sweet. I just like the idea of a little girl and her mother unintentionally breaking down all those walls he's built up over the years :)
Was also inspired to do this after seeing that AMA where someone asked Pierrot something about a pregnant/single mom mc
Now I gotta think of a fucking name for this little au
@freakcircusofhorrors @nekoboydreams I don't use Tumblr, but I still wanted to show appreciation towards the author. Thank you for making such an amazing game!! Hope you like the little fanart I made :)
stormborns
dailybridgerton
areudirty
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
gracieabrams
2087
tangentwithtanner
baratheonpilled
