*+:｡ i like space ⋆˙⟡.

emylie / 28 / mdni im crushing 30 okay who would have thought dorky space man would become my muse (i should have lol)

[ouranemoia]

✨ emylie, she/they, 28, ace, audhd, teacher 🧸 follow from @mnsteras & replies from here <3

i've been on tumblr in different forms since 2014 (god im old) and im back to writing again thanks to this movie and its beautiful fandom c: thanks for stopping by

→ masterlist → all fics → fic recs

reblogs and comments make my day and encourage me to no end <3 that said, i do write indulgently. this means if i want to read it smth like it, i’ll end up writing it. so this blog will be full of fics that i would want to read <3 that being said, requests are always open and i’ll see what i can do !

thank you for reading and supporting my work <3

[ouranemoia]

ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴀɪʟ ᴍᴀʀʏ ⁽²⁰²⁶⁾

[orbiten]

RYAN GOSLING as RYLAND GRACE PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026, Phil Lord & Christopher Miller)

[thecherrieo]

That’s what happened in this book right

[keydekyie]

"It would have been easier if you'd just said yes."

original

[sushiisiu]

ily (avaliable as a print in my pinned)

[avi-mation]

Earth’s Scapegoat and her Sacrificial Lamb

[ouranemoia]

have my macbook set up to a large monitor AND have access to the full adobe suite im so back

[sentrybites]

i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.

i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it

[ouranemoia]

rainy daze | ryland grace

it's rainy, and of course you parked at the far end of the lot. at least you don't have to ride a bike...

⊹ teacher!ryland grace x gn!teacher!reader | 1.9k ⊹ genres/tropes: teacher au, ryland is middle school ofc and reader is elementary; yearning (they love each other but they're stupid so they won't confess lol) ⊹ mentions/warnings of: none, but let me know if i missed something! ⊹ a/n: first writing here, first phm fic, first fic in a while. enjoy ! i love reading your comments in the tags or replies <3 thank you!

It's that time of year where, even though you love your job and you're grateful for everything it brings you, you wish you could just stay home all day. Maybe it's because of the weather: overcast, rainy, a blue hue that makes you think of fall and winter, not May rolling into almost-summer. Even though the air is balmy, the raindrops that manage to sneak under the awning and smack your skin are cold. You wished you'd worn a sweater, or even a school spirit hoodie. Professional dress was so blegh and so hard to keep warm, or cool, or any kind of balanced body temperature this time of year.

Despite being lost in your thoughts about how the crisp button down you'd ironed the night before was doing little to help you survive, the classic crinkle of a particular yellow raincoat breaks through your mental haze with ease.

"Dr. Grace," you say with a hum, a short nod of your head. In the distance, your small red SUV cuts through the grey and blue of the hazy San Fran weather. Absent-mindedly still, you think of how the Golden Gate Bridge is a similar color. To help see through the rain? Maybe all cars should be reddish–

"I told you; it's Ryland," the taller science teacher corrects, though no harm in his tone. You look over, eyes snapping away from your car, and see him offer a small smile with a small wave, his hand barely going past his hips. "And, uh, hi."

You smile, his awkward idiosyncrasies one of your favorite charming parts of his. He probably doesn't even know how he turns your stomach to knots and haunts your dreams in the best of ways. "Hi," you offer back. It’s plain, and it feels plain, and if this were a TV show you’d probably be tossing a throw pillow towards the screen in agony. Too bad it’s real life.

"So, uh, I guess we're both out of luck today, huh?" Ryland extends one hand out into the rain, drops pouncing and bouncing off his palm. He reels it in, shaking it before attempting to wipe it dry on his raincoat. Which, of course, doesn't work, because the raincoat is plasticy and not at all absorbent. Ryland sighs in defeat before reaching lower, rubbing his hand on the front of his jeans.

“At least you have a hood on this thing.” You reach out and poke his shoulder, near where the hood flaps over. The you-of-three-months-ago would have actually poked the folded-over hood. The you-of-about-two-weeks-ago realized you relished any excuse to touch him–feel his body heat soothe into yours before pulling away. God, how high school of you.

If anyone had told you when the semester started that you’d be head over heels crushing hard on the science teacher from the middle school next door, you would have laughed in their face. Rude, of course, but what else would you have thought? Coming into an elementary school, classes and friendships already established. Starting mid-school year is hard for the children, yet you’d never put thought into exactly how hard it could be for an adult. Trying to fit in with the other teachers, the cliques who’d been by each other’s side since August, or longer. Trying to match the pace and rigor of everyone else on the grade level.

You’d cracked, about a month in, on a day rather similar to this one. Cold February rain. You’d parked closer then–before you realized Ryland was likely to walk you to your car, pushing the bike along his side, before heading off down the street–and the rain wasn’t as aggressive. Just soggy, softening the edges of everything.

Maybe that’s what had inspired you to cry. Everything else had a post-sob feeling. You’d stayed way too late, again. You’d left without finishing your to-do list, again. Sensory overload in a world of grey as you stood near the bike rack nestled between the two campuses. Grover Middle to one side, your new elementary on the other, and you in the middle trying really hard to focus on how it felt to press your fingernails deep into your palm. You were hoping the crescent imprints would be enough distraction to help your breathing regulate.

“They’re never over, you know,” a voice said, accompanied by a certain crinkle. You hiccuped in surprise, your tears abruptly stopping as you were ripped back to reality. You shook your hands, palms stinging, and used the heel of one hand to wipe at your eyes.

“I’m sorry? Do I know you?” You hoped you didn’t look or sound too disturbed, chest still heaving slightly and eyes most definitely red from your stress-induced pity party.

The man looked over at you, bike helmet unbuckled. His glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, and he turned distractedly towards you. Blue eyes blinked at you from behind glass. “They’re never over,” he repeated. “To-do lists. They never end. Statistically, and especially in jobs like ours, they never will end. Even when we retire, we’ll still have to-do lists. I guess that’s what they call the human condition, huh? This constant muck we find ourselves in. I’m Ryland Grace, by the way.”

You took a moment to stare at the hand extended your way, brain trying to file and process everything this strange man just threw at you. Professional muscle memory kicked in, and you grasped his hand with lackluster force. For a moment, you don’t feel too cold, heat from his hand sweeping into yours.

“Uh, I guess you’re right,” you said, blinking back your confusion as you looked back up at him. You're captivated by his eyes as you introduced yourself; then: “Wait. How did you know I was hung up on to-do lists?”

The man–Ryland Grace–shrugged. “Word’s made it to Middle that you’re new. I remember when I was new. You wouldn’t think academia could be easier than teaching 12 year olds, but here we are. College is easy, if you really think about it. You do your work, you submit your research. You wait for feedback. Repeat. Nothing changes. Today, I had to figure out how to separate three boys from trying to get on the ground and pretend to be sea lions while I was lecturing about animal structures and functions along with adaptability.”

You were certain you were gawking. Ryland Grace had turned back to seemingly admire the parking lot as he rambled on. It was all connected, yet you still felt so behind by the time he got finished, your head was spinning.

You’d stopped crying and heaving, though, thanks to the total absurdity of the situation.

The gratitude you felt didn’t stop you from blurting out what came next: “Are you okay?”

That seems to snap the man from his stupor, and he whips his head back around. “Me? What? Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. Good. Great actually. Got my raincoat and it has a hood so, like, don’t gotta worry about getting too wet in this rain. So yeah, uh, doing swell.” He offered you two thumbs up before reaching down with one hand to steady his bike.

How does he do it? you wondered. Did his brain ever just turn off?

And then, amidst every other emotion coursing through your veins, you laughed. A quick chuckle, really, but it seemed to catch Ryland Grace off guard. His expression, wide-eyed and retreated, made you laugh again.

“Thank you, Mr. Grace,” you said, finally smiling. It felt good to laugh after everything. “I really needed… that.” Probably not a good idea to be too vague when discussing someone’s attempt at cheering you up. You couldn’t really pin-point anything exact from his spiel, though.

He replied with a short laugh of his own, a dismissed haha. He looked down, fidgeted with the handles of his bike. Realized his helmet wasn’t locked in, making him let go of the bike. It leaned on him as he fumbled with the straps, turning towards you once more. “Don’t mention it, we all have bad days. You don’t have to call me that though–Mr. Grace. That’s my dad. You can call me Ryland.”

You felt a little warmer. “Okay,” you replied simply. You told him he could do likewise with you, drop formalities in exchange for first names. Ryland excused himself then, pushing his bike off the curb to the parking lot. You watched him pull up the hood, rain bouncing off the yellow, before slinging one leg over his bike and riding off.

Here you stand now, a slightly similar situation. Rain. No umbrellas. Him the only one with a functioning jacket.

“You know,” he begins, staring out at the heavy rain, “given the climate of where we live and how often you find yourself in this situation, you really should invest in some kind of raincoat by now. Or park closer.”

“Or both,” you shrug. You look up at him, turning your head to gaze up over his shoulder. He still looks the same, just like the day he popped into your life. Tall, messy hair under his helmet, blue eyes shining behind his slightly tilted glasses. That absurdly yellow rain jacket. Except now, there’s a tender happiness that floats between the two of you, amplifies whenever you’re near one another, but it never goes away when apart. You think one day, if he hasn’t, you’ll ask him on a date. Maybe. If the butterflies don’t destroy you first.

“The parking closer is cheaper,” Ryland notes, tilting his head to one side. You absentmindedly wonder if he knows the reason why you park so far. You wonder if he minds.

You tilt your head to mirror his. “The obnoxiously colored raincoat is more fun, though.”

“Who said anything about obnoxious?” he feigns disgust, lightly slugging you in the shoulder. You pretend to fly back. Ryland uses both hands to adjust his jacket, zipping it up but leaving the hood down. “Yellow is a very distinguished color, thank you.”

“If you’re a bird, maybe.” The two of you beam at each other, enjoying how easy this back and forth feels. Surely, surely he feels the same. He has to.

Who else would hold his bike with one hand, and hold his other out for you to grasp? Who else would speed walk through an empty rainy parking lot with you, acting as a strong, balancing force against the slick pavement? Who else would wait until you were in the front seat, head no longer getting rained on, to put on his hood?

With Ryland’s text me when you get home safe still ringing in your ears even after shutting your door and turning the key in the ignition, you reach for the towel that has begun to live in your backseat. You run it over your head, through your hair, and over the exposed parts of your skin.

You sigh, head falling back against the headrest as the music on the radio quietly croons a classic song about having a crush. One day you’ll say how you feel. Or, maybe he will do it first. Or you both do it at the same time.

You stare out the droplet-covered window, looking in your side mirror at the direction Ryland rode off in. You shut your eyes, feeling dreamy as the heater begins to warm your skin. You can imagine all you want, but you know until then, until whoever decides to say something first, all you can do is be stuck in this rainy daze.

[ouranemoia]

im gonna write a lot more now that school is out!!

[ouranemoia]

hello my beautiful 5 followers how are you today

[sipofchai]

there is something so humbling about developing a hyperfixation on ryan gosling in the year 2026. ryan gosling. universally-agreed-upon-heartthrob ryan gosling. how florals for spring of me.

[water1i1ies]

I loved your nightmare fic so much, I was wondering if I could request a sequal where they get together? 💛💛

✧ Staying With You

ʀʏʟᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇ x ᴄʀᴇᴡᴍᴀᴛᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. | ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ☆彡

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You two are professionals. Okay, professional friends. You’re friends who sleep in the same bed and cast each other looks that last a millisecond too long and just so happen to touch one an– oh, fuck it. You’re not friends. 

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: can be read as standalone; fluffflufffluff; wait also a bit of angst; idiots pining; Rocky thinks this is too complicated; "do you think they like me?" bro.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.9k

ᴀ/ɴ: You have no idea how happy this request makes me. 🥹🫶 I'm glad you liked my previous one, thank you!! I hope I interpreted getting together correctly as I decided to keep this one simple and fluffy – don't mind the depravity in the drafts. 😃

You're friends.

You may crawl into his bed at night. He may be waiting for you. That’s fine. What else is he supposed to do when the homie needs a little nighttime reassurance?

Sometimes he finds you alone and bundled into his covers on a late night – the kind where he's on his third cup of coffee. Something about being surrounded by him that makes you feel more comfortable. You're the only two humans in the Tau Ceti system and going through extreme stress, being attached is normal! Attachment being reaching for one another in the dark. Not for any base human instincts or because he craves a warm body, but because he just... feels better when he's holding you.

Then there was that time his skin got warm and clammy. Too much body heat with nowhere to retreat to because he’d already decided that getting up and disturbing you wasn’t an option. You’d squirmed in your sleep, blinking blearily up at him. You looked warm too. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Too much?” Your voice was even. Fatigued, but level and soft. You looked calm enough, too. No nightmare then. Good. You must’ve been awake from the warmth.

“‘S fine.” He murmured back. “I could turn the temperature down.”

As he was moving to get up, somewhere around his back, your hand pressed him closer. “Don’t go,” you protested, a yawn popping your jaw. He froze. Carefully, your hand drifted down. Toyed with the hem of his shirt. “Jus’ take this off. See if it helps.” Oh. Okay. 

He swallowed. Suddenly awake and very, very aware of your body next to his. “You… You’re okay with that?” He’d been going to sleep fully clothed every night, more content with burning up in Tau Ceti’s atmosphere than making you uncomfortable somehow. 

You nodded, closing your eyes again. Like you were giving him that privacy, at least. Not that he’d mind being seen by you. “We can pull the covers down too.”

Who was he to complain? “Okay.” Were his hands shaking as he shucked off his shirt, letting it drop somewhere off the side of the bed? Maybe. This was bad, very bad. For crying out loud, he was a grown man! What qualms did he have about being shirtless?

He thought of those flimsy consolations for all of about fifteen seconds. Probably less. When he settled back down, back into the cocoon the two of you formed, your hands were on his bare skin. You had no more reservations touching him now that he was half naked than you did before. Nails skating lazily over his chest, across his shoulderblade – flattened your palm there as you drifted back under.

He really hoped you were too weary to notice how his muscles tightened under your touch. How you affected him so simply. He turned the temperature down before bed the next night. His composure wouldn’t… he couldn’t do that again. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Definitely a platonic thing, y'know?

Rocky doesn’t think so. 

Since he boarded the Hail Mary, observed the magnetism between the both of you, he’d assumed you were a mated pair. 

He didn’t ask questions upon his arrival. Before the translation system, the language barrier only allowed for the simplest of conversations. After the translation system? Fair game. Well, in between saving stars. 

Grace holds resolute (for now): You’re just friends. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Not that it mattered much anymore, but he didn’t know what time it was. Past a reasonable bedtime, he knew that. You’d gone to sleep about an hour ago, brushing his arm as you passed. Your eyes were half-lidded and your body was languid with tiredness and he’d had half a mind to follow you out. By some miracle, though, he hadn’t. Or cowardice. He’d rather be here, looking at fuel conversions and star-eaters. Yeah.

Rocky, observing from his prismed habitat, trilled something unfamiliar. Grace looked up from his cup, raising his brows under slipping frames. “Why Grace not watch mate sleep, question?”

He nearly choked. Ryland managed to get the sip down. Cleared his throat, trying to think of this as one of the numerous situations where his students thought any similarly-aged woman he was seen standing next to was his secret girlfriend. Except those women hadn’t left his pulse hammering in his throat. “We– Rock, we’re not mates. We’re friends, but not… that. And they’ll be okay,” he said, disbelieving for more than one reason. “They’ve become a light sleeper recently. They’ll wake up if something’s wrong.”

The Eridian ignored the part about human sleeping habits. So strange. How could they feel safe with no one to watch? “Grace and pilot sleep together–”

“Don’t put it like that.”

“Why not, question? Is accurate. Grace and pilot sleep on chests in same sleeping quarter. Pilot always touching Grace. Grace touch back. Look at one another long time. Compatibility appears optimal. Mates, statement.”

Grace wasn’t about to explain English slang for sex to an alien lifeform. That could be someone else’s job, dangit. First, how much had he been paying attention? Second, was it really that obvious? Grace didn’t linger on that second point. “Uh, well, it’s a lot more complicated for humans than that, bud. 

“Humans needlessly complicated, statement.” Was he grumbling? It sounded an awful lot like grumbling. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You’re not making this any easier. 

One time he saw you curled up in one of his cardigans. You’d mostly shrugged the blanket off, a sliver of the bare cut of your thigh visible beneath the fabric. Were you wearing shorts? He never figured that out – he’d left. You’d only been asleep for an hour or so after that and changed right after waking up. He convinced himself the slight rosiness in your face, the way you couldn’t meet his eyes, was something he was imagining. That image plagues him at night. 

(He shouldn’t be thinking about you that way. He doesn’t like what thinking about you thinking about him that way does to his vitals.)

Grace tells himself that he’s doing this because it’s how you’re most comfortable. He wants you to be comfortable. It’s what friends do for each other. You comfort him too, in some foreign, heart-pounding way. Anything else could disrupt that careful balance. Because what if he’s misinterpreting everything? 

He doesn’t let himself consider that you really do think of him that way. He couldn’t do that to you. 

Dr. Ryland Grace, it’s time for your wakeup call.

It happens during the simulated night, when the formalities of the day blur and slip through his fingers like sand. 

He’s dreaming. He’s not sure of it at the moment, but you’re there. He’d should’ve noticed the surreality of your features, but he also thinks you just look like that. Routine maintenance, you’re saying. He opens his mouth, something about how he’ll do it. No sound comes out. You would’ve said something sly about you having the actual astronaut experience anyway. He can’t move as you suit up and leave the ship. Not to stop you. Not even to touch your arm. Can only watch as you perform your job, skillful and without wavering. Then he sees it. You’re disconnected from your tether– why are you– And then, for reasons that will never be good enough, you’re gone.

Something’s wrong wrong wrong.

He’s sweating, but he’s not hot. His body jerks upwards, hypersensitive and needing to do something – anything – for his inaction. For a moment, he scolds himself. He’s probably woken you up. He looks over. 

You’re not there. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You hear your name from the bedroom through the walls of the Hail Mary. There’s something off about it. It’s strangled, laced with something frantic. You don’t bother finishing getting your water. 

Your pace finally slows as you approach the dormitory. Squinting into the hazy darkness, you make out his back. He’s up. His shirt’s off, though you swore you left him in here with one on. Based on his body language, he looks… lost. Please don’t be a medical episode. You weren’t qualified for that. 

Your throat still feels dry, but you can speak. “Ryland?” He responds instantaneously to the sound of you. Grace turns, eyes locking with yours. They startle you with their intensity. They’re wide and beautiful and sad. Relieved. He’s not wearing his glasses. 

Your name’s barely out of his mouth before he’s striding towards you, enveloping you in a hug. Not the kind you’ve become accustomed to giving. The man is folded over you. He’s holding you tighter than he’s ever dared to in the past, both hands fisted into your shirt. 

You’re grasping at him back. It doesn’t require any thought. His chest is heaving– “Is everything okay?” You’re transported back to that night you finally had the gall to seek him out. The first time he held you, let you listen to his heart. Except his words are now yours. 

“A nightmare,” he mirrors. He’s speaking into your hair. “I thought– I don’t know what I thought.”

You ran your hands down his back, an attempt at soothing in whatever way you knew how. “I’m here. ‘S just a dream, okay? I’m– you’re okay.”

He hasn’t moved. “I need to hear you say you’re okay.” Unguarded. Pleading, even. 

“I’m okay, Ryland.”

A lull. “Okay,” he’s close enough that you can feel his throat bob, “Please forgive me.”

You’re about to ask him what he’s talking about when he pulls away. In one fluid motion, like he’ll lose the nerve if he waits one more moment, Ryland Grace is cupping your face in both hands as he crushes your lips with his.

It’s like finding him in the dark, hugging him in the hallway, grazing his shoulder. Your mouth is moving against his and you’re not thinking about what you’re doing. Just that whatever it was feels right. He feels right – the hard planes of his figure flush against yours like this. The hold you had on him tightens, scrambling across his back and teasing the nape of his neck. 

Ryland is kissing you softer. Reverently, a devotee at his altar. His hands are shaking, you think. Slight tremors wracking his body as he lets his hands travel – into your hair, curled around your waist. Your noses brush and you swipe your tongue experimentally against his lip. You feel his breath catch, a clipped groan as your reward. 

Then, woefully, he pulls away. 

The space he creates between the two of you can’t be more than a few hesitant inches. It feels too far, the air between crackling with desires unsaid and unexplored. You’d be remiss to ignore the dejection curdling in your stomach. 

His hair is mussed from sleep and your hands, eyes the darkest you’ve ever seen them. “‘M sorry,” he babbles and he sounds like he genuinely means it. He begins to say your name and then stops, like he hasn’t earned it. “I didn’t mean– I mean, I did mean– I meant all of it. But, shit, you didn’t have to do that for me.” And he looks so apologetic, he really does. Mortified by his own actions. “I can go to bed. You can– you don’t have to be with me,” he runs his hand down his jaw, “like that.”

You watched him, amusement flickering within all the want behind your ribs. He actually cursed. “Ryland. I’m going to rescind all my forgiveness unless you kiss me again.”

It takes a moment for your words to register. Then – quickly, like he’s trying to make it up to you – he obliges.

[ouranemoia]

Let's find a place where we can see all the stars.

disclaimer: do to personal preference and orientations, i will not be writing anything 18+/nsfw. it merely doesn't butter my eggroll.

but the fluff, yearning, and hurt/comfort tropes? oh you bet.

AU. 001 - elementary teacher!reader × intermediate teacher!ryland

these fics happen on earth within its own canon/timeline. they can be read in any order, unless otherwise stated :) in this world, the elementary and middle are right next to each other with a shared parking lot and a greenspace between the two buildings.

rainy daze | 1.9k, fluff, will-they/won't-they, pre-confession

it's rainy, and of course you parked at the far end of the lot. at least you don't have to ride a bike…

[ouranemoia]

rainy daze | ryland grace

it's rainy, and of course you parked at the far end of the lot. at least you don't have to ride a bike...

⊹ teacher!ryland grace x gn!teacher!reader | 1.9k ⊹ genres/tropes: teacher au, ryland is middle school ofc and reader is elementary; yearning (they love each other but they're stupid so they won't confess lol) ⊹ mentions/warnings of: none, but let me know if i missed something! ⊹ a/n: first writing here, first phm fic, first fic in a while. enjoy ! i love reading your comments in the tags or replies <3 thank you!

It's that time of year where, even though you love your job and you're grateful for everything it brings you, you wish you could just stay home all day. Maybe it's because of the weather: overcast, rainy, a blue hue that makes you think of fall and winter, not May rolling into almost-summer. Even though the air is balmy, the raindrops that manage to sneak under the awning and smack your skin are cold. You wished you'd worn a sweater, or even a school spirit hoodie. Professional dress was so blegh and so hard to keep warm, or cool, or any kind of balanced body temperature this time of year.

Despite being lost in your thoughts about how the crisp button down you'd ironed the night before was doing little to help you survive, the classic crinkle of a particular yellow raincoat breaks through your mental haze with ease.

"Dr. Grace," you say with a hum, a short nod of your head. In the distance, your small red SUV cuts through the grey and blue of the hazy San Fran weather. Absent-mindedly still, you think of how the Golden Gate Bridge is a similar color. To help see through the rain? Maybe all cars should be reddish–

"I told you; it's Ryland," the taller science teacher corrects, though no harm in his tone. You look over, eyes snapping away from your car, and see him offer a small smile with a small wave, his hand barely going past his hips. "And, uh, hi."

You smile, his awkward idiosyncrasies one of your favorite charming parts of his. He probably doesn't even know how he turns your stomach to knots and haunts your dreams in the best of ways. "Hi," you offer back. It’s plain, and it feels plain, and if this were a TV show you’d probably be tossing a throw pillow towards the screen in agony. Too bad it’s real life.

"So, uh, I guess we're both out of luck today, huh?" Ryland extends one hand out into the rain, drops pouncing and bouncing off his palm. He reels it in, shaking it before attempting to wipe it dry on his raincoat. Which, of course, doesn't work, because the raincoat is plasticy and not at all absorbent. Ryland sighs in defeat before reaching lower, rubbing his hand on the front of his jeans.

“At least you have a hood on this thing.” You reach out and poke his shoulder, near where the hood flaps over. The you-of-three-months-ago would have actually poked the folded-over hood. The you-of-about-two-weeks-ago realized you relished any excuse to touch him–feel his body heat soothe into yours before pulling away. God, how high school of you.

If anyone had told you when the semester started that you’d be head over heels crushing hard on the science teacher from the middle school next door, you would have laughed in their face. Rude, of course, but what else would you have thought? Coming into an elementary school, classes and friendships already established. Starting mid-school year is hard for the children, yet you’d never put thought into exactly how hard it could be for an adult. Trying to fit in with the other teachers, the cliques who’d been by each other’s side since August, or longer. Trying to match the pace and rigor of everyone else on the grade level.

You’d cracked, about a month in, on a day rather similar to this one. Cold February rain. You’d parked closer then–before you realized Ryland was likely to walk you to your car, pushing the bike along his side, before heading off down the street–and the rain wasn’t as aggressive. Just soggy, softening the edges of everything.

Maybe that’s what had inspired you to cry. Everything else had a post-sob feeling. You’d stayed way too late, again. You’d left without finishing your to-do list, again. Sensory overload in a world of grey as you stood near the bike rack nestled between the two campuses. Grover Middle to one side, your new elementary on the other, and you in the middle trying really hard to focus on how it felt to press your fingernails deep into your palm. You were hoping the crescent imprints would be enough distraction to help your breathing regulate.

“They’re never over, you know,” a voice said, accompanied by a certain crinkle. You hiccuped in surprise, your tears abruptly stopping as you were ripped back to reality. You shook your hands, palms stinging, and used the heel of one hand to wipe at your eyes.

“I’m sorry? Do I know you?” You hoped you didn’t look or sound too disturbed, chest still heaving slightly and eyes most definitely red from your stress-induced pity party.

The man looked over at you, bike helmet unbuckled. His glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, and he turned distractedly towards you. Blue eyes blinked at you from behind glass. “They’re never over,” he repeated. “To-do lists. They never end. Statistically, and especially in jobs like ours, they never will end. Even when we retire, we’ll still have to-do lists. I guess that’s what they call the human condition, huh? This constant muck we find ourselves in. I’m Ryland Grace, by the way.”

You took a moment to stare at the hand extended your way, brain trying to file and process everything this strange man just threw at you. Professional muscle memory kicked in, and you grasped his hand with lackluster force. For a moment, you don’t feel too cold, heat from his hand sweeping into yours.

“Uh, I guess you’re right,” you said, blinking back your confusion as you looked back up at him. You're captivated by his eyes as you introduced yourself; then: “Wait. How did you know I was hung up on to-do lists?”

The man–Ryland Grace–shrugged. “Word’s made it to Middle that you’re new. I remember when I was new. You wouldn’t think academia could be easier than teaching 12 year olds, but here we are. College is easy, if you really think about it. You do your work, you submit your research. You wait for feedback. Repeat. Nothing changes. Today, I had to figure out how to separate three boys from trying to get on the ground and pretend to be sea lions while I was lecturing about animal structures and functions along with adaptability.”

You were certain you were gawking. Ryland Grace had turned back to seemingly admire the parking lot as he rambled on. It was all connected, yet you still felt so behind by the time he got finished, your head was spinning.

You’d stopped crying and heaving, though, thanks to the total absurdity of the situation.

The gratitude you felt didn’t stop you from blurting out what came next: “Are you okay?”

That seems to snap the man from his stupor, and he whips his head back around. “Me? What? Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. Good. Great actually. Got my raincoat and it has a hood so, like, don’t gotta worry about getting too wet in this rain. So yeah, uh, doing swell.” He offered you two thumbs up before reaching down with one hand to steady his bike.

How does he do it? you wondered. Did his brain ever just turn off?

And then, amidst every other emotion coursing through your veins, you laughed. A quick chuckle, really, but it seemed to catch Ryland Grace off guard. His expression, wide-eyed and retreated, made you laugh again.

“Thank you, Mr. Grace,” you said, finally smiling. It felt good to laugh after everything. “I really needed… that.” Probably not a good idea to be too vague when discussing someone’s attempt at cheering you up. You couldn’t really pin-point anything exact from his spiel, though.

He replied with a short laugh of his own, a dismissed haha. He looked down, fidgeted with the handles of his bike. Realized his helmet wasn’t locked in, making him let go of the bike. It leaned on him as he fumbled with the straps, turning towards you once more. “Don’t mention it, we all have bad days. You don’t have to call me that though–Mr. Grace. That’s my dad. You can call me Ryland.”

You felt a little warmer. “Okay,” you replied simply. You told him he could do likewise with you, drop formalities in exchange for first names. Ryland excused himself then, pushing his bike off the curb to the parking lot. You watched him pull up the hood, rain bouncing off the yellow, before slinging one leg over his bike and riding off.

Here you stand now, a slightly similar situation. Rain. No umbrellas. Him the only one with a functioning jacket.

“You know,” he begins, staring out at the heavy rain, “given the climate of where we live and how often you find yourself in this situation, you really should invest in some kind of raincoat by now. Or park closer.”

“Or both,” you shrug. You look up at him, turning your head to gaze up over his shoulder. He still looks the same, just like the day he popped into your life. Tall, messy hair under his helmet, blue eyes shining behind his slightly tilted glasses. That absurdly yellow rain jacket. Except now, there’s a tender happiness that floats between the two of you, amplifies whenever you’re near one another, but it never goes away when apart. You think one day, if he hasn’t, you’ll ask him on a date. Maybe. If the butterflies don’t destroy you first.

“The parking closer is cheaper,” Ryland notes, tilting his head to one side. You absentmindedly wonder if he knows the reason why you park so far. You wonder if he minds.

You tilt your head to mirror his. “The obnoxiously colored raincoat is more fun, though.”

“Who said anything about obnoxious?” he feigns disgust, lightly slugging you in the shoulder. You pretend to fly back. Ryland uses both hands to adjust his jacket, zipping it up but leaving the hood down. “Yellow is a very distinguished color, thank you.”

“If you’re a bird, maybe.” The two of you beam at each other, enjoying how easy this back and forth feels. Surely, surely he feels the same. He has to.

Who else would hold his bike with one hand, and hold his other out for you to grasp? Who else would speed walk through an empty rainy parking lot with you, acting as a strong, balancing force against the slick pavement? Who else would wait until you were in the front seat, head no longer getting rained on, to put on his hood?

With Ryland’s text me when you get home safe still ringing in your ears even after shutting your door and turning the key in the ignition, you reach for the towel that has begun to live in your backseat. You run it over your head, through your hair, and over the exposed parts of your skin.

You sigh, head falling back against the headrest as the music on the radio quietly croons a classic song about having a crush. One day you’ll say how you feel. Or, maybe he will do it first. Or you both do it at the same time.

You stare out the droplet-covered window, looking in your side mirror at the direction Ryland rode off in. You shut your eyes, feeling dreamy as the heater begins to warm your skin. You can imagine all you want, but you know until then, until whoever decides to say something first, all you can do is be stuck in this rainy daze.

[toxicgothsyndrome-deactivated20]

could be us.

☾

🔭𖨆♡︎𖨆