you could be my destiny @semicosm - Tumblr Blog

Jul 17

THE BITTERSWEET / THE BITTER SOUND┊ft. topaz

There are many facets to running into a familiar face.

[wc: 5.1k] gn!reader, modern au, exes to ???, alternating pov, attempting voice and tone and imagery and all that, topaz is called jelena, reader is a brat and a hater, attempt at humor, ig there’s angst, alcohol mentions, reader has their own backstory.

please enjoy! reblogs & feedback both appreciated <3 lovely divider by @.diviniyae!

The city smells different.

Or, at least, different than you remember.

Maybe the then fruitless pursuits in your life had distracted you from the true treasures flanking every street corner — for example, you now get the scent of hot sandwiches wafting temptingly from the bodega skirting the edge of the old baseball field. Spilled oil pops and fries under the sovereignty of the sun. The beach blows its breeze inward towards the pier, blanketing its boutiques in the aroma of brine. These are all things you’d previously missed because you simply weren’t paying attention.

Now that you’re aware of the beautiful (but overwhelming) clarity of the world and all of its showmanship, you wonder idly if other people are as enlightened. Do they know about this? Do they notice the distilled emerald of the skinny lemon trees or the mealy vinyl of the old diner’s booths? Do they notice like you do?

…Or are they too wrapped up in someone else to care?

It’s infuriating. It’s absolutely infuriating to see couples this time of year; they frolic and stare into each other’s eyes without a care in the world when the world so obviously cares about them. It’s crazy to think you were like that at one point. Freedom is eye-opening, you reckon. How you just itch to walk up to the nearest pair of lovestruck strangers and yank them apart — not as a declaration of war, but as an act of mercy! This is for your own good! Gaze instead so amorously at the cracks in the pavement, they won’t break your heart!

Thankfully, you’ve learned to be socially aware and to keep these urges contained. Securing a restraining order against yourself is not a recommended vacation activity.

It’s a gorgeous June day and you couldn’t be more thankful to be single, to have the company of only yourself. You wake up around eleven and sing off-key in the shower. You take your time getting dressed and presentable with no one impatiently trotting after you. You don’t check your messages once. You clip a thermos of cold brew to your belt and take the bus. Oh, how you missed the bus! No one speaks to you, you don’t have to share your seat, and you can enjoy music in your own bubble. There is no pain you don’t allow.

You’ve taken to calling the locations of your daily excursions Black Sites. It’s not like you have to explain yourself to anyone, but being that most of your favorite spots here are publicly accessible, this may seem like a silly name. But government black sites are clandestine, and as far as you’re concerned, you’re the only human alive traipsing through the muggy dayscape. Your usual haunts are sacred and private to you, and that’s all that matters. Today’s Black Site? The mall. A place of sanctuary and perfume peddlers.

As Carly Simon preaches in your ear about vanity, the bus lurches to a stop to pick up someone else. The new passenger ambles down the aisle after scanning their pass, choosing to plonk down next to you. Of all people.

“Hello,” they greet.

You don’t look at them. The ant-like buskers outside are much more interesting. “Seat’s taken.”

They chuckle. “Not the end of it.”

Now just what is this nonsense?

You finally deign to spare a glance at the intruder. They (he?) look to be getting on in years, silver glinting through his brown locks. His glasses make him look wise and his weathered hands also command a similar respect. Crow’s feet pull at his dark eyes and the tan skin of his face, reminding you of faultlines.

You should’ve set your damn bag down as a deterrent. If you wanted to be bothered, you would’ve just stayed home this summer.

“Do I know you?” is what you settle for.

“I would’ve hoped so,” he replies.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m your neighbor — when you’re actually home, that is. I helped you paint your back door last year around this time. I believe my friend also invited you to our bonfire. And if I remember correctly, you have quite the propensity for scowling into burnt marshmallows. I’m Welt Yang, and it’s nice to meet you for a second time.”

Oh. Now you remember, as awkward as it is now. He’s part of that odd menagerie of folks and their odd, unabashed behaviors. Memories wash over you like the limpid tide, most of them managing to scrape by untainted.

There’s you sanding down wood in your GET FUCKED sweatshirt, grumbling profantities that’d make a dock foreman weep. A faceless apparition next to you is snorting at your frustrated state, pointing indecisively between buckets of pink and purple. It’s because of this ghost’s volume that a friendly head of gray hair peers over their side of the fence into your yard, offering an asinine comment about potty mouths.

From there, you must’ve spent half the summer with Welt and the others. You remember the bonfire, too. Fireflies pulsing yellow had miraculously gravitated to the Menagerie’s poolside, sister flames drunkenly gyrating under the cover of residual sky-smog. You burnt your marshmallows many a time (not to your tastes), having never attempted the domestic roast-things-on-a-stick activity before. A laughing body dances in tandem with yours, sawdust and sparks flying in celebration. It smells of smoke and champagne.

These phantom pains only gain such vivid composition in retrospect. But in the moment, you do remember being happy.

Happiness used to be like precious gems. You refuse to think so frugally ever again.

“I remember you now.” You tip your head towards Welt, your version of an apology. “I didn’t see you at the bus stop earlier.”

“I happen to enjoy walking when my sciatica isn’t killing me,” he says.

“And it’s killing you now?”

“I resigned to public transportation halfway to the university.”

You shrug. “Bummer.”

“Indeed.”

With the conversation having hopefully reached its end, you go back to listening to Carly who’s still singing through one speaker of your wired earbuds. However, part of you now feels a certain obligation for the man sitting next to you. You’re friends — or you used to be something close to it — so perhaps you should display some amount of camaraderie. To meet your quota for the day. That’s all.

With the same gravitas one would use to fork over a loaded gun, you offer the other speaker to Welt. Maybe it’s a bit more like an imposition than you intend.

A smart man like him apparently knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Good. He thus accepts your wordless offering.

“Thank you.”

Peace. Both of you share the music for some minutes after, intertwined by song. The university is coming up soon when he pipes up again, tugging at the stop cord.

“Ah, I meant to ask earlier. Is Jelena around? We’d love to have you both by again soon.”

You frown and yank the speaker right out of his ear. “She was trampled to death by a stampede of wild horses.”

Welt gives you an odd look, unsure if you’re joking. You smile sweetly and wave him off.

.❦.

Objectively, the city smells the same.

This truth doesn’t stop the allure of better times from trying to weave its spell; Jelena is well-versed in the way of pain and how it manipulates her surroundings. As she stuffs her sweaty hands in her pockets, for a moment she swears there’s a tinge of vanilla tickling its way up her nose. Faint, fleeting, then gone. Your signature scent is (was?) a classic, and many others are surely wearing the same sweet fragrance, she reasons. That’s why vanilla haunts her. Not because you’re actually here.

…But there is a good chance you’re actually here, isn’t there? That’s why she took all this time off. She doesn’t expect to win you back so easily, if there even is an infinitesimal chance you’ll entertain so much as a conversation with her. That’s just how you are, and as lovelorn as she may have been when things ended poorly, she is not blind to your ways. Persnickety, her mind supplies immediately. Temperamental. Capricious. Easily scorned.

Cruel?

No. That thought is vetoed as quickly as it comes. As punishment for even associating that word with your face, she pumps her legs and breaks back into a sprint. Her body protests, but she’s learned that the runner’s high is worth any soreness. Her now-damp tracksuit is a testament to her rustiness, and it doesn’t escape her that she’s only so out of practice because you’re no longer here to accompany her. Exercise, especially in this heat, is much easier with a companion complaining by your side.

A lot of things are easier, more enjoyable, with a companion by your side. It feels like she’s dragging her feet more, unable to keep the breath inside her chest (jogging aside). The world has turned into a molasses factory. The offerings of nature are not as beautiful. Any food she prepares needs to be seasoned threefold for her to taste it. Her ambitions, ever-reasonable as they were a year ago, have stagnated into the common day-to-day grind that tempers emphatic hands and genuine smiles.

No, her mind continues its chant, you are not cruel. If anything, you were completely justified to storm out like you did.

Perhaps therein lies the problem.

How long were you waiting for her to screw up so you could sabotage the untainted foundation of your relationship? How long were you waiting for an incentive to run away? Permission, even. Jelena knows she never intentionally handed you such a thing — quite the opposite, in fact. She pushed and pushed and systematically eroded your walls down so she could be the one to hold you in bed every night. She waited so patiently, so ardently, and then was eventually rewarded with a glimpse of the real you.

Your light was (is?) blinding.

She needs to get back to the stupid Airbnb, she decides. It’s equally stupid how these thoughts of you are the sole fuel keeping her moving. A few more blocks and she can rest. She slows to a jog after powering through another burst, having nearly reached the residential district of your summer home.

There’s no guarantee you’re here. Hell, you could’ve listed the damn thing for sale and decided to vacation overseas this year. You haven’t blocked her on any social media, but you haven’t been active either since last she checked. Maybe you’re simply at home. Maybe it’s kind of creepy for her to be in the city at all, scheming of ways to apologize and make things right. If a friend were to regale her with a similar crusade of persistence and denial, she’d email them a wikiHow article on How to Move On and then herself… move on.

But the fact remains that she was the one to let you go. This mistake is one of her worst. Had she tried harder to be the bigger person and reach out, you’d still be styling her hair in the dim balcony light. You’d weave your care into each tiny plait, meticulous and focused in a way that belies your outwardly cold demeanor. You’d reverse the nighttime hold and draw her into your arms for your fix of warmth, hoping also to give as permission to cyclically receive in turn.

You need to be asked after, sometimes chased. Did Jelena deliberately use this knowledge to also effectively cut you off? As a petty jab towards you for calling her out on her slip-up? As penance to herself for being undeserving of your forgiveness? In the following months, she thought about it a lot, deciding that a life without you was starting to look like the much worse option. Working on herself and having more time for other activities following the breakup was not as balm-like as she’d hoped; she ached regardless, plagued by this festering wound of regret.

All of this introspection aside… she doesn’t actually have a plan. Serenade you? Call you and hope she’s not blocked, propose coffee? Maybe lemonade instead. It is sweltering out and all that. Write out her sins in the sky and streak across the shore? Ugh.

She’s almost there now, looking forward to chugging water and pointedly avoiding heatstroke.

The tiny townhouse doesn’t smell of home, but she’s hard-pressed to complain about the fruit basket and complimentary bucket of chilled champagne that was left to her. These types of accommodations are places she sees enough of, places to fill the gaps where home cannot quite reach. How empty things are, without you.

She certainly doesn’t mind the blissful air conditioning, though. Letting out a sigh of relief, she dumps her shit on the granite-topped kitchen island and snatches her water bottle from its spot near the sink.

“Numby,” she calls after taking a long swig, “I’m home!”

Her companion doesn’t come running like they normally do. Disappointed but not surprised, Jelena frowns and trails into the living room. She unzips her tracksuit top and flings it carelessly to the floor on the way, trying desperately to cool down.

Maybe talking to them won’t help, but what the hell, it won’t harm anything. Numby understands her to a T.

“Are you sleeping again? C’mon. You didn’t wanna go for a walk, you barely ate breakfast, and you don’t wanna play with your toys. The vet said you were fine, you big drama queen. Good call on staying here this afternoon, though… it’s boiling. You would’ve overheated. Just thought I’d offer, y’know?”

The faintest snuffle echoes out from under the coffee table. Jelena’s worry is barely masked as she crouches down, peering into their hiding spot.

Ah, there they are. Wilted and shoving their snout into one of your old scarves — because of course they’re dealing with your absence as poorly as she is.

And her heart splinters all over again.

A hum. “It still smells like them, huh?”

Numby wiggles around to face their owner, leveling her with a look.

“Yeah, yeah. I would know, right? I’ve probably stuck my nose in it a few times myself.”

A sharp oink! of dissent.

“...More than a few times,” she amends, defeated. Then she perks back up. “But don’t worry, okay? I’m trying to come up with a plan to win them back. It’s just logistics — and the matter if they’ll go for it or not — but shooting our shot comes before any potential rejection. That’s our focus.”

Even though Jelena’s sure her pet can understand her just fine, it feels more like she’s reassuring herself than them. The thought makes her chest tighten with nerves. What if she can’t do this? What if coming out here entirely was stupid? What if you’re not even in the city?

Her heart disagrees with that last bit; it’s like the organ is always measuring the ever-changing distance between you and her, thumping along to the beat of your footsteps from the boardwalk to the nearby bistreaux. Ghosts of you everywhere, on every corner, like she’d just missed you.

Granted, there are some places she’s been avoiding. Your Black Sites, namely.

Could it be that she’s too afraid of running into you after all? She hasn’t exactly picked up the phone to call you either, even though she’s considered it many times.

“I just need to do it, don’t I? God, being proactive sucks.”

Numby chuffs.

“I’ll head to one of our—their spots, and if they aren’t there, I’ll call them. Promise.”

A plan is born just like that, then. Jelena pets her sweetie-baby-honey as compensation for their suffering, then rises to stand. Now she must pick where to go, and if her gamble pays off…

No. She shouldn’t get too ahead of herself.

(“Don’t get too ahead of yourself there,” she laughs, wiping a small glob of cheese and jalapeno from your chin. “You don’t need to send yourself into a coma before we get to paint.”

You stare, unimpressed and likely wanting to gorge yourself on food court fries for eternity. “You shouldn’t doubt my bottomless stomach.”

“I trust my judgment more than yours.”

“Your mistake.”)

She knows where to go.

Emboldened by her sudden decision, she whirls around and beelines for the door. Before she does, in fact, get ahead of herself — Numby oinks again, louder this time to reach the kitchen she’s stumbled back into.

“Right, shower first! Then… well, we’ll see.”

Whatever will come of this, she doesn’t know. She just knows she has to try.

.❦.

The prospect of the late afternoon has begun to clear out most of the mallgoers. Not that it bothers you, of course. Less racket, more room to move around and make sales assistants sweat. You don’t necessarily enjoy that last part, but you seem to have that effect on people regardless.

A cluster of teenagers chatter by the fountain, engrossed in discourse about the indie rock band opening at the looming Robin concert. As you stroll by, you passively soak up every slanted and syrupy syllable, every derisive drawl. If words were physical phenomena, you’d be able to see them curling throughout the room like smoke, the speaker’s intended tone flicking the wispy trail angrily or playfully or whatever is emotionally applicable. Instead of braving the smoke, you cut through it, leaving behind clouds of passionate bickering.

You’ve entered and exited a few high-end clothing stores. Nothing much catches your interest so much as you just like the atmosphere. One thing about the city is that no one knows you extraordinarily well — you believe you saw only once a couple trying to discreetly point in your direction — meaning that you have the power of anonymity. There are no old attachments trying to give you a hard time. You have the means to want for nothing, with none of the messy strings that come with it.

Some might call it a double-edged sword. Thinking of it that way puts you in a bad mood, so you usually don’t attempt such an exercise.

But you can’t say you’re not reminded, sometimes. Standing out in the throng of tables, there’s a family sitting in the corner, spare chairs waywardly skewed and made footrests for the more lackadaisical characters. They all look alike, the same collection of features painted on each face in differing interpretations; they were all made to be by the same artist, technique and signature plain as day. One doesn’t need to be a cultured individual to discern that. And one especially doesn’t have to be a cultured individual to discern joy. Everyone, it seems, can be happy.

Cheer radiates from them like an infectious disease. A boy steals a pickle slice from what you assume is his big sister’s tray, this which earns him a halfhearted elbow to the side. Nevermind the fact that she had set them aside from her patty entirely because she doesn’t like them. Nevermind the fact that the boy, the little brother, had stolen them without hesitation because he knew she wouldn’t mind. Not truly.

What kind of connection must they have, to understand one another so wordlessly? Pickle-stealing is not a formal arrangement — you can only surmise it’s an understanding born of love. You try not to scowl, feeling a headache coming on.

Your appetite is declared dead right then and there, but you enter the food court proper anyway, slinking over to a random table. You dump your bag into the seat next to you, feeling weighed down. A pressure stomps on your shoulders and twists tension into your neck. Bothersome.

Has this location and its history finally caught up to you? The idea sounds ridiculous; you’ve never had an issue separating past from present before. You’d never let some relationship blip get in the way of your happiness. You’d go as far to say you’re thriving in this ecosystem post-breakup.

(“Let’s never break up,” you blurt, all uncharacteristic and tentative. Your thumb strokes Jelena’s knuckles, coveting her hand as you hold it. “I couldn’t handle it.”

She eyes you in her peripherals, still somewhat committed to the TV. You want to kiss her. “Who said anything about breaking up? You’re stuck with me.”

“...On the contrary.”

She turns.

She laughs. Joyful, awestruck, she laughs.)

You didn’t want to be reminded.

Perhaps that’s fundamentally at odds with the notion of spending your summer here. Perhaps part of you, the ugly and small person who still feels they will never fit in and experience heartache and heartwarmth… just misses her. Who could blame you for being a little nostalgic? That’s all these feelings are — manifestations of nostalgia. You know you aren’t very approachable, and while that has its perks, what about its drawbacks?

The same person who wants their friend back still stuffs goose down pillows under the covers of the vacant side of the bed. You only do it because it is just so, so empty otherwise.

The corner family has increased in volume. It sounds like the little brother and the big sister have abandoned eating, scuffling some ways away, parents distracted. You watch as they move from nebulously behind you to the nearby escalator, grappling over something colorful. You try to ignore it, pulling out your phone to re-enter the world of social media for the first time in months.

Your profile’s been in a state of dormancy since that night. Your five posts — all couple photos of you and her — remain up, no new likes or comments save for a few bots. Same goes for followers. Looking at the pictures gives you a strange feeling, like she’s somehow watching you in return right through the screen. Gooseflesh razes your arms as you make the mistake of lingering on the sight of her wide smile, an aquarium tank behind you both in photo three as you celebrate six months of dating with a private jellyfish viewing.

You swiftly navigate to her profile instead.

You don’t know what you expect to find. That you’re blocked? That she’s deleted all evidence of your life together like those weren’t the best times you’ve had in your entire life? Or worse, like she’s moved on and found someone new to fill your shoes? Hard to say. You brace yourself for the utter disappointment or vindication you’re about to experience.

…Everything’s still there.

Like an equally mysterious tableau of the modern relationship, all of her photos (including the ones she shares with you) are still public for all the world to see. Nothing new posted. Just like yours. Is it perhaps a bit depraved to be stalking your ex’s profile? You prefer not to think of it that way, it not being anyone else’s business aside. You have healed, you have moved on, and wondering after her welfare is not creepy. You haven’t checked in months.

Today must simply be a tumultuous outlier in the sea of your life. That’s all.

The clamoring grows closer and you’re no longer able to ignore it. Just as you look up, what appears to be a toy airplane flies out of the boy’s hands and nosedives, skittering across the floor and under your table until skidding to a stop at your feet. You regard their faces with a neutral expression, the girl looking rather sheepish to have been fighting with her brother at all. The boy looks worried, probably concerned for the state of his toy.

You sigh, pushing back in your chair and picking the item up. “You shouldn’t squabble with your family over something so trivial.”

The siblings exchange glances and seem to be baffled and put-off by a stranger lecturing them.

“We were just playing around,” the girl defends weakly.

“Yeah. Um, can I have that back now?” asks the boy.

You nod, taking an extra second to make sure the plane isn’t scratched or damaged from the tussle; it looks to be fine, but you thumb away a smudge of dirt for good measure. You give the propeller a spin and cross the remaining distance to hand it back to little brother.

It takes a great deal of effort to suppress your tirade. Love one another, because there might come a day where one of you betrays the other, leaving the betrayee with nothing but a black card while the betrayer starts another family and completely forgets about the betrayee. This is paramount. Stop staring at me like I’m Frankenstein’s monster, maybe?

“Thanks! Bye!” they chime in unison.

You watch them rush back over to their family, head shaking in silent admonishment — you tried to telepathically beam your warning into their brains, but perhaps they’re too young or dense to grasp your wisdom. You hope they don’t come to regret this.

More than that though, you’d like to leave already and stave off this migraine in the privacy of your own home. As you begin to journey for the down escalator, you realize, belatedly and serendipitously, that a lone figure is standing by an empty kiosk on the way.

And the illusion shatters.

Jelena is just… standing there. Dressed in a cropped blouse and shorts and looking like an angel, as if the universe delivered her to you based on your unconscious desires alone. However, being honest with yourself, when has the universe ever been on your side? Taking that into consideration, just what kind of omen is this? You blink. Once, twice, thrice, and she doesn’t dissipate into stardust. Her expression is unsurprised, so did she know you were—

“Hey,” she ventures, posture shifting from casual to rigid like her body wants to move but her mind knows better than to let it. She, without looking, juts her finger in the direction of the kiosk. “Keychains. They’re, uh, for Pride. The seller probably took a dip in the fountain to cool off. Shame. I wanted to buy a couple.”

What.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t mean to sound so accusatory. It’s just how the words escape your mouth.

Her expression crumples and you hate how you put that look on her face, but the question remains notwithstanding, along with all of the conflicting thoughts and emotions tangling together in your head like a cacophony of impossible promises. She takes a minute to decide on her words, so unlike her usual confident self.

“I… look.” She sighs, slackening just barely. “I didn’t follow you here if that’s what you’re thinking. I had this feeling, and I decided to head uptown for old time’s sake. Coming to the city in the first place, though? Yeah, that’s on me being… being sorry, and wanting to see you again. Considering I hadn’t seen you at all before now, I thought maybe I was wrong. Thought you went to the chateau, maybe. Or the cabin. All in the name of avoiding us, seasonal suggestions aside. Can’t ever guess with you.”

The smoke begins to coil around your ankles like a viper. There is a whole sensory overload of awkward-ashamed-apprehensive-angry-apologetic happening, thick enough to choke on. You say nothing, ravaged by the change in balance; you no longer see, smell, hear, touch, or taste.

You no longer float above it all. You are undone. There is only her.

Jelena takes your silence as permission to continue, reining in her more unpalatable emotions and feelings on the subject. “Sorry, got ahead of myself. And that’s not my real apology, promise — I’m just asking that you hear me out. Those are my terms. You can tell me to fuck off all you want right now if it suits you, but I’d just like to talk.”

Then she adds, earnest and bright-eyed, “Please.”

She came here. She came for you, even if you made it clear during the argument how much you never wanted to see her again or something equally insincere, and when she didn’t give chase, you figured you made the right choice in leaving so she could not be the one to do it first. The consequences of your wrong choice were lying dormant until you were confronted head-on by the reality of them. By the reality of her.

“Talk,” you echo stupidly. “Here?”

For a second, Jelena looks dumbfounded as to have gotten so far with her argument of passion.

“...If you want. But,” she exhales, “I was planning to ask you out to coffee. Thought that’d be better.”

Coffee.

Neutral ground, all things considered. You are not entirely sure what talking could possibly entail at this point, and the thought maybe scares you a little bit, but after grudgingly coming to the realization that you cannot bear to turn her away after all this afternoon’s revealed to you, your position has turned awkward and vulnerable and all things you despise. Terrible.

…Hopeful?

No. You are not hopeful by design. You were once and look where that got you.

But maybe it got you here? Standing right across from the woman you love and another shot at loving her?

“It’s much too hot for coffee, Jelena. How about lemonade? More appropriate.”

The repose is deadly and loaded. You long to escape.

“Yeah—yeah, that’s alright with me. Definitely,” she says, disbelieving and breathless and stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I could message you details? If…”

“That’s fine,” you reassure.

“Great.”

Not the word you would use, personally. However, you are starting to sense another end to another conversation, even if this one is more important than most. You clear your throat, fidgeting with your bag and eyeing the escalator again.

“I have to head home.” Nevermind that you used to share the summer home in question with her. “You should wait here for the seller to come back. You wanted some keychains.”

It’s not perfect. You aren’t leaping into her arms even if a small part of you wants to (your capability to do so is also questionable). This isn’t a grand reunion.

But it’s a start.

“...Right,” Jelena laughs, almost relieved. “I’ll do that. Um, see you around?”

You bob your head once, succinct. Then you begin to walk away, pretending your legs aren’t shaking and that you didn’t just get tripped up in the most wonderful or most ruinous way possible.

You used to hoard the priceless gems of comfort and understanding, squirreling them away in your closet meant for your eyes only. Now, bejeweled in contemporary Swarovski, your mind wanders back to the very principle of the closet exhibit; storing good memories for later, for much more bittersweet viewing, is just borrowing grief from the future. Perhaps such preemptive mourning was poorly judged on your part.

There is always time to turn things around, isn’t there?

The thought tickles you. How romantic. How unlike you.

(Jelena takes her hands out of her pockets. How they itch and await the possibility of something old, new, more, or less.)

thanks for making it this far 🍋 ily !!

#icymi <3

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