it's all ampersands

[sh-writes]

Crossing Lines

Crossing Lines

Hartbig. Mildly nsfw. 

She hasn't been kissed quite like this before, where the breath exchanged between their lips feels like something precious and at the same moment, something to be dismissed - as if breathing itself is can be dismissed as long as this doesn't end. She is already entangled, entwined and yet she wants to get closer to the body that is pressed against her. A soft mouth presses against the hollow beneath her ear, the soft concave flesh of her collar bone, and she can feel the soft laughter brush like feathers against her skin. And then in the dim lighting, it’s soft blue eyes smiling at her with lips that curve into a smile the same shape of the fingers cupping her cheek, the same curve of the soft line of breasts above her. There’s nothing but light hair that dances with her own breath  and trailing fingers down her side. Fingers that are here, there, and there. She inhales deeply and laughter fills the space between them again, and it is sweet, and it is warm in the way that they are both occupying the same space and in the way that she can feel every muscle in her body beginning to tense.

She wakes with a start.

Her breathing is uneven, jumpy, and it takes her more than a few moments for her to understand where she is. Even when she understands that she is in her own bed, that it’s been nothing but a very vivid dream, there is still a hollow feeling when she stares at the empty space of mattress beside her. This is a decidedly new experience - not the sex dream of course, but the sex dream with Hannah - well... that was new. As was this empty feeling, bottoming out in the pit of her stomach.

Blearily, she shifts her gaze from the tangled sheets around her legs to the out of focus digital numerals of her alarm clock. It’s six something, and although she decides that it’s an ungodly hour, Grace sits up, rubbing the back of her neck, still trying to shake off the feeling of phantom kisses left there. She’s trying to conjure up a laugh, something of nonchalance to shake the inexplicable guilt she feels, but it’s hard because her skin is still warm to the touch - and suddenly Grace realizes that she is feeling guilty because she is still thinking about the way that Hannah had touched her arms, her cheeks - or at least dream Hannah had. Because it was a dream. A weird dream. Because friends probably didn’t have sex dreams about each other. Or maybe they did. If they hadn’t had sex in a long time, and one friend was an incredibly charismatic, touchy person. That happened sometimes, right?

A grimace swells across Grace’s lips as she wonders if that was the most elaborate no homo she’s ever heard. It had only been a dream, after all. Finally the laughter stutters out, and Grace swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

---

Hannah watches Grace side glance at her again, making for seven times  in the hour that they have been out to lunch, and although she knows that she looks good today, she hardly thinks that explains the casual shift of dark eyes across the table. Nor does it explain the crimson that has crept up her friend’s neck and bloomed across her cheeks periodically throughout their conversation.

Hannah has always considered herself an intuitive person, but Grace is hard to read, especially when she is not in one of her few preset emotions. She attempts to think of a subtle way to broach the topic and to coax an explanation out of the brunette, but as she is contemplating, the redhead to her right is three, loud steps ahead of her.

“Grace! Heyoo, earth to Gracieland, you okay? You look..” The uneven draw of brows precedes what Hannah knows is about to be something vaguely inappropriate and clearly hilarious, but she also does not miss the rapid jerk to attention that Grace comes to, the soft dark curls shifting on her shoulders as an uncomfortable grimace slides onto her lips.

Suddenly Mamrie’s hand comes down so hard on the table that the party next to them shoots them a dirty look.

“I know what you look like! You look guilty as fuck, like some teenage kid who’s just discovered internet porn.”

“Mamrie!”

Both Grace and Hannah say it at the same time because now both neighboring tables are shooting unfriendly glances at them, but Hannah doesn’t fail to notice that Grace is blushing in a way that she has never seen caused by any of Mamrie’s jibes before. She wonders if this actually is going to turn into a conversation about porn and whether she should suggest they should move to a location that is less occupied by people within earshot.

Before she can decide, she is again cut off, this time by Grace laughing in a half-hearted way, her eyes not fully meeting Mamrie or Hannah’s. She is looking down at her drink instead where all ten of her fingertips are pressed tightly against the glass.

Mamrie’s voice is quieter, and more sincere this time.

“Really though Grace, why you looking so shameful?”

Hannah at least does not have to think about what to do next. She knows that she is good at taking care of people, that compassion and empathy are her strong points - instincts, especially so when it comes to Grace.

“You okay? Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”

Grace looks up by increments, and finally looks across the table as her shoulders come up in haphazard, jerking motion that Hannah assumes to be a shrug - as if it were attempted by a robot, which to be fair, Grace may be part.

“Oh you know,” and now Grace is smiling as she raises a long fingered hand in front of her face, “ just a weird dream, with like inappropriate things, and it’s early, too early.” Grace laughs again, this time the sound more genuine.

The words are casual, plausible, and so Hannah nods understandingly.

“Was it someone we know?”

And even though they have been friends for what she can actually say years now, she still feels anxious asking people these things, and she wonders if perhaps she has crossed the line. But she’s curious, and this is what girls do right? Talk about sex dreams - it’s a relatable subject; she’s had her fair few, waking up with her heart hammering in her chest and her fingers tangled in a fist in the linens.

Grace’s eyes shift from Hannah’s face to Mamrie’s to a spot above both of their heads in a quick, flickering motion and then steadies so that she is not really looking at either of them when she answers.

“No, just some stranger who I knew in the dream apparently.” Another robotic shrug follows this answer.

Hannah shifts her focus to Mamrie, to see if perhaps she buys this, not that there is any reason not to - and yet - Grace is so very hard to read.

Mamrie has one eyebrow raised, and a coy grin on her lips.

“But was it good? Like on a scale of high school hormone dreams to drank too much whiskey and watched HBO before bed...how was he?”

“Way to be heteronormative Mamrie,” and now the rouge is high in Grace’s cheeks as she winks dramatically at Hannah and stage whispers across the table, “I learned that from tumblr.”

It’s funny and even though Hannah feels like somehow Grace’s response is heavy-handed, or off, she can’t help but laugh, especially as Mamrie rolls her eyes and picks up the menu.

---

Grace wants nothing more than to go home, alone, switch on the television and attempt to shrug off this uncomfortable feeling that is still settled on her shoulders. It’s making her feel irritable and hyperconscious, a feeling she doesn’t appreciate since she already has a predisposition to social discomfort. But Hannah is in one of her particularly excited moods, and as tired or antsy as Graces is, she can’t bring herself to turn away Hannah’s bright smile that accompanies a steady stream of news about her book sales.

As they both enter her home, and Goose flounders over in a haphazard run, Grace allows her gaze to follow Hannah as the petite blonde walks across the room and falls onto the couch, still talking.

Hannah has the ability to express joy with her whole body, Grace thinks, because as she speaks her fingers dance in the air, and her feet shuffle on the rug as her eyebrows rise and fall with the inflections of her voice. It’s fun to be around and fun to watch, and it is funny how easily Grace manages to forget how much she enjoys Hannah’s presence until the younger woman is perched among her cushions, full of life and enthusiasm.

As she watches cerulean eyes glimmer, she feels the memory of the night before slide across her mind lightly like a curtain of tulle, and suddenly she’s seeing those eyes above her - just as sincere and happy, and yet intent and devoted and hungry. Her stomach drops in an ambiguous way, and her cheeks feel warm - and the memory of the dream is much too vivid for decency, yet she can’t shake the goosebumps that rise upon her arms.  Grace doesn’t realize how enraptured she is in her observations until Hannah stops talking, the smile still pinned onto her lips as she tilts her head.

“Grace? Are you listening? What are you smiling at, you dork?”

Grace starts. She hopes that the blush isn’t as obvious as it feels; hopes that Hannah can’t read the entirely inappropriate thoughts sliding through Grace’s mind.

She has no idea what Hannah has been saying and the realization is discomforting.

“I-ahh-,” Grace can’t seem to find words, and she wonders if everyone gets so easily put off after something as trivial as a dream. Her eyes run across the room, eager for a distraction, and she thanks a string of deities as she realizes they have left the door open.

“Door’s open!”  

It’s stupid she admits, but it’s enough reason to turn her back and take at least a step or two - and a moment is enough to collect herself or attempt to.

---

The afternoon had been long. Hannah had stayed for hours, and although Grace had enjoyed her company - something indescribable and fuzzy around the edges had skirted the perimeter of her consciousness the entire time, causing her to study the soft lines in Hannah’s forehead as she thought and the other woman’s lips as she spoke. The worst and best thing about people was that they were infinite, and so Grace had not run out of things to drown in the entire afternoon.

It feels dirty somehow to think of her friend so intimately, but even now after Hannah has left, Grace catches herself thinking about the easy angles of Hannah’s arms- a stark contrast to her own awkward shapes and movements. She wonders if a dream can make someone act so oddly, make them them so attuned to someone. It feels like a revelation, but that in itself feels naive.

This is just the aftermath of a particularly wild dream, she assures herself as she slips between the sheets of her bed after unsuccessfully trying to submerge herself in work. She’s had dreams about real people before, and it had caused a similar giddiness, confusion of feelings. This was only temporary.

Grace sighs and feels the breath leave her chest, but not the tension. The line of her body beneath the covers makes an uneven landscape of valleys and mountains, and somehow the sight makes her smile. The idea of being a land upon herself is comforting, and Grace does not realize her own intention as she slides a hand down the shape of her own body. Her fingers slide down the slope of her own breast and then across the taut midland of her stomach and then up the gentle incline of her thigh.

She laughs slightly as she realizes where this is heading, and then thinks that perhaps that is a good cure - if there is in fact one to be found. She allows her fingers to slide under the blanket instead and trail soft skin to the crease between her legs. Grace sighs again and closes her eyes and tries to think of something distinctly male and opposite of - she stops herself because it isn’t that women are the problem, she certainly wouldn’t be opposed to being something other than straight, but she corrects herself again, she is straight - and...this is the least erotic overanalysis she could have concocted. If women are the key tonight, then so be it - she can be flexible. Grace thinks of Jennifer Lawrence, of some racy picture she had happened upon on the internet the other day, of smooth thighs and the soft shape of breasts beneath a sparkling gown - her fingers slide against the slick heat of herself and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat. She focuses in on breasts because why not, thinks of hands upon her own breasts, hands with neat fingernails, and warm lips upon on her neck, on her lips, the soft warm kiss of somebody she trusts, of Hannah’s hands stroking her sides, of burying her own hands in the soft blonde tresses of her best friend - her fingers have quickened, but she’s imagining Hannah’s instead, blue eyes watching her sweetly as - Grace stops.

Fuck.

She pulls her hand out from beneath the covers as quickly as if she has burned herself.

Fuck.

Grace thinks that maybe friends can accidentally have sexual dreams about one another, but this...this might be crossing a line.

[sh-writes]

One time I showed a friend her brand new anchor tattoo, and they blinked and commented on its common occurrence, its trendiness, its level of cliche. And I blinked back. I never stopped to think that perhaps it was an anchor like the anchor of the girl on the post I reblogged earlier that day. And it isn't. The same artist could sketch the same tattoo in the same place on someone's arm a thousand different times and none would be hers because no other anchor tattoo sits on her arm. No other tattoo belongs to the woman that I have watched from the passenger seat since I was sixteen; her arms and hers alone I have watched break into push ups to keep herself from breaking down completely, and that tattoo sits exactly where my fingers ran up and down across the borders of what I wanted and what wasn't mine all those nights ago. That tattoo sits on holy ground; maybe it is ironic to revere the skin of someone who is anything but saintly, but I've watched the sun leave its warmth in the space between her freckles and kissed at the rays hoping that the light would help grow what lay in between us.

I don't know but there's something about people, about the way that their bodies are theirs alone; I realized today that my professor has a forearm, that stretched from the inside crease of her elbow to her wrist - and suddenly I paused; she has a forearm that somebody probably loves with all of their being, and how wonderful is it to be human and the same as everyone else and so incredibly unique because I am sure nobody has held her children against them with adoration like her forearm has, and none have experienced all the exact things that she has experienced.

And I am so amazed sometimes that I am a collection of cells that remember the way that I am caught up and tangled around that anchor tattoo in the same way she is tangled around my voice when she is falling asleep, sweetly drunk on the telephone, a thousand miles away.

And I know that I am jumping, but if you ever fall out of love with your body, just remember to look and remember that it is there, because maybe the hate we hold for our appearances sometimes is just neglect to the miracle of appendages and skin and cells that have seen all of our loves and lusts and sorrows and joys. My fingers have touched my thinning hair at that dark time, and the soft peach fuzz that grew back at the bright time; and they have touched my lover's lips in the dark and they wiped at the tears of my disappointments - and what a wonderful thing to find that perhaps our stories are written in the whorls of our fingerprints.

[sh-writes]

Intent

Maggie had said it perfectly, flinging her hand out at the television months ago as they watched some show or the other, Hannah could not remember which.

“He’s cheating on her?!” Her younger sister’s face had screwed up into a scowl, eyes darkening as she took in the scene playing out on the screen.

Hannah had watched her for a long moment, surprised at the vehemence of her reaction and then cautiously probed deeper.

“What do you mean? He hasn’t even kissed that other one yet; he’s just playing with her hair, Mags?”

And to be fair the man hadn’t done more than run his fingers through this other woman’s hair and laugh sweetly at her jokes; Hannah had seen far more pass for far less before.

Maggie had stared at the television for a second longer before a commercial broke and then turned, her eyes serious as her eyebrows furrowed in a characteristic expression Hannah knew that she herself shared with her sibling.

“It’s all about intent, man,”  Maggie had shook her head resolutely, “all about intent.”

Hannah had laughed casually, conceding amiably that perhaps Maggie did have a point – and then the show had distracted them and the conversation had been dropped.

---

But now she knew Maggie had been irrevocably right, as was happening more and more often these days as her younger sister got older and more mature and increasingly insightful.

This moment however, left her despairing in Mag’s wisdom, as she ran her fingers lightly down the long arm of the woman lying in her lap, head surrounded by messy soft curls. This hadn’t happened on purpose. And yet, she couldn’t deny that she had patted her thigh invitingly at a half-awake pair of dark eyes from across the couch. Grace had smiled clumsily back at her, the alcohol making her lips sweet and loose around the sleepy laughter that soaked into the couch cushions.

And now Grace wasn’t asleep, wasn’t falling asleep, because Hannah knew the curve and shape of the muscles of this woman as if she had mapped them herself on fresh cartography paper, and the lines of the other woman’s shoulders were tense as Hannah drew her fingers from shoulder to wrist and back again.

Intent.

Intent was her letting her touch slip down to dance on Grace’s own fingertips; and nobody ever wrote in the romance novels the way that two hands could feel the fingerprints of one another in a moment that was silent despite the traffic outside and the television’s roaring.

Intent was that she did not want to think about anyone else ever again, nobody but Grace and herself so intimately and innocently connected as Grace exhaled slowly, obviously aware of how fragile this moment was.

It wasn’t wrong. It couldn’t be wrong. This couldn’t be wrong.

Grace could never be wrong. Not with the way that Hannah could just make out the shape of her cheekbones beneath her hair, her head turned away. Not with the way that her shoes were tucked neatly by the door of the house, two parallel lines that did not match the haphazard pile of dishes in the sink, and not in the way that there were six bottles of shampoo lining the shower shelf, each half-used.

Not with the way that her shoulders rose suddenly once before she collapsed inward. Grace was nothing much more than fine glass, hand blown if she had to guess, held up by thin wire, fragile, fragile. And all Hannah could do was run the palm of her hand across an expanse of shaking back and shuddering shoulders, trying to hold back the heat that threatened behind her own eyes. Intent was the drive that made her arms into marionette puppets as she pulled the other woman up and in and in, but no further in than she was already, tucked into a warm place in Hannah’s chest where she used to hide so many other parts of herself.  

“Do you love me?”

And even muffled the words could not be suffocated, even though they made her feel as if she was suffocating, and Hannah took a shuddering breath because of course she did.

Of course she did.

But the words didn’t fall out of her mouth; suddenly they were wary of the plunge, tip toeing the edge of her tongue and evaluating the precipice.

“Grace…”

And she hated that the way her tongue curled around the other woman’s name should have been declaration enough and was not; that the other woman froze against her.

“I just…” Hannah wondered if it were possible to be your own worst enemy, if perhaps somewhere along the line her quiet self-degradation had waged a full-fledged war without her noticing, “I have to give her and us a real chance, you know what I mean Gracie? I have to let this play out and see what happens.”

She didn’t mean it.

But she couldn’t take it back, and she couldn’t say the words that would make it mean something else, and all that was left in the room was the silence that was not silence and the sound that intent made as she ran her fingers through long blonde tresses.

[sh-writes]

Ladies

This is a thing I'm going to try...I think. Not Hartbig, but probably going to get pretty gay.

  “Your hair is very red.”

She bit her lip; she had wanted so very badly to make a friendly acquaintance with this woman, her newest hand maiden, but as was oft to happen, the words stumbled out clumsily and blunt. She could feel the embarrassment slide up her neck as she wondered why it was so hard for her to be socially adept. Other ladies could weave words with kindness and interest like intricate embroidery about easy subjects, but she was only left with tangled knots and obvious observations. It was not an untrue statement to be fair, and perhaps was even a kind understatement of the woman’s dark, fiery locks that were too bold to be pretty, and yet she cringed nonetheless as she said it.

But the woman behind her, neatly pinning her own light hair into an intricate pattern, only laughed warmly.

“’Tis m’lady. My mother used to say I hoarded all of my ill intentions in it when I was a child. She was always threatening to cut it off, but to be honest; I think she was more partial to it than I was.”

Caitlyn studied the other woman’s face in the looking glass as she spoke, observing the sharp eyes that creased as she smiled over the memory. Her face was littered with freckles, another unkindness dealt to her to be sure, but her skin was otherwise blemish free, and the soft ruddy color in her cheeks made Evelyn think that her skin would be warm to the touch. In fact, much about her features were warm and friendly, from the petite nose to the wide lips that spread wider as her eyes rose, and she caught Caitlyn’s gaze. Her eyes were dark, and one eyebrow rose in something that looked akin to surprise as she tilted her head, and suddenly Caitlyn realized she was the one being studied. It made her uncomfortable; this woman’s presence was very forward she decided abruptly as she dropped her eyes to her folded hands instead, breaking the moment. She was not sure she liked it.

“What is your name again?”

Charles had told her that Marge had found her a new hand maiden of appropriate status, again, in attempts that she would this time manage to make at least something resembling a friendship. He said it was unnatural that his pretty, little wife did not have the other women of the household doting on her as an entourage. A lady needed her friends he said, and as was the usual event, he did not realize that his well-intentioned words only made her feel worse.

“Ann, m’lady.”

It was such a simple name, it did not match the woman standing behind her in the least, and perhaps her distaste had slipped onto her features in the mirror because Ann chuckled as she placed one last pin into her hair. She was not used to such abrasive personality, or whatever it was that made this woman feel comfortable in maintaining her easy candor and smile.

“I haven’t seen you before? Why is that? I try very hard to know all of the ladies in the castle, as well as all of the servants; I know the cook and the hearth maidens and the man who keeps the kennels. And you have good blood in you, Charles has informed me. You should have been in my waiting from the start.”

It was as if she could not soften her own edges, the sharp angles of her personality were an automatic and easy protection against any upset, but she wished she could be kind instead, kind and soft and sweet. Instead, questions shaped like accusations filled her mouth and toppled from her lips. To her surprise though, as she turned away from the looking mirror and rose from the chair; the woman, Ann, only smiled back at her, clearly unaffected.

“Well, m’lady,” and the way that she said the title seemed to make her lips pull to one side, almost as if she found this conversation to be humorous, and Caitlyn wondered if perhaps she were laughing at her. The thought upset her, but she continued to listen.

“I worked in the stables, with the horses, which I have come to understand you don’t much enjoy the company of, so perhaps that is why we had yet to meet. I was one of the best at handling the creatures; you can ask any of the boys in there.”

“Then why are you here?”

At that the smile faltered for the first time, and the wide lips fell. Ann reached up a freckled hand to tug at a lock that had escaped from behind her ear as she answered.

“Well, when the new stable master was hired, he decided that my lady bits made me suddenly less adept at what I’d been doing much longer than the likes of him. I do believe once I was booted from there Marge discovered I was lady enough to be waiting on you, and here I am.”

She pulled a quick curtsy at the end, as if she were finishing a monologue, and indeed Caitlyn had not missed the wry tone of the explanation, almost brazen in its frankness.  She was not sure how to reply; already it seemed as if this woman wanted to be someplace else, and the soft disappointment made her eyes drift to the ground as she searched for words. She was a lady, a married lady, with wealth and status and respect, and yet she did not fit in this household. She wanted to make friends with the people of her home, to know the servants’ children and to be beloved like she had so often watched other ladies be, and yet – she could not even make bonds with her ladies in waiting. She had failed again, and this time it made her chest ache a little as she realized that perhaps loneliness was just going to be a pillar in her life.

As she lifted her gaze and decided she would just tell the woman that  she would correct the situation, talk to Charles and replace her where she obviously wanted to be, but before she could open her mouth, a warm hand patted her arm.

“But I am glad to be here, m’lady Caitlyn, new experiences are always a bit of ordinary magic, and you are such a pretty, quiet little thing. Don’t you worry, I will learn how to be a proper hand maiden, and you and I will get along just fine.”

And there was Ann’s smile again, her eyes warm and genuine despite her laughing tone. Caitlyn blinked slowly at her, processing the words, and then to her own surprise she felt a smile pull at her own lips, and she nodded in return.

“Yes, I think we will.”

Author's Note: I'm sorry I haven't been answering my inbox lately, I just don't want to clog everybody's dash or seem like I am trying to boast or gloat or such? However, I do adore and am so crazy grateful for as well as shocked by your guys's encouragement! Maybe one day I will answer all of them and then delete them the next day or such? Also, if you I'll make this open to comments so you can tell me if it's something you're interested in reading?

[sh-writes]

Leaving (Part 4)

I'm sorry I've been so busy guys; school's just been kicking my butt. Thank you so much for all of your kind words and compliments; y'all are just dolls.

Leaving (Part 4)

She couldn’t understand how she could be doing everything she loved, enthralled in the work that her heart had been set on from that moment at three a.m. the week after she turned twenty-two, and still be this miserable.

Her hands were braced on either side of the sink, and the sobs kept coming one after the other, and even though she knew that the crack had been there long before she moved in, she couldn’t help but miserably imagine that the shaking of her breaths was breaking the porcelain apart; porcelain was fragile and so was she, so it only made sense that what was breaking her would break it too.

Two weeks.

It had only been two weeks, and she felt like she couldn’t do this.

It had been two weeks and two texts whose brevity made her think that every depth of their friendship and relationship had been a pretty delusion she had designed herself in her many lonely hours. They had been close ended texts, not meant for a reply, and the more that Grace thought about it, the more she couldn’t escape the fact that Hannah was tired of her. Hannah did not like her. The looks that she had thought so important that had slid across the room warm and slow like honey had all been her imagination.

Another sob tore through her, and she didn’t want to look in the mirror because everything that she would find there would be what Hannah couldn’t find enough in. She hadn’t felt like this since she was eighteen; the anxiety was eating her inside and out, and the more that this turmoil built up in her, the more it loosened her control on the anxiousness that made her fingers dance when she talked to her fellow actors, her producer, the hotel clerk.

And like a drug she pulled her phone off the ledge above the sink again to stare bleary eyed at the messages.

“Hope you’re doing good kid.”

“Hey girl hey, keep truckin’.”

Keep truckin’? What the fuck did that even mean? And where was the reciprocal to the ‘I miss you’ that danced on her fingers every time she opened a new message on her phone?

 -----

It wasn’t that Lea was doing it wrong, it was just that she wasn’t doing it how Grace knew how to, and tonight when she was trying so hard not to think about blonde waves and dark lips, it bothered her.

“No, babe, no tilt it more to the right – you know what never mind, I’ll do it.”

She hadn’t mean to sound so irritated, to let the anger slip in among her lips, a rare taste and occurrence that had become all too frequent lately. It was just that everything Lea did made her so…agitated. Besides, was it really that hard to set up her camera? Really?

As soon as hurt flickered in the woman’s dark eyes though, the guilt washed in to mix with the agitation so that they both burned like acid in Hannah’s stomach. But the apology wouldn’t leave her mouth, and so silently she rose and fixed the angle of the lens, trying not to make eye contact with her girlfriend.

She hadn’t spoken to Grace in two weeks.

Two weeks without her best friend who she normally spoke with daily. Two weeks without raucous laughter and long, gawky limbs held up in defense against any encroachment of her personal space. Three hundred and thirty six hours without raised eyebrows, without her name falling out of a sweet mouth with feigned exasperation.

She’d given in last week and texted the other woman, but she’d kept it short, direct, without connotation and without invitation for reply. And it had killed her not to tell her how she missed her, how she needed her, how this whole universe was flawed in its development of distance. Last night had been another slip up, a desperately pathetic attempt to be casual that resulted in an awkwardness that could only be topped by the recipient of the message. Keep truckin’? What the fuck was her problem?

But she couldn’t feed whatever this was; it wasn’t right. She had a girlfriend. A girlfriend whom she had inadvertently been blaming for her own self-imposed Grace hiatus; a girlfriend who was completely oblivious to this turmoil and conflict and only knew that Hannah, who never angered, had been snapping at her all week, slamming cabinets, and cursing at the traffic.

And maybe she conceded as she settled back in front of her camera and tried to muster a smile of encouragement at Lea, a feeble attempt to smooth over the harsh edges of her words, maybe she was angry at Grace too.

Why hadn’t Grace texted her first or texted her back at least? If Grace had texted her, she’d have an excuse, a reason to talk to the other woman. But Grace seemed to be taking the same noble road of self-denial as herself, or…And the other possibility made Hannah see red and stutter over the rehearsed speech for this video. Maybe Grace had only been playing along at this game of dependency and intimacy. Maybe she did not miss Hannah at all. Maybe she had already found a broad shouldered male lead to swoon into, maybe her and Hannah were just friends.

She hated that she was jealous over an imagined situation, hated that she wanted their friendship to lie heavy with connotation between them.

Dammit.

She’d completely spaced out, forgotten the line, and now Lea was simply staring at her, eyes wide, empathetic, her head tilted to the side in confusion. Like a dog. But she didn’t need a dog, she needed a fucking girlfriend.

“What?”

The word was sharp and angry and accusatory. And there it was again, the anger that wouldn’t turn off, no matter how she tried to remember that she loved this woman.

[sh-writes]

YOU GUYS heartsmaketheworldgoround made me a wonderful page that lists all of my writings!!!!

Isn't that just the kindest think you've ever heard of?! All of my thanks and gratitude are extended! (:

You can go check the page out if you'd like, I just installed it.

[sh-writes]

What inspired you to start writing fanfics?

I hope you don't mind that I answered this publicly? /panic face

I started reading fanfiction in middle school, and it was Harry Potter fanfiction, all day, every day. I was super into the Marauder's era fics, and I shipped  Lily and Remus so much it hurt. It wasn't too long until I started writing it, but I abandoned the endeavor after about six months.

More recently I started becoming an enormous fan of Hannah Hart, and one day while perusing her tag, I came upon one of Hartorotica's fics. After reading one I immediately went and read literally every other fic she had posted, and then began stalking her page for when she posted new ones. After a spell, I realized I wanted to try my hand at it, and asked Jay (Hartorotica) if maybe she wouldn't mind publishing it if she liked it. She agreed to. Jay was and has always been nothing but amazingly encouraging and kind, and if it weren't for her I would not be writing any of this at all. She encouraged me to write more after the original story I did, and she encouraged me to start this blog. :) And I mean I guess that's the story.

[sh-writes]

Leaving (Part 3)

This has a lot of set up for the future parts in it, so I hope that it doesn't seem too boring. And of course, ALL of the apologies for my general lack of punctuality; thanks so much for sticking around.

Leaving (Part 3)

It was such an entirely novel feeling to be part of an actual production. For the first time, Grace was not solely responsible for the entirety of the production, but was rather a working piece in the overall machine – and it felt odd. It felt odd to know that all she was responsible for was acting; she did not have to cut the show together or set up the cameras or write the script or set up the scene, all she had to do was what she enjoyed the most, acting. She felt like a child being told she did not need to eat her vegetables, and rather was allowed to have dessert for every meal. It was exhilarating and terrifying, with terrifying being the winning sensation.

As excited as she was, the anxiety of being surrounded by strangers had kept her up all night, mixed with the dull ache of whatever feeling Hannah had left her with. Luckily, this morning the fear had overridden the grand sum of whatever mess that was, and left her hands shaking as she attempted to quell the nervous acid boiling in her stomach. Despite the leaps and bounds she had made among the comfortable and familiar depths of the YouTube community, new situations such as this, especially ones that her dreams hinged upon, made her relapse into old habits of fretfulness.

And now she was standing just inside the doorway of the production studio, trying to breathe despite the fact that it felt like the air was stuck to the inside of her lungs. She had never been able to fully describe the feeling of her social anxiety to anyone before, but today it felt as if she were folding in on herself. If she could just tuck her hands the right way, perhaps the folding could be beautiful like origami instead of awkward. In these moments, she felt all angles, gawky elbows and shaking knees, and the revert to her high school self was making her mouth taste bitter with disappointment. It was so hard to do this on her own, without some facet of familiarity to give her a basis of comfort, of confidence. If only Mamrie could have come along to shoot her a lewd wink across the room, or Hannah – the thought came to an abrupt halt as she tried desperately to back out of it. The upset snapped Grace out of her inner turmoil for a moment and back into the busy atmosphere of the studio.

People were rushing in all directions, many laden with heavy filming equipment, and to be completely honest, she was not sure where she was supposed to be. Everyone seemed entirely sure of their paths and destinations, determination written on their faces, which made asking somebody for direction even more of an intimidating task. A nice looking man with mutton chops just heavy enough to be ironic rather than off putting looked perhaps a little less busy as he passed, if only because  the camera stand he was carrying looked lighter than what most of the others were toting, and seemed to be a promising individual to ask. Gathering what little confidence she had, Grace raised a hand into the air, meaning to gain his attention when another hand settled onto her shoulder. The subsequent jump, quiet shriek, and blood rushing to her face made her feel even more embarrassed than she thought was possible considering she was a successful twenty-seven year adult.

Her eyes traveled from the broad hand that had yet to be removed from her tense shoulder, down a hairy tanned arm, to a broad torso and up to a face that she recognized easily. In comparison to when he appeared on her television, in real life there were more lines around his eyes, and a sharper edge to his smile. He was still handsome though, cornflower eyes and warm, straw colored locks surrounding a square jaw – cut from the typical television star cloth.

“You’re the new girl, right? From the little internet thing?”

As he asked and Grace fumbled for normal human words to normal human questions, his co-star sidled up, seemingly out of nowhere. Grace considered herself to be tall, but in exceptionally severe heels, this woman had a couple of inches on her, and managed to exacerbate the perception by very pointedly looking down a small, snubbed nose. She too was typically attractive, eyes that were large and dark, and hair that was darker and fell down in softly groomed waves, but the smile on her heavily painted lips was patronizing and arrogant, a perfect match for the man’s.

 Grace was trying so hard to be confident and collected, but it was hard not to be intimidated when they were looking at her in a way that was a little too obtrusive to be comfortable, and Grace wondered if they were simply trying to decide exactly how dark red her cheeks could flush before she passed out.

“Yeah, I’m Grace, I –um , yeah have a youtube channel, Daily Grace.”

Gregg and Ann, yes, that was their names. She knew this. She had studied this. She had looked this up. She was prepared. She took a shaky breath in through her nose, trying desperately to oxygenate herself so that perhaps the dizzy feeling in her head would subside. Gregg and Ann however were exchanging a look and a raised eyebrow of patronization that seemed to slide off one’s face onto another, and Grace tried not to fidget as they turned back to her.

“That’s just so cute though. Who knew the internet was such a ‘thing’?”

Ann smiled wider, but her lips were angled so that Grace could hear the slant to the words, but she didn’t know how to react. Was that a shot at her? Was it meant to sound as ignorant as it had? Perhaps she was just being paranoid, defensive because these were seasoned television stars, and she was the newbie.

“Uh,” she had to stop using such annoyingly childish fillers, “yeah, it’s a pretty wonderful platform, novel in a lot of ways. I really love being a part of the community as it grows and develops-”

Gregg cut her off, shooting a quick glance to Ann that made the woman titter.

“That’s really great, a ‘community’” the word slid through his lips with as much respect as if she had said she did a children’s puppet theatre at the Y, “but just so small a scale; hopefully we can see if we can get you some real numbers while you’re here with us, something you can actually work with. You’ll find that the real industry is worlds different from internet vlogs made in your kitchen, but hopefully you’ll be able to keep up sweetheart.”

Grace blinked once, and then twice as she tried to process the exceptional level of arrogance that had just exited Gregg’s mouth without a second’s hesitation. What the actual fuck? She was insulted and embarrassed and angry, but this felt like conflict and as much as she wanted to eloquently tell these two off, her lips remained motionless as she stared at them. There was no remorse on their faces, no regret, simply the smugness that people could only acquire by living an easy life that was colored by success and very little passion. The realization that these were her coworkers for the next two months, people she had to work intimately with for the next two months, settled unto her shoulders heavily.

“Grace? Grace Helbig?”

A voice sounded from behind her, and then another woman approached the group, eyes settling onto Grace as she repeated the query.

“You’re Grace, right?” Grace nodded, unsure that she wanted to meet anyone else at this point. Of course, she conceded, it couldn’t get much worse at this point unless people started blatantly spilling insults her way.

 “I’m your make-up artist; we’ve got to go get you all dolled up, love. Sorry, Greg, Ann,” the woman nodded briefly to both with an expression that Grace was surprised to notice looked like thinly veiled disdain, “You can have her back when we start shooting.”

And just like that the woman had extended a quick hand out to wrap lightly around Grace’s arm, and she was being toted quickly to some other corner of the studio that she probably would never have found on her own. As soon as they were out of earshot of the other two, the woman slowed and turned to face Grace.

“I’m Helen, and I’m sorry to rush you off, but I may have overheard, and it sounded like you needed an escape.”

Helen smiled at Grace apologetically; she had dark, rich skin and honey and chocolate eyes that seemed genuine as she released Grace’s arm. Her voice was low and sweet, and after she cast a quick glance around them, she continued.

“You look too nice for this place, honestly. They’re kind of assholes, don’t take it personally.”

For the first time this morning Grace felt herself relax marginally, and something that was not a grimace settled onto her face. Helen seemed friendly enough, and the concern in her features did not seem faked.

“Thanks then, Helen,” Grace attempted a smile, “I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to say to any of that.”

-

Helen had been working on her hair and make-up for an infinitely long time, Grace felt, and again was struck by the novelty of having things done for her. Nobody had ever done her make-up in preparation for a Daily-Grace video, and even the larger projects she had done still depended on self-serving actors and actresses. She had told the woman as much and received another warm smile in return.

Helen, was exceptionally great company and incredibly talented at what she did.

“Like I said,” Helen continued the conversation that had not lulled since her well timed abduction, “they honestly are not current. They don’t understand the internet or the threat it poses to them. These people are television stars; they’re not going to do movies or anything big time – they don’t get that the internet and interaction with their fans is the new thing, that it’s changing the industry as they know it. They’re as stuck in their little sitcom worlds as their characters are. You though, you have a leg up, you’re modern – you are the future. You’re going to go places, I can tell. Especially with these cheekbones, damn.”

Grace could feel herself blushing, the burn building in her cheeks.

“You’re too sweet; it’s just the make-up I’m sure – you’re so talented. And I don’t know; I mean they’re established, that’s an accomplishment. But I just know, personally, that the internet, that YouTube, are platforms that are only going to get bigger, you know?”

-

Shooting took less time than she could have expected for a myriad of reasons including her smaller role as well as the efficiency of a team of people working towards one end goal. She was never going to be able to take for granted the concept that she was not solely responsible for the output of a project. It was a relief that she relished, especially when the acting that she had contributed as her part was something she was proud of, so proud of. It had just gone so well. She could hardly believe it.

But now she was left with absolutely nothing to do. The town was small and rural, meeting the show’s need for a cheap forest setting for many of the scenes, but offering very little in the ways of entertainment. Driving in by taxi when she had arrived the day before had proffered a view of trees, trees, deer, and a small tavern – were taverns even a thing?- built like a cabin and appearing as if it might collapse at any moment. The driver had claimed that in the actual town, which was a little further past her hotel, there was a real bar, a grocery store, a school, and a small church.  

The lure of the bar however was moot because the hotel provided room service that would cater to her needs of the alcoholic variety just as well, and so with a small amount of resignation Grace returned to her hotel.

-

It was two glasses of wine in that the excitement of the day began to ebb, and with each subsequent sip agitation began to tighten her knuckles and slip up her arms. This was not supposed to be the result of alcohol, she thought, but the realization did nothing to quell the memory of her coworkers earlier snarkiness. When they were all in character and acting, it had been easy to forget, but when the scenes had been called, Gregg and Ann, and most of the rest of the cast had treated her with similar disdain from that morning. These people didn’t like her. The thought made her inexplicably sad.

And in a shockingly simple connection, her mind jumped to Hannah. Hannah would know what to do, how to react to make these people laugh and adore her. Hannah would know how to comfort Grace and dispel the insecurities that always seemed to lie dormant and come alive in moments like these. Hannah liked her.

She was three glasses in now, and she had just realized that Hannah had not texted her this morning to wish her good luck.

Why was she even drinking wine? She did not like wine, but somehow she had ordered the hotel’s attempt at Hannah’s favorite.

That was stupid. Hannah was stupid. Her and her stupid casual friendliness and charisma that bordered on flirting and left Grace hanging for the next soft, ambiguous touch. Her and the freckle on her nose that always made Grace smile. Her and her pretty blue eyes that held so much warmth that it spilled over. And maybe that was why she was drinking wine, because it warmed her chest in the same way that Hannah’s laughter did, and when she brought the glass to her lips the rich smell brought to mind drunk nights when the two were inches away from one another, so that their words intertwined like their breath.

Stupid. Stupid Stupid.

It was after the last sip of the third glass that she went to bed, unhappy and angry all at once.

[sh-writes]

Classes are finished for two weeks. Computer is fixed. Thus, attempting to write Leaving (Part 3) at this moment. Thank you all for all of your amazing kindnesses and patience.

Also...if I were to attempt to dabble in a romantic type short story about two women in some medieval era or the other, is that a thing that you'd like to read?

[sh-writes]

Hey guys,

I am so awfully sorry that I have been absent for such a spell. I have a had a ton of real life stuff come up, some good and some bad, and unfortunately just haven't had the time to write. Hopefully, in the next week things will get a bit less chaotic, and I can write again. Maybe I can write a little something tonight. Hello to all my new followers, by the way. (: so great to see you here!

[sh-writes]

I'm not sure what this is? It's a character study/write? I suppose. A little dark I guess? So be forewarned if you decide to read?

She wants a drink because she thinks maybe it will dampen the pain, perhaps just for the night. And she wonders how much alcohol it would take to kill the despair entirely. And then she wonders that if alcohol killed bacteria, and if alcohol killed sadness, did that make sadness a bacteria? Some kind of microorganism that leeched at her will to live? And then she wants to know how much of the hard stuff, the stuff that burned when it went down, it would take to kill the infection inside of her - but perhaps the amount is the same quantity that would leave her dead, and perhaps no one could live without a little sadness in their gut, a probiotic bit of melancholy. The thought makes her sadder still, but not as sad as the fact that she doesn’t even have any alcohol available, aside from a half full bottle of the rubbing stuff. But she does not really want to die anyway, she supposes, and very quickly the tragedy inside turns into apathy - a disease she thinks is all the more worse.

At least sadness makes her want - want to cry and shout and rage, but apathy leaves her vegetative and cold and empty, and she may not be dead, but there is nothing alive within her. She knows it’s a temporary state, but that doesn’t make it any more desirable - and as she often wonders when she’s like this, she wonders if falling in love would help. But love was ultimately a fruitless endeavor, she’s decided, because it either went awful and left you hurt which lead straight back to the apathy, or it went well and lead to complacency. And wasn’t complacency just another form of apathy? Waking up to the same face day after day and succumbing to mutual entropy with open arms in the name of growing old together? No, she did not think that love was the answer for her, except love did seem to be the underlying theme to this farce that she thought might be the sum total of this experience deemed life.

Everyone wanted some kind of love, even if it was a dirty, gutter water dilution of the real thing. The craving came in many deceitful shades she decided, but in the end it all boiled down to the same desire. Even the power hungry needed the gross, sickly love that was passed between the worshiped and the worshipers. But then, what kind of love was she trying to find? What was her purpose? Whose love did she need and crave and want in the middle of the night? Her own. The realization made her want to laugh even as it burned her throat like the acid flush after a swallow of pills; how cliche could she be? Perhaps she should write a novel about her self discovery, throw in a couple of brand names, make it trendy. Maybe it would be successful, the newest Eat, Pray, Love, except she cannot help but let the bitter laughter tumble off of her lips as she realizes hers could be Drink, Sleep,  Introspect. And then she stops and evaluates if success was what she was looking for in order to love herself, but this idea of giving in to pop culture’s indulgence in self only makes her reconsider the rubbing alcohol in the bathroom jokingly with herself.

But something has to change, and she knows it because if she keeps insisting on keeping her own company a majority of the time, perhaps she should learn to like herself.

[sh-writes]

Leaving (Part 2)

Thank you all so very much for your kind words and encouragement. I cannot tell you how much it means to me. 

  Leaving (Part 2)

She was so angry.

It was a hot feeling behind her eyes, different from the burning of unshed tears, and had been pressed against the forefront of her mind since she had gotten off of the plane.

The “apartment" the producing company had rented for her was hardly more than a hotel room with a half assed attempt at a kitchenette, and it did not make her feel any better. The tacky, porn-film style love seat across the room made her want to throw up; it was as if the designer had purposely picked out the ugliest variations of dark green and rusty orange and then decided to put them together for one horrifying combination of disgusting. The furniture was all obviously made out of particle wood, and even from the doorway Grace could tell that the mattress was going to make her discomfort its personal goal.

But the worst part of this place, this place that she would be living in for the next two and a half months, was the soft echo that rebounded off of the empty room’s walls.

She was alone.

And that was the sole root of her anger.

She didn’t understand why, but she knew at some level that it was not fair for her to have to leave and be alone with this questionable grief while Hannah got to go home to a loving girlfriend, to soft arms and guaranteed affections. She didn’t understand this feeling, the soft hollow hiccup of loss inside of her chest. She was a grown woman, leaving her friends for a couple of months should not have been causing the distress that it was; she had moved across the country in the name of her career hardly a year ago and had barely blinked an eye, but now she felt as if she had left a piece of herself in California.

And yet what was just as troublesome as the already surfacing loneliness was the reflection of her own upset on Hannah’s face that morning, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as they avoided the topic of Grace’s departure. Why was this such a big deal?

This loneliness was caving in the walls she had built around the most tender parts of her mind and heart, and the exposure felt raw. It was a terrifying to not know what she was going to find within herself, if this introspection would provide results as ugly as the décor of this new “home” of hers.

This loneliness was unique, but in the way that new strains of staph are unique, specific and with a limited range of cures. The fact that she already knew the cure made her stomach twist in a disgust worse than the love seat had caused. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when this dependency had sidled into their friendship, but it had done so with incredible efficiency. Long tendrils of affection and intimacy had in the most platonic of ways tied them into one another’s lives, and Grace had for one of the first times not fought the emotional connection. Hannah just seemed to fit in her life. The habits that they had fallen into, and the nuances that made up their relationship, had not seemed threatening, until the moment that it had.

Exploring her feelings was a foreign occupation for Grace; she had long ago begun filing her emotions into boxes in the back of her mind for later review. The character she played for her channel had very easily slipped into her life as a fitting façade and a bad habit, but now, now she could only attempt to gather the sum of this confusing turning in her gut and aching in her chest and stare at it. She could not spill these thoughts out onto the table and attempt to arrange them into a bigger picture (she was not much one for puzzles anyways); she could not instagram the turmoil inside of her and ask for someone to identify it. This was strange and frightening and confusing, and it infuriated her. It infuriated her that she had distanced herself from her emotions for so long that she could no longer recognize her own feelings. It infuriated her that she could not call Hannah and demand the time that now belonged to somebody else; Hannah was not hers to seek for help in her times of distress. Even worse, she did not know if she even could approach Hannah with these questions. How did she ask the other woman why she needed her company so badly, why she craved her laughter and jokes and presence?

Gritting her teeth was a new habit, one that left her jaw aching as she collapsed onto the cheap bedspread clad mattress. Even as she despised herself for doing so, she quickly turned her phone on and checked for new messages as well as missed calls.

Nothing.

Perhaps it was better if Hannah did not call. Perhaps it was better not to ask. Grace was beginning to think she did not like where these traitorous emotions of hers were leading, and she very carefully began building walls in her mind around the dangerous ideas beginning to form. At least this was a familiar habit, an old method of defense.

But the anger was still there, warm to touch under her skin despite her clammy hands. She was not alone in creating this, or at least she did not think she was. Friends did not hold hands in heavy, melodramatic silences, and they most definitely did not hold back tears as they whispered goodbyes that sounded like confessions. And with Hannah’s blatant honesty, everything sounded like a confession, every touch felt like the truth; and this afternoon, Hannah’s embrace had felt like a moment of clarity, like slipping on glasses for the very first time. Friends did not share moments like that.

Or maybe they did. What did she know about friendship, her with her two best friends who were only part of her life because they had somehow brazenly broken past the thick encasement she had wrapped herself in.

Grace’s lips pulled into a long frown as she noticed the small pile of threads she had pulled from the comforter she lay on. Nervous, clumsy, awkward hands. Hers that were nothing like Lea’s petite and always manicured ones. The pettiness of the thought made her stomach roil, and for the first time the heat in her mind boiled over to make her eyes sting. All she needed was comfort; and even as she thought it, she was disturbed by how readily that meant she needed Hannah’s calming embrace and the easy security that came with it.

And as sometimes happens when a person wants something very badly, it seemed as if the universe had heard her, and her phone screen lit up with Hannah’s name.

“Did you land safe? Miss you already.”

Her hands began to shake as she read it the third time, and she had never before been so furious at her tears as they began to trickle down her cheeks. Fuck Hannah for being there at exactly the right moment, and fuck Hannah for being her best friend and caring about her, and fuck Hannah for making her feel this way.

xxxx

Grace didn’t like puzzles.

But Lea was good at puzzles. Lea laughed at her jokes, and Hannah could not deny the warmth that the other woman’s sparkling eyes invoked over morning tea. Lea did not steal the covers, and her laughter sounded like birds in the way that two things are nothing alike and yet are perfect synonyms. Like her and Grace, and then Hannah blanched at the train of thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 The two women were sprawled across the couch, Lea nestled between her legs and resting her head against Hannah’s chest as they both studied the sodoku book that Hannah held aloft with one hand. Lea had a quiet presence, undemanding, and Hannah decided, made perfect company when she herself was brooding. Yet, it bothered her that her girlfriend had not noticed the fact that she was subdued tonight, her words falling flat and colorless despite her attempts to fake enthusiasm; and perhaps that was where her real irritation lay – Lea didn’t seem to seem to understand Hannah’s nuances.

But Grace did. Grace would have noticed the difference between happy Hannah and pretending to be happy Hannah.

Hannah exhaled, trying and failing to keep her frustration at herself private. These comparisons were cruel and unfair; it took time to understand someone, and Grace did not deserve credit for simple seniority. Relationships were about learning, and theirs was still new yet.

“Babe, you put a seven twice in this row.”

Lea’s delicate finger arched over the page, and Hannah could not understand why her eyes were burning. Grace, despite her quiet intelligence, did not even understand Sodoku. How had she put two sevens? The mistake was so glaringly stupid, and the harder she looked upon it, the blurrier her vision became, only serving to increase her frustration. What was her fucking problem? What was her problem when this was everything she had wanted for so long?

“Hannah?”

The shuddering breath that slipped through her lips involuntarily made the girl against her stiffen, and then Lea was removing the pen and Sodoku book from her grasp, setting it upon the top of the couch. The woman’s small and lithe body lifted as she moved to the opposite end of the couch, and then pulled Hannah by a hand into her arms without a word. The movement, the switching of positions was natural, silent and easy, and that made Hannah feel worse for reasons she didn’t understand. Lea smelled like all of her favorite things, but maybe that was because Lea had become her favorite thing, and again the realization made her hurt worse as she buried her face against her girlfriend’s neck. The conflict that had spurned these tears made her feel guilty and dirty, as small fingers began to run through her hair in comforting strokes.

“I’m sorry she left, Hannah. I’m sorry, baby. It’s only temporary, and it’s not that likely it will be a long term thing – I mean people hardly get picked to stay at their first gig, regardless of talent.”

There was no undercurrent of jealousy in Lea’s consolations, only kindness as she rubbed Hannah’s back. Lea was not like other women; she had never once questioned or felt threatened by Grace’s presence in Hannah’s life – never expressed anything but appreciation for the close relationship between the two women. No, Lea was not like other women.  But neither was Grace. And now Hannah couldn’t stop the sob that was smothered by her lover’s shoulder.

This was not how love was supposed to work.

She should not miss Grace so soon or so fervently; should not be dreading the days coming without the light hearted blonde. They were friends. Yet Hannah recognized the twisting in her stomach as something distinctly other than friendship, and she hated herself for it. Grace should not have left. She should be with Grace half way across the country. Grace should have been perched on the lounge chair across the room, sipping from her favorite chipped mug, laughing in a way that did not sound like birdsong.

Or better yet, Hannah should not have been thinking about her. She should have been kissing down the caramel colored neck of the beautiful, dark haired woman holding her. She should be dancing her lips across the few freckles sprinkled across a short bridged nose, and meeting glances with hazel eyes that made butterflies blossom inside of her gut. She should be listening to the soft, warm voice of her girlfriend as she flipped through the channels and landed on Hannah’s favorite shows.

But all she could do was compare the honey and brown sugar scent pressed against her to the essence of cotton and citrus that was more than a thousand miles away.

This was wrong.

[sh-writes]

And maybe I already know because my senior english teacher had us write letters to ourselves, and I received mine a month ago.

I told myself not to forget about how much I loved you, and that I hoped to god that I would be happier now than I was then.

Little do they tell you in romance movies that love letters to yourselves are the ones that make you hurt the worst because introspection is rarely ever as kind as the perceptions we grant others.

And what is loneliness? Because I could pick up the phone and call four people who would listen to me cry, and I could shout across the hall and be blessed by the presence of a family that most times I am not sure I deserve.

I want to be kind again. I have to gather up this self pity and burn it, and let that be my smoke signal to the future. I will be okay. You will be okay. There is still wonder in the world and people who smile on the street; and the only constant in this life is that of variability, and nothing bad can last forever. Change starts with small steps and genuine intentions, and I want so badly to be something better than I am now.

[sh-writes]

please continue 'Leaving' ! It's so gooood! I love it <3

Aww, thanks, I am so so glad you liked it! :D I'm planning on continuing it. Sorry to you all that I take so long to update and add; I only really write at 12-3 in the morning, but I've had class lately, so I haven't been able to stay up so late. But the weekend is coming up, so hopefully I get the next part written then! :)

[sh-writes]

Is there going to be a sequel to Mess This Up? I really loved that, one of my fave hartbig fics.

I originally planned for it and there’s a good chunk of it written already. I just came up to a real stop for some reason and couldn’t get around it. I promise it’ll come eventually (: and thanks so much! I’m glad you liked it.

[sh-writes]

Are all your stories linked together?

If you mean plot wise, no.

I Think I Like It, Small Chance, and I Want It are linked.

Heavy Words and Stupid Words are linked.

Mess This Up stands separately, but could also be read as a continuation of either of the above two sets.

Quiet is also a stand alone.

Leaving at this moment is a standalone, but may be added to soon.

Hope this helps? (: And if you were asking for the actual links, well there you go also. And if you were asking for a page with all the links, I'm going to get to that eventually, maybe ;)

[sh-writes]

Leaving

Leaving

Holding hands was not cheating.

Holding hands and comforting her best friend, as well as herself, was not cheating.

Lying sprawled over the edge of Grace’s bed, motionless and silent, not touching except for their linked hands was not cheating. It could not be cheating, especially when both of them had been continuously staring at the ceiling, determined not to make eye contact or give acknowledgement to the moment that was inevitably coming.

Holding hands was not cheating, but she wondered if perhaps the small circles her thumb was tracing on the back of Grace’s hand crossed the line. But what else could they do? What the fuck else was she supposed to do when her chest was so tight she could barely breathe? There were a hundred things to say, a hundred ways to beg her to stay, a hundred things that Hannah wanted to do, but just couldn’t.

Grace was leaving. Grace was moving. Grace was going.

It was only supposed to be for a few months tops. Yet, there was an unspoken acknowledgement between them that if this project went well for Grace…then perhaps it would be so much longer than a few months.

Silence was a safety measure they both seemed to intuitively understand to be the best option. Anything other than what existed in this moment would tip the balance, and they were both balanced so precariously already.

This hurt. This scared her. It should not have been as big of a deal as it felt, but for the first time Hannah was in a relationship, and that changed everything. If Grace was halfway across the country, she could no longer make unexcused trips to the blonde woman’s house to simply soak in her company. It would not make sense to buy plane tickets to film a quick collaborative video or to help Grace with her new camera three or four times a week. She could not put that much effort into seeing Grace as often as she wanted, needed, without terrifying Lea.

And she loved Lea. She did.

Grace and her were much too alike to be compatible. She knew that. They were both young and frivolous and idealistic and prone to listening to their feelings before their logic; they both needed someone to ground them, and they could not be that for one another. Hannah knew that. It was why she adored Lea – Lea’s planners and calendars and color coordinated closet. Lea kept her close to the earth, reined her in from pushing herself too hard, and reminded her that she did not need to cater to her fans every hour of the day – Lea cared about her.

The sound of their breathing was the only noise in the room, and so Hannah could hear the soft irregular pattern of Grace’s lungs, the erratic noise of somebody trying very, very hard not to cry. They could not cry. If she cried, or if Grace cried, the words would come. Anything they said in this moment would be dangerous;  Hannah had a relationship to protect, and they both had their friendship to safegaurd.

And so Hannah tried not to flinch as she peripherally watched Grace raise her other hand to attempt to subtly wipe away a tear. The pain inside her chest was so incredibly fierce. There was cotton in her mouth and soft electricity behind her eyes and she felt as if her arms were rubber bands pulled taut; she wanted so badly to hold Grace and let the other woman sob. Grace was trying so incredibly hard.

The sigh that escaped her own lips echoed around the room mockingly as a sad reminder that that was all she could do. Breathe and tightly hold the slender fingers intertwined with her own.

They were going to have to let go soon. As if the other woman could hear her thoughts, Grace’s fingers tightened suddenly around Hannah’s, and a soft sniff filled the air. Grace understood her. Grace understood this. Grace could speak the language of pauses and silences and quiet moments. Hannah did not need to ask what was going on; there were a million details they could have discussed about it and beaten out and better understood, and yet at the root Hannah knew that Grace felt this between them. And perhaps that’s why she was leaving. Hannah bit her lip until she could feel her teeth almost breaking through soft skin, determined to do anything not to cry. She did not want Grace to leave, and she did not want Grace to leave because of her. But they could not do this. Adults did not risk intimate friendships like this because of soft, terrifying feelings. This energy would die; it had to. Such was the natural order, and even if it hurt, it was better to let it die without destroying their friendship – because that was the only way it could end. It would never work.

Lea was something real and tangible and safe; Hannah could see a future in Lea. She could not risk something so promising for an almost assured self-destructive flight of fancy. Or at least that was what she was telling herself in this moment when it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to turn and wipe Grace’s cheeks free of tears.

The door swung open a moment before Mamrie entered, and the moment shattered. Their hands sprang apart, guiltily, and as Mamrie walked in her gaze moved between the two of them for a long moment.

“Oh, you guys.”

The tone was dismissive, laughing, poking fun at the obvious distress that lined both of their faces, but for a moment Hannah watched pity gather around Mamrie’s green eyes and sympathy settle onto her wide lips. Sometimes Hannah thought that Mamrie had picked up on the other that had entered her and Grace’s friendship; it would make sense – the woman was around them constantly – she had to have picked up on the soft undercurrents. She did not know when Grace’s and her’s friendship had become so…intimate and dependent, but it had happened all the same. And now…

“Grace babe, we gotta leave for the airport in like ten minutes; Are you ready?”

Mamrie looked between them both again as they both sat up, her gaze sweeping in what Hannah knew was a rigid set to her own jaw and Grace’s red rimmed eyes. Mamrie sighed audibly, shaking her head and laughing, although Hannah thought perhaps the humor was a little forced.

“You two?! I swear. You’re both going to be just fine. Grace, you got the acting job you’ve been waiting for your whole life! And Hannah,” Mamrie’s glance broke off for a moment as she checked her watch, “don’t you have a sassy date with Lady Lea tonight? You guyyyys,” she drug out the word and moved forward to grab each of their hands and pull them up off of the bed, “we’re going to be just fine. We’re buds forever. I lived in New York for how long? No more blubbering.”

Mamrie had a presence that was almost maternal, except perhaps for her propensity for bathroom humor, and Hannah could not help but feel a little comforted by her intervention. For the first time she chanced a quick look at Grace, and whatever height her spirits had gained diminished. Grace looked defeated, her thin shoulders slumped and dark eyes slightly swollen. Her gaze rose to meet Hannah’s, as if she had sensed the observation, and she pushed a feeble smile onto her lips.

“I’m going to be a star, motherfuckers.”

Grace’s voice was weak, and they all pretended not to notice the way that it broke at the end.  Now was the moment that she had dreaded for the past week.

Hannah inhaled deeply, feeling the glass inside her lungs that was despair that she would have to deal with later that night, and then moved forward to wrap her arms tightly around the taller woman. Grace stumbled at first, and then caught her balance, wrapping her long arms around Hannah in return. The hug was too tight for friends. It was too long for a couple month leave of absence. They had been apart that long when Hannah had been on tour, but then there had been nothing and no one keeping them from skyping until the wee hours of the morning and calling a little too often. Hannah could feel Grace’s fingers clutching her shirt, her face buried amidst Hannah’s hair and neck and cheek, and she swore she could feel the tears on Grace’s face. Their chests were moving heavily between the two of them, the sobs that both refused to let loose.

Somehow she found Grace’s ear among the mess of both of their hair combined.

“I love you Gracie. Be safe. I’ll see you soon.”

And then she disengaged as quickly as she could, making careful effort to not see Grace’s face as she turned, nodded at Mamrie and exited the apartment as quickly as she could.