started: november 3rd 2023
last updated: july 6th 2025
★: personal favorites
_________
jenna ortega:
club heaven
the fallout
admiration
forgotten remnants
letters with grief ★
dorothea
leave a message ★
the test
too late
merry christmas, please don't call
tara carpenter:
haunted
bruises
mistake ★
last kiss
what we were ★
if only
supposed to hate you
not this christmas ★
vada cavell:
the bet
insecurities
a cold table
↳part two ★
summary: in which the truth finally comes out, but not on your terms—and definitely not on hers.
word count: 10.4k
author’s note: like i mentioned before i wrote this over four months ago and never got around to posting it. i don’t really love it, and it might feel a little rushed since i haven’t re-read it since i first wrote it, but i wanted to share something since it’s been a while. consider this a small apology for going quiet. not sure if i’ll keep posting, but for now, here’s this. let me know what you think, if you’d like.
For two weeks, Jenna couldn't get you out of her head.
Even though she had told herself, over and over, that it was done. That she had made the right choice. That this was for the best.
But the moments lingered in her thoughts, clinging to her like the remnants of a dream you could never quite shake off. She'd lay in bed late at night, the quiet stretching between the heavy silence of the room, and she could feel the weight of everything she had said to you, everything she had walked away from.
She never expected to feel so torn.
The decision had been made—final. She knew there was no turning back from it. It had to happen, didn't it? She had convinced herself, time and time again.
She had broken the two of you apart for reasons she couldn't even fully explain to herself.
There was guilt, there was the ache of knowing she'd hurt you, but there was also this strange, unsettling sense of rightness that came with the choice, as if it was something that had been fated. And yet, that didn't make it easier. It didn't make it feel less wrong.
Her thumb always hovered over the phone screen, a draft message staring back at her, begging to be sent. She had typed it countless times, each time deleting it before her finger could press the button. "Are you okay?" was always the start.
But it wasn't enough. She wanted more than that. She wanted to reach out, to make sure you were alright, but how could she? After everything she had said. After what she had done. It would be unfair to you, wouldn't it? To just show up and ask how you were doing after tearing everything apart.
You deserved so much better than that.
She remembered how you looked at her, the hurt behind your eyes that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.
How the words had come out wrong, stumbling over her tongue, rambling in a way that didn't make sense but still left a mark on both of you.
And then, the way you had looked at her. The tears that almost spilled from your eyes. The quiet "oh" that you had whispered, like it was a small admission of defeat. Jenna's chest ached at the memory. She had never wanted to cause you pain. She had never wanted to be the one who broke you.
But it was done. It had to be.
She could still hear your voice in her head, soft and pained. She could still see the shimmer in your eyes as you fought to keep it together. It made her want to call you, to text you, to ask if you were okay, even though she knew deep down that she had no right.
But then there were those moments—the quiet mornings when she woke early, unable to sleep, and the first thought in her mind was of you. It was a fleeting thought, quickly smothered by the reality of the breakup, but it was there, always there. Were you okay? Were you getting better? She had to know, even though she didn't deserve to.
The longer Jenna sat with these thoughts, the more her guilt gnawed at her. The more she questioned herself. Was it too late to fix it? Was it too late to reach out to you? Maybe it didn't matter.
The doubt never fully left her.
It sat in the pit of her stomach, twisting every time she thought about what she had done. Why had she done it? Why had she walked away from you, from everything you two had built together, when it felt so wrong?
Every time Jenna tried to convince herself it had been the right decision, a voice in her head pushed back. It was like trying to convince herself that she hadn't torn a part of her soul away when she ended things. It didn't make sense. Not when she loved you.
She loved you so much.
It was more than just the small things—the way your hand fit perfectly in hers, the way you'd laugh about the stupidest things, making her forget about the weight of her world for a while. It was more than that.
It was how you made her feel like she could breathe easier when you were around, how you understood her in a way no one else could.
You saw her for who she really was, not the façade she put on for the world, not the parts of herself she kept hidden behind layers of insecurities and fears. You made her feel safe, and loved, in a way that made her heart ache just thinking about it.
The way your voice would soften when you spoke her name, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way you held her after a long day, arms tight around her like you could protect her from everything.
How could she have done that? How could she have let go of something that meant so much to her?
She thought about the quiet mornings when you would be the first to wake up, your messy hair still wild from sleep as you stretched and groggily smiled at her.
Every piece of her own brokenness seemed to fall into place when you were by her side. It felt like home. And yet, now she had walked away from it. Moved away from it.
And now, all she wanted was to go back. To rewind time, to find the courage to say something different.
She wanted to go back to that night, to that moment when she had sat across from you, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she uttered the words that had torn everything apart.
She wished she could have just pulled you close and told you how much she loved you, how much she needed you, and how scared she had been.
But it was too late now. The words had already been said.
Now, as the days passed and her thoughts spiraled, Jenna found herself wishing she had said anything. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to fix it.
It got to the point where she found it harder to focus at work, her mind constantly drifting, her thoughts veering toward you when they shouldn't. Even though ending things with you was supposed to make work easier.
It was as if everything she touched, everything she read, had some trace of you in it. Some days, when she stared down at the lines of the script in front of her, your voice would fill the silence, echoing the way you would help her work through the scenes.
It was like you were there with her, coaching her through the dialogue, offering small pieces of advice that always seemed to make everything fall into place.
Sometimes, the simplest words—lines she had read a hundred times before—felt like they carried something more.
She would hear them in your voice, almost like a phantom whisper, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. For a moment, you were still there beside her, as you always had been.
She missed you so much that it felt almost suffocating. It was strange, because the pain of it seemed bigger than just a breakup.
It was as if you had died, and the thought of never seeing you again had left an empty, hollow feeling in her chest. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was just a breakup. People broke up all the time. It wasn't a funeral. You hadn't died, and yet, it felt like a part of her had.
She caught herself thinking that maybe she could go see you tomorrow, that maybe she could find the courage to face you, to apologize, to make things right.
But then the harsh truth hit her: she was the one who had ended it. She had been the one who said the words, who took the step that closed the door.
If there was any death here, it was the death of the love that once was, and she had killed it herself. She was the one who had let it die.
She wished she could go back and do it all over again, even if that meant facing the hard parts. Anything to bring you back into her life. But it was too late now.
She had already made the choice. And she had to live with it, even though it felt like a slow kind of death.
For weeks, it seemed like everyone on set had noticed that something was off with Jenna too. It wasn't anything obvious—she still showed up on time, still gave her all to every take, still cracked the occasional joke between scenes. But there was a heaviness to her presence that hadn't been there before, a quiet distraction that lingered in her eyes or the way she'd zone out in moments she normally wouldn't.
Nobody said anything. Maybe they thought it wasn't their place, or maybe they just chalked it up to the pressure of work. Either way, they left her alone, offering polite smiles and tentative questions about how she was doing but never pushing for more.
Everyone except Mila.
Mila was one of the first people Jenna had worked with in the industry, and over time, they'd grown close—close enough that Mila had been one of the few friends Jenna introduced to you.
The three of you had hit it off immediately. Mila's easygoing personality and sharp sense of humor made her easy to like, and before long, she had become part of the small circle of people Jenna trusted implicitly.
You and Mila had bonded quickly during visits to set, sharing inside jokes and late-night conversations that blurred the lines between friendship and family. Mila had been there through a lot—both the good and the bad—and while Jenna hadn't told her about the breakup, she couldn't help but wonder if Mila had noticed the shift in her mood.
Jenna had told Mila everything once. But now, she hadn't told her anything.
Not about the breakup. Not about why her smile felt more forced than usual. Not about how she struggled to keep it together some days.
Still, Mila noticed. She always did.
Her usual teasing had shifted in recent weeks, replaced by quiet, searching glances. Sometimes, Mila looked at Jenna like she was on the verge of breaking, as if she could see cracks forming beneath the surface that Jenna wasn't even sure were there. And that look... it confused her.
Had you told Mila?
The thought had crossed Jenna's mind more than once, an anxious flutter in her chest as she replayed your last conversation in her head. You wouldn't have said anything, would you?
You weren't the kind of person to share personal things like that without a reason. But the way Mila looked at her sometimes—with that mixture of pity and quiet concern—it was hard not to wonder.
For days, Jenna tried to shake the feeling, brushing off Mila's attempts to talk or check in with excuses about work or being tired.
But Mila wasn't one to pry, but it was clear that Jenna wasn't herself, and eventually, she decided enough was enough.
"You need a night out," Mila announced one evening, catching Jenna off guard in her trailer. "Just us. A girls' night. Go somewhere loud, have a couple of drinks, and, I don't know, live a little."
Jenna hesitated, her fingers pausing over her phone screen as she looked up at Mila. "I don't know if—"
"Don't even try to talk your way out of it," Mila interrupted, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "You've been all... weird lately. Everyone's noticed. It's time to shake it off. Besides, I already have the perfect place in mind."
Jenna opened her mouth to protest again, but Mila didn't give her the chance.
"And hey," Mila added, her tone softening just slightly, "you should invite Y/N. I haven't seen her in forever."
The words hit Jenna like a punch to the stomach. She froze, her brain scrambling to catch up as Mila continued, oblivious to the shift in her expression.
"What?" Jenna finally managed, her voice quieter than she intended.
"Y/N," Mila repeated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, your girlfriend? Bring her along—it'll be fun."
The realization sank in slowly. Of course Mila didn't know. Jenna hadn't told anyone about the breakup, not her family, not her closest friends—not even Mila. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, to admit that she had ended something that had meant everything to her.
"Oh," Jenna said after a moment, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah... sure. I'll, uh, I'll ask her."
"Great!" Mila said brightly, grinning as she clapped her hands together. "It's settled, then. This Friday. You, me, and Y/N. It's going to be great."
Jenna nodded, pretending to go along with the plan as her chest tightened with guilt. She couldn't even imagine how she was supposed to explain this to Mila—let alone face the thought of actually seeing you again.
But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, plastering on her best fake smile and hoping Mila wouldn't notice the cracks beneath it.
"Yeah," Jenna said softly, her voice barely audible. "It'll be great."
___
The week passed faster than Jenna wanted it to, each day slipping away like sand through her fingers.
By Friday morning, she found herself regretting not protesting harder when Mila had first brought up the idea.
She could've said she had something else to do—work, a family obligation, anything that sounded remotely plausible. Or better yet, she could've just told Mila outright that she didn't want to go.
Because she didn't.
Jenna didn't want to go out, didn't want to pretend to have fun, and she especially didn't want to sit through an evening where Mila expected you to show up.
The thought of it made her stomach twist, the kind of anxious churn that left her restless and exhausted all at once. She hadn't even texted you about it, and she didn't plan to. How could she, knowing what Mila was expecting versus what she would actually get?
Still, as much as she hated the idea, the more Jenna thought about it, the more she realized that this might be the right time to say something.
A month had passed. Thirty long, aching days since the two of you had broken up, and she still hadn't told anyone. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not Mila. But Mila wasn't blind. She had to know something was going on, even if she didn't know the full story.
Maybe you'd told her.
The thought was both a comfort and a weight, lingering at the back of Jenna's mind as she tried to figure out what Mila did—or didn't—know. If you had said something, then it wouldn't be a surprise tonight when Jenna finally admitted it.
If Mila asked, of course.
Jenna wasn't planning on volunteering the information. But if Mila pressed, if she brought it up with that quiet concern she always carried lately, then maybe it was time to stop dodging the question. Time to stop pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.
And who knew? Maybe saying it out loud—finally letting someone else in—would take some of the weight off her shoulders.
Or maybe it would just make everything worse.
Jenna arrived at the bar later than she'd intended, though she couldn't bring herself to care. The thought of lingering too long, standing awkwardly with Mila before things really got going, had filled her with dread.
She'd spent way too much time overthinking her outfit, too—something casual but not too casual, like she wasn't trying too hard to look like herself when she didn't feel like herself at all.
The place was already buzzing by the time she walked in. Music thumped softly under the hum of voices, and the low lighting made the bar feel warmer than it had any right to. Jenna spotted Mila almost instantly, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.
She was talking to someone Jenna didn't recognize, but the moment Mila saw her, she perked up and waved her over.
"Finally! I was starting to think you'd stood me up." Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried just enough of a playful jab to make Jenna smile despite herself.
"Yeah, sorry," Jenna said, slipping into the seat beside her. "Traffic." It was a weak excuse, but Mila didn't press.
"Don't worry about it. You're here now." Mila signaled the bartender, sliding a drink over to Jenna. "Figured you'd need this."
Jenna laughed softly, lifting the glass. "Thanks. What is it?"
"Something not too crazy," Mila replied, swirling her own drink. "Didn't think you'd want to dive straight into tequila shots."
Jenna took a sip, letting the conversation flow naturally from there. It was easier than she expected—Mila always had a knack for making things feel effortless. They talked about work, swapped a few jokes about the chaos of the set, and somewhere along the way, the glasses kept refilling.
By the third—or maybe fourth—drink, Jenna was starting to feel the edges of her tension blur. Mila was, too, her laughter coming easier, her cheeks flushed pink.
Her now for what it seemed like sixth drink hovered near her lips as she sat back, her gaze lazily drifting around the room. She took a small sip, her movements slow and deliberate, almost giving the impression she'd forgotten Jenna was even sitting there.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of music and scattered voices, until Mila suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened with a spark of realization, her expression snapping to life.
"Oh my god, right!" she blurted out, the sharpness of her voice cutting through the din. "Where's Y/n? Is she okay?"
The words hit Jenna like a sucker punch, the casual tone unable to disguise the weight they carried. Jenna froze mid-sip, the glass slipping from her lips as her breath caught in her throat. She coughed, the sudden burn forcing her to set the drink down hastily, her fingers trembling as the glass met the table with a sharp clink.
Her chest felt tight, heat blooming beneath her skin—not just from the alcohol, but from something heavier.
Of course Mila would ask that. She had invited you for God's sake.
That detail had slipped Jenna's mind entirely in the haze of the evening, or maybe she'd pushed it aside on purpose. Now it was front and center, leaving her no room to deflect.
She glanced at Mila, already regretting the defensive edge in her voice as she snapped, "Yeah. Why wouldn't she be?"
The words came too quickly, too sharp, and the moment they left her mouth, Jenna wished she could take them back. They weren't just defensive—they were revealing, betraying a tension Mila clearly wasn't expecting.
Mila froze, her brows lifting in mild surprise at the tone. For a brief moment, she looked unsure of how to respond, and then her expression shifted again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out, and instead, she fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh, nothing," she said at last, though her voice had lost its usual breezy confidence. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a dismissive laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I just thought maybe something was wrong? I don't know. She didn't come, so I just wondered."
The nervous energy radiating from her now was unmistakable. Her hand moved to adjust her glass, her fingers drumming against the surface of the table before falling still. She looked everywhere but at Jenna, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow soften the tension hanging in the air.
Jenna narrowed her eyes slightly, her stomach tightening as she watched Mila's sudden shift in demeanor. Something was off—Mila wasn't just making small talk. She was circling something, and Jenna could feel the subtle crackling undercurrent of panic in the way Mila's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape.
Jenna's fingers curled around her glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The question lingered, sharp and unspoken, in the space between them. Why was Mila so nervous?
"Actually I...Uh" Jenna's voice wavered, caught somewhere between a lie and the truth. Her hesitation felt damning, and she hated how small it made her feel. "I didn't ask her."
The admission hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended, and Jenna flinched inwardly at the way it sounded—cold, thoughtless. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Mila didn't know that, and Jenna could already see the gears turning behind her friend's eyes.
"What? Why?" Mila's brows shot up as she leaned forward, her curiosity sharpening with the movement. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but her full attention was fixed on Jenna now, the question hanging in the air like a dare.
Jenna froze, her hand hovering mid-air with her drink still in her grasp. The room around her blurred into a haze of muffled conversation and dim light as her thoughts screeched to a halt. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not tonight, not here, not with Mila.
Was this it? The moment she finally said it out loud?
Her stomach churned, and her grip on the glass tightened as the weight of the unspoken truth pressed harder against her chest. What was the point of keeping it to herself anymore? Mila would find out eventually—everyone would.
Besides, when else was she going to say anything? At the table read? Where the cast, producers, and half the crew would be there to overhear? No. That wasn't how she wanted it to come out.
She inhaled sharply, a shallow breath that did nothing to steady the trembling in her hands. The drink clinked softly as she set it down on the table, her fingers still clutching the rim like it was an anchor.
"Because, uhm..." The words felt foreign on her tongue, her voice shaky as her gaze darted down to the table. She could feel Mila's eyes boring into her, waiting.
Her throat felt dry, the lump forming there making it harder to speak. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up just enough to meet Mila's gaze.
"We... we're not together anymore."
The words tumbled out unevenly, quiet but heavy, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jenna's stomach dropped, her pulse pounding in her ears as she watched Mila's face shift through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, concern.
For a second, neither of them moved. Mila blinked, her lips parting as though to respond, but no sound came out. She glanced at Jenna's hand still gripping the glass and then back to her face, her expression softening slightly.
"What?" Mila said again, but this time her voice was softer, almost disbelieving. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping against the table. "I—since when?"
Jenna's jaw tensed, her teeth pressing together as she tried to find the words, but none came easily. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected, and the weight of Mila's question made her chest tighten even more.
"Not long ago," Jenna finally said, her voice flat, like she was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of the truth. "It's... complicated."
It wasn't complicated.
Yet Mila nodded slowly, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece something together. The nervous energy from earlier was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar kind of stillness.
Jenna could feel Mila's unspoken questions hanging in the air, but she didn't have it in her to answer them—not here, not now. She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling just enough to make the drink ripple.
Mila opened her mouth as if to speak but hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line instead. "I—I didn't know," she said finally, her voice careful, almost apologetic.
Jenna shook her head quickly, as if to wave it off. "It's fine. Really. It's not..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn't fine, but admitting that felt like too much.
The silence between them returned, heavy and unyielding. Mila shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the door as if searching for an escape, while Jenna stared at her glass, the weight of her own words settling deep in her chest.
Mila didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the table as though she were trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner absentmindedly.
Jenna could see the wheels turning behind her friend's eyes, the way Mila's lips pressed together as if she were holding back a question. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, and Jenna shifted in her seat, wishing she'd said anything else—anything to steer the conversation away from this.
But then Mila looked up, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and concern. Her fingers stilled against the napkin, and she inhaled softly, her gaze flitting to Jenna's before darting away again.
"Is..." Mila began, her voice quiet and careful, like she wasn't sure if she should even be asking. She bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she seemed to second-guess herself. "Is it because she's... sick?"
The question hung in the air, stark and unrelenting.
Jenna blinked, her thoughts skidding to a halt at Mila's question. Sick? The word echoed in her mind, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. She stared at Mila, trying to piece together the sudden turn in the conversation.
Her first instinct was to assume she'd misheard, that the low hum of music or the alcohol in her system had muddled her perception. But the look on Mila's face—hesitant, nervous, but serious—told her she hadn't.
Jenna frowned, her confusion deepening as she scrambled to connect the dots. Sick? What the hell is she talking about? The word didn't fit anywhere. You weren't sick. At least, not in any way Jenna knew of.
Did you have a cold?
Her stomach churned uneasily. Was Mila talking about someone else? Or was this some poorly worded attempt at... what? A metaphor? A joke? Jenna didn't know, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread curling low in her chest.
Her grip tightened on her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers. Mila's question replayed in her head, each syllable dragging her further into her own confusion.
Mila had said it like it was obvious, like it was something Jenna should already know, and that only made the knot in her chest tighten further.
A faint heat crept up Jenna's neck, frustration mixing with her unease. She hated not understanding, hated the way her mind was now running in circles trying to grasp something she clearly didn't have all the pieces to.
Jenna's heart thudded faster, her thoughts a jumble of fragmented possibilities that led nowhere. Her confusion was quickly giving way to something sharper—irritation, panic, a gnawing need to demand what are you talking about? But she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't do anything but stare at Mila and hope she'd explain herself before Jenna had to ask.
She wet her lips, suddenly aware of the dryness in her throat, and willed herself to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the tension pulling at her features. She didn't want to look clueless—vulnerable—but she had no idea what Mila meant, and it was beginning to eat at her.
Her fingers drummed restlessly against the side of her glass as she glanced at Mila again, searching her face for some kind of clue.
Mila froze, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. It wasn't shock exactly—it was something subtler, like she'd just realized she'd let slip something she wasn't supposed to say. Her hand stilled mid-air, clutching her glass, and her gaze darted away from Jenna as though avoiding eye contact would somehow erase what she'd said.
Jenna felt her stomach drop, unease prickling at her skin. Her grip on her drink tightened as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you mean, sick? Does she have a cold or something?"
Mila flinched at the question, her face tightening into an expression that only made Jenna's anxiety spike. Mila swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass she held.
"You... you don't know?" Mila finally said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.
The way she said it—the hesitant tone, the words themselves—sent a jolt of panic straight through Jenna. Her heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening as a chill spread down her spine. Why was Mila framing it like this? Why did it sound so heavy, so dangerous?
Jenna's throat felt dry, her words coming out unsteady. "Don't know what?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she fought to keep calm. "What are you talking about?"
Mila hesitated again, her teeth catching her bottom lip as if she were debating whether to say more. Her gaze flickered up to Jenna's face, studying her with a mixture of wariness and something that almost looked like pity.
"When did you guys break up?" Mila asked carefully, the question quiet but deliberate, like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.
The question caught Jenna off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Her mind spun, trying to connect the dots Mila was implying but not fully saying. She blinked, then looked down at the glass in her hand as if it might hold the answer.
"It was..." she began slowly, her voice trailing off as she tried to pinpoint the timeline in her mind. Her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed, as she realized how much time had slipped by without you.
"September," Jenna said finally, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She stared at the condensation pooling at the base of her drink, her voice quieter now, almost distant.
The realization sank in as she said it aloud, a wave of emotion hitting her in its wake.
Three months.
She hadn't even thought about it in those terms until now, but it was true. Three months of getting through each day without you. Three months of forcing herself to push forward, even though the weight of it had felt unbearable at times, even though it was her fault.
And now here was Mila, looking at her like there was some crucial piece of the story Jenna didn't know. The unease grew stronger, twisting in her stomach, and her voice came out softer, more fragile than before.
"Why does that matter?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge and a plea all at once.
Mila's expression shifted as she looked at Jenna, her features softening with a guilt so palpable it made Jenna's chest ache.
There was something about the way Mila's eyes rested on her—sad, full of hesitation and regret—that made Jenna feel small, like a little kid who had just been caught doing something wrong but didn't know what it was.
The weight of that gaze was unbearable, and Jenna found herself straightening in her seat, as if good posture could somehow shield her from the impact of whatever Mila was about to say.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the seconds stretching unbearably long as Mila opened her mouth, hesitated, and then sighed quietly.
"Jenna..." Mila said softly, her voice almost trembling. She paused, her eyes dropping to her hands for a moment before meeting Jenna's again.
The next words landed like a punch to the gut.
"Y/N has cancer."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, echoing in Jenna's mind as her entire body went still. For a second, it didn't even register—like Mila had spoken a foreign language Jenna couldn't translate. The room seemed to tilt, the muted background noise fading as all Jenna could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.
"What?" she breathed, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it wasn't enough to encompass the sheer disbelief coursing through her veins.
Jenna's heart pounded so hard it drowned out every sound around her.
Cancer?
No. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Her head swam, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision or wake herself up from whatever cruel dream she'd stumbled into. Mila's words echoed over and over, growing louder with each repetition until they were almost unbearable.
There was no way. No way. You would've told her. You had to have told her, even though she broke up with you. Right? Jenna gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as her thoughts spiraled. You wouldn't keep something like this from her. You couldn't.
The idea that you might have felt the need to tell Mila instead of her made her stomach churn. When had it happened? How long had you known? And why hadn't you come to her, at least for this? She couldn't stop the questions from flooding her mind, each one more agonizing than the last.
Her lips parted, and for a moment, nothing came out. Her voice felt lodged in her throat, trapped behind the whirlwind of disbelief. Finally, she forced the words, shaky and unsure, as if saying them out loud might make Mila realize how impossible they were.
"When did she tell you that?"
Mila's eyes flicked downward, and she bit her lip nervously, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The air between them thickened with unease, Mila seeming to grasp how heavy her revelation truly was. She exhaled sharply, as though trying to remember something she wasn't sure she wanted to recall.
"A week ago. Maybe two," Mila said finally, her voice quiet, tentative.
The answer made Jenna's breath hitch. A week ago? Two? She felt like the world tilted, like her chair was suddenly unsteady beneath her. She stared blankly at Mila, trying to process how you could've known—really known—and said nothing to her. Her mind flashed back to that awful night, the night she shattered everything, and she realized just how long it had been. Nearly three months. Three months without you. Three months of thinking the pain was one-sided.
And yet, you told Mila.
The betrayal mingled with guilt, forming a storm that twisted in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe. Why didn't you tell her? Why did you think she didn't deserve to know?
Her hands fell to her lap, trembling slightly as the adrenaline coursing through her body rendered the alcohol utterly meaningless. For the first time all night, she felt stone-cold sober.
"What type?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her lips before she even realized it. It felt necessary. Urgent. As if understanding the specifics might make it more manageable, something she could wrap her head around.
Mila hesitated, her discomfort evident as she glanced away and then back at Jenna. She looked almost apologetic, like a woman who'd accidentally unleashed a tidal wave and now couldn't stop it.
"She told me it was... something in the lungs," Mila said slowly, almost wincing at the words. She faltered, clearly unsure of how to phrase what little she knew. "And I don't really—when I asked her how serious it was, she didn't really say..."
Mila trailed off, reaching for her glass. She drank deeply, the motion unnervingly casual for such a serious conversation. It felt wrong, somehow—her nonchalance juxtaposed with the chaos unraveling in Jenna's chest.
"But it can't be that serious, right?" Mila added, her tone nervous but edging toward hopeful, as though willing Jenna to agree.
Jenna couldn't reply. Her throat burned, the words catching painfully on the realization that she didn't know anything. Nothing at all.
Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as her mind raced. The possibilities were endless, and they all sounded worse with every second of silence. Lungs. Something in the lungs. A dozen horrific images flashed through her mind, each more unbearable than the last.
And you hadn't told her. Not about this. Not about anything.
She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking down to the table as a horrible, crushing helplessness settled over her. What was she supposed to do now?
Jenna's thoughts began racing, rewinding through every moment she could remember with you. Every interaction over the past few months played back like a fragmented reel in her mind, and she realized with growing dread that there were signs.
She'd noticed you'd lost weight—nothing drastic at first, just subtle changes. Your cheekbones had become more defined, and the jeans you loved wearing had started sitting looser on your hips. She remembered teasing you about it lightly, asking if you were trying out some trendy diet. You'd laughed it off, brushing her concern away, and she hadn't pressed.
And the cough. God, the cough. It had started as something minor, almost unnoticeable—a soft clearing of your throat here and there. But it stuck around. Over weeks, maybe longer, she'd noticed it lingering, deepening. There were times when it sounded almost painful, raspy, like you were struggling to catch your breath after a fit. She'd asked once or twice if you were okay, and you'd shrugged it off, blaming it on the weather or a cold you couldn't quite shake.
Now it felt obvious. Too obvious.
Had you known back then? Had those symptoms already been signs of something so much worse, and she'd completely missed it?
She remembered other things, too, things that felt insignificant in the moment but now came rushing back like flashing warning signs she'd ignored. You'd gotten tired more easily, saying you needed to lie down after errands that wouldn't have phased you before. Jenna had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion, something manageable. You'd stopped joining her for long hikes, claiming your legs felt "off," though you'd never been specific about it.
And then there was the bruise. A vivid purple mark on your arm that you couldn't remember getting. She'd joked about you being clumsy, and you'd laughed along, but she remembered how quickly the color had darkened, how long it had taken to fade.
Her stomach churned at the realization that all of it—every small, seemingly disconnected thing—might have been connected. How hadn't she seen it before?
She gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white as her mind spiraled further. When had you known? Were you already aware back then? Were you coughing while lying in her bed, pretending everything was fine, knowing it wasn't? Had you looked at her across the breakfast table, silently carrying the weight of something she couldn't even begin to fathom?
Her chest tightened, her breaths quick and shallow as the guilt crashed over her like a wave. If you had known, if you'd been dealing with this alone, why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't she noticed?
Every moment she hadn't pushed harder, hadn't questioned further, now felt like a failure. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she hadn't. She'd let you brush it off, just like she let you slip away when she ended things.
The thought that you might have been carrying this secret—this unbearable burden—during those final months together made her feel sick. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable. Too wrapped up in her own emotions to see what had been happening right in front of her.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry, not here. Not now. She didn't deserve the release. All she could do was sit there, hands trembling, head spinning, replaying every moment that now screamed at her with a truth she hadn't wanted to see.
The guilt hit Jenna like a physical blow, a crushing weight that left her breathless. She had broken up with you. She had walked away from the one person she loved most in the world.
What if, in the moment she ended everything, claiming her work was too demanding, that she couldn't give you what you deserved, you had been silently carrying this? What if, while she was drowning in her own stress, you were drowning too—but in something far worse?
Her stomach twisted painfully, her chest hollowing out as the realization settled deeper. The words she'd said that night came rushing back to her. The look on your face, the way you'd nodded. She hadn't noticed it then, but there was something in your eyes—something heavy, resigned, like you weren't just letting her go but bracing yourself for something far bigger.
God, had you known? Had you sat there, holding that secret, letting her leave because you didn't want to make her stay out of pity? The thought made her stomach churn violently.
She pressed her palms against the table, needing something to ground her as her head spun. All those months.
Three months.
Ninety days she had spent convincing herself she was doing the right thing by focusing on her career, by staying away from you so you could move on. Ninety days where she'd justified her choice as selfless, when in reality, you had been the one suffering. Not her. Never her.
She broke up with you because she said she was "overwhelmed." That was the excuse she gave. She'd cried about deadlines, interviews, and sleepless nights while you—you—were fighting something that made all of that seem meaningless.
The shame was unbearable. It was suffocating. How could she have been so blind? So selfish?
The memory of your voice haunted her now, the way you'd tried to reassure her when she broke things off, even as you were clearly heartbroken. How had she missed it? The exhaustion in your tone, the fragility behind your words?
Her throat tightened, bile rising as she imagined what you must have felt—knowing you were sick, facing something unimaginable, and having the person you loved walk away from you. She had abandoned you. And for what? Because she claimed to be suffering from her workload? The idea made her want to scream.
Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, gripping tightly, as if that could stop the onslaught of guilt. She'd made you feel like you weren't enough when the truth was, she wasn't enough. She hadn't been strong enough to stay, to notice, to see you.
She wanted to believe you hadn't known back then, that you hadn't been aware of the cancer when she left. But even if you didn't, it didn't matter. Because you'd faced this alone. And now? Now it felt like she'd been gone at the very moment you needed her most.
The rest of the night was nothing like Jenna or Mila had envisioned. What was supposed to be a casual girl's night out—a break from the chaos of work and life—had turned into something suffocating, something heavy. Neither of them knew how to recover from the bomb that had just been dropped.
Mila seemed to be trying, though. She fiddled with her glass, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, occasionally throwing out a lighthearted comment about the music or the drinks. But her voice was thinner now, her movements stiffer, as though she wasn't sure if it was okay to pretend everything was normal.
Jenna didn't even try. She nodded when Mila spoke and murmured vague responses, but her mind was elsewhere. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't focus on anything Mila said; her words blurred together, meaningless and distant, like background noise.
She kept fidgeting—picking at her nails, twisting her rings, pushing her drink away only to pull it back closer. Her legs bounced under the table, her body humming with restless energy that had nowhere to go. Every time Mila glanced at her, guilt flashed across her face, but Jenna couldn't bring herself to reassure her. She couldn't bring herself to do anything except sit there and try not to scream.
Her mind raced. Over and over, she replayed what Mila had said: "Y/N has cancer." The words felt like a brand, seared into her skull, impossible to escape. She wanted to text you, to call you, to demand answers—but what would she even say? Did you know how much she wanted to see you right now? Did you even want to see her?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come here tonight to tell Mila about the breakup, to maybe cry a little and then laugh it off over a second drink. Instead, all she wanted was to go home. To be anywhere but here.
Her phone sat heavy in her bag, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching for it every other minute. What would she even say if you picked up? Would you pick up? The thought of hearing your voice again both thrilled and terrified her.
She wanted to know everything. When did it start? What type? How bad was it? Were you okay? Were you scared? Did you hate her for leaving you? The questions screamed in her head, louder and louder, until her temples throbbed.
Mila broke the silence with a forced laugh, trying again to steer the conversation to something normal, but even she gave up halfway through her sentence. She took another long sip from her drink, her gaze darting around the bar, clearly uncomfortable.
"I think I should head home," Jenna blurted, her voice cracking slightly.
Mila's eyes widened, and she nodded quickly, almost relieved. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want me to come with you?"
"No," Jenna said too quickly, shaking her head. "I just—I need to..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Mila didn't press her.
The walk out of the bar felt surreal. The music and chatter faded into a dull hum, her footsteps heavy against the floor. By the time she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her head.
Jenna's hands were shaking as she unlocked her car. She slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and just sat there. The keys dangled uselessly in her hand as she stared blankly at the steering wheel. She didn't cry. She couldn't. All she could think about was you.
She needed to see you. To hear your voice. To know the truth. But she didn't know if she had the right to reach out—not after everything. So she just sat there, torn between guilt and longing, until the weight of it all became unbearable.
The house was dark when Jenna got home, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, her coat and bag left discarded by the door. The quiet was almost oppressive, the kind that made her chest feel even tighter. She kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, collapsing onto it without even bothering to take off her scarf.
Her phone burned in her pocket, but she didn't take it out right away. She sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the coffee table. The familiar space, usually comforting, now felt foreign. Nothing felt normal anymore—not the cushions under her, not the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, not even her own breathing.
She pulled her phone out with trembling hands, unlocking it and staring at the blank call screen. Your number was still there, at the top of her recent contacts, even though she hadn't called you in months. Her thumb hovered over your name. She didn't know what she was even going to say. Was it true? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this?
The first time she called, it rang once before she hung up. Her heart was pounding too hard, her stomach twisted into knots. She tried again, this time letting it ring through.
No answer.
The third call was the same, and by the time the voicemail picked up, Jenna was biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. She dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her, leaning back and covering her face with her hands.
You didn't want to talk to her. That had to be it. Why else wouldn't you pick up? She couldn't blame you. Not after what she'd done. But the thought of you sitting there, seeing her name light up on your screen and choosing to ignore it, made her stomach churn with guilt and dread.
She picked up the phone again, her fingers trembling as she opened the messaging app. What could she even say? How could she even begin to ask the question clawing at her throat?
She typed and deleted the message three times before finally settling on the only words she could muster.
is it true?
Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Then she hit send, tossing the phone onto the coffee table like it burned her.
The wait was excruciating. Every second stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen even though no reply had come through. She didn't know what she'd do if you didn't answer.
But you did.
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with both hands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she opened the message.
what are you talking about?
The words hit her like a wave of icy water. Jenna's stomach twisted, her heart lurching in her chest. Did you not know she knew? Or were you pretending not to know? Either way, the confirmation that she'd have to say more made her hands tremble even harder as she tried to think of how to respond.
Jenna stared at your reply, her mind spinning. What are you talking about? It was almost cruel how normal the words looked on the screen, like they hadn't just completely uprooted everything she thought she knew. Like they didn't force her to put her fears into words that she didn't even know how to face herself.
She started typing, then deleted it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. She couldn't write it. Writing it would make it real, and Jenna didn't know if she could handle that. The word alone carried too much weight, a weight she never imagined she'd have to face—not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not like this.
Her jaw clenched as she tried again, typing out the letters slowly, deliberately, as if each one could shatter the phone in her hands.
cancer
That was it. That was all she wrote because if it were true—if you really had cancer—you'd understand what she meant. She pressed send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought she might pass out.
The reply came quicker than she expected, but it didn't make it any easier.
yes
Jenna's stomach dropped as the world seemed to tilt around her. The room felt like it was spinning, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but for a moment, she couldn't even think. Then, another reply came through.
i'm sorry.
Her chest ached at those words. Sorry? Sorry for what? For being sick? For not telling her? For everything? Her fingers shook as she typed back, her mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which felt like they'd ever be enough.
why didn't you tell me?
The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Each passing second was agonizing, the silence feeling louder than it had any right to be. Jenna stared at her phone, her breathing shallow, her thoughts spiraling.
i was going to. but you made it clear we were done.
i didnt know how
Jenna dropped the phone onto her lap, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't hold it anymore. The words were a slap in the face, brutal in their honesty, and she couldn't even argue against them. You were right. She had been the one to leave. She had been the one to shut the door on you, and now you were sick—seriously sick—and she hadn't even known.
She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen as if it could somehow give her the answers she didn't have.
im so sorry, she typed, her thumbs trembling as she hit send. It was all she could think to say, but it felt hollow, inadequate.
The reply came a moment later.
me too.
Jenna stared at your last message, the words sinking deep into her chest like a weight she couldn't shift. Her heart pounded as her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain, scared, and desperate all at once. She needed to know more—she had to know more.
She typed quickly, her breath catching in her throat.
where are you?
The reply came a moment later, and Jenna's stomach dropped as she read it.
at the hospital
The hospital? Jenna blinked at the screen, rereading the words as panic gripped her chest. Hospital. Why? Was it that serious? It couldn't be that serious, right? But why else would you be there? Her mind spun, racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
She gripped her phone tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. Why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't you called or messaged her before it got to this point? And then it hit her—of course, you hadn't told her. She'd left you. She'd broken up with you and walked away.
Her head fell into her hand as guilt crashed over her again, harder this time. She had shut the door on you, and now you were in the hospital. Alone. How long had you been there? Days? Weeks? The thought made her feel sick.
Jenna's fingers shook as she typed, her desperation clear in every movement. She started the message and deleted it three times before finally forcing herself to just write the truth.
can i come see you? i really want to see you.
Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest tightening. Was it too much? Too sudden? She wasn't sure if you'd even want to see her, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. She pressed send and let the phone fall to her lap, her heart racing as she stared at it, waiting for a reply that felt like it might never come.
Jenna's phone buzzed with your reply, and her stomach flipped as she read it.
visiting hours ended like 25 minutes ago.
She exhaled shakily, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Of course, they had. She should've guessed, but that didn't stop the frustration and helplessness from clawing at her. She needed to see you. She couldn't wait another day knowing you were there, in the hospital, without her.
Her fingers flew across the screen, her desperation evident in the hasty, unpolished message.
can i come tomorrow?
ill come first thing in the morning
The response didn't come right away, and Jenna stared at her phone, her chest tightening. The seconds dragged, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, her screen lit up again.
if you want
they open at 8.
The simple reply stung more than she expected. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was neutral, distant—so unlike how things used to be between you. She hated that, hated how far apart you'd grown. And it was all her fault.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.
how are you?
The message felt inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say. She needed to know, even if she was terrified of the answer.
Your reply came quickly, short and to the point.
been better
Jenna's breath hitched, the two words slicing through her like a blade. She stared at the screen, her thoughts a jumble of guilt, worry, and overwhelming sadness. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but her body was betraying her.
The alcohol, which had burned through her emotions like fuel all evening, was now taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavier, her body sinking deeper into the couch. She typed out a half-formed message, her fingers sluggish and uncoordinated.
i really
The phone slipped from her hand as sleep overtook her, her mind still spinning with thoughts of you, the weight of everything crushing her even as unconsciousness claimed her.
The room was dark, quiet except for the soft hum of her breathing, but the tension in her face remained, even in sleep.
___
The next morning came far too quickly, the harsh light seeping through Jenna's curtains and forcing her awake. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her mouth was dry, but none of it mattered. Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover as the events of last night flooded back into her mind.
She didn't linger in bed. She couldn't. The longer she stayed still, the more the anxiety clawed at her chest. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she winced as the cold floor met her bare feet. She fumbled for the ibuprofen bottle on her nightstand, nearly knocking it over before popping two into her mouth and washing them down with a long gulp of water. The relief wouldn't come fast enough.
Jenna moved through her morning routine like a ghost. She grabbed a piece of toast but barely took two bites before tossing it aside. Her jeans were pulled on hastily, paired with a wrinkled hoodie she found draped over the chair in her room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused, her reflection startling. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and drawn. For a moment, she thought about fixing it, but the thought of wasting another minute when you were waiting...
Her hands shook as she pulled on her sneakers. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with a million thoughts, none of them coherent. All she knew was that she needed to see you. She needed answers, reassurance—proof that this was all a misunderstanding. You had to be okay.
The drive to the hospital was torturous. Every stoplight seemed longer than usual, every slow car ahead of her made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turned white as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched. She barely noticed the December chill in the air, her focus so singular it made the world blur around her.
When Jenna finally walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell hit her immediately, sharp and unnerving. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried to the reception desk. An older woman sat there, her glasses perched low on her nose, typing away on her keyboard. Her kind, weathered face didn't ease the tightness in Jenna's chest.
"I'm here to see Y/N Y/L/N," Jenna blurted, her voice tight and trembling. She leaned forward on the counter, her eyes wide and desperate.
The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving across the keyboard. Jenna watched every movement as if it held the answer to everything. She clutched her phone in her hand, her nails pressing into her palm. The seconds dragged, each one heavier than the last.
Then the woman's expression shifted. Her typing stopped, and she looked up at Jenna. The pity in her eyes made Jenna's stomach drop.
"Oh, honey..." The woman's voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid Jenna would shatter if she spoke too loud. "I'm so sorry. She passed earlier this morning. Around four o'clock.”
Jenna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand the words at first; they didn't make sense. Passed? Passed where? The realization hit her all at once, sharp and suffocating.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears rising. "No, you're wrong. I-I talked to her last night. She was fine. She was—"
The receptionist leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It happened very suddenly."
"No," Jenna said again, louder this time, though it came out more like a plea. Her legs felt weak, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She clutched the counter, trying to keep herself steady, but nothing felt solid anymore.
Her mind raced, flashes of you from the last time she saw you, the sound of your voice from last night, the messages—everything crashing into her all at once. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be waiting for her.
Jenna's knees nearly buckled, but she caught herself, stumbling back a step. She felt like she was falling, like the entire world was falling. You were gone. Gone before she could tell you how sorry she was. Before she could apologize for everything, for breaking up with you, for not seeing the signs, for not being there when you needed her the most.
She wanted to scream, cry, do anything to release the suffocating weight in her chest, but she couldn't move. Her tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as the receptionist gently asked if she needed someone to call. But Jenna barely heard her.
You were gone. You were really gone. And it was too late. Too late for all the things she wanted to say, all the things she should have said.
hey everyone, I just wanted to apologize for how bad the updates have been lately. I know I’ve been really inactive, and I’m sorry for that. the only “explanation” I can give is that I’m just now going home after spending time at adolescent psychiatry, so things have been a lot.
I’ll try to find the motivation to write again, but I just wanted to let you all know what’s been going on. thank you for being patient with me <3
word count: im sorry if this is too repetitive, tbh I haven’t checked it out completely.
Tara wished more than anything that she had never noticed you.
She didn't even know when it started, only that she wanted it to stop.
Maybe it began the day you arrived—new to town, unfamiliar yet impossible to ignore. You weren't loud or attention-seeking, but there was something about you that unsettled her.
The way people turned their heads when you walked by, drawn in as if you belonged here more than she ever had. The way you spoke, soft but certain, like every word mattered. Tara hadn't meant to pay attention, but it was like trying to ignore a song stuck in her head.
At first, she told herself it was curiosity. A natural awareness of someone new, nothing more.
But curiosity didn't make her stomach twist when someone said your name. It didn't make her feel like she was always a step behind you, lingering in your shadow, caught between admiration and something far uglier.
And it definitely didn't make her hate herself for caring.
The first time Tara saw you, it was in the crowded hallway between classes. She hadn't even realized you were new at first, just another face in the sea of students.
But then, she noticed the way people reacted to you—how eyes lingered, how heads turned, how conversations paused just slightly as you passed, as if your presence demanded attention without you even trying.
She expected you to be shy. New people always were. She had been, once. But when you walked into class and the teacher asked you to introduce yourself, you did it like it was nothing.
Your voice was steady, carrying across the room with a quiet kind of confidence. You told them your name, where you'd moved from, a few surface-level facts. Nothing extraordinary. And yet, Tara felt a strange, unwelcome pull, like she had to listen, had to commit every word to memory.
She figured that would be the extent of it—that you'd settle in like everyone else, fade into the background once the novelty of being new wore off.
But then she saw you again. And again. And again.
You seemed to be everywhere. In the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the casual mentions of her friends.
It wasn't like you were trying. That was the worst part.
You weren't loud or overly outgoing, but people naturally gravitated toward you anyway. Teachers liked you, students wanted to befriend you, and you made it look so damn easy.
And then, just when Tara had thought she could get away with pretending not to notice you, you had noticed her first.
She had been at her locker, switching out her books, when she had caught movement from the corner of her eye. Then your voice—light, friendly, like this was something you did all the time.
"Hi, I'm Y/N. You're Tara, right?"
Tara had glanced up, and there you had been. Close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge you.
You had smiled—not in a way that felt forced or overly eager. Just warm. Easy. Like it was second nature to introduce yourself to everyone you met. And Tara had hated how much that stuck with her—how natural you had made it seem, how different you were from her in all the ways she had wished she could ignore.
She had nodded, offering a small, awkward smile, unsure of how else to respond. "Yeah. That's me."
You had shifted your books in your arms, tilting your head slightly. "I think we have more than two classes together, so I figured I might as well introduce myself."
Tara hadn't known how to handle that—how effortlessly you had spoken, how you had said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. She had just nodded again, murmuring a quiet, "Oh. Cool."
That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn't.
Because she had heard that same introduction in other classes—watched as you had walked up to different people with the same soft smile, the same easygoing tone. You hadn't hesitated when teachers had asked you to introduce yourself, hadn't stumbled over your words like she would have. You had spoken like you belonged here, like you weren't the least bit concerned about how people perceived you.
And maybe that was the worst part—because for you, it was easy. It wasn't something you had to think about, something that had sat heavy on your shoulders like it had for her. You hadn't hesitated, hadn't second-guessed yourself, hadn't fumbled over your words like she always seemed to.
Tara hadn't even remembered what she had said in response—something short, something dismissive. She had just wanted the conversation to end.
But it hadn't. Not really.
Because after that, she had started seeing you everywhere. And suddenly, you hadn't just been some new person anymore. You had been the person who had smiled at her like it was effortless. The person whose name had seemed to follow her, weaving itself into her life whether she had wanted it to or not.
It was like the universe was pushing you toward her, weaving you into the fabric of her life whether she wanted it or not. And maybe that was the worst part—because no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't ignore you.
Not when the whole world seemed to notice you, too.
Tara hadn't even noticed how you looked at first.
Not like anybody seemed to. Everyone was just caught up on the fact that you were new.
That wasn't what had made you stand out to her. It was everything else—the way people reacted to you, the way your name kept coming up in conversations, the way you just... existed so easily in places where she had always felt like she had to fight to be seen.
But once she noticed, she couldn't unnotice.
She didn't know when it started. Maybe it was the first time you passed her in the hallway, and she caught the faint trace of your perfume—something light and clean, barely there, but still lingering in the air after you were gone. Maybe it was the way people naturally leaned in when you spoke, like they wanted to hear more, like you had some unspoken gravitational pull that drew them closer.
It wasn't intentional. She hadn't meant to pay attention to any of it. But that was the thing about you—everything you did had a way of creeping in when she least expected it.
At first, it was easy to dismiss. Just a passing thought. Just something in the background, barely worth acknowledging.
But then she started noticing more.
How your skin always looked impossibly smooth, soft in a way that felt almost unnatural, like you had never known anything sharp or cruel. She wasn't looking—God, she wasn't looking—but sometimes the sun would hit just right, and she'd catch a glimpse of warmth on your cheekbones, a glow that made it impossible to ignore.
How you pressed your lips together when you were concentrating, as if you were holding back the urge to say something out loud. How you had a habit of breaking the tips of your pencils on purpose, just so your writing would look a certain way. How you always flipped your notebook to a fresh page even when there was still space left on the previous one, like the mess of unfinished thoughts bothered you more than wasted paper.
She wasn’t looking for these things. She wasn't sitting there, analyzing you like some kind of fascination. But they kept showing up anyway, slipping into her awareness before she could push them out.
And it annoyed her. More than it should have.
Because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how effortless you made everything seem, how your confidence didn't feel forced the way hers always did. It wasn't fair how teachers seemed to already like you, how students naturally gravitated toward you, how your name had worked its way into her head without her permission.
And it really, really wasn't fair how you weren't even trying.
It wasn't like you were trying to be liked, trying to stand out. You were just... existing. Living. Doing things without overthinking them, without worrying about how they might come across. And maybe that was the worst part—because for Tara, none of that had ever been easy.
And now, she couldn't stop noticing.
Because everyone loved you. That much was obvious.
Tara saw it in the way people reacted to you, how they laughed a little too easily at your jokes—even the ones that weren't that funny. She saw it in the way conversations seemed to shift when you joined them, like people wanted to impress you without even realizing it.
And she hated it.
Not just because you had that effortless charm, that unshakable ease that made everything seem so damn simple—but because it was real.
You weren't fake. You weren't putting on an act or twisting your words to make people like you. You were just nice. Genuinely, painfully, unreasonably nice.
And it made her stomach twist.
Because no one was that sweet for no reason.
Tara had met people like that before—people who smiled too easily, who said all the right things, who made kindness feel like a performance. She knew how to spot it, how to pick apart the cracks in the mask until the real person underneath showed through.
But with you, there were no cracks.
You weren't pretending. You weren't forcing it. You were just...like that.
And that only made it worse.
Because if there was something ugly underneath—some hidden flaw, some selfish motive—Tara could have handled that. She could have told herself that you weren't as perfect as everyone thought, that you were just playing the same game as everyone else.
But you weren't.
You were real. And that was the most infuriating part.
There was something about you that didn't belong in the same world as the rest of them—something too soft, too delicate, too untouched. Like you had never seen the worst in people, never been hurt enough to carry the weight of it.
Tara wanted to find a reason to hate you. She wanted to pick you apart, to find the thing that made you less than what everyone thought you were.
But every time she tried, she came up empty.
Your eyes were the worst part.
Wide, bright, completely open—like you had never needed to guard yourself, like the world had never given you a reason to. Tara couldn't stand it.
It wasn't just the way they looked, soft and untroubled, but the way they felt. The way they held a kind of quiet innocence, an unshaken belief in the goodness of things. Like you had never learned to expect the worst from people. Like you had never been hurt badly enough to make you wary.
She didn't know what to do with that.
Because when you smiled—really smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made your whole face light up—it made her feel off balance. And when she caught you staring out a window in class, lost in your own world, your expression so effortlessly peaceful, it made her angry.
It wasn't fair.
How could someone exist like that? How could you walk through life so untouched, so light, when she had spent years learning how to carry weight that never seemed to leave her shoulders?
Tara felt rough in comparison. Sharper edges, colder glances, a world of difference between the way she saw things and the way you did. And it made her hate looking at you for too long, because the longer she did, the more she felt like she wasn't supposed to be near you at all.
Like whatever you were made of—whatever softness, whatever lightness—it wasn't meant for her.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because the more she fixated on you, the more she realized it had nothing to do with you at all. It was her. The way she bristled at your kindness, the way she flinched at the warmth in your eyes, the way she resented how easy the world seemed for you. It wasn't because you were perfect—it was because she wasn't.
Because she had never been.
She had spent so long being haunted by things she couldn't change, by bloodstains she couldn't scrub away, by ghosts that never let her breathe. And then there you were, unburdened, living in a way she no longer knew how to.
You existed in a world that had never touched you the way it had touched her, never carved out pieces of you and left you scrambling to fill the gaps. And she hated that she could see it so clearly.
She didn't want to compare. She didn't want to feel like this. But she couldn't help it.
It made her stomach twist. Not because she hated you. But because she hated that she cared.
Because every time she looked at you, it wasn't just you she saw. It was herself. The jagged edges, the shadows under her eyes, the way she had learned to live with the weight of everything she had been through.
And the worst part? She wasn't sure if she envied you or resented you for it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe she just hated that, for the first time in a long time, she was forced to acknowledge just how much she wasn't doing well at all.
And it wasn't something she could ignore.
Not when it followed her everywhere—this awful, gnawing awareness of you. She'd already come to terms with the fact that it wasn't just you that got under her skin. It was what you represented, what you made her see in herself, all the things she tried not to think about. But knowing that didn't help. If anything, it made it worse.
Because even when you weren't there, you were.
Like the scent of your perfume that lingered long after you'd walked away, like the faint trace of your voice in the back of her mind, like the ghost of something she didn't ask to be haunted by.
She could be sitting in class, half-listening to a lecture, and suddenly, she'd remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved.
She could be walking home, exhausted, barely thinking at all, and she'd catch a whiff of someone else's shampoo—not even yours—and somehow, you'd still come to mind.
It made her stomach twist. It made her furious.
Why couldn't she shake you? Why did her brain insist on keeping you there, tucked away in places she couldn't reach to rip you out? She had more important things to think about—more RRAL things, things that actually mattered.
And yet, you lingered.
She wasn't watching you. She wasn't.
And yet, you lingered.
No matter how much she tried to push you from her mind, you were always there. In the corner of her vision, in the spaces between her thoughts, in the background of her day like a song stuck on a loop. It wasn't intentional. She wasn't looking for you. But somehow, she always knew where you were.
It was stupid. Unfair. Irritating.
She told herself it was just awareness. Just familiarity. You were everywhere—laughing with your friends, answering questions in class, moving through the world like you belonged to it in a way she never quite had. It made sense that she would notice you. Anyone would.
But not like this.
Not enough for her gaze to land on you before she even realized what she was doing. Not enough for her to recognize your laugh from across a crowded hallway or pick up on the little shifts in your expression when you thought no one was looking. Not enough for her to feel the weight of you in her mind, refusing to leave.
She wasn't stalking you. She wasn't obsessed.
She was just aware of you. Too aware.
It wasn't the same thing.
Because Tara tried to ignore it. She really did. Tried to ignore you.
Because it wasn't a big deal. She wasn't obsessed.
She wasn't even paying attention. She just happened to notice when your name came up, that was all.
It wasn't like she was waiting for it or anything. But the second Mindy made an offhand comment about running into you earlier—something stupid, something that shouldn't have mattered—Tara felt herself tense.
Tara had rolled her eyes—acted like it was weird that Mindy even remembered it.
She didn't even think before responding, throwing in something to cut you down, something small enough to pass as harmless but sharp enough to stick. Maybe you were only nice because you wanted something. Maybe you were trying too hard. Maybe you weren't actually that great, and people just didn't see it yet. It wasn't like she was lying. She was just balancing things out, making sure no one got too carried away.
But it wasn't just Mindy. It was Chad, too. It was Anika. It was Ethan. It was anyone who spoke about you in a way that made it seem like you were drawing them in. Like they were starting to see you the way everyone else did. Like they were falling for it. And Tara couldn't stand that.
Because how was she supposed to ignore you when no one else did? When every conversation, every passing comment, every stupid mention of your name pulled her attention right back to you? It was exhausting. You were everywhere, even when you weren't. She could try to pretend you didn't exist, but the world wouldn't let her. It was like the universe was making sure she never forgot about you.
They were her friends. She'd been through hell with them. She had nearly died with them. And yet, somehow, you were slipping into their world like you belonged there. Like you could just show up and be part of something that wasn't yours. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. And maybe it didn't make sense, but that didn't change the fact that every time she heard your name, she felt like she had to do something about it.
And maybe that was the worst part—because no matter how much she told herself it didn't matter, no matter how much she tried to act like she didn't care, she knew she was lying. It had already taken over her life.
Everywhere she went, you were there. Not in a way that was intentional—at least, she hoped it wasn't—but in a way that made it impossible to ignore. In the halls, in the cafeteria, in the classroom when she was supposed to be paying attention to something else. She could tell herself she wasn't looking for you, but somehow, she always knew exactly where you were.
And it was ridiculous. Tara felt ridiculous. Out of everything she had been through, THIS was what got to her?
She had survived Ghostface attacks, lost people she cared about, fought to keep herself together through things that actually mattered. And yet, here she was, completely unraveling over something as stupid as this.
Over you.
It wasn't even real torture. Not like the kind she knew. No one was chasing her with a knife. No one was trying to kill her. But in some ways, this was almost worse. At least with Ghostface, she knew what she was up against—knew how to fight back. But this? There was no strategy, no way to escape something that wasn't even real.
She had seen Ghostface before. In shadows, in reflections, in the dark corners of her mind where her worst memories lived.
But Ghostface wasn't everywhere. You were. She didn't see them in the cafeteria, in the halls, in the stupid little moments of her day that were supposed to be normal. Ghostface wasn't sitting at the next table, laughing with friends, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear without a second thought.
But you were. And somehow, that made it worse.
And maybe that was why she let it linger. Why she couldn't stop herself from noticing you, from letting you take up space in her mind. Because compared to everything else, this was the safest kind of suffering she had ever known.
And it wasn't fair.
Because she wanted to roll her eyes, to look away, to force herself not to care. But then you showed up, hair tied back, a ribbon perfectly in place, and there it was again—that stupid, twisting feeling in her stomach that made her feel sick.
You were everywhere—woven into conversations, slipping into places she wasn't expecting. If it wasn't someone mentioning something you said in class, it was a passing comment about how put-together you always seemed. Nothing dramatic, nothing over the top—just little things. Things that shouldn't have mattered.
But they did.
Tara ignored it for as long as she could, convincing herself it was nothing. That you were nothing.
And then, that one morning, when she saw you—hair pulled back, the ribbon keeping it in place, and suddenly, it was like something in her snapped.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't just that you looked nice. It was that it suited you. That it was effortless, like everything else you did. You didn't have to think about these things the way she did, didn't have to overanalyze every little detail about yourself. You just existed, and somehow, that was enough. Enough for people to notice, enough for them to admire you, enough for her to—
No.
Tara had clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away, but it didn't help. Because even when she wasn't looking, she still heard your voice. Still caught the way people spoke about you.
She had been through real things. Painful things. Things that should've left her numb to something as trivial as this. And yet, here she was—annoyed, unsettled, tangled up in thoughts about you like it was something that actually mattered.
It made her want to say something. To remind everyone that you weren't all that, that you weren't perfect, that you had to have some kind of flaw they weren't seeing.
But every time she tried, the words never came out right.
And she couldn't figure out why that bothered her so much.
She didn't want anything from you.
That was what she told herself, over and over, trying to make it true.
But it wasn't.
It was a cruel, twisted lie—one that sat in the pit of her stomach, coiling tight whenever she saw you, whenever she heard your name, whenever she caught herself paying too much attention.
Maybe it was the way people gravitated toward you. The way they leaned in when you spoke, the way their laughter felt lighter, easier, when you were around.
Maybe it was the effortless way you existed, never seeming to second-guess yourself, never needing to prove anything to anyone. Maybe it was the fact that, somehow, without even trying, you had become the person people noticed. The one they admired.
Or maybe—maybe it was worse than that.
Because deep down, she knew it wasn't just about what you had.
Maybe she wanted you.
The thought made her feel sick.
No. No, that wasn't true. It couldn't be true.
Tara clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms, forcing herself to breathe through the tightness in her chest. She wouldn't let that be true.
She refused to.
And she tried. She tried so hard. She swears she does. She lists every reason why you shouldn't get under her skin.
You're just a person.
Just some girl.
You're not special.
You're not different.
But it doesn't work.
Because every time she tells herself you're nothing, something proves her wrong.
She remembers once, in class, when her pen slipped from her fingers and rolled off her desk. Before she could even react, you passed by, stooping down to grab it without hesitation. You barely looked at her, barely acknowledged it, just handed it back like it was nothing.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for some reason, that stuck with her.
She had stared at the pen in her hand for too long afterward, gripping it too tightly, something unfamiliar twisting in her stomach. Because it was proof, wasn't it? Proof that you weren't some perfect, untouchable figure. You were just... nice. Not because people were watching, not because you wanted something in return, but because that's just who you were.
And that made her furious.
Because it meant she had no reason to hate you. No excuse to dismiss you. No justification for the way you consumed her thoughts.
So she convinced herself of something else instead.
You did it because you wanted people to like you. That was it. That had to be it. You wanted to be seen as the good one, the kind one, the one no one could ever say a bad word about. That was your game. That was your angle.
Tara had clenched her jaw, forcing the memory away, pushing down the irritation bubbling up in her chest.
She hated it. Hated how irrational it was, how impossible it was to shut off.
She was angry—at you, at herself, at the fact that no matter what she did, she kept coming back to you.
So she tried to blame you. To twist everything in her head until it wasn't her fault.
That was easier. That was safer.
Because if she could convince herself that you were calculated, that your kindness was just another way to make people adore you, then none of this was real. None of it meant anything.
But then there were moments she couldn't twist, moments she couldn't justify no matter how hard she tried.
She remembered it too clearly—the way you had walked up to her locker, casual as ever, barely a second thought in your step. You weren't hesitant. You weren't nervous. Like talking to her was the most natural thing in the world.
She heard your voice before she even turned around.
"Hey, Tara."
She almost ignored you, almost pretended she hadn't heard, but then you were already beside her, standing just close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge you.
You had smiled at her. Not a big, beaming one, not something fake or forced, just an easy, natural expression, like talking to her was as simple as breathing.
"I missed a few things in history today. Could I check your notes?"
Your tone was light, normal, like you had no idea what you were doing to her. Like this was just another conversation, nothing worth reading into.
And that should've been true.
But she didn't think before she spoke.
"Maybe you should've paid attention."
The words came out colder than she intended, sharp and clipped, designed to sting.
She saw it happen in real time—the way your lips parted slightly, like you weren't sure you heard her right, the way your brows furrowed just a little before you caught yourself.
For a second, you hesitated.
Then you nodded. "Oh. Right. I—yeah, never mind."
It wasn't dramatic. You didn't snap back, didn't get angry, didn't even try to argue. You just stepped back, confusion flickering across your face before you covered it up with something more neutral.
"Forget I asked."
And then you turned and walked away.
Tara watched you go, jaw tight, fingers curling around the strap of her bag like that would somehow ground her.
She should've felt victorious.
She should've felt relieved that, for once, you weren't perfect, that she had managed to knock you down just a little.
And for a split second, she almost did.
But later that night, when she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory kept replaying in her head. The way you had looked at her—not angry, not annoyed, just... confused.
Hurt.
She swallowed hard, shifting under her blankets, trying to force herself to sleep.
It shouldn't matter.
It didn't matter.
But then why did she feel so awful?
She tried to remind herself that you weren't even real—not in the way other people were.
People made mistakes.
They stumbled, they faltered, they showed cracks.
But you? You didn't. Not once.
And it was driving her insane.
She noticed it during the class presentations. It wasn't a big deal—not at first. Everyone messed up in some way. Even she did, tripping over a few words, losing her train of thought for half a second before catching herself. It was nothing. The teacher didn't care. No one in the class cared. She didn't even care when she sat back down.
But then you went up there.
And you were perfect.
No notecards, no nervous pauses, no hesitations. Just confidence, effortless and unshaken, like you hadn't even considered the possibility of messing up.
Tara sat in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching—waiting.
You had to mess up. You had to.
But you didn't.
You stood there, talking about the effects of climate change on marine life, explaining things so smoothly that even the people who hadn't been paying attention to the class all week were listening. You weren't just speaking—you were engaging. Like this was easy for you, like it wasn't something that needed to be practiced or worried over.
Like it came naturally.
Tara's fingers dug into her arm, her jaw clenching tighter with every second that passed.
She had spoken about the history of space exploration. She had done her research, put effort into making it good. And she had been fine—just fine. Not perfect, not effortless, not... whatever you were.
People weren't perfect. They slipped up, they stammered, they fumbled for words. They made mistakes.
So why didn't you?
Why did you always have to be so... untouchable?
She wanted to believe it was fake. That you just hid things better than others, that you practiced more than you let on. But there was nothing forced about the way you carried yourself, nothing fake about the way people listened to you without being asked to.
It wasn't fair.
Maybe she was waiting for you to fail. Maybe she needed you to slip up, to show that you weren't above everyone else, that you were just as flawed as the rest of them. Because if you weren't perfect, then maybe—just maybe—she could stop feeling like this.
But you didn't.
And that just made her hate you more.
But hate didn't feel like enough. Not when you had to be doing this on purpose.
You always seemed to show up at the worst times, right when she had finally convinced herself that she was over it. Right when she had let herself breathe. And then, like clockwork, you appeared—effortless, untouchable, ruining everything without even trying.
It was worse on days when she was already on edge, when she thought she had finally shaken this—whatever THIS was—only for you to walk in like you owned the world, like the universe had conspired against her just to put you in her path. It felt cruel, like a joke she wasn't in on, and it made her want to scream.
Tara told herself you knew exactly what you were doing. That you could see the way she bristled when you walked into a room, how her voice sharpened whenever she spoke to you. That you enjoyed it—the way she got worked up over you, the way you managed to worm your way into her head every single time.
You didn't even have to try, and yet you ruined everything.
It had to be intentional. Because if it wasn't, then what did that say about her?
If you weren't doing this on purpose, then it meant none of it mattered to you. Not her resentment, not her irritation, not the way she spent so much of her time thinking about you. It meant you weren't playing a game with her. You weren't even aware there was a game to play.
Tara tried to ignore the truth staring her in the face. She tried to hold onto the idea that you were calculating, that you knew exactly how perfect you were, how impossible you made things for her. But no matter how much she wanted to believe it, the lie never stuck.
Because you never hesitated when you spoke to her. You never held back a smirk, never threw a knowing glance, never showed any sign that you even noticed how she felt.
You weren't out to get her.
You weren't thinking about her at all.
And somehow, that was so much worse.
Nothing was simple anymore. Nothing was simple when it came to you. Not even the things that used to feel like hers.
She could be out with her friends, forcing herself to have fun, trying to lose herself in the conversation, in the noise—until someone says your name. Until someone mentions how nice you are, or asks if she thinks you're pretty. And just like that, the night is ruined.
Because it's always like this. No matter where she was, no matter what she's doing, you found a way to be there. She could be in class, staring blankly at the board, only to realize she's twirling her pen between her fingers—the way you do. She stops immediately, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turn white.
Or maybe she's shopping, minding her own business, when she would see a shirt on display and know you would wear it. It's your style exactly. The kind of thing you'd throw on without a second thought and somehow still manage to look perfect in. Her first instinct is to scoff—of course you would. You would love it.
But then, a split second later, an image flashes in her mind: you actually wearing it. And she hates how easily she can picture it, how good you'd probably look, how—no.
She shoves the thought away, as if she can physically push it out of her head, but it's too late. The damage is already done.
Even her own actions aren't safe from you. Sometimes she finds herself fixing her hair in the mirror, smoothing it down, tucking it behind her ear—before catching herself and realizing that you do that, too.
Or worse, she'll be doing something completely normal—pouring a drink, typing on her laptop, flipping through a book—and suddenly, she'll wonder how you would do it. Would you hold your cup the same way? Would you skim through pages faster? Would you—ugh.
It's infuriating. She feels like you've infected her, like your presence has seeped into every corner of her life, poisoning even the smallest, most meaningless moments
And she hates that.
She hates that you don't even have to try. That you exist, and that's enough to ruin everything.
She can't escape you.
And nothing is hers anymore.
She hated you.
Hated your voice, the way it carried through a room, light and effortless like you didn't even realize people hung onto every word you said. Hated your stupid little habits—how you always tapped your fingers against the edge of your desk when you were thinking, how you twisted the strap of your bag around your hand while you walked, how you laughed at things that weren’t even that funny but somehow made everyone else laugh, too.
She hated how people talked about you, like you hung the fucking stars, like you were this perfect, untouchable thing. And most of all, she hated that no one else saw it. No one else felt this like she did.
She avoided you. Walked the long way to class, skipped out on group projects, refused to meet your eyes when you talked. She kept her distance, convinced that if she didn't see you, didn't hear you, maybe—just maybe—this would stop.
It didn't.
Because the space you left behind wasn't empty. It was filled with you. With her own thoughts, her own frustration, her own pathetic, pitiful obsession.
And then it happened.
It was something small. Stupid. You bumped into her in the hallway—nothing dramatic, just the kind of passing accident that happened a hundred times a day. You barely reacted, just glanced up, gave a polite sorry, and kept walking.
But Tara burned with it.
The casualness of it. The audacity of it. Like you didn't even think about it. Like it was nothing to you.
Before she even realized what she was doing, she was scrubbing at the spot where your shoulder brushed against hers, like your presence was something she could wipe off.
It was irrational. She knew that. But she couldn’t stop.
Because this—this was proof.
She didn't just resent you. Didn't just dislike you.
She loathed you.
And she loathed herself even more.
Because the thing was.
Tara had always been like this.
Always wanted what she couldn't have.
She had jealousy in her bones.
She'd known it since she was a kid. She had been jealous of Sam, jealous of Mindy, jealous of Amber. She had envied people for things she couldn't name, couldn't help—the way they fit so easily into spaces that never seemed made for her, the way things always worked out for them, the way they had things she didn't, even if she wasn't sure what those things were.
Her parents used to comment on it, her jealousy. Not in a cruel way, just in that casual, offhanded way adults said things they didn't realize would stick.
You've always had jealous eyes, Tara.
She remembered her mom saying it once, maybe twice.
She remembered her dad laughing when she got upset over something small and saying, Tara, not everything is a competition.
She hadn't thought much of it back then. She had just assumed everyone was like this. That it was normal, natural, a part of being human.
But then there was you.
And now—now she understood.
Because this was different. This wasn't the kind of jealousy she had known before, the kind that burned quick and hot and then faded into something else. This wasn't petty, wasn't simple.
This stayed.
Her eyes always found you. It was like she had no say in the matter, no control over it. She could be sitting in class, staring at the board, not even thinking about you, and then—before she even realized it—her gaze would drift. It didn't matter how much she told herself not to look, didn't matter how much she swore she wouldn't.
She always did.
And every time, it pissed her off more than the last.
Because she was jealous. She knew that now. But of what?
The way people loved you? The way you moved through life so easily, like the universe had carved out a space just for you? Or maybe it was something deeper, something uglier—something that made her stomach twist and her throat burn.
Tara couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that she wasn't strong enough to fight it.
But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, her eyes still followed you.
They always would.
And it wasn't supposed to be like this.
Tara had spent so much time convincing herself that this was simple—that it was just hate, just bitterness, just something sharp and cruel that would fade if she ignored it long enough. She thought if she pushed hard enough, fought hard enough, she could make it go away.
But no amount of distance, no amount of denial, no amount of desperate, clawing frustration could change the truth.
She wasn't just angry.
She wasn't just jealous.
She worshipped you.
Not in a way that was soft, or sweet, or kind. Not in the way people were supposed to love things. No, it was cruel. It was agonizing. It felt like punishment, like some sick, twisted joke the universe was playing on her.
She hated you, and she needed you.
She needed to see you, to know where you were, to hear your voice even when it made her blood boil. She needed to compare herself to you, to pick apart everything you did, to watch you shine and tell herself that one day—one day—she would glow just as brightly.
But she wouldn't.
Because that was the truth, wasn't it? The part she could no longer ignore, no matter how hard she tried.
It wasn't just about you.
It was about her.
Tara Carpenter was the problem.
Her rotten, rotten mind was the problem. The way it twisted things, the way it poisoned everything, the way it clung to you like an obsession she could never shake.
summary: in which you fly across the country to surprise jenna, holding onto the hope that things will go back to the way they were.
word count: 6.0k
author’s note: no one noticed - the marias
You couldn't tell when it had all started.
You didn't even know what it was.
All you knew was that it wasn't like it used to be.
Jenna used to notice everything. It was the way her gaze would linger a little longer than anyone else's, searching your face like it held all the answers.
She'd catch the smallest changes in your mood, the tiniest cracks in the facade you showed the world.
No one else noticed those things—not when you were quieter than usual, not when your smile didn't quite reach your eyes—but Jenna always did. She'd tilt her head, her brow furrowing in that way that meant she was piecing together a puzzle, and ask softly what was wrong.
It wasn't just your emotions she picked up on. It was everything. The way she'd notice when you'd changed your perfume, leaning closer and smiling as if it were her favorite secret.
Or how she'd spot the faintest smudge of eyeliner you'd tried to wipe away, running her thumb gently along your cheek without a word.
You hadn't even realized how much it had meant to you at the time, the way she saw you in ways no one else did. How she made you feel like you were someone worth noticing.
It had been effortless for her, her attention so natural and constant that you never had to ask for it. You'd be talking about something insignificant—some show you'd watched, something you'd read online—and she'd interrupt with a soft laugh, telling you how your eyes lit up when you were excited. She'd make you feel seen in a way that no one ever had, as if every little thing about you was worth treasuring.
Jenna had always been the person who noticed, even when no one else did.
So when that started to change, you wondered if it was all in your head.
At first, it felt small—just a few moments here and there that you could shrug off. Like when you'd been quiet during a phone call, and Jenna didn't pause to ask if something was wrong. Or when she'd missed the faint tremor in your voice, something she'd once been able to pick up on like a second language.
You told yourself it wasn't a big deal, that you were overthinking. But then it started happening more often. Little things piled up until they didn't feel so little anymore.
Still, you didn't want to blame her. Instead, you turned it on yourself, convincing yourself that you were imagining it. That you were making something out of nothing.
Maybe you'd just grown too used to her attention, you thought. Too dependent on the way she always noticed things no one else did. You felt almost ashamed for needing that kind of validation, for craving it the way you did.
There were nights when you couldn't sleep, lying awake and wondering if you'd lost your mind. You told yourself that she hadn't changed, that you were the problem—that you'd become hypersensitive, searching for cracks that weren't really there.
And since no one else seemed to notice it, you couldn't help but feel like you were wrong. Like you'd made it all up.
Jenna still said the right things sometimes. She still asked how you were, still smiled at you like you were her whole world when you were 'together'. But it didn't feel the same. There was a distance now, subtle but unmistakable, like a thin layer of glass separating you.
You told yourself that if no one else could see it, then it couldn't possibly be real. But deep down, you knew.
You knew, even if you couldn't admit it to yourself yet.
You'd told yourself over and over that things would get better.
Every time Jenna's name flashed across your screen, every time you saw her face smiling at you through a grainy video call, you felt that flicker of hope. She'd always say the right things—how much she missed you, how she couldn't wait to see you again. For a moment, you'd believe her.
But then the call would end, and you'd be left staring at your reflection on the dark screen, feeling emptier than before.
It was getting old, this routine of clinging to a connection that didn't feel real anymore. The virtual version of Jenna wasn't enough—it never was. You didn't want to see her through a screen; you wanted her here, next to you, holding you, laughing with you, noticing you.
But instead, you sat alone in the silence of your room, waiting for a text that might not come.
There were moments when you hated yourself for feeling this way. For needing her so much. You tried to rationalize it, telling yourself she was busy, that her work demanded more of her time now. You knew she wasn't doing it on purpose—but that didn't make the loneliness any easier to bear.
You'd catch yourself staring at your phone, half-hoping she'd call, half-hoping she wouldn't, because you didn't know if you could stand hearing her voice and still feeling so far away.
The distance wasn't just physical anymore. It was in every text that felt shorter than it used to, in the FaceTime calls where her eyes darted off-screen as if she had somewhere else to be. You'd thought, more than once, about asking her why she always looked like she was about to disappear. But you never did.
You'd told yourself it was because of work.
She loved what she did, and you loved that for her. How could you not? She'd always dreamed of it, always thrown herself into it with a passion that had drawn you to her in the first place. So, of course, she was busy. Of course, there were long days, packed schedules, and late nights. You'd whispered those words to yourself so often they became a mantra.
She's not ignoring you. She's just busy.
You told yourself that was the reason for the less frequent texts, the shorter calls, the way her replies came hours later now—sometimes not at all. It was work. It had to be. And you couldn't blame her for it. You wouldn’t blame her for it.
But that didn't make it any easier to bear.
It was getting old—lying awake in bed, phone clutched in your hand, fighting the pull of sleep just in case she'd call. Some nights, you didn't even know what you were waiting for. The sound of her voice? The comfort of knowing she was thinking of you? It never felt like enough.
And yet you kept waiting, night after night, feeling the ache of loneliness settle deeper into your chest.
You used to think you were strong, that you could handle the distance because it wasn't permanent, not really. But now, you weren't so sure. You felt yourself slipping, losing the ability to pretend everything was fine.
Maybe you'd lost it.
Maybe you were losing it—overanalyzing, clinging too tightly, wanting too much.
It wasn't like you could explain it to anyone else either. Nobody else saw what you did. Nobody else noticed how the little things were falling apart. So maybe you'd imagined it all.
And yet, lying there alone, staring at the darkened screen of your phone, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that it wasn't just work.
It was something else.
You felt awful for even thinking it. The thought alone was enough to make your stomach churn and your chest tighten with guilt. But sometimes, late at night when the silence felt too heavy, the whispers in your mind grew too loud to ignore.
What if Jenna had found someone else?
She'd been gone for months now, busy with filming, constantly surrounded by new faces, sharing spaces and moments with people you didn't know and couldn't see. You knew it wasn't fair to think that way. She was away for work, doing what she loved. But still, the idea crept in like a shadow you couldn't chase away.
What if she'd found someone who could give her the things you couldn't? Someone who could be there for her in ways you weren't able to, offering physical comfort while you were hundreds of miles away?
You hated yourself for even entertaining the thought. It felt like a betrayal of her trust, an insult to everything you shared. Jenna wasn't like that. She wouldn't do that. But still, the ache of doubt lingered.
So instead, you turned the blame inward.
Maybe you were the problem.
Maybe this was all in your head, some twisted fabrication of a restless mind desperate for attention and reassurance. Maybe you were losing it—grasping at straws and creating problems where there weren't any. Or worse, maybe Jenna really was pulling away because of you.
Maybe you were too clingy, too needy, too pushy. Maybe she'd grown tired of the late-night calls, of your questions about her day, of you trying to hold onto something that felt like it was slipping through your fingers.
You'd lie awake in bed, turning those thoughts over and over until your chest felt tight and your eyes burned with tears you refused to let fall.
But you couldn't let yourself think that way. You couldn't let yourself spiral.
So you shoved it all down—every fear, every doubt, every whispered insecurity. You buried it beneath forced smiles and reassuring words, convincing yourself that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. You'd wait for her call, for her text, for any sign that things were still okay.
You had to believe it was just work.
Because the alternative would break you.
It made sense to keep it to yourself too. You avoided bringing it up—not to family, not to friends, and certainly not to Jenna. What would be the point? You'd perfected the art of acting like everything was fine, pasting on a smile that didn't falter even when your chest felt tight and your head felt heavy with unspoken worries.
Around others, you acted normal. You laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when the conversation called for it, and deflected any questions that veered too close to how you were really feeling. Because, in the end, nobody could read your eyes.
Nobody even tried.
Nobody but Jenna.
At least, that's how it used to be. Once, she'd been the only one who could see through the cracks in your facade. She could look at you and know instantly when something was wrong, even when no one else had a clue. She wouldn't even have to ask; she just knew. It was something you'd always loved about her—that quiet attentiveness, the way she cared so deeply and effortlessly.
But now, it didn't feel that way anymore.
There was no point in letting the cracks show, no point in spilling everything when it felt like she wouldn't notice, or worse, that she didn't want to. So you kept it buried, tucked away behind your smiles and your carefully constructed responses.
You wished it weren't true. You wished you could believe she still saw you the way she once did. That she still noticed the things no one else did. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, that belief became harder and harder to hold onto.
And you hated yourself for it. For doubting her. For doubting what you had. For doubting the one person who had once been your constant.
It wasn't like you had proof. Nothing you were feeling, none of the doubts gnawing at the back of your mind, were confirmed to be true. That's what made it worse—the uncertainty of it all. You were acting like everything was fine, smiling through conversations and going about your days like you weren't slowly unraveling inside, but the truth was, you didn't even know what you were holding back anymore.
You didn't know if Jenna really was pulling away, or if you were just imagining it. You didn't know if the long silences and the hurried calls were a sign of something deeper, or just a product of her busy schedule. You didn't know if it was you, if maybe you'd been too needy, too much, or if it was something entirely out of your control.
And yet, you were pretending like you were fine. Around family, friends, even Jenna during the few moments you got to speak to her, you tried your best to act normal. Because if you couldn't even be sure of how you felt—if you couldn't even figure out what was real and what wasn't—then how could you explain it to anyone else?
It was easier to push it down, to keep the doubts and the worries locked up where no one could see them. Easier to smile and nod and go through the motions than to let anyone in on how you were really feeling.
Because deep down, you knew there was no point. Nobody had ever tried to read you, not really. Nobody but Jenna.
And that was what scared you the most. Because if she wasn't noticing now, maybe she never would.
Nothing about this felt right. The distance between you and Jenna was like a heavy fog, clouding every thought, every action, every word. Should you ask her about it? Should you speak up, lay everything bare, and risk hearing what you were most afraid of?
It felt like the logical choice, the brave thing to do, but even the thought of it made your chest tighten. What if she confirmed your worst fears? What if she told you it was over, or worse—that she hadn't even noticed anything was wrong?
But keeping quiet didn't feel right either. Pretending you didn't feel the cracks widening between you, ignoring the ache of unanswered questions, felt like a betrayal to yourself. And yet, every time you tried to muster the courage to bring it up, something held you back.
The words would sit on the tip of your tongue, heavy and unspoken, while you sat in silence. You didn't know what to do, caught in this limbo where every decision felt wrong.
And maybe that was why you kept spiraling—because the loneliness of it all was unbearable. Lying in bed at night, staring at the empty space beside you, the silence felt deafening.
You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that this was normal, but the truth was that loneliness had a way of magnifying everything.
Every little doubt, every unanswered text, every distant call felt like another brick in the wall building between you.
You hated how much you overanalyzed everything, how your mind wouldn't let you rest. Every time your phone vibrated, you'd hold your breath, hoping it was her.
Every time it wasn't, your heart sank a little further. The quiet ate away at you, and the more time passed, the more you felt like you were the only one fighting to bridge the gap.
But forcing her wasn't an option either. It didn't feel right to demand more of her, to pull her into a conversation she didn't seem ready to have.
If you confronted her, if you said everything you'd been holding inside, what would happen? Would she tell you that you were right, that she'd already started to drift away?
Would she admit there was someone else, someone who could give her the kind of presence and attention you couldn't?
You couldn't bring yourself to think about it, let alone ask. If she wasn't yours in the way she used to be, you didn't want to know.
The idea of forcing her to stay, of begging her for something she wasn't willing to give freely, felt wrong in every sense. And yet, the thought of losing her entirely was unbearable.
So instead, you clung to the hope that time would fix it. If you didn't say anything, maybe things would fall back into place on their own. Maybe Jenna just needed space, time to navigate her busy schedule, and she'd eventually find her way back to you.
If you waited, if you were patient enough, maybe she'd realize what she had with you and want to hold onto it again.
But the waiting was agony. The longer you stayed silent, the more it felt like you were watching the clock, counting the minutes until something changed—or until it was too late. Time was supposed to heal things, wasn't it?
So why did it feel like the more time passed, the more everything unraveled?
There were moments when the thought crept in, uninvited and unwelcome: What if Jenna was pulling away because she was leaving? It lingered at the edges of your mind, whispering possibilities you didn't want to believe.
The way her replies had become shorter, her texts less frequent, the way her calls felt rushed, like she couldn't wait to hang up. Was it just the stress of her work, or was she trying to create distance before breaking things off completely?
It felt absurd, cruel even, to think that way about her. But those doubts had a way of twisting everything, making every interaction feel like a confirmation of your worst fears.
Still, you clung to one fragile belief: it couldn't be that easy for her. Jenna wasn't the kind of person to let go without a fight. She wasn't the kind of person to give up on something she cared about.
And wasn't she still calling, even if less often? Wasn't she still texting, even if her words felt half-hearted? Surely, if she wanted to leave, she wouldn't be holding onto these threads of connection.
Surely, she couldn't just walk away from everything you'd built together. It wasn't that simple—was it?
It can't be that easy.
But even as you thought it, the uncertainty lingered. Because sometimes, it was easier to leave quietly, to let things fade without confrontation.
And what if that's what she was doing? What if she was pulling away so subtly that by the time you noticed, it would already be too late?
You didn't know what scared you more—the possibility that Jenna was leaving or the thought that, deep down, she might already be gone.
You didn't know what scared you more—the possibility that Jenna was leaving or the thought that, deep down, she might already be gone. The uncertainty clawed at you, feeding off the spaces between her words, the silences that stretched just a little too long.
Every time you hung up the phone, you'd sit there, staring at the darkened screen, trying to convince yourself that you were imagining things. That there was no way she could leave without a word.
But then she mentioned it. Casually, like it wasn't supposed to mean anything at all.
"We just wrapped the last scenes today. I'll be flying home soon," she said one night, her voice smooth and even. It was the sort of news that should've lit up your entire world, something that should've made you count the days until she walked through the door again.
But as much as you wanted to believe her, there was something in the way she said it that didn't sit right.
Her smile—soft, rehearsed—didn't reach her eyes. Her voice carried the right notes, hitting every expected beat, but none of it felt real. Not the way it used to.
She said she couldn't wait to see you, to hold you, to console you after being apart for so long, but it sounded like a line from one of her scripts—memorized, polished, and distant.
And the way her eyes darted away from the camera only added to the weight in your chest. You watched as her attention flickered to something else, something out of reach—a notification, a script, maybe just the corner of the room she was sitting in. It didn't matter what it was. What mattered was that it wasn't you.
She looked like she was about to disappear, like she couldn't wait to hang up.
The thought clung to you, sharp and unrelenting. You wanted to believe her, to hold onto the version of Jenna who used to make you feel like the center of her universe. But that Jenna was slipping through your fingers, one short call at a time.
Still, you smiled through it. You nodded when she said she'd be home soon, when she promised things would feel better once she was back. You told her you couldn't wait, forcing enthusiasm into your voice even though the words felt heavy on your tongue.
What else could you do? Confront her? Push her to say something she might not even be ready to admit? You didn't know if you were prepared to hear the answer, especially if it confirmed the worst of your fears.
So you kept quiet. You waited, holding onto the hope that maybe this time, when she walked through the door, she'd prove you wrong. That she'd wrap you in her arms and make you feel like everything was okay again.
But that hope, thin as it was, didn't erase the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. It didn't stop you from replaying her words over and over, searching for something that wasn't there.
And deep down, you knew—this time wasn't like every other time.
And deep down, you knew—this time wasn't like every other time. But that didn't stop you from trying to convince yourself otherwise.
If she was coming home, maybe things could go back to how they used to be. Maybe the woman who noticed every small detail, who could read your emotions before you even knew how to name them, was still there. You clung to that possibility, desperate for it to be true. It felt like your last thread of hope, fragile and fraying, but still holding on.
Unable to sit in your spiraling thoughts any longer, you booked a flight to her city. It wasn't a decision you made lightly—flights weren't cheap, and it wasn't like you had money to throw away.
But logic didn't matter anymore. You told yourself it was worth it, that seeing her in person, surprising her as she was about to board her flight home, would make her remember what you had. It was reckless, maybe even unnecessary, but you didn't care.
You told yourself it was about the surprise. Showing up unannounced at the airport, catching her before she stepped on the plane home—it felt romantic in a way that you hadn't felt in months. A grand gesture to prove, not only to Jenna but to yourself, that there was still something worth fighting for.
If she saw you there, waiting for her at the airport before she even boarded her flight home, maybe it would remind her of what you had. Maybe it would remind her of the love that had once felt so natural, so easy.
You weren't packing bags or planning to stay; this wasn't about extending your time together. It was about showing her that you still cared enough to make the effort. That even when everything felt wrong, you were willing to fight for what you had. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to remind her why she had once fought for you, too.
You spent the entire flight running through scenarios in your mind. She'd see you across the terminal, and maybe her face would light up the way it used to when you surprised her.
Or maybe she'd be confused, unsure why you'd gone to such lengths when she'd already promised to come home. And then there was the other possibility, the one you couldn't bear to entertain for long: what if she didn't seem happy to see you at all?
What if her smile didn't reach her eyes, and she asked, gently but firmly, why you'd bothered?
Still, you clung to the hope. It was all you had left.
The plan was simple: show up unannounced, surprise her at the airport, and make her feel the way you used to. You pictured her running into your arms, her words spilling over with apologies for how distant she'd been.
Maybe she'd tell you she'd missed you just as much as you'd missed her. Maybe this would be the moment everything changed, the turning point you'd been waiting for.
But beneath that hope, there was a voice you couldn't silence. It whispered doubts you didn't want to hear: What if she'd already let go? What if this trip wasn't the romantic gesture you'd built it up to be, but just another reminder of how far apart you'd drifted?
You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the idea of seeing her again. That was what mattered. She was coming home, and you were going to make sure that this time, it felt like coming home to you.
When you arrived at the airport, the rush of excitement coursing through you made your hands tremble.
The overhead announcements blended with the distant hum of engines and the chatter of travelers, but all of it felt like background noise. Your focus was sharp, your mind singular: find Jenna.
You moved through the terminal with purpose, your eyes scanning every face in the crowd. Each time someone walked by, your heart jumped, only to settle back when it wasn't her. It was almost overwhelming—the sheer volume of people, the endless possibilities of where she might be.
But you didn't let it deter you. You kept walking, your sneakers squeaking against the polished floors as you weaved between bustling families and travelers clutching their luggage. The excitement hadn't dulled; it thrummed in your chest with every step.
You were just excited to see her face.
There was something surreal about the thought of seeing Jenna in person again. For months, your interactions had been reduced to grainy screens and lagging calls. The details of her face—once so familiar—had started to feel distant, like a memory that wasn't quite sharp anymore. But now, you'd see her clearly. No pixelation, no delays, no guessing whether her tone matched the look in her eyes.
You found yourself craning your neck, peering through the crowd, your pulse quickening with each new face that wasn't hers. Every person walking by seemed to blur together, but you didn't care. The anticipation was too strong, too consuming.
She'd be here soon. You were sure of it. And when you saw her—when she looked at you and realized you'd come all this way just to surprise her—you felt certain everything would fall back into place. You'd wrap her in your arms, and she'd smile that smile that made you feel like the only person in the world. Everything would go back to normal.
Your excitement only grew as you kept moving, your gaze darting across the terminal. The weight of the past few months seemed lighter here, replaced by the spark of hope that seeing her again brought.
You were so ready to leave behind the grainy screens, the clipped conversations, and the gnawing loneliness. Soon, you'd have her here—right in front of you.
Every brunette you spotted sent a rush of anticipation through you, only for it to fade as you realized it wasn't her. But the thought of seeing her in person kept you moving, your steps light despite the weight of everything you'd been carrying inside.
Then, you saw her.
For a split second, you felt like the air had been knocked from your lungs. She was just ahead, standing near one of the boarding gates, her familiar figure unmistakable even from this distance. Your heart swelled with relief and excitement, your hand twitching at your side as if it already itched to reach out to her. She was right there, and everything you'd been holding onto—the doubts, the fears—seemed to melt away.
But the joy that had begun to bloom in your chest withered almost instantly.
She wasn't alone.
There was someone standing next to her—a blonde, their features partially obscured by the way they were leaning close to Jenna. The scene in front of you felt like a punch to the stomach, your body freezing as the sight registered.
It wasn't just the proximity of their bodies; it was the way they seemed so at ease with one another. Jenna's laughter rang out, soft and warm, a sound you hadn't heard in weeks.
You took a shaky step closer, trying to convince yourself that there was some reasonable explanation. Maybe it was a colleague, a friend—someone who worked with her.
It had to be.
But the way Jenna tilted her head toward the person, her gaze soft and unguarded, made it impossible to ignore the intimacy between them.
Your breath caught when she reached out, her fingers brushing a strand of blonde hair away from the other person's face. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, and it felt like someone had grabbed your chest and squeezed. You couldn't tear your eyes away, even as your stomach churned with a sickening mix of disbelief and hurt.
She hadn't looked at you like that in months. Maybe longer.
The thought hit you before you could stop it, an unwelcome truth that only deepened the ache spreading through your chest. You tried to rationalize it—tried to tell yourself that you were overthinking, that you didn't know the full story—but the way they leaned toward each other, the way Jenna's lips curled into a smile that felt entirely too genuine, shattered every excuse you could muster.
You stood there, rooted to the spot, the bustling crowd around you fading into the background. Your fingers clenched at your sides, the hope you'd clung to so tightly now slipping through your grasp like sand.
The excitement that had carried you here dissolved, leaving behind a hollow ache that spread through your entire body.
You didn't know who the blonde was, couldn't make out their features fully, but it didn't matter.
All you could see was the way Jenna looked at them—the way she leaned in to whisper something, her expression so open and free. It was a look that once belonged to you, and now, it felt like a memory you could barely hold onto.
Your mind raced, your emotions a whirlwind of confusion, anger, and heartbreak. Part of you wanted to march up to her, to demand answers, to ask her why she hadn't looked at you like that in so long. But another part of you—the quieter, more vulnerable part—knew you wouldn't.
Because what if the answer was exactly what you feared?
So, you stayed where you were, your chest tightening with every second that passed. The Jenna you'd come here to surprise, the one you'd hoped to reconnect with, felt farther away than ever—even though she was standing just a few feet in front of you.
You had wanted so badly to see her face, to feel like everything could be okay again. But now, as the scene played out before you, all you could think about was how foolish you'd been to hope.
You couldn't look away, no matter how much it hurt. It was like watching a glass shatter in slow motion—every crack and splinter dragging out the inevitable.
Jenna didn't even glance around the terminal, didn't seem to notice anyone but the blonde in front of her. Her focus was entirely on them, like the rest of the world didn't exist.
You tried to remind yourself that she couldn't have been looking for you—there was no reason for her to. She didn't know you were here, waiting, desperate to surprise her. Still, it didn't dull the sting. It didn't stop the ache in your chest as you watched her laugh, completely unaware of your presence. She looked so... comfortable. So at ease. She didn't even flinch when someone brushed past her shoulder, her attention glued to the person in front of her.
You felt rooted to the spot, your legs heavy and unwilling to move. All you could do was watch it unfold—the way her smile seemed unguarded, the way her body tilted slightly toward theirs as though pulled by an invisible string. It didn't matter that you couldn't hear what they were saying; their body language spoke louder than words ever could.
You wanted to believe that you were overreacting, that there was some innocent explanation for what you were seeing. But the longer you stood there, the harder it became to convince yourself. Jenna didn't look like someone who was holding back. She didn't look like someone who was keeping anyone at arm's length.
And it hit you—how easy it all seemed for her.
Maybe leaving you really had been that easy for her.
The thought clawed at your insides, tearing through the fragile hope you'd carried with you. You'd thought it wouldn't be simple for her to drift away, that the bond you shared was too strong to break so easily. You'd convinced yourself that, deep down, she'd be struggling as much as you were, that her distance was temporary, that she still cared.
But now? Watching her like this, so at ease, so unbothered, you couldn't help but feel foolish. Maybe it really hadn't been hard for her to let go. Maybe she'd been letting go for a long time—so slowly, so quietly, that you hadn't even noticed until it was too late.
Your chest tightened as the realization sunk in. You'd spent weeks, months, holding on to the hope that she would come back to you, that the distance between you wasn't as wide as it felt. And yet, here she was, looking happier and more present than you'd seen her in months—just not with you.
You blinked rapidly, your throat burning as you fought the urge to cry. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Seeing her again, being here, was supposed to remind you why you'd fought so hard to hold on. Instead, it was like a door being slammed shut in your face, a reminder of just how far apart you'd grown.
The irony wasn't lost on you: she was finally here, right in front of you, but it felt like you'd already lost her a long time ago.
You stood frozen, watching Jenna and the girl, their conversation seeming so effortless, so natural.
Their laughter was soft, shared like a secret, and it pulled them closer. You didn't need to hear what they were saying to know where it was heading.
The way Jenna leaned in just slightly, her head tilting toward the blonde, was enough to make your stomach drop.
You'd waited so long for this moment—for Jenna to come home, for her to hold you again, to console you with promises that everything was going to be okay. But as you watched her now, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Not here. Not now. Not with you.
Your chest felt heavy, a knot tightening in your throat as you took a shaky step back, then another.
The world around you blurred, but it wasn't until you felt the wet streak on your cheek that you realized you were crying. The tears came slow and small, a quiet betrayal of everything you'd tried so hard to hold in.
You couldn't watch anymore. You couldn't stay there, hoping for something that had already slipped through your fingers. Without a second thought, you turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd with no real direction, just an aching need to get away.
You left before Jenna could see you, before she could ever know you were there.
And as you disappeared into the throng of travelers, you felt the weight of it—the emptiness, the quiet finality of leaving without a trace.
do you have any jenna/jenna characters fics recs?? or authors in general
@rollingsins - “all hers” is truly amazing and i’ve reread it multiple times. also has great imagines for other characters.
@bingwriterxo - has many amazing imagines. it’s very unfortunate they quit bc they’re the whole reason i started a tumblr to begin with. but def check theirs out!!
@halfmoonaria - writes remarkable imagines!!
@toournextadventure - has so many good ones; a lorraine fic with multiple parts, a wednesday one AND a tara one.
@ajortga - writes fantastic imagines as well, they’re also so nice.
i actually love this question bc i have a few author’s on this app that i loved reading from (although i don’t rly spend a lot of time on this app other than posting anymore).
you can't just keep leaving us on angst like that.
Look i get that your page is all about angst, but sometimes we should get some healing as well!!! I know writing someone fixing the angst is hard but don't you think its the same thing over and over again, just jenna's character being an ass/meanie every time without any fixing 😭 . It just feels kinda repetitive and empty now.
hi! i had a feeling someone would bring this up eventually, and i get it.
but the thing is, i really enjoy writing angsty imagines—it’s what i love, and it’s where i feel most inspired. writing has always been something i do for joy, and for me, that means focusing on the kinds of stories i personally like to tell.
i did notice you mentioned how my imagines feel the same over and over again, and while i get that might be your perspective, i don’t see it that way. i try to explore different dynamics and emotions in each one, even if they’re centered around angst.
that said, i’ll take what you said into consideration. i know not everything i write will be for everyone, and that’s okay. i just want to stay true to what makes me happy as a writer.
thanks for the perspective, and i hope you’ll still find something to enjoy in my work
summary: in which you and vada thought you could handle the distance that came with college—until you couldn’t.
word count: 6.8k
The car idled by the curb, its low, steady hum filling the suffocating silence between you. The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light spilling over the street and casting jagged shadows across the pavement.
Neither of you had moved for what felt like hours, and the stillness was heavy enough to crush you both.
This was it—the moment you'd dreaded for months, hanging over you like a storm cloud ever since the day those college acceptance letters arrived.
When you'd first realized you weren't going to the same school, it felt like the world had shifted beneath your feet, throwing everything off balance.
The excitement of getting in—of finally moving toward your futures—was completely overshadowed by the realization that those futures wouldn't start side by side.
Vada had laughed nervously when you told her, brushing it off like it wasn't a big deal. "We'll figure it out," she'd said, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her. She'd always been good at hiding how she felt, but you knew her too well to miss the flicker of fear behind her eyes.
You hadn't talked about it much that night, both of you too overwhelmed to confront what it meant. But later, curled up together on her bed with her arms wrapped tightly around you, the silence had broken.
You'd cried together, your tears soaking into her hoodie as she whispered soft reassurances, even though neither of you believed them. You'd made promises to each other in the dark—promises that you'd keep calling, keep visiting, keep loving each other no matter how hard it got.
They were promises you wanted so badly to keep, but even then, deep down, you'd both known how fragile they were.
The two of you had always talked about the future like it was something tangible, something you could hold in your hands.
Long nights spent lying on the floor of her room, staring up at the ceiling, planning out every detail like it was inevitable.
You'd talked about what you'd do for a living—Vada always said she'd end up working in film somehow, and you had your own dreams, though they always shifted depending on the day.
You'd joked about buying a car together, getting a dog to keep her happy because she swore no house was complete without one.
Marriage, kids, growing old together—it had all seemed so real when you talked about it, so easy.
But the one thing you hadn't talked about was this: the years it would take to get there, and the distance that stood in the way.
It had never really hit you that before you could have that life, you'd have to make it through moments like this.
The thought alone had made your chest ache every time it crossed your mind, so you'd tried not to dwell on it.
A few days before you were supposed to leave, the two of you had started avoiding the subject entirely. Talking about it made it too real, and you weren't ready for real.
You'd tried to fill your time with distractions instead—late-night movies, long drives to nowhere, anything to pretend things were normal. If you didn't talk about it, maybe you wouldn't have to cry about it.
But now, standing by the car, there was no avoiding it. The weight of it pressed down on your shoulders, tightening your throat as you struggled to find something to say.
Vada stood a few feet away, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie, her posture tense and closed off. She kept glancing at you, then back down at the ground, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement.
Her usual confidence was nowhere to be found, replaced by a hesitation that made your stomach twist. You'd never seen her like this before—unsure of herself, unsure of what to do. And for once, you couldn't blame her.
"Did you triple-check your suitcase?" Vada's voice was quieter than usual, almost like she was afraid to disturb the fragile atmosphere that had settled between you.
"I think I did," you replied, forcing a small smile in an attempt to break the tension. "I mean, if I didn't, I'm sure I'll survive without, like, an extra pair of socks."
The joke fell flat, the lightness you'd hoped for swallowed by the weight of the moment. Vada didn't laugh. She just nodded, her teeth tugging anxiously at her bottom lip.
It was a tell you'd come to recognize over the years, a sign that she was holding something back but couldn't find the courage to say it.
The silence grew, stretching taut like a string ready to snap.
You busied yourself by fidgeting with the strap of your bag, your fingers twisting the worn fabric into knots as you tried to come up with something—anything—that might make this easier.
But the words felt stuck in your throat, thick and clumsy and useless.
"This feels weird," she said suddenly, breaking the silence with a hesitance that made your chest ache. Her voice was quieter now, almost uncertain, like she wasn't sure if she should've said it out loud.
"I know," you admitted softly, your eyes fixed on the pavement instead of her face. The heaviness in your chest pressed down harder, threatening to spill out if you didn't keep your voice steady. "But it's not like we're never going to see each other again."
You forced yourself to look up, trying to meet her gaze even as your stomach twisted with the effort of pretending you weren't falling apart. "We'll FaceTime every day. And text all the time. Nothing's going to change."
The words felt hollow even as you said them, but you needed them to be true. For her, for yourself, for both of you.
Vada's lips twitched into a faint smile at your attempt to reassure her, but it was weak, and it didn't quite reach her eyes. Those dark eyes that always sparkled with mischief, with life, looked dimmer now, weighed down by something neither of you wanted to name. "Yeah," she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing's gonna change."
But it wasn't true, and you both knew it. Things were already changing—had been changing from the moment you'd both accepted that you couldn't stay in the same place forever. Pretending otherwise wouldn't stop the inevitable, and yet, you didn't dare acknowledge it. Not here, not now.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill over. This wasn't the time to cry—not yet. You didn't want to ruin the little time you had left together by falling apart. So you bit your lip, forced another shaky smile, and pretended you didn't notice how Vada's shoulders seemed to cave inward, like she was carrying the weight of the entire world on her back.
"Come here," you said, stepping forward before she could argue. Your voice was soft, but the need to hold her was overwhelming, like it might somehow keep everything from changing.
Before Vada could say a word, you wrapped your arms around her, burying your face in the familiar crook of her neck. Her arms came around you instantly, pulling you in with a desperation that mirrored your own.
Her fingers gripped the back of your shirt, holding on like letting go would make you disappear.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered, her voice breaking in a way that shattered you.
"I don't want to go either," you managed, though your throat felt like it was closing with each word. "But we'll be okay, Vada. We will." You didn't know if you were trying to convince her or yourself.
Her hold on you tightened, her breath warm against your shoulder, before she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were glossy, the tears clinging to her lashes as if she was trying to will them away.
"You promise you'll call me as soon as you get there?" she asked, her voice small but insistent.
"I promise," you said, your hands resting gently on her waist.
"And if I start failing math, you'll tutor me over FaceTime?"
A soft laugh broke through the heaviness of the moment. "You're not going to fail math."
"You don't know that," she argued, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but it didn't quite hide the sadness behind her eyes.
The way she tried to lighten the mood made your heart ache. You reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face, your fingers lingering against her skin. "You're going to do amazing, Vada. I know you are."
She sniffled, leaning into your touch like she needed the reassurance as much as you did. "You'd better come home every chance you get."
"Every single chance," you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for doubt.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you saw her bite back the tears threatening to spill. But when she caught the slight sheen in your eyes, she reached up and swiped a thumb across your cheek before you could do it yourself. "Don't cry. You're going to make me cry, and I don't need my parents seeing that."
Her weak attempt at humor pulled a soft chuckle from you, but the ache in your chest didn't let up. "You promise to call too?" you asked, your voice quieter now. "You're going away too, remember?"
Her hand dropped from your face, brushing over your arm as she nodded. "I promise."
The weight of everything unsaid hung between you, thick and suffocating, as you leaned your forehead against hers. For a moment, there was nothing else—just the two of you, the soft hitch of her breath, and the way her eyes locked on yours like they were trying to memorize every detail.
"I love you," you whispered, your hands cupping her cheeks. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, and the way she closed her eyes for a second, leaning into your touch, made your heart squeeze.
"I love you too," she replied, her voice shaky but sure.
You closed the small distance between you, pressing your lips to hers. The kiss was soft, lingering, filled with all the emotions you couldn't put into words. Her hands came up to rest on yours, holding them in place as if grounding herself in the moment.
When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open, and you could see the sheen of tears she was still trying to hide. You wanted to say more, to tell her everything you felt, but the words wouldn't come. So you just stayed there, your foreheads still touching, letting the silence speak for itself.
The honk of the car horn shattered the quiet between you, pulling you both back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder to see your parents gesturing impatiently from the car, their faces a mixture of understanding and urgency.
Vada's posture stiffened, her arms falling to her sides as she let out a shaky breath. "I guess this is it," she said softly, her voice barely audible.
Your throat felt tight again as you turned back to her. "I guess it is."
Neither of you moved at first. The finality of it hung between you like a barrier neither of you wanted to cross. But then you stepped forward, reaching for her hands. They were trembling slightly as they found yours, and you held onto them like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
"You're going to do amazing," you said, your voice firm despite the lump in your throat.
"So are you," she replied, her words almost a whisper. Her lips curved into a faint smile, but the tears in her eyes betrayed her.
You let go of one of her hands to brush a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. "Don't forget that, okay? You're going to be amazing, Vada."
Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but instead, she just nodded, her grip on your remaining hand tightening.
The car horn sounded again, louder this time, and you knew you couldn't stall any longer. You leaned in quickly, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. It was fleeting but filled with everything you wanted to say—every promise, every hope, every piece of your heart you were leaving with her.
When you pulled back, you cupped her face one last time, letting your hands linger before reluctantly stepping away. "I'll call you as soon as I get there," you said, your voice breaking slightly.
"I'll be waiting," she replied, her tears spilling over despite the brave face she was trying to put on.
With a reluctant sigh, you turned and opened the car door, sliding into the backseat. Your parents exchanged sympathetic looks but didn't say anything as the car started to pull away.
Through the window, you saw Vada standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked smaller somehow, more fragile, like the weight of the moment was too much for her to carry. Her eyes never left yours as the distance between you grew.
You pressed your hand to the glass in a silent goodbye, and after a brief pause, she raised her hand in return. Her figure grew smaller and smaller until all you could see was the faint outline of her silhouette against the fading light.
Even when she was gone from sight, you kept your hand on the window, your chest heavier than ever. You didn't let it drop, not until the first tear slid down your cheek and you had to turn away to wipe it before anyone could see.
___
The first few weeks apart had been just as hard as you expected, but you'd made it work. You clung to the promises you'd made that day at the curb, determined to keep things as close to normal as possible, even from miles away.
Your days fell into a rhythm before you even realized it. Classes kept you busy, and your new friends had a way of filling the quiet moments that might've felt unbearable otherwise. Vada, from what she mentioned during your nightly calls, was finding her own place too. She'd joined a few clubs—something about a film club and, surprisingly, a hiking group.
The calls became a lifeline. Some nights, they stretched on for hours as you traded every detail of your day until exhaustion took over.
You could tell she was trying to keep things light, often sharing funny stories about her classmates or how she got lost on campus again. It was enough to make you laugh and forget, even for a moment, how much you missed her.
She'd even complained once about her classes, mentioning how her professor's assignments were impossible. "I'd fail without you," she'd said one evening, after you patiently explained the steps to her over the phone.
It had been a silly mistake—she was reading the questions wrong—but she refused to admit it. You could practically hear her rolling her eyes, her exasperation softening into a grateful laugh by the end of it.
The weeks passed in a blur of busy days and late-night conversations. Every chance you got, you talked about the future you'd once dreamed up together.
It was still there in your minds—the house, the dog, the tiny details that made it all feel real. Neither of you dared to admit how much harder it seemed now, with your paths so far apart.
On the weekends, you'd try to watch a movie together over a shared screen. The plans rarely worked as smoothly as you'd hoped—buffering internet, lagging voices, or one of you falling asleep halfway through—but you didn't care. You'd laugh about it every time, finding comfort in the fact that you were still trying.
You were doing everything right, just as you'd planned. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
The weeks slipped by faster than you'd expected, and somehow, the distance didn't feel as unbearable as you'd feared. It wasn't ideal, but it was manageable.
You'd fallen into routines that made it easier—daily calls, texts whenever you had a spare moment, and a constant reassurance that this was only temporary.
You told yourself this was how it had to be, that the sacrifices were worth it.
Vada seemed happy. She talked about her classes with more confidence now, even cracking jokes about how her professor probably hated her because she was always five minutes late.
She teased you about how many new friends you'd made, calling you "Miss Popular" every time you mentioned another study session or late-night hangout.
And yet, there was always a moment in those calls when the laughter would fade, and the silence would creep in. It wasn't awkward, just heavy, like the unspoken truth neither of you dared to acknowledge. You ignored it, convincing yourself it didn't matter.
You felt like everything was as perfect as it could be—like you were both doing your best, holding onto each other as tightly as the distance would allow.
That night felt no different.
You'd sent Vada a quick text earlier in the day, asking if she'd have time for your daily call, and she'd replied with a short;
yh, same time as usual
So, when the clock struck nine, you dialed her number like you always did.
The call started like all the others had. Vada answered on the third ring.
"Hi, baby," you greeted softly, your voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind you hoped would make her smile.
There was a moment of shuffling on the other end, the faint sound of fabric brushing against fabric, before she answered. "Hi," she said, quieter than usual. "How are you?"
"I'm good," you replied easily, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Tired, though. I miss you."
"I miss you too," she said, and you heard it in the way her voice softened, how she lingered on the words just a little longer.
"I was thinking about you earlier," you continued, leaning back in your chair as you held the phone closer to your ear. "You know that girl I told you about? The one in my ethics class who's always asking the weirdest questions?" You paused, letting out a small laugh.
"She completely hijacked today's lecture by asking if it's ethical to steal a gluten-free loaf of bread. Like, not just any loaf—specifically gluten-free."
There was a beat of silence before Vada gave a faint, almost reluctant laugh. "That's... creative."
"Right? The professor didn't know what to do with her. The whole class turned into a debate about dietary restrictions and morality," you said, chuckling. "It was so ridiculous I actually thought about texting you in the middle of it."
Her response was quiet, almost absent, just a soft "Hm."
It made you pause, your smile fading slightly. Something felt... off.
"How are you, though?" you asked, your tone shifting to something more careful. "You doing okay?"
For a moment, the line was filled with nothing but the faint sound of her breathing. Then you heard her take a shaky breath, the kind you'd heard before when she was trying to hold something back.
Your heart started to race. "Vada?"
"I, um..." she started, and her voice broke on the words. She stopped just as quickly, exhaling sharply like she was frustrated with herself.
You didn't say anything, giving her space to gather her thoughts, but your mind was already spinning.
Was she okay? Had something happened at school? Was someone being mean to her?
A dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through your head, each one making your chest tighten a little more.
"I just wanted to..." she tried again, her voice trembling slightly.
Still, you said nothing, waiting. You didn't want to rush her, didn't want to make it harder, but it was getting harder to breathe as each second passed.
"I was thinking..." she tried once more, trailing off again.
Your grip on the phone tightened, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. The way she kept stopping and starting—it wasn't like her. And the shaky, uneven way she spoke made it clear that whatever she was about to say wasn't something you were going to want to hear.
But you stayed silent, holding on to the small hope that maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
And then it started.
"I just..." Vada hesitated, her voice already breaking. "I don't know how to say this. I've been thinking about it for a while, and..."
Her words trailed off, and you could hear her take a shaky breath. Your grip on the phone tightened as the silence stretched, your chest knotting with unease.
"I've been trying so hard to picture the future we talked about," she began again, her voice trembling. "You know, the house, the dog, the wedding, all of it. But... I just can't see it anymore."
Her words were rushed and unsteady, tumbling out in a way that made it clear she hadn't planned this. "It's like, we've talked about it so much, right? All these plans we made, and I—I don't even know if that's what I want anymore. What if it's not? What if we've just been telling ourselves that's what we want, but it's not actually what's going to happen?"
Your stomach churned as you listened, her words leaving you more confused than anything. "It's not that I don't love you," she added quickly, almost desperately. "I do. I love you so much, but... I don't know if love is enough. Not with how different things feel right now."
Different? You wanted to ask what she meant, but you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt.
"I mean, look at us," she rambled on, sniffling between her words. "You're doing so well there, making all these friends, figuring things out, and I'm... I don't even know what I'm doing. It's like we're moving in completely different directions, and I keep telling myself it's fine, that we'll meet in the middle, but what if we don't? What if we can't?"
Her voice cracked, and she let out a shaky breath. "I feel like I'm letting you down. Like I'm holding you back from... from something, I don't even know what. And you deserve better than that."
The lump in your throat grew heavier with each word, but you stayed silent, your mind racing. None of this made sense. You weren't moving in different directions. You were both just... adjusting. Weren't you?
"And I know this sounds stupid," she said, her voice quieter now. "But I don't even know if I'm the same person I was when we made all those plans. I don't know if I want the same things anymore, and it's not fair to keep pretending like I do. Like we're both still on the same page.”
Her words were spiraling now, losing focus. "It's just—this is so hard, and I hate how hard it is. I hate feeling like this all the time. Like I'm failing you, or us, or whatever this is supposed to be."
You felt your heart drop as she sniffled again, her breath hitching on the other end.
"I've been thinking..." she said finally, her voice barely audible. "Maybe we'd be better off as friends."
And there it was.
The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You sat frozen, her voice echoing in your mind, even though she'd stopped talking. Better off as friends.
Friends.
She wanted to be friends.
Your chest felt hollow, like the air had been sucked out of you. You clutched the phone tighter, your knuckles white, but your voice still wouldn't come. On the other end, Vada let out another soft, broken sob, and it shattered whatever was left of you.
The moment the words left her mouth, you felt like the floor had fallen out from under you. You sat frozen for a beat, her quiet sniffles filling the silence on the other end of the line. The weight of her words pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.
But then the panic set in, bubbling up and spilling out of you in a frantic rush.
"Vada, no," you started, your voice trembling but insistent. "That's not true. None of what you're saying is true. We can fix this. We can figure it out together, okay? We always do."
She let out a soft, shaky "I—" but you didn't let her finish.
"You're just overwhelmed. That's all it is. Long-distance is hard, but it's not impossible. It's not something we can't handle. You're just—maybe you're overthinking, you know? Maybe you're just tired or stressed or something, but you don't mean this. I know you don't."
Your voice cracked, and you realized tears were already forming in your eyes. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as the words kept spilling out.
"If it's about the distance, we can fix that. I'll come home every single break, every weekend—hell, every free day I get. I'll figure it out. I'll make it work. I'll come to you, okay? It doesn't have to be this hard. It doesn't have to feel like this."
"Wait, just let me—" Vada tried again, but you steamrolled over her, desperate to keep her from saying the one thing you couldn't bear to hear.
"And if that's not enough, I'll transfer," you said, your voice breaking now as tears started to fall. "I'll drop out here and come to your school. I don't care if my parents get mad or if they never forgive me. I'll do it for you—for us. You'd do that for us too, right? You'd do it if it meant we could stay together?"
Her sharp inhale cut through your words, and for a moment, you thought she might agree. But then you heard her sniffle, followed by a soft, broken, "It's not—”
"No, don't say it," you cut her off again, your tone more frantic now. "Don't say it's over. Don't say you can't see a future for us, because I can. I see it every day. I wake up thinking about it. I go to bed dreaming about it. I know it's there, Vada. We just have to hold on a little longer, that's all. We just have to try a little harder."
You were full-on crying now, tears streaming down your face as you pleaded with her. Your voice wavered with every word, but you couldn't stop. You wouldn't stop.
"Tell me what to do. Just tell me what you need, and I'll do it. If you're feeling like this because of something I did, I'll fix it. I swear I'll fix it. Just... don't give up on us, Vada. Please."
Her quiet sobs on the other end of the line twisted something deep in your chest. You could hear her trying to speak, her voice breaking every time she tried to get a word in.
"Y/N, I—"
"No, stop," you begged, your voice cracking as you ran your hand through your hair in frustration. "Don't say it. Don't say this is what you want, because it's not. I know you, Vada. You don't want this. You love me, and I love you, and that has to mean something. That has to be enough."
You took a shaky breath, your chest heaving as you tried to pull yourself together. "Please, Vada. Just... please. Don't do this. We can figure it out. Together. We can fix it. I'll do whatever it takes."
You waited, your heart pounding in your ears as the silence stretched between you. For the first time since she started talking, you let the quiet settle, hoping—praying—that she'd take it all back. That she'd tell you she was wrong, that you were right, and that you could make it work.
But instead, all you heard was her broken sobs on the other end of the line.
Vada's breathing on the other end was uneven, shaky, like she was trying to pull herself together. "I just..." she started, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the static of the line. "I don't know if we can, Y/N."
Her words left a hollow ache in your chest, like the ground had been pulled out from beneath you. Your mind scrambled for something—anything—that could refute what she was saying. Before you could respond, though, there was a faint, muffled voice on her end.
It was brief, barely audible, but it was enough to send your thoughts spiraling. There was someone with her. You didn't know who, and you didn't care. All you could think was that of course this would happen.
Of course, she'd meet someone else. She was beautiful, charismatic, and too good for her own good. How could you ever have thought you could keep her?
Your stomach churned as the realization settled in, bitter and sharp. The question slipped out before you could stop it, a panicked whisper. "Did you meet someone else?"
"What?" Vada's voice shot up in surprise, defensive and almost offended. "No! Why would you even think that?"
"I don't know!" you blurted, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I don't know, okay? I just—I thought maybe... I mean, it would make sense, wouldn't it? You're there, and you're meeting new people all the time. And if you did meet someone else, I wouldn't..." You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "I wouldn't even care. Not really. I'd be fine with it. If that's what this is about, if you met someone, then it's fine. Because that would mean you'd still want me, right? Even if it's not the same. Even if it's just... until you came back."
Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for how desperate you sounded. You hated that you were putting this out there, offering pieces of yourself you weren't sure you could get back.
"Y/N, stop," Vada interrupted, her tone sharp but laced with something softer, like guilt or regret. "It's not like that. There's no one else. I swear, I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't do that to us."
Her voice wavered, and you could hear her swallow thickly on the other end. "This isn't about someone else. It's about us. It's about me. Please don't—don't do this. Don't make this harder than it already is."
But how could you not? How could you not fight for this, for her, for the life you'd both imagined together? You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Just the weight of her confession, heavy and suffocating, hanging in the silence between you.
This was what she wanted. Maybe not what she'd planned, maybe not what either of you had, but it was what she needed. Forcing her to stay, clinging to dreams you thought you both shared but she clearly didn't, would only be selfish.
The realization hit you like a slow, creeping wave, rising higher with every second until it consumed you.
And maybe there was someone else. Maybe she hadn't been lying earlier, but the thought lingered anyway. If there was someone else, it wasn't like she'd tell you.
Who would admit, "I met someone else and that's why I'm breaking up with you," to their sobbing girlfriend over the phone? It wouldn't make sense to expect her to say it outright, not when you were already shattered.
Your throat tightened as the pieces came together, the edges jagged and sharp. You got quiet, the silence stretching between you like a canyon, vast and unbridgeable.
Your palm pressed against your phone, slick with sweat, trembling as your grip faltered. Every instinct screamed at you to argue, to fight for her, but a deeper, quieter voice told you this was the end.
You forced a shaky, fragile smile onto your face, as if she could see it. As if she were sitting across from you, not hundreds of miles away. It was for her. Everything you did was always for her. You couldn't let yourself make this harder than it already was.
"Whatever makes you happy, Vada," you whispered. Your voice wavered, so unsteady it betrayed the effort you were putting into sounding soft, even light. You wanted her to hear you smile through the phone, the way she always teased you about. "I can hear you smiling," she'd say, laughing when you tried to deny it.
But this time, you weren't sure it worked. Your smile was too small, too forced, too broken. You thought you heard her gulp on the other end of the line, a soft sound like she was holding back tears of her own.
"Please don't..." Vada started, her voice cracking. She trailed off, and the silence stretched again before she finally spoke, quieter this time. "I don't want you to hate me."
Your chest tightened painfully as she repeated herself, softer, more desperate. "Please don't hate me."
You couldn't respond. The tears were falling freely now, hot and stinging, blurring your vision. You pressed your lips together tightly, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat.
How could she say that? How could she think you wouldn't hate her? She'd just taken the future you'd built together and shattered it like it was nothing. Of course, you hated her.
But then... how could you? How could you hate her when this was what she needed, what she wanted? If she didn't want you anymore, what choice did you have but to let her go? The hate wasn't real. It was a fleeting thought, something to make the pain feel less unbearable. But you didn't hate her. You couldn't.
The silence stretched again, thick and suffocating, and you could imagine Vada sitting wherever she was, clutching her phone, picturing your face the same way you were picturing hers. She sniffled, the sound shaking slightly through the line. "Please," she said softly, her voice raw and pleading. "Please say something."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just the tears, the ache, and the overwhelming weight of her absence that hadn't even fully settled in yet. But you had to say something. You had to give her something. For her. Always for her.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to try again. The first attempt had crumbled under the weight of your emotions, but you had to do better. For her. Always for her.
You pressed your palm against your knee, grounding yourself as you curved your lips into a sharper smile. This time, you were determined she'd hear it. "It's fine, Vada," you said softly, pushing every ounce of fake cheerfulness you could muster into your tone.
It almost sounded convincing. Almost. The words came out soft and measured, like you'd rehearsed them. For a fleeting second, you thought it had worked. Maybe you could trick her into believing you were okay. Maybe that would make it easier for both of you.
But then Vada sniffled again, the sound ragged and broken through the line. It made your heart ache all over again, even as you resented how much it still cared.
"I was hoping..." Vada hesitated, the words trembling. "I was hoping we could still be friends."
Your chest tightened, the ache deepening, but she didn't stop there. "Can we still be friends?" she repeated, her voice smaller, like she knew she was asking too much.
The question hit you like a slap, blunt and rude in its audacity. Friends? How could she ask that? How could she even think it was possible? Just minutes ago, you'd been begging her to stay, willing to rearrange your entire life for her. And now, she wanted to slot herself into a new, smaller role in your world, as if that would be enough.
Your throat burned as you tried to think of something to say. Anything. But all you could feel was the overwhelming sting of her question, of how casually she was trying to rewrite the rules of what you were to each other.
The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Vada's question echoed in your head, mocking you, tearing through the fragile hope you'd clung to for so long. Friends. Friends. The word felt like it was twisting a knife in your chest, each syllable a reminder of how far you'd fallen from what you used to be.
How could she ask for that? How could she pretend like this wasn't destroying you?
Your hands trembled as you wiped at your face, trying to keep the tears from falling faster. It didn't work. Nothing did. Your entire body felt like it was collapsing inward, suffocated by the weight of everything you had just lost.
"Sure, Vada..." you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and hollow. You didn't even sound like yourself anymore.
You swallowed hard, pushing the words past the tightness in your throat. "Friends." The word was venom on your tongue, and it slipped out like a curse. Spat, almost, as if saying it was enough to kill you.
Vada's breath hitched on the other end of the line. "I really—"
"No." You didn't let her finish. You couldn't. Not after everything she'd just done, after the way she'd torn apart everything you'd ever dreamed of together. "I'll see you some other time, Vada."
The words came out cold, detached, as if you were already shutting the door on her. As if that would make this any easier.
You didn't wait for her response. You couldn't bear to. Your heart pounded in your chest, your thumb hovering over the end call button. This was it. No "I love you," like there was after every call. No "I'll talk to you tomorrow," because you knew there wouldn't be a tomorrow—not the kind you'd always counted on.
Just as your thumb moved to end the call, you heard Vada's voice again, small and desperate, breaking through your resolve.
"We can still call every—"
You ended the call.
Because you wanted to. Because you had to. Because hearing her voice again, hearing her try to piece together a friendship out of the ruins of what you once had, was too much.
The silence after the call was deafening. It settled in your chest, heavy and hollow, pressing against your ribs like it was trying to break you from the inside out. You stared at your phone, the screen still bright, Vada's name burned into your eyes like a cruel reminder. It was over. Just like that.
Your hands trembled as you placed the phone on your desk, your vision blurred by tears that wouldn't stop. Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once. The distant hum of voices outside your dorm window, the faint buzz of the lamp beside you—it all blended into a cacophony that drowned out the ache in your chest.
How could she do this? How could she decide so easily that it wasn't worth fighting for? The future you'd both whispered about late at night, the dreams you'd built together—it was all gone. And for what?
You tried to breathe, to steady yourself, but every inhale felt like a knife twisting deeper. You'd spent so long believing in her, in the two of you. You'd built your world around her, every decision, every hope tied to the thought of her being there. And now, she wasn't.
The thought made you feel sick.
You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself like it would somehow keep the pieces of you together. But it didn't. You were crumbling, your chest aching with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you couldn't fix.
She was gone.
You wanted to hate her. You wanted to scream, to curse her name, to tear apart the memories that still clung to you like ghosts. But you couldn't. You couldn't hate her, not really. Because you loved her. Even now, even after this, you loved her with every broken piece of your heart.
And that was the cruelest part.
Because love wasn't enough to keep her. It wasn't enough to hold onto the future you thought you'd have. It wasn't enough to stop her from leaving.
You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks as the ache in your chest settled into something deeper, something emptier. All you had now were the memories, the fragments of what you once were.
hey, no pressure or anything but i was just wondering if too late part 2 was still a thing or has that ship sailed and it’s just going to be a standalone ?
like i mentioned before i have a part two written that im not happy with it. although i haven’t read it through yet.
but if yall have wishes or suggestions for it pls send them to be, bc i have no clue what to write or change in the part that’s already been written. it’s very clear you guys want a part two so give me everything you got💫
summary: in which tara makes a drunken mistake at the party you didn't want her to attend.
word count: 8.5k
Tara didn't mean for it to turn into a fight.
She never did. It was like something inside her took over—this simmering frustration that she couldn't control, no matter how hard she tried.
The moment someone started telling her what to do or how to live her life, it was like a switch flipped.
She'd hear the words, feel the anger rise, and before she even realized it, she was saying something sharp, defensive.
It had started small, little things that shouldn't have mattered so much. Sam reminding her to take her laundry to her room or nagging her to empty the dishwasher.
Tara knew Sam wasn't trying to push her buttons, but it always felt like she was. The tone Sam used—the one laced with authority, like she was the boss of everything—grated on Tara's nerves.
It didn't matter that Sam was older, that she'd been through more. Tara wasn't a kid anymore. She didn't need someone hovering over her shoulder, pointing out every little thing she did wrong.
But it wasn't just Sam anymore. The fights had started bleeding into other parts of her life, other relationships. With you. And that hurt more than anything.
You were the one person Tara felt like she could truly be herself around, the one who always had her back, no matter what.
But lately, it felt like every conversation between you two ended the same way—with raised voices and lingering tension. And no matter how hard she tried to keep her temper in check, she always ended up getting mad.
She didn't mean it. She didn't intend to lash out at you. But when you brought up the parties, the drinking, the staying out late, it was like a spark to dry tinder. It wasn't the words themselves—it was the way you said them.
The concern in your voice, the way your brows furrowed just slightly, like you were worried but also disappointed. It made her feel like you didn't trust her, like you thought she was reckless and incapable. And that stung more than she'd ever let on.
Deep down, Tara knew where you were coming from. After everything you'd both been through—everything with Ghostface—it made sense that you'd be scared, that you'd want to protect her. She understood that.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that your concern came with strings, like it was just another way of trying to control her. Another way of making her feel small, like she couldn't make her own choices without you or Sam hovering over her shoulder.
And maybe it wasn't fair to take it out on you. Maybe it wasn't fair to get angry every time you brought it up. But Tara couldn't help it. The anger came fast and burned hot, and by the time she realized it, the damage was already done.
It was always about the same thing, too—the parties, the drinking. Always. You'd look at her like she was throwing her life away, and she'd lash out, throwing up her walls before you could even get a word in.
She hated the look on your face when it happened, the way your shoulders would drop just slightly, like you were trying to hide how much it hurt.
But that only made her angrier—at you, at herself, at everything.
Because she didn't know how to stop it. She didn't know how to stop feeling like this, like everyone she cared about was trying to tell her how to live her life. And she didn't know how to tell you that it wasn't you she was angry at—it was everything else.
Tara had been trying—really, she had. There were nights she'd sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling, telling herself she didn't need to go out again. That she could say no the next time her friends invited her to a party. College life wasn't supposed to be about drinking until you blacked out or waking up to half-remembered nights.
That's what you and Sam had told her, over and over. And the worst part? You were right. Tara knew you were right. That's probably why it made her so angry.
She hated the way her stomach twisted every time you brought it up, the way your words stuck in her head like some nagging voice she couldn't shake.
She wasn't proud of some of the nights she'd had—the tequila shots that blurred into oblivion, the mornings she woke up with her head pounding and no idea how she got back to her room.
But she didn't want to hear it from you. Not when it already weighed on her enough.
And yet, she'd been trying. Tara hadn't gone to as many parties recently, even when her friends begged her to come out. She told herself she didn't need it, that she didn't need to drown herself in the chaos of booze and loud music just to feel something.
College wasn't about that. You and Sam were right about that too.
But tonight... tonight was Halloween.
The one night of the year where partying didn't feel reckless—it felt expected. It wasn't just about drinking; it was about the costumes, the energy, the way everyone on campus seemed to buzz with excitement for weeks leading up to it.
Tara had spent the last two days scrolling through pictures of her friends' costumes, feeling the first pangs of FOMO creeping in as they texted her plans for the night.
If there was ever a night to drink and party, it was Halloween. That's what everyone kept saying, and deep down, Tara agreed. It wasn't like any other night of the year. This wasn't just some random frat party—it was a celebration, an excuse to dress up, let loose, and not think about all the heavy stuff for a while. For once, it felt justified.
But there was that nagging voice again. The one that sounded a lot like yours.
You wouldn't see it that way. You never did.
It was part of why she hadn't brought it up yet, why she'd stayed quiet all day when the group chat started blowing up with details about pre-games and house locations. She already knew what you'd say, could hear the conversation playing out in her head like a bad rerun.
Isn't it the same as every other one? You said you were going to cut back, Tara.
She sighed, pulling her phone out and scrolling through the endless stream of messages. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about staying in. There was something comforting about the idea of spending the night with you, cozying up on the couch with a movie while everyone else partied. She liked those nights the most. She liked you the most.
But Halloween only came once a year, and she wasn't ready to let it pass her by.
She had made up her mind hours ago.
Though she hadn't told you yet, and maybe that was unfair. But what was the point? You'd already made your feelings clear about the parties and the drinking, and she wasn't in the mood for another lecture. It wasn't like she needed your permission anyway. Tara had spent all afternoon convincing herself of that, repeating it in her head like a mantra while she got ready.
Now, standing in front of her mirror, she leaned in closer, carefully dragging the eyeliner across her lid with a steady hand. Her music played softly from her speaker as she moved with practiced ease, brushing a shimmery gold shadow over her eyes.
The sound of your footsteps approaching the room made her shoulders tense, but she didn't let it show. She focused on her reflection, keeping her face neutral, as if she hadn't heard you come to the doorway.
You leaned against the frame, your arms crossed loosely over your chest. "Where are you going?" Your voice was casual, but the curiosity behind it was unmistakable.
Tara's eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, her expression calm, as if this were no big deal. "Just a Halloween party," she said, her tone light and nonchalant. She reached for her lipstick, uncapping it and twisting it up. "I was thinking maybe you could come along."
It was true. She wanted you to come.
You didn't answer right away. Tara could feel your hesitation, the way your arms tightened slightly against your body. Finally, you spoke, your voice softer this time. "Oh... I thought we could just stay home and watch a movie. Sam's not home, so it'd just be the two of us."
Tara froze for just a second, the lipstick poised in her hand. She felt the weight of your words settle over the room, quiet but heavy. She hadn't thought about that—about how it would've been just you and her tonight, no interruptions, no one else around.
Her gaze flicked back to the mirror, and for a moment, she almost said yes. But the lipstick in her hand reminded her of where her night was already headed, of the costume she'd spent hours putting together.
She sighed quietly, muttering under her breath, "Well, you should've said something sooner, then."
The words were out before she could stop them. She didn't even think about how they'd sound until the silence that followed made her realize just how loud they'd been.
Slowly, she glanced at you again in the mirror, her stomach twisting as she saw the way your expression changed—the faint flicker of hurt in your eyes, the way your posture straightened as if bracing for something.
Tara clenched her jaw, trying to push down the flicker of anger she could already feel stirring in her chest. She hadn't meant to snap—it just came out wrong. But the way you stood there, looking at her like she'd just let you down, made it so much harder to keep her cool.
She capped the lipstick with a sharp click and turned to face you fully, leaning one hand against the desk behind her. "Are you coming or not?" she asked, her voice clipped, already tinged with irritation.
You hesitated again, and Tara could see the conflict written all over your face. "No," you said finally, your voice quiet but firm. "And honestly... I don't think you should go either."
There it was—the thing she'd been waiting for, the thing she was dreading. Your concern, your protectiveness, wrapped up in a polite but unmistakable disapproval.
Tara let out a sharp exhale, shaking her head as she pushed off the desk. "Of course you don't," she muttered under her breath, though it wasn't quite quiet enough to go unnoticed.
She started pacing the room, her hands flexing at her sides as she tried to keep herself in check, but the familiar heat of frustration was already creeping up her neck.
This was how it always started—your calm but firm words, her biting back without thinking, and then the inevitable explosion. She could feel it building, that anger she never knew how to stop, the same kind that always reared its head when Sam tried to tell her what to do.
"I don't get why this is such a big deal," Tara said, her tone sharper than she intended. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the desk with a defensive edge. "It's Halloween. It's not like I do this every night."
"You shouldn't be doing it at all," you replied, your voice quiet but firm, though there was a tension in your jaw that gave away your frustration. "Tara, you know it's not safe. Not after—"
"Don't." Her voice was clipped as she cut you off, her eyes narrowing as she shook her head. "Don't bring that up." She pushed herself off the desk, turning her back to you.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric as she stared at the floor. Her chest felt tight, her heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted to break free. She didn't need you to say it. She already knew. The parties, the drinking—it wasn't safe. It wasn't smart. But she was so tired of being reminded of it, so tired of feeling like she couldn't make a single decision without someone stepping in to tell her it was the wrong one.
"Why do we keep having this same conversation?" Tara asked, spinning around to face you, her voice louder now, almost exasperated. She threw her hands up, the movement sharp and agitated. "Why can't you just trust me?"
"It's not about trust," you said, your voice rising slightly to match hers, though you clearly didn't want to fight. "It's about being realistic, Tara. If something happens—"
"Nothing is going to happen!" Tara snapped, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She took a step closer to you, her frustration spilling out in the way her fists clenched at her sides. "Why do you always assume the worst? I'm not some reckless idiot who can't take care of herself!"
You flinched slightly, your lips pressing together into a thin line. But then, your eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "I don't think you're reckless," you said, your voice softer now but still resolute. "I think you're stubborn. And I think you're angry, and you don't even know why half the time."
Tara's breath hitched, the words cutting deeper than she'd expected. Her jaw tightened, and she let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head as she looked away. "Oh, so now I'm the problem?" she muttered bitterly, pacing a few steps to the other side of the room.
"I didn't say that," you said, your voice still calm, but there was an edge to it now—a frustration that had been building over time. "But you don't listen, Tara. Not to me. Not to Sam. It's like you don't care how much we worry about you."
She stopped pacing, her head snapping up to meet your gaze. "I didn't ask you to worry," she shot back, her tone colder now. "I didn't ask for either of you to act like I'm some fragile little kid who can't handle herself."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.
"Tara..." Your voice wavered slightly, and for a moment, she saw the hurt flicker in your eyes, the way your shoulders sagged just a bit. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to keep you safe. Because I care about you. Because I love you. And it feels like you don't even care about that."
Her chest tightened at your words, but she pushed the feeling down, burying it beneath her anger. "I do care," she snapped, though her voice cracked slightly. "But I can't keep living my life walking on eggshells because you're scared something might happen. That's not fair."
"And it's fair to me?" you shot back, your voice rising now, the frustration finally spilling over. "To stand here and watch you go out, knowing damn well something could happen to you and I'd be powerless to stop it?"
Tara opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss. Her hands fell to her sides, her breathing uneven as she stared at you, the weight of your words sinking in. The anger still simmered beneath her skin, but now it was tangled with guilt, confusion, and something she didn't know how to name.
"It's not safe, Tara," you said, your tone softer this time, like you were pleading with her. Your hands rested at your sides, fingers twitching slightly, a subtle sign of the nerves you were trying to hide. "You drink too much. You're out late, and if something happened—"
"Like what?" Tara cut you off sharply, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as she took a step back. Her posture screamed defensiveness, her jaw tightening as she stared you down. "Ghostface? You think I can't handle myself?"
"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it," you replied, exhaling in frustration. Your tone was measured, but there was an edge to it now, like you were walking a fine line between trying to stay calm and letting your own anger slip through. "I just don't understand why you need to go out all the time. Why can't we just stay here? Together?"
Tara's mouth opened, then closed, her eyes flickering to the floor for a brief second before she met your gaze again. Staying here felt suffocating, like the walls of the apartment were closing in on her a little more every day. But she didn't say that. Instead, she threw her hands up in exasperation, her voice rising despite herself.
"I'm not some kid who needs a curfew, okay? I'm not going to stop living my life just because you and Sam want to keep me locked up in bubble wrap!"
Your face fell, the flicker of hurt in your eyes like a knife twisting in Tara's chest. She hadn't meant it like that—at least, not entirely. But the words were out now, sharp and cutting, and there was no way to take them back.
"Tara..." Your voice was quieter now, but the disappointment in it was unmistakable. It made her stomach churn, but the anger boiling inside her wouldn't let her stop.
"You don't get it," she snapped, doubling down even though part of her wanted to stop. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, her body trembling slightly as she glared at you. "You never want to come with me anyway, so why do you care so much? You're just going to sit here and judge me from the couch like you always do!"
"That's not fair," you said, your voice breaking slightly, but you didn't raise it. Instead, you crossed your arms, your shoulders hunching defensively as you looked at her, the sadness in your eyes more apparent now. "I'm not judging you, Tara. I'm scared for you. There's a difference."
"Scared for me?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she took another step back, her arms still crossed like she was shielding herself. "I don't need you to be scared for me. I'm fine! I'm not some helpless little girl who needs you holding my hand every second of the day!"
You blinked, your lips parting like you wanted to say something, but the words didn't come. Tara could see the hurt written all over your face, the way your shoulders slumped like her words had physically knocked the wind out of you.
"Why do you always do this?" she continued, her voice louder now, cracking slightly at the edges. She ran a hand through her hair, pacing a few steps before spinning back around to face you. "Why do you always make me feel like I'm the bad guy? Like I'm the problem?"
"I'm not trying to make you feel like anything," you said, your voice shaking now, though you still kept it calm. "I just—I don't want to lose you, Tara. Is that so hard to understand?"
Tara froze for a moment, your words cutting through her anger like a blade. But instead of softening, the guilt twisting in her gut only fueled the fire.
"You're not going to lose me," she said, her tone sharp, almost dismissive. "But you can't keep treating me like I'm going to break every time I step out the door. That's not fair to me, okay? I'm allowed to have a life."
The silence that followed was heavy, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Tara's chest heaved as she stared at you, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms.
You took a step closer, your hands falling to your sides as you looked at her with pleading eyes. "I'm not trying to take away your life, Tara. I just want to be a part of it. And I want you to be safe. That's all."
Tara's hands shook at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to hold herself together. But the tightness in her chest only grew, her pulse pounding in her ears.
She felt caged, suffocated by the weight of your concern, like every decision she made had to be scrutinized and questioned.
It wasn't fair—it wasn't fair that you could make her feel this way, guilty and cornered, when all she wanted was space to breathe.
"Well, maybe I don't want you to be a part of it!" The words were out before she could stop them, and the second they left her mouth, she wanted to take them back.
Your expression shattered, your eyes widening slightly as you stepped back like she'd physically pushed you. The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.
Tara swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she looked away. "I didn't mean that," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. But the damage was already done.
You didn't say anything, your lips pressing into a thin line as you looked down, your hands clenching at your sides.
"I'm going," she said finally, her voice colder now as she grabbed her jacket off the chair. "Don't wait up."
You finally opened your mouth at that, your voice trembling as you took a hesitant step forward. "Tara, wait, I'll—”
But you were interrupted by the sharp slam of the door.
Which Tara slammed behind her harder than she meant to, the sharp sound echoing in the hallway. She paused for a moment, her chest heaving as the anger slowly began to ebb, leaving guilt in its place. She rubbed a hand over her face, muttering a quiet curse under her breath.
She did feel bad. She hated the look on your face, the way your shoulders had slumped, like her words had taken something out of you.
But going back now? That would only prove your point—that she couldn't handle herself. Tara wasn't going to let that happen.
Her boots clicked against the pavement as she made her way down the street, her jacket pulled tightly around her. The city was alive with Halloween energy, groups of costumed people spilling out of bars and clubs, laughter and music filling the air. It should've made her feel better, reminded her why she was doing this. Instead, it only made her stomach twist.
By the time she reached the house, the bass from the music inside was already vibrating through the sidewalk. The door swung open as someone stumbled out, nearly knocking into her, and Tara slipped past them without a word.
Inside, the party was in full swing. The living room was packed with people, costumes ranging from elaborate to lazy crowding every corner. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat, the music loud enough to drown out her thoughts. Perfect.
The first thing she did was head for the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. She grabbed a red solo cup from the counter and poured herself a drink, the burn of the cheap vodka barely registering as she tipped it back and swallowed half in one go.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her chest. Tara grabbed another cup—this time mixing it with whatever mixer was nearby—and made her way back to the main room, the tension in her body slowly unwinding.
"Tara!" Anika's voice cut through the noise, and Tara turned to see her standing near the couch, Mindy by her side. Both of them were grinning, their costumes half-wrinkled from the chaos of the party.
"Hey!" Tara forced a smile, lifting her drink in a half-hearted salute as she made her way over.
"Look at you!" Mindy said, smirking as she gave Tara a once-over. "All dressed up and ready to party. Didn't think you were coming."
"Changed my mind," Tara replied casually, taking another sip of her drink as she leaned against the wall.
Anika nudged her playfully, her own drink sloshing slightly in her hand. "Glad you did. It's not a party without you."
Tara chuckled softly, her smile feeling a little more real now. The noise, the crowd, the alcohol—it was a distraction, exactly what she needed.
Anika shook her head, grinning as she sipped her drink. "Where's Y/N? I thought you two were hanging out tonight."
Mindy shot Tara a knowing look, raising her drink to her lips as she waited for the response.
Tara stiffened, her grip tightening slightly on her cup before she masked it with a shrug. "She didn't feel like coming."
"Really?" Anika frowned. "She seemed excited about Halloween the other day."
"She had other plans," Tara said quickly, brushing it off as she took another sip of her drink. "It's not a big deal."
Anika's brows furrowed slightly, but she didn't push. Mindy, however, smirked as she leaned closer. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Shut up," Tara muttered, rolling her eyes as she took a long drink.
Mindy laughed, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying."
"Okay, but seriously," Mindy said, her tone conspiratorial as she leaned closer, clearly trying to change the subject. "Who do you think has the worst costume here? My vote's on the guy in the banana suit.”
Tara snorted, the tension in her chest loosening a little more as she let herself fall into the moment, pushing everything else to the back of her mind.
For now, this was enough.
But it wasn't for long.
The drinks went down too easily tonight, one after the other, the burn of the alcohol soon replaced by a numbing buzz that made Tara's limbs feel weightless. She wasn't keeping track—she never did—but by the time she was halfway through her fourth drink, the world around her had already started to blur.
It was worse than usual. She could feel it, the familiar dizziness settling in her head, the way her balance wavered slightly every time she shifted her weight. But she didn't care. She couldn't care.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw your face—the way your voice had cracked when you said, "I just don't want to lose you." The guilt she'd managed to bury earlier was bubbling back to the surface, and the only way to shove it down again was to keep drinking.
By the time she reached for her fifth cup, her hands were unsteady. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her to stop, that this was too much, too fast. But that voice sounded a lot like you, and Tara didn't want to hear it.
She threw back the drink anyway, wincing as it went down harder this time, the sweetness of the mixer barely masking the sharpness of the alcohol. The room spun slightly when she set the cup down, and she reached out to steady herself on the edge of the counter.
"Hey, you good?" someone asked, but Tara didn't bother turning to look. She waved them off with a muttered "Yeah, fine," before pushing herself away from the counter.
She stumbled back into the main room, the crowd swallowing her whole. Anika and Mindy had been here a minute ago—she was sure of it—but now they were nowhere to be seen.
God, she was drunk. Too drunk.
She tried to push through the sea of people, her eyes darting around the room in search of her friends. Her chest tightened when she couldn't spot them, panic starting to creep in around the edges of her alcohol-fueled haze.
Someone bumped into her, spilling a bit of their drink onto her jacket, and she spun around, her frustration spilling out in a slurred, "Watch it!" The person just rolled their eyes and moved on, leaving Tara standing there, unsteady and alone in the middle of the chaos.
Her head was pounding now, the music too loud, the lights too bright. She fumbled for her phone, pulling it out of her pocket to call Anika or Mindy, but her fingers felt clumsy, and she nearly dropped it twice before managing to open her contacts.
No answer.
Tara swallowed hard, her throat burning from the alcohol and something else she didn't want to name. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the reality of the situation began to settle over her. She'd lost her friends. She was drunker than she'd ever been. And she had no idea what to do next.
The air in the crowded living room was stifling, thick with the mingling scents of sweat, spilled drinks, and cheap perfume.
Her head was swimming, the pounding bass vibrating in her chest like a second heartbeat. She pressed a hand to her temple, grimacing as the alcohol buzz threatened to tip her into full-on dizziness.
Her throat burned, dry and aching from the string of drinks she'd knocked back earlier. She needed water. Something cold to clear her head and keep her upright. The thought became a singular focus, cutting through the haze. Just water. If she could get to the kitchen, maybe she could think straight again.
The dimly lit hallway leading to it felt like a challenge course, bodies crowding every step of the way. Tara squeezed past a couple leaning against the wall and miscalculated her footing as her balance wavered. Before she could stop herself, she collided into someone with enough force to send her stumbling back.
"Whoa there," the guy said, his hands coming up instinctively to catch her by the shoulders.
Tara blinked, disoriented, her face heating from the embarrassment and the alcohol swirling in her system. "Sorry," she muttered, trying to straighten herself as her vision cleared enough to see who she'd bumped into.
Frankie. Of course.
He smirked, letting his hands drop but not stepping back. "Tara Carpenter, right?" His tone carried a mix of recognition and amusement, as though the universe had handed him this moment just for fun.
"Yeah," she said, brushing her hair back as she tried to shake off the drunken haze clouding her thoughts. "Sorry, I wasn't—"
"Looking where you were going?" he teased, his grin widening.
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the faint curve of a smile tugging at her lips. "Something like that."
Frankie didn't move away, his presence lingering a little too close for what might have been polite. He tilted his head, giving her a once-over with that same smirk, his dark eyes glinting under the dim light.
"You seem like you've had a good time tonight," he said, his voice light but edged with something Tara couldn't quite place.
She shrugged, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve as a distraction. "It's a party," she said, aiming for casual. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"
Frankie chuckled, the sound low and smooth. "True. But you look like you might need a breather. Want some water or...?"
Tara raised an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She wasn't sure if he was being considerate or just trying to prolong the conversation. Either way, she crossed her arms, leaning her hip against the counter to steady herself.
"I was about to get one," she admitted, her voice more defensive than she intended.
"Smart move," Frankie said, stepping around her to open the fridge. He pulled out a bottle and held it up with a crooked smile. "Ladies first?"
Her gaze flicked between him and the bottle, her lips quirking in a faint smirk of her own. "Thanks," she said, taking it from him and twisting the cap off.
She took a long sip, her throat easing from the burn of the earlier drinks. The water was cold, sharp against her tongue, and for a moment, she let herself focus on that—on the relief of it.
"So," Frankie said, leaning back against the counter as he watched her. "What brings you to this madhouse tonight? Thought you weren't much for these kinds of things."
Tara bristled slightly at the question, shifting her weight to the other foot. "Why does everyone assume that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "I can have fun, you know."
He grinned again, but it was softer this time, almost like he was testing the waters. "Didn't mean anything by it," he said. "Just... you seem more low-key. Not the type to down four drinks and stumble into strangers."
Tara rolled her eyes, though she couldn't entirely stop the heat rising to her cheeks. "Guess I'm full of surprises," she said, taking another sip of water.
Her thoughts drifted briefly as the alcohol in her system dulled her usual defenses. It felt nice, talking to someone without the tension simmering beneath the surface. No fights, no accusations, just... this. A moment where she wasn't angry or being scolded. She leaned into the counter, letting herself relax slightly.
Tara let her gaze drift over Frankie for a moment, her vision slightly unfocused from the alcohol but sharp enough to take in the details. His short, dark curls framed his face, and there was something effortlessly casual about him—like he knew exactly how to play the part of the guy who didn't care too much but somehow still caught everyone's attention.
A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, a fixture she doubted ever left, and the faintest trace of a beard shadowed his jawline.
She took another sip of water, using the motion to cover the way her eyes lingered. It wasn't like she was interested—not really. He had a reputation, and not the good kind. But he was here. He was talking to her. And with her friends somewhere out in the chaos of the party, who else was she supposed to talk to?
Tara knew she was drunk, the buzz coursing through her veins a constant reminder. It made everything feel a little too easy, a little too warm.
Her thoughts were slippery, darting from one thing to another before she could catch them. But still, she could look, couldn't she? That wasn't a crime.
"Your friends ditch you or something?" Frankie's voice cut through the fog in her head, his tone light but curious.
She shrugged, her fingers curling around the neck of the water bottle. "Something like that," she said, leaning a little more heavily against the counter. "They'll turn up eventually."
"Mm," he hummed, his smirk deepening. "Guess that makes me the lucky one, then."
Tara raised an eyebrow at that, her lips twitching into a faint smile despite herself. "Lucky?" she echoed, her tone teasing.
"Yeah," he said, his gaze flickering over her like he was sizing her up. "I get to keep you company."
She rolled her eyes, though the warmth in her chest spread a little further. "You're full of it," she muttered, but there wasn't any bite to her words.
He shrugged, unbothered. "Maybe. But you're still standing here, aren't you?"
She didn't answer right away, instead glancing at the door that led back into the main room. The thump of the music bled through, muffled but still loud enough to make her head ache. She could leave. She could walk back out there, try to find Mindy and Anika and pretend she wasn't standing here with him.
But instead, she stayed.
"You're right," she said finally, her tone dry. "Guess I am."
Her lips curved into a smirk, matching the one Frankie had been wearing since the moment she stumbled into him. Her steps were slow but deliberate as she closed the distance between them, her eyes locked on his.
The noise of the party around them faded into the background, leaving only the faint thrum of the bass vibrating through the walls.
She didn't know why she was moving closer, or what exactly she was hoping to find in the glint of amusement in his eyes, but she didn't stop herself either. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through her veins, softening the sharp edges of her usual caution. Maybe it was the simmering anger she hadn't been able to shake since she left the apartment.
Either way, the part of her that usually screamed to think twice was silent, and she wasn't about to argue.
Frankie didn't step back as she approached. If anything, his smirk widened, the corners of his lips curling with a confidence that might have been off-putting if she were sober. But she wasn't sober, and the alcohol told her it was a good thing. His posture remained relaxed, leaning slightly against the counter, but his eyes followed her every move.
Tara stopped just close enough for the air between them to feel charged, her gaze flickering down to the beer in his hand before returning to his face.
Her heart thudded in her chest, though she couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol coursing through her veins or the strange electricity in the air between them. Her balance wavered slightly as she shifted onto her tiptoes, her hands briefly brushing the counter for support before she reached up.
The decision wasn't calculated—it wasn't even really a decision. It just happened. Her lips pressed to his, soft but insistent, the faint bitterness of beer on his mouth mingling with the warmth of his breath.
For the briefest moment, her mind went completely quiet. The noise of the party faded into the background. The tension from earlier, the argument, the mess of emotions—none of it mattered. Her chest felt lighter, as if she'd found a fleeting relief she hadn't even known she was searching for.
Frankie responded almost instantly, his lips moving against hers with a confidence that matched his earlier demeanor. His hand slid to her waist, steadying her as she leaned further into him. The kiss was firm, and there was no hesitation on his part. It was easy, natural, and for a fleeting second.
But then, just as quickly, he pulled away, breaking the connection with a soft sound that felt too loud in the charged silence between them. Tara blinked up at him, her breath hitching slightly as she tried to process the shift.
Frankie's expression was a mixture of amusement and something darker, his brows furrowed slightly even as a small, lopsided smirk played on his lips. His eyes scanned her face like he was trying to solve a puzzle, his voice low and teasing when he finally spoke. "Don't you have a girlfriend?"
The words hung in the air, sharp and pointed, but they didn't land the way they should have. Tara's mind didn't snap to you, to your laugh or your smile or the way you always made her feel safe. It didn't even flicker with guilt. Instead, the question felt almost absurd, like it wasn't meant for her.
Her expression shifted, her brows knitting together as her lips parted slightly in confusion. She stared at Frankie, her drunken mind slow to process the accusation. "No," she said finally, the word slipping out with a sharp edge, like the idea itself offended her.
She barely gave him time to react. His smirk widened slightly, like he wasn't entirely convinced, but she didn't care. She didn't want to care. She pushed up onto her toes again, her hands gripping the edge of the counter for balance, and kissed him once more.
This time, Frankie didn't hesitate. His hands found her waist again, pulling her closer as he kissed her back with more force. Tara leaned into him, her body moving instinctively as her mind quieted further. The heat of his touch and the pressure of his lips were the only things she could focus on, drowning out the buzz of the party and the alcohol swirling in her system.
The kiss deepened, and the edges of the room blurred as the world around them fell away. Tara didn't think. She didn't analyze. She just let herself go, letting the moment sweep her up completely, letting the alcohol and adrenaline guide her. For now, it was easier not to remember. Easier not to think about anything else.
It didn't feel good.
That was the thought that struck her, sharp and insistent, as the kiss deepened. There was a hollowness in her chest, a feeling she couldn't quite place that refused to be drowned out by the alcohol. But it was supposed to feel good. That's what she told herself. This was what she came here for, wasn't it? To forget. To escape. To lose herself in something that didn't matter.
Frankie's hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, and Tara kissed him harder, as if forcing the moment to feel like it was enough would make it so. But that sensation in her stomach—the one that twisted and knotted itself tighter with every second—didn't leave.
Her lips moved against his with a kind of desperation, but the spark she expected, the relief she thought she'd find, didn't come. The kiss was warm, his touch steady, but it wasn't enough to chase away the heaviness sitting in her chest. It wasn't enough to erase the lingering anger, the ache she refused to name, or the faint sense of wrongness pressing at the edges of her mind.
Tara told herself it was the alcohol. That the burn in her stomach and the dull ache creeping up her spine was just the vodka catching up to her. But it wasn't. It was something else entirely, something she didn't want to think about.
So she pushed it down, ignored it. She kissed Frankie like it was a solution, like if she just went through the motions hard enough, it would fix the uneasy feeling clawing at her insides. She tilted her head, her fingers gripping the counter for balance, and kissed him like she meant it.
But no matter how hard she tried, that feeling in her stomach didn't leave.
And then.
It hit her all at once, like a punch to the gut.
You.
Her body froze against Frankie's, the haze of alcohol momentarily lifting as her mind snapped into sharp, almost painful focus. She did have a girlfriend. A girlfriend who was waiting at home for her.
A girlfriend who had looked at her earlier with worry etched into her features, asking her to stay, asking her to talk.
A girlfriend who wanted nothing more than to spend the night curled up on the couch with her, watching movies and laughing at whatever cheesy dialogue made its way onto the screen.
She had you.
And she'd told Frankie she didn't. She'd looked him in the eyes, as if the very idea of you didn't exist, and said no. No. She'd kissed him, lied to him, and to herself, and for what?
Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of it all came crashing down.
Tara shoved Frankie away abruptly, panic tightening every muscle in her body. The force sent her stumbling back a step, and Frankie staggered too, looking utterly baffled.
"What the fuck?" he spat, his voice sharp and angry, his brows furrowing in disbelief.
Tara barely heard him. Her chest heaved as she scanned the kitchen, her eyes darting to the edges of the room, searching frantically. Had anyone seen them? Was someone standing there, phone in hand, ready to immortalize her mistake forever?
Her hands trembled as her gaze swept over the crowd, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She didn't know if it was the alcohol, the fear, or the overwhelming realization of what she'd just done, but the world tilted slightly as her mind raced, desperate to make sense of what had just happened—and to undo it, even though she knew she couldn't.
Tara's eyes darted wildly across the room, desperate to anchor herself to something, anything that would quiet the storm brewing inside her. One of the doors creaked open as someone stumbled in, but she was already turning toward the noise filtering in from the main room.
Her gaze followed the chaotic scene beyond the doorway—the crowd swaying to the beat of the music, cups raised in the air, bodies pressed too close together.
She spotted a couple making out against the wall, their faces blurred together in the dim light, oblivious to the world around them. Nearby, a guy in a cheap pirate costume laughed loudly, spilling his drink over himself as his friends roared in drunken amusement. It was all so normal, so loud, so suffocating.
And then, her breath hitched.
There, just beyond the shifting sea of people, was a figure standing motionless. Someone was looking straight at her, their eyes locked onto hers.
At first, it didn't register. Her vision swam, the blur of tears and alcohol distorting the scene in front of her. But that silhouette—that hair, those familiar features—something about it cut through the haze, stabbing straight into her chest.
Her pulse quickened as the figure stepped forward, just slightly, enough for the light to catch their face.
It was you.
Tara froze.
It was you—your eyes, your expression. The heartbreak painted so clearly across your face, it made her stomach twist painfully. And then there was your costume—something hastily thrown together, it seemed. A loose shirt that was supposed to pass as part of the look, a small prop in your hand that didn't match the theme of the party. It was clear you hadn't cared what you looked like. You had come here for her.
Tara felt like she was going to be sick.
You had seen it. Tara could tell by the look in your eyes, the way they shimmered with unshed tears, the way your brows furrowed ever so slightly, as if trying to make sense of what you'd witnessed.
You had seen her kiss him. Probably seen her lie, even if you hadn't heard the words. The betrayal was written all over your face, the silent confirmation that Tara's worst fear—the one she hadn't even allowed herself to fully acknowledge—was now her reality.
You didn't say a word, didn't move. You just stood there, your shoulders slightly slumped, the light from the room casting harsh shadows over the raw hurt etched into your features. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak, but no sound came out.
She couldn't breathe.
Her body trembled, her legs feeling like they'd give out at any moment. The guilt crashed over her in waves, suffocating her. Tara's chest tightened as she stared back at you, her lips parting uselessly as though she could explain—could somehow undo what you must have seen.
Her mind raced, replaying the moment just minutes before when she'd lied, when she'd kissed someone who wasn't you.
The taste of Frankie's beer still lingered on her lips, and it made her stomach churn. How could she? How could she do this to you—the one person who cared for her, loved her, even when she didn't deserve it?
Her guilt clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting. She could feel the weight of it in her chest, see it reflected in your eyes.
You were here, dressed in something last-minute, probably feeling out of place in the loud, chaotic party. You'd come for her, likely because you'd wanted to talk, to make things better after the argument. She could see the effort, the love in the way you'd shown up for her. And she'd thrown it away.
Tara's breathing turned shallow, her hands shaking at her sides. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. The words she wanted to say died in her throat, swallowed by the lump of regret that had taken over.
Her lips trembled, but no sound came. The only thing she could do was stand there, staring at the one person she swore she'd never hurt, knowing she already had.
Tara felt as though her chest was caving in, the weight of her actions pressing down until it became nearly unbearable. Her stomach churned violently, guilt sinking its claws into her as her mind replayed every small detail of the moment before. The way her lips had moved against his. The lie she'd so easily let slip from her mouth.
And now, you. Standing there, looking at her like she was a stranger—a stranger who had just torn your heart in two.
Her throat tightened painfully, a lump of emotion rising that she couldn't swallow down no matter how hard she tried. Her head buzzed with alcohol, with shame, with the sudden, overwhelming clarity of what she'd just done.
You weren't supposed to be here. You were supposed to be at home, waiting for her like you always did, with that soft patience only you seemed to have for her. But you weren't.
You were here, in front of her, and she had ruined everything.
A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the dim light as it fell, and it was like a knife slicing through her chest.
She watched as you exhaled shakily, your shoulders rising and falling with effort, as if just standing there was almost too much.
And then you nodded. Slowly, your head dipped once, twice, as if acknowledging what she'd done, what she was.
That nearly undid her.
Your lips pressed into a small, trembling smile—forced, broken, and so soft it shattered her. You tried. Even in the moment where she'd failed you in the worst way, you still tried. And that was what gutted her the most.
You didn't say a word.
You turned around, your movements slow and deliberate, like it physically hurt to walk away.
And Tara stood there, rooted in place, her hands trembling so violently at her sides she could feel her nails biting into her palms. Her chest heaved, her breath shallow and uneven. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to move, to follow you, to grab your hand and beg for forgiveness.
She wanted to run after you, to stop you before you disappeared into the night. She wanted to scream your name, to throw herself at your feet and tell you it was all a mistake, that she only loved you. You. Always you.
But she couldn't move. She was frozen, locked in place by her own fear, her own shame.
And you walked out.
The sound of the front door clicking shut in the distance echoed like a death knell in her ears. Tara felt the walls closing in around her, the party suddenly too loud, too bright, too much. And yet, all she could do was stand there, watching the spot where you'd been, her chest hollow and her heart splintering apart.
She had lost you. And it was her fault.
Tara was left staring at the place you just stood, knowing she'd just destroyed the one thing that ever felt like home.
in honor of today being the last day of 2024, i just wanted to thank you all for supporting my account and my writing this year. your beautiful comments and messages mean the world to me, and i’m so grateful for every single one of you. here’s to an even better 2025!
to celebrate, i’ll be sharing some of my favorite imagines from this year;
pairing: tara carpenter & female reader
summary: in which tara makes a mistake she can't undo
word count: 3.4k
warnings: violence, blood,
pairing: jenna ortega & female!reader
summary: in which jenna visits you, with a letter.
word count: 2k
warnings: mentions of verbal figh
pairing: jenna ortega & reader
summary: in which jenna leaves increasingly desperate voicemails for you, who never answers.
word count: 1.
pairing: tara carpenter & reader
summary: in which you would’ve married tara, if she had stuck around.
word count: 4.9k
author’s note: ju
and “not this christmas” but it won’t let me link it.
and i’d love to hear which ones are your favorites too! it’d be amazing to know what you’ve enjoyed most so i can keep creating more like them.
also, i’m planning to make a masterlist soon—once i figure out how to put it all together—so stay tuned for that🩷
summary: in which the christmas dinner takes an unexpected turn when tara’s guilt threatens to shatter the holiday spirit.
word count: 8.5k
author’s note: merry christmas🎄🎄my christmas gift to you guys!
You loved Christmas. Not in the fleeting, half-hearted way most people did—the kind of love that flickered on and off like string lights. No, your love for Christmas burned steady, warm, and untouchable, like a candle in the dark.
It wasn't just the holiday or the traditions. It was the feeling. A quiet, persistent kind of joy that settled in your chest and never quite left, no matter the time of year.
It started when you were young, those early years when Christmas meant more than just a tree and gifts.
It was family crowded around a table, faces soft under the glow of twinkling lights. It was the sound of slippers on hardwood floors as you raced to the window to see the first snow of the season.
It was the smell of cinnamon, the stickiness of frosting on your fingers, the way the house felt alive in a way it never did the rest of the year.
Christmas, to you, wasn't just a date on the calendar. It was home.
And Tara? She knew all of this. She couldn't not know, because you told her. All the time. From the moment you started dating, she'd been swept up in your Christmas stories, your excitement spilling over long before December.
You told her about how you'd start making paper snowflakes in October just because you couldn't wait. How you and your mom used to sit on the floor, wrapping presents together, and how she'd always let you tie the ribbons because you were so particular about getting them just right.
You told her how you hated when Christmas ended, too. How you'd always leave the tree up a little too long, until the needles turned brittle and brown.
How you'd sit with your hot chocolate on quiet January nights, staring at the lights until they went blurry, trying to hold onto that feeling for as long as you could. And Tara would listen, always with that small, indulgent smile, as if she couldn't quite believe someone could love something so much.
When December finally came around, your joy was impossible to ignore. You played Christmas music in the car, humming along even when Tara rolled her eyes. You dragged her to stores that were too crowded, grinning at every over-the-top display.
You'd laugh when she teased you for buying ornaments you didn't need, holding them up like treasures you'd just found.
It wasn't just a holiday to you; it was a piece of you. Tara could see it in the way your hands lingered over decorations, the way your eyes softened when you spoke about it.
She'd never admit it out loud, but it was one of the things she loved most about you—that unshakable, unrelenting hope that came alive every Christmas.
And because of this, Tara couldn't help but feel it too—that excitement that radiated off you like warmth from a fire.
She didn't understand it at first, the way you lived for Christmas, the way your face lit up at the smallest details: a wreath on a neighbor's door, a candy cane tucked behind the counter at a coffee shop. For as long as she could remember, Christmas had been just another day—maybe slightly shinier than the others, but never anything more.
Her parents tried when she was little, putting up a tree that always leaned just a little to the left and filling stockings with chocolates and oranges. But it had always felt hollow, something they did because they were supposed to.
And then Sam left, and Christmas became quieter. The tree sat bare for years, boxes of lights left untouched in the attic.
Tara remembered standing by the window one Christmas Eve, watching the neighbor's house glow with lights and laughter, and wondering what the point of it all was.
She carried that feeling with her into high school—the dull, familiar sense that Christmas was a party she'd never really been invited to.
She didn't get the fuss over matching pajamas or ornaments that people treated like treasures. She didn't understand why classmates got so excited when December rolled around, or why people looked forward to it all year.
Until you.
Tara didn't see it coming, the way you changed things without even trying. The first time you dragged her to a Christmas market, she'd grumbled the whole way there, but you just smiled, pulling her through the crowds like you couldn't wait to show her something amazing.
And by the time you handed her a cup of hot cider, your cheeks pink from the cold, she realized she was... smiling too.
But she still didn't totally get it—the way you'd hang decorations before the turkey from Thanksgiving was even cold, or how you'd hum Christmas songs under your breath like you couldn't help yourself. But she felt it.
Watching you string lights across the living room, your face half-hidden behind tinsel, made her chest feel warm in a way she couldn't explain. Watching you light up at the smallest things—picking out a tree, baking cookies that inevitably burned on the edges—made her see Christmas through you.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
But this Christmas, Tara couldn't feel it. She wanted to— God, she wanted to.
She wanted to feel it—for you, if nothing else.
She wanted to wake up and see you hanging lights with that same joyful gleam in your eyes, and for it to stir something in her, the way it always did.
But all she felt was heavy, like there was something sitting deep in her chest, pressing against her lungs every time she tried to take a full breath.
She knew why, of course. That's what made it worse.
But you didn't know. You couldn't see it—not when you were so happy. You carried that same endless excitement with you, the same joy that had always made Christmas feel real to her.
She'd watched you the last month as you transformed the apartment into what you called your little Christmas haven.
She watched you move through the days like you were walking on clouds—picking the perfect ornaments, humming Christmas songs in the kitchen, wrapping gifts with little handmade bows because store-bought ones were boring.
Last weekend, you'd dragged her out to pick the tree, circling the lot three times to find the "perfect one" while she shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets, trying to ward off the cold.
She then watched you beam every time you passed the decorated tree in the corner of the living room, just because it was there. You'd even set up a playlist of Christmas music that played softly through the apartment, as though silence itself would've been a disservice to the season.
And you were happy. God, were you happy. Tara could see it in the way you lit up at the smallest things—a mug shaped like a snowman, a new set of ornaments you absolutely didn't need but bought anyway. It was contagious, usually. Watching you like that always made Tara feel like a kid again, like she was seeing Christmas for the first time.
But not this year.
This year, watching you only made the weight in her chest heavier. You were so you—so bright, so full of excitement, your voice carrying down the hall as you planned the dinner, scribbled notes about seating arrangements, and rattled off ideas for matching napkins and plates.
And Tara had tried. She really had.
She tried to smile as you turned to her, that usual brightness lighting up your face, your voice lilting with questions about tinsel and centerpieces. She tried to laugh when you dragged her by the arm to test-run Christmas cookie recipes, shoving half-burned gingerbread into her mouth with a grin that made her hate herself for not feeling the same.
Because this was supposed to be your year. Your Christmas.
It was your turn, with her, to host the group's Christmas dinner—a tradition you'd all kept for years.
You'd been talking about it since Thanksgiving, probably before. You'd scribbled notes on loose sheets of paper, your handwriting growing messier with every new idea.
You talked about the menu, the decorations, the playlists, even which stockings would suit who. And every time you said it was going to be "perfect," Tara felt like something inside her cracked just a little deeper.
She used to love this part too—when the group was together. It was loud, chaotic, warm in a way that reminded her of what Christmas could be. She used to look forward to it almost as much as you did. But not this year.
This year, she didn't even want to be there. She found herself wishing for a cold, a fever, anything that might give her an out. But when the morning came and she woke up perfectly fine, she knew there was no escaping it.
So she followed you, watching from the edges as you carried the excitement for both of you. You didn't notice the way she lingered by the door when she thought you weren't looking, or how her smile never quite reached her eyes.
You didn't notice how she winced when you wrapped your arms around her waist, whispering, "It's going to be the best one yet."
Because how could you? You were too swept up in the magic you'd spent the last month creating.
And Tara—Tara was trying so hard to let herself feel it too. She was trying to push it all down, to bury it under the wreaths and the twinkling lights, to pretend.
For you.
So for the first time, Tara was nervous about the dinner.
It didn't make sense. These were the people she loved most—the ones she trusted enough to let her guard down around, the ones who knew her better than anyone. Being herself had never been a problem with them, not here, not in this apartment where the walls held more laughter than secrets. But tonight, something was different.
Tonight, she was scared.
She was scared that someone would notice. That someone would look at her too closely and see the cracks she was desperately trying to smooth over. She knew you would've been the first to pick up on it if you weren't so wrapped up in Christmas—so bright, so blissfully unaware of the weight pressing against her ribs.
And if someone did notice, what would she say? Tara knew the answer she should give.
It wasn't hard to spin a lie on the spot—she could shrug and chalk it up to stress, or the overwhelming preparations, or a bad night's sleep.
But she knew, deep down, that none of those words would come out. If someone asked the wrong question, if someone looked at her the wrong way, she wouldn't be able to say anything at all.
Because she couldn't tell the truth. Not on Christmas. Not on your day.
The thought lingered like a whisper in the back of her mind as she paced the kitchen, straightening place settings that were already perfectly fine. You were too busy fussing over the food to notice her unease, chattering happily about everyone's arrival time as if it couldn't come soon enough. And maybe for you, it couldn't. You were so alive, so glowing with excitement, that it almost made her feel worse.
When the doorbell rang, Tara jumped.
"They're here!" you said, practically vibrating as you wiped your hands on a dish towel and darted for the door. "Go pour the drinks, —I'll get them!"
Tara took a slow, steadying breath as she moved to the counter. She reached for the bottle of wine and tried to focus on pouring, on the red liquid as it pooled into each glass. Her hands were steady, but her throat felt tight.
The sound of voices filled the entryway, the kind of cheerful noise that had always made Christmas feel real. There were hugs, laughs, the unmistakable sound of Sam's voice saying something sarcastic to Danny, and Mindy's familiar cackle that followed. Tara forced herself to take another breath before turning around.
The kitchen doorway filled with people— your people, her people. Sam came in first, her eyes immediately softening when she looked at Tara. "Merry Christmas," she said, stepping forward to pull her into a hug. It was brief but firm, grounding in a way that made Tara's stomach twist.
Sam pulled back and smiled, handing over a small gift bag with a quick, "For later."
Behind her, Danny appeared with a bright grin, holding up a tin of homemade cookies. "Housewarming gift—holiday edition," he said, nodding toward the stockings you'd hung by the fireplace.
"Come in, come in!" you chirped, ushering them further into the room as Tara silently handed Sam and Danny each a glass of wine.
Mindy and Anika followed, bringing with them an energy that could only be described as contagious. Anika wrapped you in a hug, swaying you both side to side as she mumbled about how good everything already smelled. Mindy, of course, wasted no time teasing Tara about her choice of clothes.
"Festive, Carpenter," she quipped, elbowing Tara lightly before handing over a perfectly wrapped present with a wink. "Don't open it yet—it's gonna blow your mind."
Tara managed a chuckle, faint but believable enough.
And then Chad stepped through the door.
He was grinning, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his arms full of gifts stacked in a precarious tower. "Don't ask me who these are for—I didn't label them," he said, his voice light and warm. He set the presents down on the coffee table and, without missing a beat, pulled you into a one-armed hug. "Merry Christmas."
Tara swallowed, the back of her throat suddenly dry as she caught herself staring. She forced her gaze away quickly, staring instead at the glasses of wine still left on the counter.
You didn't notice. You were too busy, too happy to notice the way Tara's shoulders tensed, the way her jaw tightened as Chad's voice filled the room.
"God, it looks amazing in here," Anika said, plopping down on the couch and glancing around. "You two really outdid yourselves."
"That's all her," Tara replied automatically, her voice soft as her eyes flickered toward you. You were still beaming, lighting up the whole room just by existing in it.
Everyone else was smiling too—grinning, laughing, already reaching for drinks and gifts as they settled into the warm space you'd worked so hard to create. The apartment felt alive, buzzing with the kind of comfort that could only come from the people who knew you best.
But for Tara, it was like standing in a room with a ticking clock.
She couldn't hear it, not really, but she felt it—the minutes passing, the invisible weight of what she knew hanging just behind her ribs.
And when she glanced at Chad again, she couldn't stop herself from swallowing hard, her fingers tightening around the glass in her hand.
Tara forced herself to take a steadying breath.
Everyone was here now. The apartment felt alive, filled with the kind of warmth that you'd worked so hard to create.
And Tara felt like a stranger in her own home.
Because dinner was usually Tara's favorite part with the group. It was loud and messy and full of laughter—voices overlapping as everyone spoke at once, hands reaching across the table for dishes, wine glasses clinking together between shared jokes.
For years, it had been a comfort. The one night where she felt like she could let go of everything and just be.
Tonight, that feeling was gone.
You sat beside her at the table, glowing with happiness in a way that made Tara's chest ache. She couldn't stop looking at you—your hair curling softly around your shoulders, catching the warm lights strung across the apartment like halos. The bow in your hair, simple and sweet, suited you so perfectly that it felt like a deliberate cruelty.
You looked beautiful. More beautiful than she could handle.
You were the center of everything tonight. The way you floated through conversations, slipping seamlessly between topics as if you'd spent years mastering each one.
You fit so well with everyone—laughing at Chad's attempts to explain some sport, leaning in to debate horror movies with Mindy, teasing Sam about how she always turned into the "mom" of the group when leftovers were involved. Everyone gravitated to you. They always did, but tonight it felt brighter, more you.
And the food—your food—was another thing everyone praised, just as Tara knew they would. Compliments passed around the table like ornaments on a tree, each one landing on you with ease. You brushed off their praise with your usual modesty, always trying to deflect or share the credit.
"Tara helped too," you'd insisted more than once, your voice so genuine that Tara felt like she'd choke on her own breath.
She hadn't. She hadn't even been in the kitchen when you'd been chopping vegetables or perfecting the sauce.
But you didn't say that. You never would. It wasn't in you to make someone feel small, least of all her.
"Barely," Mindy had teased. "What'd you do, set the oven timer?"
You had laughed at that, and Tara had smiled faintly, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything. She just focused on pushing food around.
Her plate sat mostly untouched, pushed around to make it seem like she was eating.
She could barely stomach the thought of food, especially with Chad sitting directly across from her. His voice rose every now and then, folding into the hum of conversation like a thread Tara couldn't unravel. She refused to look at him.
Whenever his gaze turned toward her—and she knew it did—Tara felt the air catch in her throat, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. She'd look anywhere else—the centerpiece you'd carefully arranged, the half-empty wine bottle Mindy was reaching for, or you.
Always you.
You were so happy, so completely in it. Your laughter rose above the others, light and unburdened, and it made you look even more beautiful than you already did. How could you look like that? How could you sit beside her, so perfectly content, when she felt like she was crumbling?
And worse yet, how could you still look at her the way you did? With that same soft affection you'd had since the first time you told her you loved Christmas.
Tara could feel it in every glance you sent her way—the moments where you reached over to touch her arm or leaned close to whisper something that would've made her laugh any other year.
It was unbearable.
Every bit of you—the happiness, the beauty, the love—made the guilt sink deeper into her chest. And Tara could feel it building, rising like a wave she couldn't hold back.
The hum of conversation around the table swelled as you launched into another story—this one about your childhood Christmases, complete with every little detail.
Tara could hear you talking to Anika and Mindy, your voice animated as you described decorating cookies or setting up stockings. You'd always been so good at making people listen, at drawing them in with that warmth that never seemed to dim.
Sam and Danny were listening too, nodding along with smiles as you explained how you cooked the chicken tonight, what seasoning you'd used, and how you hoped it turned out just right.
But Tara couldn't listen.
She stared down at her plate, her fork slipping between her fingers as if she couldn't remember how to hold it. The food was cold by now, untouched, but that wasn't what had her stomach twisting in knots. She could barely hear you over the roar in her ears.
And then she heard him.
It wasn't a word—not really. Just a sound. A low throat-clear, subtle enough that it wouldn't interrupt you but sharp enough to catch Tara's attention. She looked up, and there he was. Chad.
He didn't speak, but he didn't have to.
Across the table, Chad tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable save for the pointed look in his eyes. Then he mouthed it. Two words, clear as day.
"Tell her."
Tara froze. Her chest tightened, every muscle locking into place as panic struck like ice water in her veins.
No.
Her hands were trembling now, hidden beneath the table as she squeezed them into fists. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck despite the warmth of the room, and she forced herself to look away. To pretend she hadn't seen him. To pretend she didn't know exactly what he was talking about.
She couldn't tell you.
Not now. Not here. Not on Christmas. Not your Christmas.
Tara's eyes darted back to her plate, focusing on the scrape of her fork against the porcelain, but she could still feel Chad's gaze on her like a weight she couldn't shake. He wasn't letting this go.
Slowly, she glanced up again, only to find him staring at her with that same unflinching look. He didn't say a word, but his mouth moved again, sharp and deliberate.
"I'll tell her."
Her heart stopped.
Tara felt the panic rise in her chest like she was drowning, her breath coming quicker as she stared at Chad in disbelief. She couldn't look away now, couldn't pretend she hadn't seen what he just said.
"If you don't, I will."
The room felt too hot all of a sudden. Her sweater clung to her skin like it was suffocating her, and her throat felt dry, like no amount of air could fill her lungs.
Chad's face didn't change. His expression stayed firm—resolute—like he wasn't bluffing. And maybe he wasn't.
Tara swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the table again. The panic clawed at her ribs, pulling tighter with every second.
She couldn't tell you.
Not tonight. Not like this.
But even as she sat there, heart racing and pulse thrumming in her ears, she knew she was running out of time.
Tara's chest tightened, her breaths shallow as she sat there, staring blankly at the half-empty plate in front of her. The sound of laughter and clinking silverware filled the room, so bright and cheerful that it felt like a cruel contrast to the way her insides were unraveling. Chad's eyes flickered over to her again—he wasn't glaring exactly, but the weight of his attention pressed down on her like a physical force.
She tried not to look at him. She tried to focus on anything else. Your voice, soft and full of life as you spoke to Sam about something, anything; the smell of pine wafting in from the tree in the corner; the way the candlelight danced against the silverware.
But none of it helped.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her panic creeping higher and higher until tears stung at the back of her eyes. No. Not here. Not now. She bit her lip, hard, and reached for the wine glass in front of her with a trembling hand, downing half of it in one go.
The bitter liquid didn't calm her down, but it was enough of a distraction to keep the tears from falling. She wiped her hands on her jeans beneath the table, trying to shake the sweat building on her palms, trying to steady herself.
Nobody noticed. Thank god, nobody noticed.
Her thoughts were a blur—frantic, relentless. She couldn't tell you. It would ruin everything. Everything. This Christmas, your Christmas.
You were so happy, so radiant, and the thought of being the one to take that away made her sick.
But Chad wasn't backing off. His expression stayed firm, expectant. Tara glanced at him again, her panic spiking, and he just raised his eyebrows slightly. A warning.
I'll tell her.
She squeezed her fists tighter beneath the table, nails biting into her skin.
Tara couldn't imagine it—him saying it, not her. The words coming out of someone else's mouth felt so much worse. No. If it had to happen—if this was inevitable—then it had to be her.
Her stomach twisted, her throat dry as sandpaper. Slowly, carefully, she gave Chad the smallest nod. Barely there, barely visible. But he saw it.
He eased back into his chair, satisfied.
Tara's relief lasted all of two seconds before the guilt came crashing back in waves. She tried to breathe through it, tried to pull herself together as the room carried on like nothing had happened. Like everything was fine.
She forced herself to smile when Mindy cracked a joke about Anika's questionable taste in Christmas movies, and she even laughed—just enough to blend in.
But her chest still ached, her pulse still raced. The heat under her sweater was unbearable.
Then you reached for her hand.
Tara flinched, pulling her hand away before she could stop herself.
The silence, however brief, felt deafening.
She looked up to see you staring at her, surprised, confused—hurt. That look, your look, hit her harder than she could've imagined. She wanted to take your hand again, to squeeze it, to say it was nothing.
But she didn't.
Her palms were sweaty. If you felt that, you might've asked questions. And god, she didn't want questions.
You didn't ask though. You never did, and she loved you for that. You always let things go, always trusted her.
So you forced a smile, as though trying to brush off what had just happened, and asked the table, "Is everyone finished?"
Immediately, the group moved to help. Sam stacked plates, Mindy and Anika grabbed serving dishes, and Chad—thankfully—busied himself with clearing the empty glasses.
Even Danny, who usually sat back and relaxed after a meal, grabbed a dish and followed along.
Tara, on the other hand, stayed in her chair longer than she should have, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Her heart was pounding, a mess of anxiety that she couldn't untangle no matter how hard she tried. She hated how obvious it felt to her, like everyone could see her faltering, though no one seemed to notice.
You glanced at her briefly, offering a soft smile before disappearing into the kitchen with a stack of plates. That was all the signal Tara needed to push herself up, her movements stiff and mechanical. Her chair scraped against the floor, but no one paid her any mind.
She walked slowly to the living room, each step heavy with guilt. She told herself she needed a moment—just a second to collect herself. That's why she wasn't helping. That's why she wasn't in there with you, laughing and chatting like nothing was wrong.
The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree pulled her in like a magnet, her feet moving on autopilot as she sank onto the couch. It was supposed to be comforting, this space you'd worked so hard to make warm and festive. You'd spent days decorating together, stringing lights, hanging ornaments, and laughing over the tangled mess of garland. But now it felt suffocating.
The sounds from the kitchen grew fainter, the clatter of plates giving way to quieter voices as everyone began to finish up. Tara's gaze flicked to the hallway, half-hoping Chad would stay gone forever.
He'd excused himself, mumbling something about needing the restroom, but she knew better. He was giving her time, though not nearly enough.
When everyone finally came into the living room, it was you who appeared last, a glass of water in hand.
Tara froze as you crossed the room, your eyes locking onto hers.
"Here," you said softly, holding the glass out to her.
Tara blinked, guilt tightening in her chest as she realized why.
"You're pale," you said, your voice full of concern. "And you're sweaty. Are you feeling okay? We can wait with the gifts if you're not feeling well—"
The words made everything inside her snap.
She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't sit there, pretending, lying, carrying this weight while you were being you. Sweet, kind, so selfless it made her chest ache.
Tara's voice came out before she could stop it. ”Y/N, I need to talk to you."
It sounded too harsh, too serious, like she was about to break up with you in front of everyone.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked at her, hesitant, confused.
"In private," Tara added quickly, her tone softer this time. "Please?"
The room went silent. Everyone stared, the kind of silence that made it seem like something bad was happening—like the worst was about to come.
Tara's throat tightened when you finally nodded. "Yeah... sure."
She reached for your hand without thinking, her fingers wrapping around yours as she pulled you toward the hallway, needing to get away from the others, needing to escape their stares.
Her chest heaved as she pushed open a door to your shared bedroom, closing it firmly behind you. The sound of the latch clicking shut echoed louder than it should've, making her flinch.
She turned to you, her heart racing so fast she thought it might give out. And then, finally, she looked up to meet your eyes, and everything inside her shattered.
You looked worried—so worried—and Tara could feel the weight of it pressing down on her. Your brows knitted together, your lips parted as though you wanted to say more but didn't know how.
"What's wrong?" you asked softly, your voice trembling, just like your hands, which you were nervously wringing together.
Tara's chest ached, the tears already brimming in her eyes. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, trying to will them away, but they refused to be stopped. The way you cared about her—always so much—was unbearable now.
You took a shaky breath, glancing back at the door. "We can send them home if you're not feeling well," you continued. "I know they'd understand."
Your voice was so steady, so kind, even though Tara could see the cracks forming in your composure. The way you were trying to hide your nervousness, trying to take care of her despite it all, made her want to scream.
"And if you're not feeling up for dessert, it's okay," you added quickly, your words spilling out like a stream you couldn't control. "Although I was really hoping they'd get to try the pumpkin pie I made. I mean, it's the first time I tried your mom's recipe, remember? You said it's foolproof, but I'm not so sure. I really hope you like it, too—"
"Stop."
Tara's voice came out sharp, cutting through your rambling like a knife. She couldn't take it anymore—the kindness, the softness, the you of it all. It was too much, and it was breaking her.
Your mouth snapped shut, your face falling as you stared at her, wide-eyed and scared.
Tara exhaled shakily, looking anywhere but at you. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling into fists as she struggled to speak. "Do you remember... when you were at your parents last month?"
You blinked, nodding slowly. Of course, you remembered. You'd gone alone because Tara hadn't been feeling well, and the last thing either of you wanted was for her to risk getting your parents sick. It had been her idea, really—she'd insisted you go, promising she'd be fine at home for a few days.
"Chad came over," Tara started, her voice barely above a whisper. She was shaking now, her entire body tense as if holding herself together was the only thing keeping her upright. "He... he offered to fix the faucet."
The words came out disjointed, her throat tightening with every syllable.
Your brows furrowed, your lips parting to say something, but you didn't. You could tell she wasn't finished.
Tara gulped hard, her head bowing under the weight of it all. She still couldn't meet your eyes. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, her voice trembling as she forced out the words.
"I—" She stopped, her voice breaking. Her breathing quickened, and she gripped the edge of the counter behind her, her nails digging into the wood.
But she couldn't bring herself to say it.
Tara's breaths grew shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to force the words out. But instead of explaining, instead of saying what needed to be said, the apology fell from her lips first—broken and desperate.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice cracking. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I swear."
The tears finally spilled over, streaming down her face in uneven trails. She wasn't just crying; she was unraveling, her sobs barely muffled as she tried to keep her composure, though it was a futile effort.
"I promise you," she gasped, her voice trembling with each syllable. "I swear."
You stood frozen, your hands clenching into fists at your sides as the weight of her words settled over you. You didn't speak, but the way your face fell—eyes wide and glassy, your lips trembling—it said enough. You looked so sad. So heartbreakingly sad.
Tara knew it without even looking at you. She could feel it in the silence that hung between you, in the way your presence seemed to shrink into yourself as if bracing for the worst.
But you didn't ask.
You didn't press her for details, didn't demand an explanation, because you understood. Somehow, without her saying it, you already knew. And that hurt more than anything. Tara didn't want you to understand. She didn't want you to piece it together before she had the strength to admit it, to give you the truth you deserved.
"I..." Her voice faltered, her body trembling as the words clawed their way up her throat. She sobbed again, the sound raw and guttural, before forcing herself to speak. "We kissed."
Your breath hitched, and Tara finally looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before shame dragged her gaze back to the floor.
"I kissed him," she whispered, barely audible now. The confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as if the world itself had stopped to listen.
Tara couldn't bring herself to tell you everything. She couldn't say the word— made out. She just couldn't. But she couldn't stop either, couldn't leave you with only half of the truth. You deserved more, even if it broke both of you.
Her voice trembled as she stammered out, "We... we took off our clothes. Not all of them, but almost." Her chest heaved as she forced the words out, each one slicing through the air like a blade. "I stopped it before it went further. I swear to you, I stopped it."
But the look on your face—devastated, hollow—made her panic. Her mind spiraled, and suddenly, the floodgates opened.
"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean any of it!" she cried, her words tumbling over each other in a frantic mess. "I was—God, I was just so stupid, and I was thinking about you the whole time. I swear, I was thinking about you!"
Tara's sobs grew louder, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she tried to make sense of it all. But she couldn't. Not for you, not even for herself.
"I love you," she choked out, her voice breaking. "I love you so much, and I missed you. That's why I—I thought—"
She stopped herself, her breath catching on a strangled sob. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to wipe away the tears that wouldn't stop. "I don't even know why I did it. I don't. I just... I wanted you. I needed you, and you weren't there, and I—"
Her words fell apart, dissolving into incoherent fragments as she clung to whatever thread of reason she could find. But there was none. There was only you, standing there, staring at her like you'd been shattered into pieces, and Tara hated herself more than she thought possible.
Your tears fell silently, slowly trailing down the same cheeks that had been glowing with joy just minutes ago. The image of your beautiful smile, so full of life, was still burned into Tara's mind, and it only made her feel worse. She had ruined it. She had ruined you. This day, this moment, this love—you didn't deserve any of it.
But you, ever the optimist, ever the one to make sense of the chaos, tried to piece it together. You wanted to believe in her, believe in something that might make this feel less. Less devastating, less cruel, less like a dagger in the heart.
"But... you had been drinking, right?" you asked softly, your voice trembling with fragile hope. It broke her.
She knew what you were doing, the way you always tried to see the good, even when there wasn't any. You wanted this to be a mistake she didn't mean, something fogged by alcohol, something you could fix.
But it wasn't. And Tara hated herself even more for it.
Her breath hitched, and she shook her head. "No," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
Your eyes widened, the hope you were desperately clinging to flickering out. The weight of her answer settled between you like a leaden fog.
"I wasn't," Tara continued, the sobs breaking her words apart. "I wasn't drinking. I—" Her voice caught, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep from falling apart completely. "It was me. I did it."
The silence between you was deafening, heavy with heartbreak. Tara looked at you through her tears, watching as yours fell freely. And in that moment, she realized she had never hated herself more than she did right now.
Tara took a shaky step toward you, her arms instinctively reaching out as though she could somehow hold you together, as though a hug could erase the pain she had caused. But before she could close the distance, you stepped back.
The motion wasn't sharp or angry. It wasn't a flinch or a shove—it was softer, almost hesitant. But it was enough. Enough to make Tara freeze in place, her arms still awkwardly outstretched, the rejection clear.
You didn't look at her. You didn't yell or scream or ask why. You just stood there, sniffling softly as the tears kept falling, your hands trembling as you tried to wipe them away.
Tara felt her chest tighten, the air in the room growing heavier by the second. She wanted to cry harder, scream, beg, something. But all she could do was stare at you, her heart shattering all over again with every tear that slipped down your cheeks.
I..." Her voice broke, hoarse and raw. "Can I... Can I hug you?" she stammered, her voice thick with desperation. "Please?"
You finally looked at her, your eyes red and glassy, your lips pressed tightly together as though holding back more sobs. For a moment, Tara thought you'd say no. She wouldn't have blamed you. But instead, you gave the faintest of nods, and it was like she could breathe again—just for a moment.
Tara closed the space between you carefully, almost afraid you might change your mind. When her arms wrapped around you, she held you tightly, burying her face into your shoulder as the sobs overtook her.
She didn't say anything else—she couldn't. All she could think about was how this was probably the last time you'd let her hold you like this. The last time she'd get to feel your warmth, to have you this close, to even pretend things might still be okay.
Her tears soaked into your shirt, her arms tightening around you as if she could will you to stay.
You stepped away, almost too quickly, leaving Tara's arms empty and cold. She wanted to hold you longer, just a few seconds more, but you were already pulling back, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.
Tara stood frozen, watching as you looked at her with those red-rimmed eyes, your face still so heartbreakingly beautiful even in your sadness.
You sniffled softly, trying to gather yourself, your voice quiet but steady when you finally spoke. "Well... it's Christmas," you said, your words slow and deliberate, like you were forcing them out. "Can we... talk about this after they've left?"
Tara opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She just nodded, the weight of her guilt pressing heavier on her chest.
You didn't wait for her to say anything. You turned away, your footsteps soft but purposeful as you left the room. The door clicked behind you, leaving Tara alone with the suffocating silence.
Her legs felt weak, like they might give out beneath her, but she didn't move. She couldn't. All she could do was stand there, staring at the empty space you'd just occupied, wishing she could rewind it all and take everything back.
___
When Tara finally walked back into the living room, her cheeks were streaked with remnants of tears she hadn't managed to wipe away. Her eyes were red, her shoulders tense, and the faint tremble in her hands betrayed her nerves.
Everyone noticed. It was impossible not to. The room felt heavier, the atmosphere laced with unspoken questions.
Sam's brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly as if she might say something, but she didn't. Danny glanced between you and Tara, his expression unreadable.
Mindy shifted uncomfortably before exchanging a glance with Anika, who pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly sensing the tension. Chad, however, was the one who couldn't stop looking at Tara. Too much, too directly.
Mindy, ever the one to break awkward silences, let out a loud clap of her hands. "Alright, enough with the gloom and doom faces! It's Christmas, people. Let's get to the gifts before I start crying too."
Anika nudged her playfully. "Mindy, you never cry."
"I could start," Mindy retorted, grinning. "But come on, let's get to it!"
Grateful for the distraction, everyone shuffled into their spots, the pile of neatly wrapped presents in the center of the room looking far too perfect to disturb. You sat down carefully, your face composed, though your eyes gave away a tired sadness. Tara sat beside you, though she kept a bit of distance, her hands nervously clasped in her lap.
The gift-giving began, and soon the room was alive with chatter and laughter.
For Sam, you'd found a vintage edition of a book she'd mentioned loving as a teenager—a rare copy that she'd been searching for but could never find. Her face softened as she held it, running her fingers over the worn cover, and she smiled at you in that quiet, deeply appreciative way Sam had. "This is... perfect," she said softly.
Danny unwrapped his gift to find a sleek, high-quality leather toolkit for his motorcycle. His grin was wide and genuine as he held it up, nodding approvingly. "You really pay attention, don't you?"
Mindy and Anika opened theirs together—customized horror movie memorabilia. For Mindy, it was a signed script from Scream, her favorite film, complete with a note from the director. Her jaw dropped, and for a moment, she was speechless. "How the hell did you get this?" she finally asked, her voice cracking with excitement.
For Anika, it was a framed and personalized piece of art—illustrations of her and Mindy as characters from Anika's favorite horror-comedy show. Her face lit up, and she hugged the frame tightly, laughing at the details you'd included. "This is amazing! I love it!"
And Chad—Chad opened his to find tickets to a once-in-a-lifetime basketball game, featuring his favorite team and their biggest rivals. Along with the tickets, you'd included a signed jersey from his favorite player. He let out an exaggerated gasp, holding the jersey up for everyone to see. "Are you kidding me? This is insane!"
But even as Chad celebrated his gift, his gaze flickered over to Tara, lingering. It was quick, but Tara caught it. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers twisting in her lap. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to stop looking at her, but of course, she didn't.
And then there was Tara. She sat stiffly as the others admired their gifts, her stomach twisting tighter with every smile and laugh.
She couldn't bring herself to open hers yet, not when everything else felt so heavy. So instead, she stayed quiet, avoiding everyone's eyes as they moved on to the next round of gifts.
The warmth and joy in the room should have been infectious, but for Tara, it only made the guilt sitting heavy on her chest all the harder to bear.
She hesitated as she reached for the small, perfectly wrapped box with her name on it. Her hands trembled as she worked to peel back the edges of the paper, her fingers struggling against the tape.
The air felt too thick, her breathing uneven, and she could feel your gaze on her the entire time—sad, heavy, like you were already preparing yourself to walk away.
She wasn't sure she wanted to open it. She wasn't sure she deserved to.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the wrapping fell away, leaving a velvet box in her palm. Her stomach turned as she opened it, her heart sinking further the moment her eyes landed on the delicate golden promise ring inside.
It was beautiful. Too beautiful. A simple band of gold, perfectly crafted, with a small, glittering stone nestled at its center.
Tara's breath hitched. Her mouth opened, like she was about to say something—anything—but the words wouldn't come. Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy with everything she wanted to tell you, everything she couldn't.
You were still watching her, your face unreadable except for the sadness in your eyes. You spoke first, your voice soft, almost too quiet for her to hear over the others' chatter.
"It's a promise. To love and to always be there for each other," you explained. Your voice cracked just slightly, and it killed her.
Across the room, Mindy's sharp eyes caught the moment, and of course, she couldn't resist. "Oh, damn, Y/N, a promise ring?" She grinned, nudging Anika with her elbow. "The next step is her proposing. Better get ready, Tara."
The group laughed, and Tara forced herself to smile, but it was weak. Almost unnoticeable.
She wanted to laugh with them, to tease Mindy back like she normally would. She wanted to throw her arms around you, bury her face in your neck, kiss you over and over, and thank you endlessly for such a thoughtful, beautiful gift.
But she couldn't. Not now.
Instead, she swallowed hard, blinked away the tears threatening to spill, and finally managed, "Thank you. This is... it's so, so beautiful." Her voice wavered, but she pushed through.
Her fingers traced the band of the ring, but she didn't put it on. She couldn't—not yet. The weight of what she'd done made her feel like it would burn her skin.
Everyone else had gone back to unwrapping their gifts, their attention shifting back to the laughter and excitement of the moment. But you... you didn't look away from her. You sat there, quiet and distant, trying to distract yourself with everyone else's reactions, but Tara saw through it.
She could see the sadness you were trying to hide, the way your hands fidgeted slightly in your lap.
Normally, she would've leaped into your arms, kissed your whole face, and whispered promises to wear the ring forever. But this wasn't normal. And even though no one else seemed to notice, Tara felt the growing distance between you like a chasm she couldn't cross.
Her chest ached, her eyes stung, and for a moment, she considered hugging you anyway. Apologizing all over again. Begging.
But she didn't. Instead, she stayed where she was, silent and still, watching you slip further and further away from her.
Tara's gaze stayed locked on you, even though you refused to meet her eyes now. She could see the effort you were putting into smiling, laughing at Chad's stupid joke about the pie, passing gifts to everyone else like you weren't falling apart inside.
But Tara could see through it—the way your hands trembled as you folded the wrapping paper neatly beside you, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes.
And she hated herself for it.
She should've been the one making you smile. She should've been the one leaning into your shoulder and whispering a sarcastic comment to make you laugh.
That's what you deserved—lightness, warmth, joy. Instead, she was the reason your eyes were clouded over with tears you wouldn't let fall. She was the reason the air felt heavier, why Christmas—your Christmas—wasn't perfect anymore.
Her fingers grazed the ring on her hand, and the weight of it burned into her chest. She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve you. Not your thoughtfulness, not your unwavering love, not the way you'd tried so hard to make this day special for everyone.
She didn't deserve the way you cared about her so much it hurt.
And yet, she couldn't stop wishing things could go back to normal. Wishing you'd look at her again like you had that morning when you stood in front of the tree in your perfect dress, laughing as you made her rearrange the ornaments because they didn't feel balanced. She wished you'd smile at her again the way you had just hours ago, your eyes so bright and hopeful, so full of love.
But she'd destroyed that.
You caught her staring again, and this time, her heart stopped. For a brief second, your eyes locked, and she saw the flash of hurt before you quickly looked away. She couldn't take it. She wanted to reach out, to touch your hand, to say something—anything—that could make this better. But what could she say?
What could she possibly do to fix this?
The voices of your friends hummed around her, laughter and conversation weaving through the room as they moved on from the moment. They were distracted, too busy opening gifts and teasing each other to notice how quiet the two of you had gotten. But Tara noticed. She noticed everything about you.
And it was killing her.
Her hand tightened around the edge of her seat, the promise ring on her finger catching the light. A promise she couldn't keep. A promise she didn't deserve. And all she could do was sit there, paralyzed by the crushing weight of what she'd done, watching as you turned away from her completely, slipping just a little further out of her reach.
She wanted to cry, to beg, to do something. But instead, she just sat there, her chest aching, her world crumbling, her mind repeating the same desperate thought over and over.
Please. Please. Please.
Don't let this be the last Christmas we spend together.
Any rules we would need to be aware of? I wouldn’t want to accidentally overstep❤️
i actually haven’t really thought about this too much, but i really appreciate you asking! i mostly write for female readers, and i avoid sensitive stuff like rape or abuse or romanticizing those kinds of topics because i just don’t want to include that content.
summary: in which jenna spends christmas alone, reflecting on the what she used to have, and what she’s left with.
word count: 4.5k
The hotel room felt suffocating, even in its forced cheer.
The staff had done their best to make it festive—a tiny artificial tree sat on the desk, adorned with gold and red baubles, and a garland stretched awkwardly across the headboard.
Someone had left a peppermint-scented candle on the bedside table, unlit, but its cloying sweetness lingered in the air. It was the kind of decoration meant to feel cozy, but to Jenna, it only emphasized how hollow everything felt.
She sat in bed, propped up by too-soft pillows that sagged against the headboard. The blanket was bunched in her lap, her legs curled beneath it, but the chill in the air clung to her skin.
Turning her head, she could see the window partially cracked open. Beyond the glass, the street below glowed with strings of multicolored Christmas lights, their reflections dancing faintly on the walls of her room.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the sounds of the street: the distant hum of carolers, the faint jingle of a Salvation Army bell, the chatter and laughter of families walking between shops still open late for the holiday rush. But she didn't need to imagine. The muffled noise seeped in through the window, each cheerful note like a knife twisting deeper.
She leaned her head back against the headboard, letting her gaze linger on the window. The flicker of a streetlight caught her eye, the faint stutter in its glow matching the rhythm of her own restless thoughts. The warmth and noise outside felt like it belonged to another world entirely. One she'd willingly shut herself out of.
Here, in this small, overdecorated room, there was only silence. Well, almost silence. Just her and the heavy pulse of her anger, pressing against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
The streetlight flickered again, a weak pulse that struggled to keep rhythm with the night. Jenna watched it absently, the irregular pattern syncing with the tension in her body—the way her jaw clenched, her fingers curled into the blanket, the tightness that never really left her chest. The tempo of her uptight, she thought bitterly. If anyone could describe her like that, it'd be you.
This moment, this stillness, wasn't new. She knew it too well, the way it always crept in after a fight or, worse, after she'd pushed you too far.
Time always slowed down in moments like this, as if it wanted her to sit in her mess, to take a good, long look at what she'd done. The silence wasn't kind; it didn't offer peace or comfort. It was sharp-edged and deliberate, like the universe's way of saying: Here. This is what you've made.
And time was strangely calm now, wasn't it? Outside, the world kept moving—families bustling down the street, the faint echoes of carolers drifting up—but here, it felt like everything had stopped. Everyone was gone. Everyone, especially you.
Her gaze fell back to the unlit candle on the bedside table. She hated the way it sat there, like it was taunting her. It was supposed to feel warm, comforting, like Christmas should. But all she could see was the way its wick curled, blackened from some previous use. Something burned out. Something that didn't quite work anymore.
It was just her now. Her and the anger that never really went away. She felt it simmer beneath the surface, like it was waiting for her to try and shove it aside, so it could come roaring back, stronger than ever. But there was no one left to yell at now. No one left to take it out on.
It was just her and her anger.
Jenna let out a long breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as her thoughts spiraled again.
She couldn't stop thinking about what you would say to someone if they asked why it ended. Would you tell them the truth? That the version of her you'd loved—the version everyone else seemed to worship—wasn't real? That your golden girl wasn't golden at all when it was just the two of you?
She hated how much that thought stung. But she couldn't deny it. You'd seen every crack, every sharp edge, every angry word she hadn't been able to hold back. And she hated even more that you were right to leave.
Golden girl. The words echoed in her head, but they weren't yours, not really. They were her own. Her own bitter acknowledgment of the way she'd pretended to be something she wasn't. She'd been yours, but she hadn't been kind. Not the way she should have been.
It was easier, she realized, to blame you in the beginning. To tell herself that you just didn't understand the pressure she was under, that you expected too much, that you were too sensitive. But now, sitting here in this empty room, she couldn't outrun the truth.
You hadn't been the problem. She had. She'd been awful. Every time.
She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. The weight of her own anger was crushing, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache of missing you.
If you ever talked about her to someone else, what would you say? Would you tell them how she had pushed you away, how she always made you feel like you were in the wrong? Or would you soften the truth, protect her the way you always did, even when she didn't deserve it?
Jenna squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could block out the flood of memories. The way you used to hold her, the way you always seemed to know when she needed it most. But now, she didn't want to be held. Not by you, not by anyone. Not when it was too late.
Don't hold me like you know me. The words felt like they belonged to you, as if you'd whispered them in her ear the last time she reached for you. The memory made her chest tighten, sharp and unbearable.
She didn't deserve comfort. She didn't deserve you.
If this was what forever felt like—burning in the emptiness she'd created—then she supposed she'd earned it.
Her chest tightened as the memory of your face came flooding back. Not the happy, easy smile she had fallen for, but the guarded expression that had become more familiar as time went on. She didn't like to admit it, but she could see now how her anger had drained the light from you, piece by piece.
You used to be so vibrant, so full of life. But by the end, you had grown so quiet. Careful. Like every step you took had to be measured, every word chosen with precision, or you'd accidentally set her off again.
Jenna's stomach churned as she remembered the way you'd tread through your shared apartment, as if walking on glass. That's what it had felt like—fragile and dangerous, the ground beneath you constantly threatening to break. She hated herself for not seeing it then, for not realizing how suffocating it must have been to live like that. To live with her.
The apartment had always felt too big after you left. Empty. Cold. Haunted, almost. She'd walk through the halls and see pieces of you everywhere—your favorite mug still on the counter, the blanket you always curled up with thrown over the arm of the couch. It was as though you had left your ghost behind, lingering in the spaces you used to fill with warmth and laughter.
But now, sitting here in this lonely hotel room, Jenna saw the truth for what it was: She was the one who had haunted that home. She had filled it with her anger, her outbursts, her inability to handle the pressure of her own life. And in the process, she had turned the place you were supposed to share into a prison.
It was no wonder you had been dying there. Slowly, quietly, but dying all the same.
She buried her face in her hands again, the weight of it all crushing her. She had thought she was losing herself back then, but she hadn't stopped to see what it was doing to you. The way it had chipped away at your spirit until there was barely anything left.
Jenna exhaled shakily, her shoulders trembling as she tried to pull herself together. She could still see the way you'd looked at her the last time you fought, your voice low and steady as you said you couldn't do it anymore. There was no anger in your words, no blame—just exhaustion.
She hadn't understood it then. She thought you were giving up, throwing away everything you had together. But now, she could see it for what it really was: survival.
The faint sound of church bells rang in the distance, marking the passage of time she wasn't sure she wanted to measure. Whether it was Christmas Eve or the day after didn't really matter. All she knew was that she was here, in this hotel room, and you weren't.
Jenna's eyes burned as she stared out the window, the kaleidoscope of Christmas lights on the street below blurring into a messy swirl. The toughest part wasn't the emptiness of the room or even the ache that sat like a lump in her throat. It was the fact that she knew—you both knew—why she had ended up here, alone.
She could try to blame it on the demands of her career, the endless hours on set, the constant pressure to be perfect. That had always been the easiest excuse. But deep down, she understood that wasn't the real reason. Not entirely.
It wasn't the work itself, but the way she let it bleed into every corner of her life. She carried the stress home with her, let it fester and twist her into someone she didn't even recognize. And instead of addressing it, she lashed out—at you, the one person who had been there, trying so hard to hold her together when she couldn't do it herself.
But it wasn't just the yelling, was it? It was the way she'd made you feel like you were the problem, like you weren't doing enough, weren't patient enough, weren't good enough. She could still hear the echoes of her own voice, sharp and cutting, as if saying those things would somehow make the pressure inside her head ease.
It hadn't. All it had done was drive you away.
And now here she was, on her own, because she had chosen to hold onto the one thing that didn't need her in return. Work was safe. It was steady. It didn't look at her with hurt in its eyes or ask her why she was so angry all the time. It didn't make her feel guilty for being exactly who she had become.
But it wasn't enough. Not now, not tonight, not when all the lights and sounds of the holiday seemed to mock her, reminding her of what she used to have.
You had been hers once. And she had been yours. But her own anger and pride had turned something beautiful into something unbearable. You had left to save yourself, and even though she hated how it had ended, she couldn't blame you.
The truth was, you'd been right to walk away. She had chosen her work over you, over everything you'd built together. She could pretend it had been an accident, that she hadn't seen it coming—but that wasn't true.
She had known exactly what she was doing.
And so had you.
Jenna leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly at the dim, uneven glow of the streetlights outside. But it wasn't the flicker of Christmas lights or the faint hum of carolers that filled her mind.
It was last Christmas. The one she spent with you.
She could still remember the way your face lit up as you dragged the tree into your shared apartment, snow dusting your coat and hair. You'd insisted on picking the perfect one yourself, even though it was too big to fit without rearranging half the furniture. She had laughed at you that day, teasing you for your over-the-top enthusiasm, but secretly, she'd loved every second of it.
You'd spent the whole evening decorating together, untangling lights and bickering over where to hang each ornament.
She remembered how you had stood on tiptoes to reach the higher branches, only to have the star at the top lean precariously to the side. She'd held your waist to steady you, her fingers lingering even when the task was done. The warmth of your laughter had filled the room, a sharp contrast to the cold wind rattling the windows outside.
She remembered the gifts, too—the thought you'd put into each one. Little things that showed how well you knew her: the vintage film camera she'd been eyeing for months, a sweater she'd once mentioned offhandedly, even the snacks she loved but rarely bought for herself.
It was all so simple, so perfect. She hadn't even realized, in that moment, how much she'd taken for granted.
But now, the memories felt sharper, more vivid than they had any right to be. Each one was a reminder of what she'd lost—and more importantly, what she'd destroyed.
Because the truth was, she hadn't deserved any of it. Not your laughter, not your love, not the way you'd always been patient with her, even when she didn't make it easy.
She hadn't deserved the way you'd always waited for her to come home from set, no matter how late it was, or the way you'd tried to smooth over the cracks in your relationship, even when she'd refused to admit they were there.
This Christmas was different. No tree, no laughter, no gifts. Just the cold, impersonal glow of the hotel room decorations and the heavy weight of her own regret.
She wondered what you were doing now. Were you with your family? Friends? Had you moved on? The thought of you celebrating without her shouldn't have hurt—it was exactly what she deserved—but it did. It stung in a way she couldn't quite put into words.
The memories weren't always this loud. Or maybe she just wasn't usually this still, this quiet, with nothing to drown them out. But tonight, the silence in her room felt suffocating, pulling everything from the back of her mind to the surface, until she couldn't escape it anymore.
She didn't need to be reminded of what she'd lost—she already carried that knowledge like a weight on her chest. But the holidays seemed determined to twist the knife, filling her head with flashes of last year, of the way you'd smiled at her while untangling Christmas lights, or the sound of your laugh when she'd tried (and failed) to hang the garland straight.
Those moments felt impossibly far away now, like they'd belonged to someone else entirely. But they hadn't. They'd belonged to you. To her. To something she'd taken for granted until it slipped through her fingers, as if it had never been hers to hold in the first place.
And then her mind went somewhere darker. Not to the laughter or the gifts, but to that last night. The last time she saw you. She could still picture it, the way your face had looked as you stood by the door, keys in hand, your shoulders tense with exhaustion.
She didn't even remember what the fight had been about—did it matter anymore?—but she remembered the way you'd turned, looking at her like you'd already made your peace with leaving.
Your voice had been calm, too calm, as you said the words that still echoed in her head every time she thought of calling you.
"Please don't call me."
It hadn't been a plea, not really. More of a quiet boundary, drawn for your own sake. But it felt final, like you were begging her not to drag you back into the cycle you'd both been trapped in for so long. She hadn't been able to argue, not this time.
Because you'd been right. She always called. Every time. After every fight, every lashing out, every dramatic exit. It didn't matter if she'd stormed out claiming she needed space, or if you'd left first, needing a moment to breathe—she always found herself dialing your number in the end.
Sometimes it was to ask you to come pick her up from some bar where she'd gone to cool off. Sometimes it was to mumble apologies she didn't know how to make stick.
It was a pattern, predictable and toxic in its own way. She'd lash out, and you'd hold your ground until you couldn't anymore. She'd leave, then call, and you'd come back. It had always been like that. Until the day it wasn't.
She stared at her phone now, the blank screen almost daring her to break the silence. Her hand hovered over it for a moment, her thumb itching to open your contact and tap the button she'd worn out so many times before. But she didn't.
Because this time, she could almost hear your voice again, that calm, steady tone you'd used that night: Don't call me.
She imagined you now, wherever you were, sitting by a tree with your family or curled up on a couch with friends. She imagined you hearing the faint buzz of your phone, glancing at it and seeing her name on the screen. And she imagined the way your face would fall, the way you'd probably sigh before setting the phone down, turning it over so you wouldn't have to look at it again.
The thought hurt more than it should have. Not just because she knew it was true, but because she couldn't even blame you for it. You had every reason not to want to hear from her.
"Merry Christmas," she murmured to herself, the words bitter in her mouth. Her fingers curled into her palm, pulling back from the phone. The silence stretched on, and for once, she let it.
The weight of her gaze had always been too much. It wasn't the kind of look that made you feel seen or understood; it was sharper than that, heavier. It pinned you in place, dissecting, analyzing, always searching for something to pick apart.
You used to think it was love, the way she watched you so closely, like you were the center of her world. But over time, it started to feel like something else—like a cage made of her expectations, her disappointments, her silent judgments.
Even now, with her miles away, you could still feel it. That gaze, that suffocating pressure, etched into your memory like a scar. You didn't need to be in the same room to feel it bearing down on you, its weight impossible to shake.
And then there was the cycle. God, the cycle. It always started the same way: a moment of calm, of almost-normalcy, before the tension crept back in. Before she found some tiny crack in the foundation, some flaw she could magnify until it became all either of you could see.
The arguments would spiral, the silences would stretch, and then it would end the way it always did—with you forgiving her, with her promising it wouldn't happen again, with the carousel spinning back to where it started.
Jenna didn't mean for it to feel that way, but she knew it did. She'd catch herself staring too long, scrutinizing every little move you made as if she were trying to control you with her mind. It wasn't about finding flaws, she told herself; it was about understanding you, knowing you.
But somewhere along the way, the intention got lost. It turned into something uglier, something possessive. She hated how tightly she clung, how desperately she needed to know what you were thinking, what you were feeling. It never felt like enough—she could never hold enough of you to quiet the storm in her head.
The worst part was that Jenna knew the carousel wouldn't stop spinning. Not for you, not for her, not for anyone. It wasn't as simple as stepping off. She could tell herself all the lies in the world—that she could fix this, that she could fix herself—but the truth was, she didn't know how. And as much as she wanted to blame you for walking away, for giving up on her, deep down, she knew it wasn't your fault.
She was the one who kept the ride moving. The one who turned every quiet moment into a battlefield, every gentle glance into a test you didn't even know you were taking. She was the one who built the carousel, brick by brick, and then dragged you onto it without ever asking if you wanted to ride.
Even now, alone in this hotel room, she could still hear the echoes of the cycle. The biting words, the slammed doors, the desperate apologies that never really meant anything because they were always followed by another explosion. She could still see the way you'd look at her in those moments—tired, hollow, like you were slipping away right in front of her.
The snowfall outside was soft, steady, blanketing the world in a quiet Jenna couldn't seem to find within herself.
She looked out the window, her phone idle on the table beside her, and let her eyes wander over the frost-laced streets below.
It was the kind of night meant for joy, for warmth, for celebration. Families rushing home with last-minute gifts. Couples pulling their scarves tighter as they walked hand in hand through the cold. Friends laughing as they spilled out of taxis.
She should've been out there. With you.
Her chest ached at the thought, like a sharp tug on a thread that unraveled everything. Every part of her life she'd spent building now lay in ruins, all because she couldn't be the person you deserved.
She could almost picture it: you walking through the snow, your arms full of poorly wrapped gifts, cursing at the wind and laughing at yourself because you knew you'd overdone it again.
You'd have dragged her along, insisted on stopping at every light display, every tree lot, every tiny moment that felt like Christmas.
Jenna had ruined that.
She could still see the changes in you, even now, though it had been months since she'd last seen your face. She hadn't noticed them at first—too wrapped up in her own frustrations, too preoccupied with her work and her temper to see how much it was costing her.
But it was clear now, stark and undeniable. The light in your eyes had dimmed. The way you held yourself had shifted, like you were bracing for impact every time she walked into the room. The joy you used to carry so effortlessly had eroded, little by little, under the weight of her anger, her words, her constant demands.
She thought of the Christmas’s before, the ones you'd spent together. The way you'd worked tirelessly to make it perfect, putting up the tree alone because she was too busy to help.
You'd spent hours wrapping gifts for her, though you knew she didn't care about presents. It was the effort that mattered to you, the way it showed love. She hadn't understood that then.
The memory twisted like a knife now. She hadn't even opened most of those gifts. They were still in the closet of the apartment you used to share, untouched and gathering dust. Just another symbol of everything she'd taken for granted.
And now? Now she was here, alone, staring at a world she no longer felt a part of. You weren't there to pull her out of her head, to remind her that there was more to life than her endless need to be in control.
She clenched her jaw, her hand tightening around the edge of the table as the guilt surged again, stronger this time. It always came back to the same realization: she'd done this.
She'd pushed you away, worn you down, and now all she had left were the memories of the person you used to be—the person she'd destroyed.
Jenna's gaze fell to the phone. For a fleeting second, she thought about calling. Apologizing. Begging. But what could she even say? There weren't words for the damage she'd done, for the ways she'd broken you. And even if there were, you didn't owe her forgiveness.
Somewhere out there, you were moving on. She tried to convince herself of that, that you were laughing and celebrating and happy without her. It was the only comfort she could cling to, even if it felt like a dagger every time she imagined it.
Jenna now sat by the window, the phone heavy in her hand as she stared at the quiet street below. Christmas lights blinked from the lampposts, their warm glow reflecting off the patches of ice and snow.
She could see a family unloading their car, arms filled with brightly wrapped presents, laughter echoing faintly through the glass. Her chest ached at the sight.
This wasn't how the night was supposed to be. She was supposed to be with you. You were supposed to be the one curling up next to her on the couch, sharing blankets and cheap champagne. Instead, she was alone, the apartment feeling impossibly cold despite the thermostat turned higher than usual.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. She wanted to call you. Every part of her screamed to just do it, to hear your voice, even if it was only for a moment. Maybe you wouldn't even answer. Maybe you'd see her name flash across the screen and let it go to voicemail.
She didn't blame you.
Her mind wandered back to last Christmas again, the way you'd made everything feel magical despite the fights that had already started to pile up between you. She'd never been good at holidays, but you'd been determined to change that.
It was hard to think about now. Hard to hold onto the good memories when they were tainted by everything that had come after. The shouting, the silences, the way she'd always found a way to push you away, even when all you wanted was to stay.
And now? You weren't hers anymore.
She closed her eyes, your voice echoing in her head—Don't call me this time. You'd said it so calmly, so firmly, that she hadn't even fought back. For once, she'd let you go, thinking she'd have time to fix it later.
But now it was Christmas, and she was here, and you were somewhere else, living a life that didn't include her.
She lowered the phone onto the table, her throat tight as she stared at the blank screen. Calling wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring you back.
And that was the hardest part of all.
And when she closed her eyes, all she could hear was your voice that night. Although a few words were added onto it.
I just wanted to ask if you are going to write a part 2 of “too late”? Because that story is amazing and even with the tears, i just want to know if there is a chance of you writing a second part or if its just a one part story.
hi! i actually have a part two finished. but i actually hate it, it is NOT what i expected and i don’t think its what you guys wanted or hoped for either. idk if i want to rewrite it all, so lmk if you guys want it anyway. even if it might disappoint🩷
summary: in which, after weeks of hesitation, you finally decide to tell jenna the truth—only to realize she has plans of her own.
word count: 7.1k
warnings: sensitive topic - lung cancer
authors note: in honor of november being lung cancer awareness month.
It began with a cough.
Not the kind that comes and goes with a cold or allergies, but one that lingered—sharp, persistent, and out of place.
At first, you brushed it off, chalking it up to stress or the changing seasons. But days turned into weeks, and instead of fading, it seemed to grow heavier, like it was pulling something deep from your chest.
You'd ignored it longer than you should have, convincing yourself it was nothing.
Jenna had even teased you about it once or twice, her laughter light and dismissive as she handed you a bottle of water and told you to "take better care of yourself." You'd laughed along with her, but deep down, something about it unsettled you.
When the pain started—a dull ache beneath your ribs every time you took a deep breath—you knew you couldn't ignore it anymore.
That's when you made the call.
The appointment came and went in a blur.
The doctor had been kind but direct, asking questions you couldn't answer with certainty. How long had the symptoms persisted? Had you noticed anything else? Fatigue, weight loss? You'd nodded at some points, shook your head at others, feeling like each response was pulling you further into a place you didn't want to be.
"We'll run some tests," they'd said, their tone neutral, almost too neutral. "Just to be safe."
You'd left the office that day with a sinking feeling you couldn't quite explain, like a storm cloud had settled just over your shoulders. But even then, you told yourself it was nothing.
It had to be.
When the call came, days later, their voice was calm but edged with something you couldn't place.
The voice on the other end, professional but cautious, had asked if you could come in—today. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an urgency wrapped in sterile politeness, and that was when it hit you—that it wasn't nothing.
The drive to the clinic had felt like an eternity. The silence in the car had been unbearable, but every time you'd reached for the radio, your hand had fallen back into your lap. Music felt too loud, too intrusive, as if it would force you to acknowledge the knot in your stomach that had been tightening since the moment you hung up the phone.
The streets blurred past you, familiar landmarks losing their meaning. All you could focus on was the road ahead and the gnawing thought that something was wrong—something worse than you wanted to admit. Your hands had gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white, and at one point, you'd realized you were holding your breath without meaning to.
By the time you'd pulled into the clinic's parking lot, your chest ached—not just from the persistent cough but from the weight of your anxiety.
You'd sat there for a moment, staring at the sliding glass doors, wondering if you could just... drive away. Pretend the call never happened. Pretend nothing was wrong.
But then you'd thought of Jenna. Her face had flashed in your mind—her smile, the way she always seemed to know when something was bothering you, even when you tried to hide it. You couldn't hide this forever, and if you didn't walk in now, it would only get worse.
The waiting room had been quiet, save for the soft hum of a fish tank in the corner and the occasional murmur of voices. You'd checked in at the front desk, the receptionist's cheery smile making your stomach twist, and then found a seat near the window.
The minutes stretched on.
There had been an older man across from you, his hands trembling slightly as he flipped through a magazine he clearly wasn't reading. Beside him, a woman with a scarf tied around her head stared at the floor, her expression distant.
You couldn't stop wondering about their stories—what they were going through, what battles they were silently fighting. Compared to them, your cough and aches felt trivial, like you didn't belong in this space.
You'd convinced yourself, even as you sat there, that you were wasting everyone's time. That whatever was happening to you couldn't possibly be as bad as what these people were enduring.
Maybe it had been an overreaction to come at all, you thought, even though you knew deep down that wasn't true.
When your name was finally called, your heart jumped into your throat. You stood, legs feeling unsteady beneath you, and followed the nurse down a hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant and something metallic.
She'd led you to a small room and asked you to wait for the doctor, her smile kind but fleeting, as if she knew what was coming.
The seconds ticked by in excruciating silence. Your eyes had scanned the walls, landing on a framed picture of a mountain range, a feeble attempt to make the space feel less clinical. It didn't work.
When the door opened, Dr. Patel had stepped in, clipboard in hand, his face calm but serious. He'd greeted you with a nod, his usual warmth muted, and gestured for you to sit.
You'd perched on the edge of the chair, your hands clenching and unclenching in your lap. Dr. Patel had sat across from you, his gaze steady but unreadable as he placed the clipboard on the desk.
"I wanted to go over the results of your tests," he'd begun, his voice measured, like he was trying to soften the blow before it landed.
He'd turned his computer screen toward you, the image of a scan glowing faintly against the dim light of the room. He'd pointed to an area on the scan, circling it with the cursor as he explained the findings.
The words he used were clinical, detached, but you caught enough to piece it together. Something about nodules, abnormalities, and how the mass in question hadn't been there before.
And then he'd said it. The word you'd been avoiding, the one that made everything crash down around you.
Cancer.
You'd felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
The word echoed in your mind, bouncing around like it didn't belong there. You'd stared at the scan, your eyes unfocused, as Dr. Patel continued to explain the next steps—biopsies, treatments, consultations—but his voice had become background noise.
You hadn't cried, not then. You'd just nodded numbly, your hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly you thought they might snap. Your chest had tightened, the ache you'd been ignoring now unbearable, but you'd forced yourself to stay still.
When the appointment ended, you'd walked out of the clinic in a daze. The world outside had felt too bright, too normal, like nothing had changed when everything had.
You'd sat in your car for what felt like hours, staring at the steering wheel as the weight of it all pressed down on you. And for the first time, you'd thought about what this meant—not just for you, but for Jenna.
How would you even begin to tell her? How could you?
She was the person you turned to when things felt too heavy, the one who always knew how to make everything seem a little less impossible. But this time... this time felt different.
You'd closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, trying to imagine how the conversation would go. You could see her face so clearly in your mind, the way her brows would furrow, her lips parting as she searched for the right words.
You could almost hear her voice, the way it would waver as she asked, "What does this mean? What do we do?"
And that's where your mind stalled—because you didn't have the answers.
You didn't know what it meant, not really, and you definitely didn't know what to do. The idea of seeing that kind of fear in her eyes, of being the reason her world tilted off its axis, made your stomach twist.
Then there was her work. Jenna had always been busy, but lately, it felt like the world was pulling her in a million directions at once.
She'd been running from set to set, juggling interviews, photo shoots, and endless calls with her team. You'd seen how tired she was, how she tried to hide it behind a bright smile whenever she came home, but you could see the strain in her eyes.
How could you add this to her plate?
The thought hit you like a punch to the gut, the realization settling in with a kind of brutal clarity. If you told her, it wouldn't just be your burden anymore—it would become hers, too. And that wasn't fair. Not when she already had so much to carry.
You'd opened your eyes, staring at the dashboard, trying to convince yourself that waiting wasn't the same as hiding. It wasn't like you were lying to her, not really.
You just needed time to figure things out, to understand what this meant and what came next. Maybe once you had more information, once you knew what the treatment would look like or what the prognosis was, it would be easier to tell her.
Or maybe that was just an excuse.
The truth, the part you didn't want to admit even to yourself, was that you were scared. Not just of the diagnosis, but of what it would do to her.
Jenna was strong—stronger than anyone you'd ever met—but this felt like too much, even for her. You couldn't bear the thought of seeing her break under the weight of it, of watching her world shift because of something you couldn't control.
And then there was the selfish part of you, the part that didn't want to see the pity in her eyes. You didn't want her to look at you differently, to start treating you like you were fragile or broken. You didn't want this to define you, not yet, not in her eyes.
So you'd made the decision, sitting there in the stifling silence of your car. You wouldn't tell her—not now, at least. You'd keep this to yourself, at least until you knew more, until you could figure out how to explain it without falling apart.
It wasn't an easy decision. In fact, it felt like the hardest thing you'd ever done. But as you sat there, the weight of it all pressing down on your chest, it felt like the only choice you had.
You thought that, for now, you'd carry this alone.
But after a while, things felt different.
The days had turned into weeks, and with each passing one, the weight of the secret grew heavier. It wasn't just the diagnosis itself; it was the way it bled into every part of your life, a shadow you couldn't shake.
And Jenna—she'd started noticing.
It was small things at first, things that were easy to dismiss or laugh off.
You'd caught her watching you more closely when you coughed, her brow creasing ever so slightly. "Maybe you should get that checked out," she'd said once, the words half-teasing but laced with genuine concern. You'd waved her off with a smile, promising it was nothing, but the look in her eyes had lingered.
Then there were the nights when you'd felt too drained to do much of anything. Jenna had curled up beside you on the couch, her hand brushing against yours as she asked, "Are you feeling okay? You've seemed... tired lately."
You'd blamed it on work, on stress, on anything but the truth, and she'd let it go—though not without a small frown tugging at her lips.
The tipping point had come a few nights ago, when you'd caught her staring at you in the mirror.
You'd been brushing your teeth, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet bathroom, when you noticed her reflection watching yours. "You've lost weight," she'd said softly, her voice more curious than accusatory.
"I haven't noticed," you'd lied, avoiding her gaze.
She'd hesitated, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "Maybe we should book a check-up or something," she'd suggested, her tone light but her eyes serious.
You'd shrugged it off again, changing the subject, but the way her gaze lingered on you made it clear she wasn't convinced.
And that's what finally pushed you to make the decision. You couldn't keep brushing her off, couldn't keep pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.
She was already worried, even if she didn't fully realize it yet. And sooner or later, she was going to piece things together on her own.
So when she told you she finally had a night free—no calls, no meetings, no obligations—you decided it was time.
The two of you had been planning this date for weeks, trying to carve out time amidst the chaos of her schedule. It wasn't anything extravagant, just dinner at your favorite little spot downtown, but it felt significant in a way you couldn't quite explain.
You told yourself it was the right moment, that you couldn't keep putting this off. You didn't know where this illness would take you next or how much time you had before the symptoms became impossible to hide. The coughs were more frequent now, the fatigue harder to mask. It was only a matter of time before Jenna noticed something you couldn't explain away.
This wasn't how you'd wanted to tell her—not like this, over a quiet dinner on what should've been a happy night. But you didn't see another choice. You couldn't keep lying to her, and you couldn't bear the thought of her finding out some other way.
As you got ready for the evening, the weight of the decision settled over you, heavy but resolute. You weren't sure how you were going to say it or what words you'd use, but you knew it had to be now.
Tonight, you'd tell her.
You'd been rehearsing the words in your head all day, trying to prepare yourself for what felt impossible to say.
But now, sitting in the car, you couldn't ignore the way the air seemed heavier, weighed down by something you couldn't name, and Jenna—Jenna wasn't herself.
She'd been trying to act normal, you could tell. Humming along to the radio, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel like she always did, glancing over at you every so often with what you guessed was meant to be a reassuring smile.
But there was a tension in her movements, a stiffness that wasn't usually there.
It was subtle, barely noticeable if you weren't paying attention. But you were paying attention.
Her hands gripped the wheel a little tighter than usual, her knuckles pale against the leather.
Her gaze lingered too long on the road ahead, as if she was focusing on anything but you. The way she adjusted the air conditioning, even though it didn't need it, or fiddled with her bracelet, slipping it up and down her wrist—these weren't things Jenna usually did.
Your chest felt tight, and not from the illness.
Had she figured it out? Had she found something—a paper you'd forgotten to throw away, maybe, or a note scrawled hastily with an appointment reminder? You'd been so careful, but the thought that you'd slipped up sent a sharp pang of anxiety through you.
You replayed everything in your head, scanning for mistakes, for signs. She hadn't said anything outright, but that only made it worse. If she had found something, she wouldn't confront you about it—not Jenna. No, she'd let it fester, trying to give you space, trying not to pry. But that didn't mean she wouldn't act differently.
And she was acting differently.
Even the silence between you felt louder than it should have, thick and charged with something unspoken. You'd always been able to sit comfortably with her in quiet moments, sharing space without the need to fill it. But this wasn't that. This was an entirely different kind of silence, one that pressed down on you like a weight you couldn't shrug off.
Your mind raced, chasing every possible scenario. Maybe she'd pieced it together herself, noticed more than you thought. Jenna wasn't oblivious.
She'd seen you brush off dinner more often than not, heard the cough that hadn't gone away, seen how you'd flinched the other day when she wrapped her arms around your ribs from behind. She'd even asked, once or twice, if everything was okay.
"You're sure you're fine?" she'd said a few nights ago, her brows knitting together in concern as you forced down a glass of water to stop the coughing fit. You'd laughed, waved her off, told her you'd been pushing yourself too hard at work.
And maybe she'd believed you. Or maybe she hadn't.
The thought gnawed at you as you stared out the window, the glow of passing streetlights streaking across your vision.
You turned to look at her, and for a moment, she felt impossibly far away. She was still Jenna, your Jenna, but there was a distance now, something fragile and strange sitting between you. Her profile was calm, unreadable, her lips pressed into a line that wasn't quite a frown but wasn't a smile, either.
You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining things, that your own guilt and nerves were making you see something that wasn't there. But deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling.
When she finally pulled into the restaurant parking lot and shifted the car into park, she sat there for a moment, her hands still on the wheel.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice steady but quieter than usual.
"Yeah," you answered quickly, too quickly. "You?"
"Of course," she said, the words slipping out a fraction too fast.
Her smile came next, bright but brittle, like it might crack if you looked at it too closely. And as she turned away, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for her purse, you caught a glimpse of something in her eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something close to it.
You didn't know what it meant, but it lingered, heavy in your chest, as the two of you made your way inside.
The restaurant was warm and softly lit, the kind of place where the low hum of conversation mixed with the faint clink of silverware on plates. You'd picked it because it was one of your usual spots—familiar, comfortable, with memories stitched into every corner. But tonight, none of that comfort seemed to settle in.
You couldn't stop picturing how the night might unfold, how Jenna might react once you finally told her. Would she cry? Would she be mad—at you, at the world, at herself for not noticing sooner? Would she try to fix it, as if sheer determination could somehow erase what was already happening?
The thought of her being mad was the one that stuck, looping endlessly in your mind. Would she think you'd waited too long to tell her?
Or worse, would she be upset that you'd told her at all, that you'd burdened her with something so heavy when her life was already so full?
You could see it so clearly—her soft features hardening, her voice laced with frustration as she asked why you hadn't come to her sooner. Why you hadn't trusted her enough.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your nerves from spiraling further out of control. But it didn't help that Jenna was acting off. You'd been together for two and a half years—long enough to notice when something wasn't right. And tonight, something definitely wasn't right.
She was trying, you'd give her that. She smiled when the waiter brought the menus, chatted with him about the specials like she always did, and even reached across the table to brush her fingers lightly over yours. But her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and her touches felt more like a distraction than a comfort.
When the waiter came back to take your drink orders, she didn't hesitate. "A glass of the house red," she said, her voice steady, almost automatic.
You were about to do the same—it was your thing, after all. A little tradition you'd fallen into on dates like this. But the doctor's voice echoed in your mind: Avoid alcohol, caffeine, anything that might add strain. So instead, you said, "I'll just have a Diet Coke, please."
Jenna's head snapped up, her brows knitting together as she looked at you. "No wine?" she asked, her tone light but curious. "Since when do you skip wine?"
You scrambled for an excuse, heat rushing to your face as you waved it off. "Just... not feeling it tonight. Wanted something lighter."
Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, like she didn't quite believe you but wasn't going to press the issue. "Alright," she said, leaning back in her chair. But there was a flicker of something in her expression—confusion, maybe, or concern. You couldn't tell.
As she turned her attention back to the menu, you tried to steady your breathing, but your chest felt tight. You knew she noticed things, little things, even when you thought you'd been careful. And now you couldn't help but wonder if she was piecing them together in real time, one by one, until the truth clicked into place.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the napkin in your lap as the nerves swirled in your stomach.
You weren't sure how much longer you could keep this up—pretending everything was fine, acting like tonight was just another date. Because it wasn't. And you weren't sure how to tell her that without everything breaking apart.
And still, you couldn't shake the feeling that she already knew.
But you tried to keep the conversation going, forcing yourself to focus on Jenna and not on the crushing weight of your own nerves.
She talked about work, the projects she was excited for, the roles she'd recently turned down. You asked questions, nodded at all the right times, even laughed softly when she mentioned something funny one of her co-stars had done. But the way she was looking at you—it made it impossible to relax.
Her gaze was soft, too soft, like she was trying to protect you with just her eyes.
There was a sympathy there, gentle and unspoken, that only made your stomach churn harder. Did she already know? Had she pieced it all together? The thought gnawed at you, turning every word you said into an effort just to keep up the act.
By the time the food arrived, you were too nervous to eat. The plate in front of you looked like it belonged to someone else—steaming, perfectly plated, entirely untouched.
You picked at it, moving the food around your plate, but your appetite had vanished. Every nerve in your body was screaming, the weight of what you were about to say threatening to crush you.
You didn't understand why. You loved Jenna. You loved her more than you could ever put into words.
She was the reason you smiled when you didn't feel like it, the reason your laughter didn't sound hollow. She was the first person you thought about when you woke up and the last one before you fell asleep. She was your person.
And that's why you had to tell her.
You told yourself that over and over again. This wasn't just about you. Jenna deserved to know. If there was anyone you wanted to be the first to hear, it was her.
Not a friend, not a family member—Jenna. Because no matter how terrifying this was, no matter how much it hurt, she was the one who deserved to know the truth.
You tried to convince yourself that it didn't matter how she'd react, that you'd find a way to deal with whatever came next. Whether she stayed, whether she left, whether she cursed you out for not telling her sooner—it didn't matter.
This illness was a part of you now. There was no escaping it, no undoing it, no pretending it wasn't there. And if Jenna didn't want to stay, you'd have to accept that, too. But you couldn't let her find out some other way. You had to be the one to tell her, no matter how hard it was.
A little while into the dinner, you glanced up from your untouched plate, the words balanced precariously on the tip of your tongue. You were going to tell her. Right now.
But then you noticed Jenna again. She was fiddling with the edge of her napkin, her fingers smoothing and crumpling it over and over.
She hadn't touched her wine glass in minutes, though she'd ordered it with enthusiasm. And when she wasn't fidgeting with the napkin, she was twisting her bracelet up and down her wrist or tapping her nails lightly against the table.
Her nervousness was palpable, radiating off her in waves. And it made you pause.
She looked like she already knew. Like she was bracing herself for something—maybe for you to say it out loud. The realization only made your own nerves spike higher, your throat tightening as you tried to steady yourself.
What if she was waiting for this moment? What if she'd guessed and had been dreading it ever since? It was impossible to tell, but the thought made the words stick in your throat, suddenly too heavy to push out.
You took a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself, but the question remained, lingering in your mind like a storm cloud: Did she already know.
The silence between you was thick and unyielding, like a barrier you couldn't push through. You stared at your untouched plate, willing yourself to speak, to just get it over with. Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears, and you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying.
Just say it, you told yourself. You've rehearsed this a hundred times. Just say it.
But the words didn't come.
Your throat felt dry, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. And then, in that fragile quiet, you finally opened your mouth, the beginnings of your confession trembling on your lips.
"I—"
You barely got the first sound out before Jenna interrupted you.
"I need to talk to you about something."
Her voice cut through the moment like a sharp blade, and your eyes snapped up to meet hers. She froze, realizing she'd interrupted, her brow furrowing in apology.
"Sorry," she said quickly, her hands lifting slightly as if to physically backpedal. "You go first."
The tension in her expression, the nervous energy radiating off her, should've made you more anxious. But instead, you felt a wave of relief so profound it nearly knocked the breath out of you.
You didn't want to say it.
You didn't want to tell her, to put it into words, to make it real. Because once you said it out loud, there'd be no going back.
The illness that had already seeped into every corner of your life, consuming your thoughts and your body, would become something undeniable. And it wasn't just your burden anymore—it would become hers, too.
So you nodded quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. "No, it's okay. You go."
Jenna hesitated, her eyes scanning yours as if to make sure you meant it. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she shifted in her seat, her fingers tangling together in her lap.
You watched her, noticing for the first time how truly nervous she looked. Her hands moved constantly, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, twisting her bracelet, pressing her palms flat against her thighs.
For a fleeting moment, your mind latched onto something completely irrational: Was she going to propose?
The thought felt absurd, but it burrowed into your brain anyway. The way she was avoiding eye contact, the way her fingers clasped and unclasped like she was gripping something small—it all seemed so... deliberate. Like she was holding onto something important.
You could almost picture it: a velvet box, hidden in her jacket pocket, the hinge creaking as she opened it to reveal something glittering and perfect. Her nervousness would make sense then. Proposing was a big deal, a life-changing moment, and Jenna would want to get it exactly right.
It had to be that. Maybe it was wishful thinking, your mind scrambling for anything to distract you from your own nerves, but for a second, you almost let yourself believe it.
Then Jenna spoke, and it all came crashing down.
She didn't look at you right away. Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her hands were still fidgeting, and she swallowed hard before starting. "I've been thinking about this for a while," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the restaurant.
Your stomach dropped.
Her words were slow, halting, like she was trying to choose them carefully but wasn't quite sure how. She glanced up at you briefly, her eyes heavy with something you couldn't place—sympathy, maybe, or regret—before looking down again.
"It's just..." She paused, exhaling shakily. "With everything going on—with my career, and the projects, and traveling all the time... it's a lot. And I know it's not fair to you."
You didn't respond. You couldn't.
"I'm barely home," she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "And when I am, I'm... distracted. By work, by everything I have to do. I feel like I'm constantly being pulled in a million different directions, and no matter how hard I try, I can't... I can't give you the time or attention you deserve."
Her hands tightened in her lap, her knuckles pale against her skin. She looked up at you again, forcing herself to meet your gaze even though it clearly took effort.
"You've been so patient with me," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "So understanding, even when I didn't deserve it. And I hate that. I hate that I've let things get to this point, where I feel like I'm failing you."
She gulped, her Adam's apple bobbing as she struggled to steady herself. "I've been thinking about this for a long time," she repeated, almost as if she was trying to convince herself now.
The words hung heavy between you, suffocating in their weight.
"I just... I think it's for the best if we—if we break up."
The final words came out like a whisper, but they might as well have been a shout. They echoed in your head, over and over, until they drowned out everything else.
She was still looking at you, her expression raw and vulnerable, waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn't.
Because in that moment, it felt like the ground had opened up beneath you, pulling you into a freefall you couldn't escape.
For a moment, you couldn't even process what she'd said. It didn't feel real, couldn't feel real. The restaurant around you blurred into nothing—voices faded into static, the clinking of plates and glasses became a distant hum. All you could hear was the sound of her words echoing in your mind.
Break up.
You blinked, and suddenly your throat was tight, your chest heavy, and your vision stung with tears threatening to spill over. You tried to swallow, but it felt like there was a lump lodged in your throat, growing bigger with every second of silence that passed.
All you could manage was a quiet, broken, "Oh."
It was barely a sound, barely anything at all, but it carried everything. All the confusion, the hurt, the disbelief—it was packed into that one syllable that trembled out of you. And the moment it escaped, you felt like you were collapsing from the inside out.
Your hands trembled slightly as they rested on your lap, and you clenched them into fists to steady yourself.
But it didn't work. Your chest felt like it was caving in, your stomach churning violently as if you were going to be sick. You suddenly felt more ill than you'd ever felt before, like every bit of strength you had left was being drained out of you all at once.
You blinked again, and a tear slid down your cheek before you even realized you were crying.
Jenna didn't look away.
Her gaze stayed locked on you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and that only made it worse. It made your chest tighten further, your throat burn hotter. Because why was she crying? Why was she crying?
If she thought this was the right thing to do, if she believed that breaking up was the solution, then why did she look like she was on the verge of breaking, too?
The thought stirred something sharp and bitter in your chest—something close to anger.
You didn't want to be angry, not at her. You loved her more than anything, more than yourself, more than anything you'd ever known in this world. But in that moment, it bubbled up anyway, unbidden and ugly.
How could she say this was for the best and look like she was about to cry? How could she sit there, tearing you apart with her words, and act like she felt guilty about it? Like she didn’t want to do this but was doing it anyway.
If she didn't want to do it, then why was she?
Your hands unclenched, trembling as you wiped hastily at your face, trying to erase the tears that kept coming. But it was no use. They kept falling, hot and relentless, leaving tracks down your cheeks that you couldn't hide, even if you tried.
"Okay," you whispered, though it wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. But you didn't have anything else to say. Your mind felt blank, empty except for the deafening echo of her words and the ache that spread through your chest like wildfire.
Your lips parted like you were about to say more, but nothing came out. There was so much you wanted to ask, to scream, to cry, but the weight of it all held you frozen. You could only sit there, staring at her through the blur of your tears, wondering how it had come to this.
Why now? Why like this? Why, after everything you'd been through together, was this the moment it all fell apart?
Your heart felt like it was breaking, splintering into a million pieces you didn't know how to put back together.
You stared at her, searching her face for something—anything—that might explain this, that might soften the blow. But all you saw was sadness and guilt and resolve. And that, more than anything, made you feel like you might throw up.
You didn't know how to respond—what could you say? Everything felt so wrong, so heavy, and all you could do was sit there, your throat too tight to speak, your heart too shattered to form words.
And Jenna, maybe out of nervousness or guilt—or both—began to ramble again. Her voice was softer now, tinged with a slight tremor, like she was trying to steady herself but couldn't quite manage it.
"I—I've just been thinking about this a lot," she said, her words spilling out in a way that didn't quite connect. "With... everything. My work, how busy it's been, and I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out, and it's like—like maybe it's just too much."
Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, twisting her rings and pressing into her palm as if she could ground herself that way.
Her gaze flicked up to you, then away, then back again. She looked like she was searching for something—understanding, forgiveness, anything—but couldn't seem to hold your eyes for more than a second at a time.
"It's not that I don't care," she added quickly, almost desperately, her words tripping over themselves. "You know I do. You know I care about you so much, and that's why—" She stopped mid-sentence, pressing her lips together hard, her brows furrowing like she didn't know how to finish the thought.
Her voice was uneven when she started again. "I just—everything's so complicated right now. With filming, with traveling, and—and I feel like..." Her words faltered again, and she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of her own thoughts was too much.
Her sentences were fragmented, scattered, like she didn't fully know how to explain herself. It wasn't an argument, wasn't a definitive declaration—it was just... messy.
And that made it worse.
Because nothing she was saying felt concrete, nothing felt like a real reason. It was all just vague, unfinished thoughts that left you sitting there, trying to piece together what she actually meant. Trying to figure out if she even knew what she was saying.
Jenna swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she glanced down at her lap again. "I don't know how else to say it," she murmured, almost to herself, her voice barely audible.
But that didn't make it any clearer.
All you could do was sit there, still frozen, still unable to speak, as she rambled on, her words tangling together in a way that felt more like she was trying to convince herself than explain anything to you.
And it felt like every word she said was chipping away at something inside you, leaving you raw and exposed and aching.
You couldn't even process the idea of why she was doing this, because she wasn't giving you a reason—she was just... saying things. Vague, messy things that didn't feel like they added up to anything but heartbreak.
"What were you going to say?" She asked, clearly getting the point of her rambling not helping anybody at the table. You felt your stomach twist violently. Her tone was soft, hesitant, like she was trying to patch the cracks she'd just shattered into existence, but it only made everything worse.
You stared at her, your heart thudding heavily in your chest. Was she serious? Did she really think she could just ask that now—after everything—and act like it hadn't happened? Like you weren't sitting here, choking on the weight of her words, trying to make sense of it all?
You couldn't believe it. And yet, part of you could. This was so her—to try and smooth it all over, to shove the pieces of normalcy back into place even when it was painfully obvious they didn't fit anymore. But you could see it in her face, in the way her lips trembled and her eyes flicked nervously over your expression. She knew it wasn't working. She knew this was ridiculous.
Still, you couldn't answer right away. Because, what could you even say?
What you were going to say—what you needed to say—wasn't something you could tell her now. Not after this. Not after she'd sat across from you and torn everything apart, leaving you to sit here, raw and exposed, trying to make sense of her fragmented reasoning.
You couldn't tell her. You couldn't tell her that you were sick. Because now it would look like a desperate attempt to make her stay, to guilt her into taking it all back. And that was the last thing you wanted.
No—more than that, it would make it real. Actually real. Saying the words out loud, to her of all people, in this moment, would make it something you couldn't take back. And you weren't ready for that. You weren't ready for any of it.
"It was nothing," you muttered, your voice flat and quiet, barely recognizable as your own. You stared at the table, refusing to meet her eyes, because the weight of her gaze was too much to bear. "Just... nothing important."
You hoped she'd leave it at that, though you could tell from the way her expression softened into something unbearably sympathetic that she didn't believe you. She was probably going to ask again, probably going to try to dig deeper, but you couldn't give her more. Not now. Not like this.
She didn't press you for more, but the silence that followed felt louder than anything she could have said. You didn't look at her, didn't dare, because you knew what you'd see—concern, confusion, maybe even guilt—and you couldn't take it. Not after everything.
You tried to focus on the table in front of you, the half-empty glass of soda that had gone warm, the plate of untouched food that suddenly felt miles away. But your mind wouldn't stop racing.
This wasn't how you'd imagined it. None of it.
All the words you'd rehearsed, the courage you'd spent all day building, the carefully planned moment—it was gone now, swept away like it had never existed. And no matter how much you wanted to, no matter how desperately you wished you could take it all back, it was too late.
Too late to say what you'd come here to say. Too late to stop what she'd said instead. Too late to fix whatever had been shattered between you tonight.
And now, you'd have to face it all alone.
The waiting rooms. The cold sterility of hospital walls. The appointments that stretched on longer than the days themselves. You'd prepared yourself for those things, or at least tried to, but you'd never prepared for doing it without her.
You couldn't blame her. You wouldn't. But that didn't make it hurt any less.
You swallowed hard, willing the tears to stay put, and reached for your glass, if only to give your hands something to do. The carbonation fizzed on your tongue, sharp and bitter, but you barely tasted it.
And as Jenna's gaze lingered on you, hesitant and uncertain, you told yourself the same thing you'd been trying to believe all night.
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