• love at first sight (alysa x fem!singer) — you duck into the bathroom trying to escape the crowd, and an Olympic medalist follows you in.
• everything is romantic (alysa x former!FS)— you had a super promising future in figure skating, what happens when doctors keep brushing off your pain.
• photograph (alysa x fem!oc) — when you start feeling kinda lonely after Alysa started competing again and you confront her about it.
• so high school, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4 (alysa x fem!singer) — you find out Alysa made you a friendship bracelet with her number on it.
Amber Glenn
• older girlfriend, pt.2 (amber x fem!reader) — your parents find out about your relationship with Amber because of a pic online.
• maroon (amber x fem!oc) — you bump into Amber at a party and end up with wine spilled all over you.
pt 3 to kiss it better then one more and im done yay!
Elena and Martin did not let Opening Ceremony go unpunished. Alysa understood that almost immediately, not because either of them said anything outright to her, but because she knew the grammar of people like that by now.
Control had been challenged in public, however politely. You had chosen something joyful over something they could monitor. Worse, you had chosen Alysa, openly, more than once, and Alysa had been too wrapped up in how good it felt to really grasp what that would cost you after. The shift in the days that followed was so sharp it might have been obvious to anyone looking closely, but the problem was Alysa only got you in pieces now, and the pieces kept arriving after the worst of the day had already happened.
Your coaches tightened everything. The hours at the rink stretched longer and longer until time itself seemed to belong to them. Breaks disappeared—water breaks especially. Alysa didn’t know that directly at first, but she saw the evidence in the way your lips had started looking dry by evening, in the way you reached for water too fast when no one was around, in the faint dizzy lag that sometimes hit you when you stood up after sitting too long. Food also got worse. That part Alysa felt before she fully understood it, because meals together—one of the few ways she had been quietly protecting you—started vanishing. The first time you brushed one off, it was easy enough to explain. Training ran late. You were tired. You’d already eaten, supposedly. The second and third time, it stopped feeling incidental. Alysa would text asking where you were and get back some soft little excuse: with coaches, going over programs, need to stay at the off-site rink longer, don’t wait up. When you did sit with her, your body carried the tension of someone who felt guilty for being there, and the meal itself turned into a fight so subtle it was barely one.
You’d insist you weren’t hungry. Alysa would slide something toward you anyway. You’d pick at it, or stare at it too long, or snap in that worn-thin way people do when they’re too depleted to hide it properly. It started to build something in you that looked from the outside like resentment, but Alysa, even when it hurt, knew that wasn’t really what it was. It wasn’t true resentment of her. It was exhaustion with nowhere safe to go, frustration so constant it had to land somewhere.
Your coaches were isolating you from the one person who kept trying to steady you, and the sick irony was that by the time you got to Alysa, part of you was too wrung out to receive help without feeling cornered by it.
So, they fed you a story while they were doing it. Alysa didn’t hear the whole narrative, but she pieced it together because she knew how manipulation worked and because she could feel its fingerprints all over the way you started reacting to her. They told you this was because they cared about your career. They were only pushing because the Olympics demanded it and Alysa, at the end of the day, was your competition before she was anything else, she was a girl standing in the way of your highest possible finish, of your gold medal, of the version of happiness they wanted to dangle in front of you like a prize. They made Alysa into the problem because it was convenient.
If Alysa kept you fed, rested, calmer, softer, more human, then they could frame that humanity as weakness. If Alysa got between you and their absolute control over your body and schedule, then she became interference.
Under normal conditions you would have rejected all of it. Alysa knew this about you, she knew you never really bought their attempts to pit you against other skaters, never internalized their ugliest messages the way they wanted. But this wasn’t normal you. Lack of sleep had hollowed you out and the hunger had made everything feel far away and effortful. Dehydration put that strange glaze over your eyes by nighttime sometimes, the one Alysa would notice and then try not to let her panic show. Thinking critically took energy, and your body had been starved of energy for days. So instead of arguing with their story, maybe you just stopped fighting it. Maybe part of you let it sit there because pushing back against anything at all had started to feel impossible. Alysa saw the consequence of that, even if she didn’t have every sentence they were putting in your head. You started choosing them over her more often, choosing them in ways that felt unlike you and yet still passed just enough as plausible that Alysa kept second-guessing how hard to push.
More practice sessions. More debriefs. More “I have to stay.” More canceled meals. More evenings where Alysa sat with her phone in her hand staring at a message from you that was sweet on its face and cold in the space it created.
And every time you bent back toward your coaches instead of toward her, they rewarded it. Alysa could see that too. There would be a slight easing in Elena’s voice when you complied, a small approving nod from Martin when you chose the rink over the lounge, a little less tension in the air around you when you acted as though they were your first obligation. They were training you with relief.
The worst part for Alysa was how little she could do in real time. That helplessness had sharp teeth.
During the day, you were almost never truly hers anymore. You were being moved around, worked, corrected, watched. If Alysa saw you at all, it was often from across a hallway or in some passing transition where your smile arrived for her a beat too late because you were already so tired. Once or twice she caught you in the athlete lounge after what had clearly been a brutal day, and those moments were almost worse because they showed her exactly how much damage had accumulated by the time you got to her. You’d fold into her arms the second you were close enough, not graceful about it, just spent. Alysa would be sitting there with her phone in hand and suddenly you were sinking against her chest, your whole body giving up the act because it finally could. She’d wrap both arms around you on instinct and feel how slack your muscles were with fatigue, how overheated or shivery you seemed depending on the day, how badly you needed something she could not provide in one quick stolen moment. Sometimes other skaters would tactfully look away. Sometimes Amber, from nearby, would go very still with concern and then deliberately start talking louder to someone else to give you both privacy without actually leaving. And Alysa would sit there holding you, furious and frightened and trying so hard to keep her voice gentle. “You need to stop letting them do this to you,” she’d murmur into your hair, or, “This isn’t training anymore, baby.” And then inevitably one of your coaches would see you there afterward, soft and collapsed and obviously soothed by Alysa, and the next day would be worse. Alysa figured that out quickly. Every time she managed to catch you when you were breaking, they punished the break. So she got trapped in this disgusting calculus of wanting to comfort you and knowing that visible comfort might cost you later, except of course she wasn’t going to stop comforting you. She couldn’t. She loved you too much to leave you shaking through it alone just because your coaches were cruel enough to escalate when they saw you need someone.
———
By six days after Opening Ceremony, the strain had already turned into arguments. Three of them. All of them variations on the same ache.
Alysa would finally get you alone at night—the only time she really saw you anymore in any meaningful way—and try to talk, really talk, because the evidence was piling up in front of her and she couldn’t keep pretending it was fine. You’d be sitting on the edge of the bed tugging your sweatshirt off with slow, tired hands, or leaning against the bathroom counter while wiping off makeup, or already curled under the blanket with your eyes half closed, and Alysa would start carefully. “You barely drank anything today.” Or, “Why did Martin have you on the scale again?” Or, “You’ve got new bruises all over your legs.” And sometimes you’d try to brush it off, but you were too exhausted now to keep your old neat defenses in place. So the conversation would fray almost immediately.
“Can we not do this?” you’d ask, voice thin with fatigue.
Alysa would kneel in front of you or sit beside you and keep going because she was scared and because stopping felt like abandoning you. “No, because you’re not okay.”
Then your face would crumple in that way she hated most, sudden and defenseless, and tears would come before either of you could redirect. These weren't theatrical tears, but the quiet result of complete overwhelm—the feeling of your body simply giving up. You’d sob like someone whose nervous system had simply run out of room to hold anything else, and the second that happened Alysa’s whole posture changed. The argument ended there every time. It had to. She’d gather you up immediately, pull you against her, one hand at the back of your head, the other firm around your shaking shoulders, and all the righteous anger would collapse into helpless tenderness.
“Hey, hey, okay,” she’d whisper, because what else was there to say when you were crying so hard you could barely catch breath? “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She still wanted to fix it. God, she wanted to keep talking, wanted a plan, wanted a concrete next step, wanted to force the issue before it killed you by inches. But when you cried like that and then clung to her with the last of your strength, none of that felt possible without becoming another person demanding something from you. So instead she held you while you begged her softly to stop.
“Please just hold me,” you’d murmur between breaths, or, “Lysa, let it go, please, it’s okay, I’m okay.” The last part never sounded believable anymore. You said it like a prayer you were too tired to believe but still too trained not to repeat.
And every time, before Alysa could steer the conversation back toward action, sleep took you. It was frightening how fast it happened. One minute you’d still be sniffling into her shirt, words slurring with exhaustion, and the next your weight would settle more completely against her as your body simply shut down. Alysa would feel it happen and go still, that awful mix of relief and dread washing through her. Relief because at least you were resting and you weren't upset anymore. Dread because you were always this tired now, tired past the point of choice, tired in a way that made real conversation almost impossible. So she let you sleep. She knew how little you were getting. She knew your coaches had you jumping the second they called, that if you missed them you’d pay for it in practice with extra scrutiny or worse. She’d lie there in the dark with you half on top of her, one of her arms going numb under your weight, and stare at the ceiling while anger moved through her in waves too big to do anything with at that hour.
She saw the result of what they were doing mostly at night: the puffy eyes, the trembling hands, the way you’d fall asleep before finishing a sentence, the brittle edge in you that had nothing to do with not loving her and everything to do with being pushed beyond what a person could carry. The thing that looked like resentment when you pulled away from meals or snapped at her was not really resentment at all, and Alysa knew that in her bones even when it stung. Your coaches were isolating you so thoroughly that even Alysa’s attempts to help could start to feel like one more demand. She understood that, though understanding didn't help make the hurt any less sad. So night after night she took the smallest role available to her. She held you. She kissed your forehead when you were already asleep. She whispered things she wasn’t sure you could hear—You don’t deserve this. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll figure something out.—and then stayed awake long after you were gone to the world, listening to your breathing and hating how powerless love could feel when the person hurting you still had more hours of your day than she did.
She could hold you through the aftermath. She could kiss some of it better. She could make the nights gentler than the days. But she could not stop morning from coming, could not stop them from reaching for you again the second the sun was up. And lying there with your weight slack against her, Alysa would feel that helplessness like its own kind of bruise, because she knew she was watching something precious unravel and still had not figured out how to pull you fully back from it.
———
By February 15, the room itself felt tense before either of you even said a word. It was still early enough that the light outside had that thin gray quality of morning in a city that hadn’t fully woken yet, but your day had already started long before Alysa’s had. You were up, dressed in layers for practice, moving around the room with that quiet, mechanical efficiency Alysa had come to dread—the version of you that looked awake only because you had forced yourself there. Alysa was still in bed, half propped against the pillows, watching through sleepy eyes as you packed your bag.
She noticed things automatically now. She saw the way you checked the contents twice, like forgetting something would cost you more than it should. Saw the way your hands paused every now and then as if your brain had to catch up to them and the hollowness under your cheekbones in the low light. She’d gotten so used to tracking your condition that it felt involuntary, like her body started scanning for damage before her mind did. You had already been awake because your coaches wanted you up earlier, earlier than necessary, earlier than kind, and Alysa hated the idea of your day beginning in someone else’s grip before your feet even touched the floor.
She was about to sit up and ask whether you were going to eat first before training, whether you’d slept at all, when one of your alarms went off from the nightstand. You had started setting four of them, all fifteen minutes apart, because if you missed the first one and didn’t get moving quickly enough, there was always fallout. Alysa knew that much. So when the tone cut through the room, sharp and irritating in the dim quiet, she reached over on instinct to turn it off for you.
She wasn’t trying to snoop, she just grabbed your phone with one hand, thumb already moving to dismiss the alarm, and the screen lit fully in her palm. There, right on it, impossible to miss before it disappeared under anything else, was a message from one of your coaches.
We have extra caffeine pills if you ran out of them already.
Alysa stared at it for half a second too long, long enough for the words to lose shape and then snap back into meaning with enough force to make her stomach drop. Something in her went absolutely cold. Up until then, even with everything she had seen, everything she suspected, part of the horror had still lived inside the vague language of overtraining and strictness and cruelty that could be waved away by people invested in pretending this sport didn’t eat girls alive. But this wasn’t vague.
This wasn’t just emotional abuse, just body policing, just controlled meals and withheld water and exhaustion being reframed as discipline. This was direct, tangible, chemical. It was them deliberately keeping you upright with stimulants while your body was obviously failing under the weight of what they were doing to it. Alysa sat up so fast the sheets tangled around her legs.
“What?” The word came out small at first, disbelieving rather than angry. You looked up from your bag immediately. Your eyes flicked to the phone in her hand, and she watched the exact moment you understood what she must have seen. You didn’t even ask who messaged. You just sighed, shoulders dropping with that tired inevitability of someone who already knew the path this conversation would take and no longer had the energy to reroute it.
“Nothing, Alysa,” you said, too quickly, too flatly, turning back to zip your bag. “It’s absolutely nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
That was the worst possible thing to say. Alysa was out of the bed before either of you seemed fully prepared for how fast she moved, the phone still clutched in her hand, her bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to make a sound.
“Do you not see what they’re doing to you?” she demanded. Her voice cracked on the edge of the question because it was no longer even a question. It was panic mixing with fury. Helplessness wound so tight it sounded almost strangled. She shook the phone once, not at you exactly, but at the room, at the evidence, at the fact of it. “Caffeine pills? Are you serious? Are you hearing yourself? Are you looking at this and telling me it’s nothing?”
You didn’t answer right away. You kept moving, which somehow made it worse, slipping your extra skate guards into the side pocket of your bag like the conversation wasn’t detonating the room around you. But Alysa could see it in you too now, the way your jaw had set, the way your face had gone blank in that dangerous, overcontrolled way it did when you were trying to hold too much at once.
She stepped closer, voice breaking softer and then sharper again in the same breath. “Please,” she said, and now there was nothing dignified left in her tone at all, just desperation. “Please, if you can’t stand up for yourself, let me do it for you. I want to talk to them. I need to fix this. I need to set this right.” She meant it completely. She wasn’t posturing anymore, wasn’t just angry in theory. This was a line crossed, destroyed. She had spent weeks trying not to force your hand, trying not to become another person demanding something of you, trying to work around the damage without blowing up your life or your Olympic preparation or your trust in her. But pills? Stimulants because your body could no longer keep up with the damage? Alysa could not stand there and do nothing. Not now. Not when the harm had become this literal.
And that was when you snapped. Not all at once at first, but with the kind of brittle break that had clearly been building for weeks under pressure too relentless to survive intact. You straightened slowly and turned to face her, though not fully. Your eyes skated past her shoulder, down to the floor, anywhere but directly into her face, because if you looked at her too long maybe you’d lose the nerve to say it. Or maybe some part of you knew what you were about to say wasn’t entirely yours.
“I tried, okay?” The words came out clipped and sharp, already trembling with more emotion than anger alone. Alysa froze, the phone still in her hand. “I tried to make boundaries because you wanted me to, and look what happened.” Your voice rose on the last part, not loud enough to be a scream, but loud enough to fill the room with something raw and ugly and undeniable. “They got stricter. They got worse. Everything got worse because I listened to you.” Alysa opened her mouth, but you weren’t done, not even close. The whole thing cracked wide then, every ugly idea your coaches had been feeding you, every exhausted grievance that had nowhere to go, every fear you hadn’t been able to name because naming it would mean admitting how trapped you were. It all came at once, and because Alysa was the person closest to you, because she kept reaching and pushing and trying to pull you back toward something healthier, it all landed on her. “And you keep hovering,” you said, voice shaking harder now, your hands fumbling uselessly with the strap of your bag because you needed something to do with them. “You keep fighting them and getting involved and acting like you know what’s best, and you don’t have to deal with the fallout after. I do.” Alysa stood very still, trying not to flinch, because beneath the sting she also heard the truth buried under the distortion. You were talking about fear and punishment. About being the one left in the room with Elena and Martin after Alysa had walked away. But God, it hurt. “This is my career,” you kept going, and now the rant had momentum, carried along by sleep deprivation and hunger and the kind of fatigue that strips the filter off everything. “Not yours. You don’t get to keep barging in and making things harder for me because you think you’re helping. Every time you push, every time you step in, every time you make some scene or pull me away or act like they’re monsters, I’m the one who pays for it after. Not you. Me.” Your eyes still wouldn’t meet hers. That hurt too, almost more than the words themselves. “You keep saying you’re trying to protect me, but all you do is make everything worse. You get in the way and then I’m the one stuck with them when you’re gone. I’m the one who has to train. I’m the one who has to hear it and fix it afterward.” By then your breathing had gone shallow, your chest lifting too fast under your jacket. “So stop,” you said, and your voice finally cracked fully. “Just stop. Stop pushing. Stop making this bigger. Stop acting like you know how to save me because you don’t.”
Alysa tried, in those first few seconds, not to take any of it straight into the heart. She really did. She had been afraid of this exact moment for weeks, maybe longer—the point where their voices would get so far inside your head that when the pressure finally needed somewhere to go, it would come at her. And because she knew you, because she had seen the deterioration up close, because she understood how exhaustion could twist blame into the nearest available shape, she recognized almost immediately that this wasn’t really you in full. This was fear and isolation. This was their narrative coming out of your mouth because you were too depleted to keep rejecting it. But understanding that did not make it painless.
The sting still went through her anyway, quick and deep, because part of what you were accusing her of touched the exact place she’d already been guiltily prodding in herself. She had inserted herself in your life. She had not been able to stop wanting you, stop reaching for you, stop grabbing any scrap of closeness the second you offered it. She knew that it was causing them to be crueler. She also knew she couldn’t regret loving you like that, couldn’t regret being there when you fell into her arms, couldn’t regret feeding you, letting you sleep, pulling you toward joy. That shouldn’t have been a punishable offense. It shouldn’t have been something anyone could weaponize against you. But here it was in your voice anyway, thrown back at her with all the misery of the last two weeks behind it. Alysa stood there feeling suddenly useless in her own skin, like nothing she had done had reached you in time.
“Baby—” she started, but the word died the second she saw your expression. You were furious now only because fury took less energy than collapsing, and even that seemed unstable, like one wrong response from her would make you break apart right there. So Alysa swallowed the rest. She knew if she pushed again, you would either cry or leave. Maybe both.
You chose to leave anyway. You grabbed your bag with jerky, angry movements and headed for the door before Alysa had figured out what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. “I can’t do this right now,” you muttered, voice low and wrecked and final.
Alysa took one step after you on instinct. “Wait—” But you were already yanking the door open. You didn’t even turn back. The only sign that any part of you was hurting as badly as she was came in the way your shoulders hunched for half a second before you disappeared out into the hall. Then the door slammed, loud enough to shake the room into silence. Alysa just stood there, phone still in hand. Her heart pounding so hard it almost made her feel sick.
The quiet afterward was horrible. It felt like staring at the aftermath of something that had broken while you were still trying to convince yourself it might be fixable. Because that was what it was, really. For the first time she felt, not just feared, that she was actually losing you to them. They had gotten between your mind and your instincts. They had made her feel like danger to you. They had turned the person trying most desperately to protect you into one more thing you had to brace against.
Alysa stood there for another few seconds, breathing hard, her own hurt trying and failing to compete with the larger, colder fear underneath it. Then something in her locked into place. This was the last straw. She could survive you being angry at her. She could survive you blaming her if that blame had been fed to you by people hollowing you out from the inside. She could not survive standing back while you took stimulants to stay upright for them. That crossed a line too clear to ignore. Whatever happened next, she was not letting you get hurt because she was too afraid of upsetting you.
So she went looking for Philip and Massimo. She found them fast because the day was already in motion, people moving through hallways with credentials swinging and practice schedules in hand, and Alysa must have looked bad enough that both of them stopped what they were doing the second they saw her. Philip’s expression shifted first, all business beneath the concern.
“What happened?” he asked.
And Alysa, who had been holding herself together by force for the last ten minutes, finally let the full scope of it out. Not in some neat report but in a rush. She told them about your weight loss, how tired you were, how your coaches had been restricting food and water, how they kept you up, how bad things had gotten. Then she held up the phone like evidence and said, “They’re giving her caffeine pills. Or telling her to take them. She’s barely sleeping, she’s barely eating, and now this.” Her voice shook once on the last part and she hated that it did. “She won’t listen to me anymore. She thinks I’m making it worse.”
Philip went very still in the way he did when something crossed from upsetting to actionable. Massimo swore softly under his breath, face tightening with the same alarm Alysa had felt that morning.
Philip didn’t waste time. “Okay,” he said, calm in the deliberate way people get when panic would only slow them down. “Then we go to the chief medical officer. We raise a red flag that something’s wrong and they’ll do a medical check on her.”
Alysa nodded immediately because it was something. She wanted a clean rescue, but at least this was something concrete. A step. A way to get another adult with authority to look at you and maybe finally see what she had been seeing at night in the dark when you were too tired to hide it. For a second she almost sagged with relief just from hearing a plan said out loud. Then Philip put a hand on her shoulder.
“We’ll handle this part,” he said. “You need to get ready. Official practice starts soon.” Alysa wanted to protest, wanted to say no, wanted to tell him she couldn’t possibly go skate now with her insides scraped raw like this. But he was right, and that almost made it worse. The day was still moving whether her world had just tilted or not. She had to let them take over because there was nothing else she could do right this second without making a bigger mess.
So Alysa handed the problem off with the sick feeling of someone placing glass into another person’s hands and hoping it didn’t shatter further on impact. Then she went back to her room, or maybe straight toward the rink, already running on fumes of adrenaline and dread.
She felt hopeless in a way she had never allowed herself to before, because for all her anger and all her protectiveness and all the small acts of care she had forced into your days, she had still reached a point where begging you wasn’t enough. She had begged. She had literally stood there asking you to let her help, asking you to open your eyes, asking you to let her be the one to stand between you and the harm. And you had looked at her with all that fear and exhaustion and thrown their words back in her face because you were too worn down to do anything else. That image stayed with her as she moved through the rest of the morning: you not looking at her, your voice cracking, the door slamming behind you. Under all the shock and hurt, what remained strongest was still the same thing that had driven every fight between you—love sharpened into urgency. Alysa did not want to ruin anything for you. She didn’t want to cost you your Olympics, your trust, your sense of control, whatever was left of it. But she wanted even less to stand by and let your body break under their hands. If stepping in now meant you would hate her for a while, then maybe that was the price. She could live with your anger. She could not live with your collapse. And with that awful compromise lodged in her chest, she kept moving toward the rink because there was no other choice, carrying the knowledge that even while she was lacing up her skates, somewhere else in the building wheels had finally been set in motion to force someone to look at you before it was too late.
———
They were too late, and Alysa knew it before anyone said the words out loud. Not in some clairvoyant way, but in the sick, instinctive way she had come to know your body almost better than her own these last few weeks. She got to the rink on time, did everything she was supposed to do, let her own routine carry her forward even while her mind kept trying to run back to the room you’d stormed out of.
Official practice was already underway, the arena loud in that strange half-energized, half-clinical way practice sessions always were at something as big as the Olympics—music clips starting and stopping, blades scratching over fresh ice, coaches clustered at the boards. Philip and Massimo had already spoken to medical staff, but whatever urgency Alysa had felt in her own body clearly had not translated with enough force on the other side.
You had been flagged, yes, they told them that much. They’d check after your run-through, since you were already on the ice.
After.
Alysa had heard that word and felt something in her chest sink. After was too late when a person was being held together by fumes and caffeine and stubbornness. After was what people said when they still thought there was a comfortable margin left before anything went really wrong. Alysa wanted to argue, wanted to grab somebody by the shoulders and make them feel what she was feeling, but practice didn’t stop because one person was scared. So she moved with Philip and Massimo toward the arena and stood by the boards, arms folded tight over herself, trying to act like she was simply another skater watching the session while her heart kicked much too hard against her ribs.
She found you immediately. Of course she did. You were impossible not to find now, her eyes always going to you first before they settled anywhere else. You were with Elena and Martin near the far side, your jacket zipped up, posture too neat, too held together. Alysa saw the med team approach Martin a minute later and pull him slightly aside, speaking low enough that the content was lost beneath the general arena noise. Martin’s head turned almost instantly toward Alysa and her coaches, his expression flattening in a way that made it obvious he knew exactly where this had come from.
Philip, beside Alysa, watched him and murmured, “He definitely knows it was us.”
Massimo let out a short, contemptuous breath. “Good,” he said. “Who cares if he knows.” Alysa didn’t answer either of them. She just kept staring, her face gone still.
There was no satisfaction in being right anymore, no relief in seeing someone else finally paying attention. Only the awful sense that all of this was moving slower than it needed to. That even with medical staff now aware, you were still out there. Still expected to skate. Still under Elena’s hand and Martin’s eye. The air in the rink suddenly felt too dry, too cold, too bright.
Elena leaned in and said something. Alysa couldn’t hear it from where she stood, but she didn’t need to. She saw the effect of it in your body immediately. You got smaller in that familiar way you had around her—shoulders drawing in by a fraction, chin dipping, every line of you suddenly more contained. You nodded once to whatever Elena was saying, obedient and exhausted all at once. Then you peeled off your zip-up, hands slower than they should have been, and the announcer’s voice cut through the arena to call your name, signaling your turn.
Alysa’s stomach twisted. She watched you skate out to center ice and take your opening position, music already beginning to rise around you, and for one fleeting moment you looked almost like yourself again once the movement started. The first elements were clean. The blade beneath you sure. There were flashes of your old sharpness, enough that someone who didn’t know better might think the fear was overblown, that maybe this was just another hard day and not a body approaching its limit. Alysa didn’t, or rather couldn’t, relax. The bad feeling had already settled in her too deeply by then, sitting just under her breastbone like a stone. She followed every move with a kind of hyperawareness that made her feel slightly detached from her own skin. Then came the programmed glide toward the boards, and because that part of the choreography brought you along her side of the rink, your eyes found hers for the briefest second.
It was only a second, barely anything at all, but it cracked something open in Alysa. There you were, gliding past the boards as the choreography carried you down her side of the rink, and for one breath of a second your eyes met Alysa’s. It should have been nothing more than that—just a glance, a familiar point of comfort, the kind of tiny grounding moment two people in love steal from each other without thinking. But Alysa knew you too well not to feel the difference immediately. Usually, when you looked at her during a program, even for the briefest second, something in your face softened. Not enough to break performance, but enough that she could see you register her, could feel that flicker of mutual recognition pass cleanly between you. This time it didn’t feel clean. Your face stayed composed in the careful, overtrained way it always did when you were trying to hold yourself together, but your gaze looked thin somehow, stretched and delayed, like there was a fraction of a second between your body arriving there and your mind actually catching up to it. It was as if you saw Alysa and did not know what to do with seeing her. And Alysa, standing there with her hands curled over the boards, only had time to register that something was wrong before you were already gliding past her, the moment gone almost before it formed.
Then you drifted nearer to Elena’s side of the rink, and Elena—who had absolutely seen that glance, seen whatever softness or instinct had pulled you toward Alysa for even that split second—cut through the music with one cold word. “Focus.” She said it sharply, not loud enough to draw attention from most of the arena, but with that specific clipped precision Alysa had come to hate, the kind meant to land deep because it was aimed at a wound somebody else couldn’t see. Alysa didn’t know exactly what the word did inside your head. She couldn’t hear the whole rotten narrative your coaches had been building in there for weeks, couldn’t know how Elena had spent days trying to recast Alysa in your mind as a threat instead of a refuge, as competition instead of comfort. Alysa didn’t know that by saying “focus,” Elena wasn’t really talking about the program at all. She was reminding you, in the cruelest possible shorthand, of everything she wanted you to believe: that Alysa was the distraction, Alysa was the enemy, Alysa was standing in the way of your success, Alysa was why you were suffering now. And because you were so exhausted, so underfed, so dehydrated and overspun by then, there was no sturdy wall left in you to keep those ideas out. So the second Elena’s voice hit, it threw you into that awful clash of instinct and conditioning. One part of you had just looked at the girl you loved, the person your body still reached for automatically no matter how badly others tried to twist that impulse. Another part had been trained, over and over, to hear her name like a warning. To associate her with consequences. With punishment waiting later. With guilt. With the possibility of being weak, distracted, not enough.
Alysa didn’t know any of that as it happened. All she saw was the physical result. The word hit you and your body answered before your face really did. You faltered—not dramatically, not enough for anyone who didn’t love you to panic, just the slightest visible disruption, a tiny stagger in your edge, a near-miss in the smoothness of your glide. Most people would have called it nothing. A normal wobble. The kind of inconsistency every skater has at some point in a run-through. But Alysa saw the way it traveled through you. Saw how the disruption wasn’t just in your blade for that instant, but in your whole presence afterward. Something in you had split open. From that point on, the program changed in a way she could feel more than explain. You kept moving, kept hitting the structure of the routine, but there was a lag to you now, a strange secondhand quality, like your body was still dutifully performing the sequence while your mind was trapped half a step behind trying to sort through too many conflicting commands. The softness of that glance at Alysa had not fully faded before Elena’s voice came down on top of it, and suddenly you were trying to skate through both at once—through love and fear, through instinct and conditioning, through the brief comfort of seeing Alysa and the immediate punishment of being reminded what your coaches wanted her to mean. Alysa knew that the second Elena spoke, your skating stopped looking inhabited. The shell of the program remained, but you were harder to find inside it. And that, more than the small stagger itself, was what made cold panic spread through her so quickly. Because Alysa knew the difference between you making a mistake and you disappearing from yourself in real time.
From that point on the program changed. You were a half-second behind the music in places. Your movements had that awful, lagging quality of someone trying to push through a fog their body no longer had the strength to hide. You finished the routine in the center and stopped there, chest rising, arms lowering. Alysa could already see it: the shell of you continuing because it had been told to continue, while the rest of you was somewhere farther away, slipping.
Elena called for you immediately, voice clipped and impatient, motioning you back toward the boards. Alysa waited for you to respond the way you always did. You didn’t. You just stood there for one extra second. Then another. Elena called again. Nothing. And that was when Alysa’s gut truly dropped out from under her.
The feeling was so sudden and physical it nearly stole her breath. Her chest tightened with such force it hurt, as if her body had already registered the fall before her mind caught up. She was moving before she consciously decided to move, already heading toward the rink entrance with her guards still on, the blood rushing loud in her ears. Somewhere behind her Philip said her name, maybe sharp, maybe trying to stop her, but it didn’t matter. Elena called out again, harsher this time, and Alysa had just reached the opening when your body folded. There was no graceful catching yourself, no stumble recovered at the last second. You pitched forward and hit the ice hard enough that the sound of it seemed to slice through everything—the music, the chatter, the scrape of other blades. Alysa felt it in her own body like a blow. A brutal, immediate pain flared through her chest, not literal injury but the kind of fear that hurts so sharply it mimics one. Her voice broke before she was even fully on the ice. She took off her guards so fast one of them was flown away toward the boards and then she was running, blades biting in quick desperate strokes, getting to you in seconds that still felt impossibly slow. By the time she dropped to her knees beside you, you hadn’t moved. Not at all. You were facedown and still, and for one hideous instant the whole arena seemed to tilt around Alysa. Other skaters were coming in too, concern drawing them toward the center before officials began waving them back, but Alysa barely registered anyone else. Her hands shook as she reached for your shoulder, careful and terrified at once, rubbing gently because she couldn’t bear not to touch you. “Hey,” she said, and her voice was nothing like her own, thinned out by panic. “Hey, baby.” No response. Her throat closed around the next breath and then she was louder, lifting her head toward the approaching medics. “Help! Please—”
They were already coming, fast now, crossing the ice with equipment in hand, and a few officials were ushering the other skaters away to clear space. Somebody told Alysa to move back. She didn’t. Or maybe she physically couldn’t. She stayed right there by your side, knees freezing through her tights against the ice, one hand still on your shoulder as if keeping contact alone might anchor you. Then, after another agonizing 4 seconds that felt much longer than that, you stirred. It was slight at first. A blink. A breath dragged in unevenly. Your head shifted. Relief hit Alysa so hard it almost made her dizzy, but it wasn’t clean relief, because you looked so confused when your eyes finally opened, blinking slowly up into all that bright arena light. “Hey, hey,” Alysa said immediately, leaning closer so you’d find her first before anything else. “You’re okay. Don’t move.” Her voice was shaking badly now and she knew it, couldn’t stop it. Your gaze found her but didn’t quite settle. It drifted, unfocused, then came back. Medics were beside you, one kneeling near your head, another already talking in the brisk calm voices medical people use when they’re trying not to pour urgency into a situation that absolutely has urgency in it. They asked Alysa to give them room and this time she shifted only enough to let them in, never fully leaving your side. One of them checked your airway and breathing first, speaking softly to you while another assessed where you’d hit and whether there was any obvious neck or spinal concern from the fall. They stabilized your head, hands firm and practiced, and started asking you simple orientation questions while watching your eyes carefully. “Can you tell me your name?” one asked. “Do you know where you are?” Another medic shone a light briefly into your pupils, watching the reaction, fingers at your wrist a moment later to check pulse. Someone else was already unzipping equipment, preparing more formal vitals. You tried to push up almost immediately, instinct stronger than sense, but the medic at your shoulder pressed you back down gently and firmly. “Stay with us,” he said. “Don’t sit up yet.”
And you, in the middle of all that, still went straight to apology. Your voice came out rough and dazed and so heartbreakingly automatic Alysa wanted to cry from the cruelty of it. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, barely louder than the scrape of the medics’ gear against the ice. “I just slipped. Please let me do it again.”
No one answered that directly at first because they were trying to assess you, trying to get your attention to stay on them. “What year is it?” one medic asked. “Can you tell me what event this is?”
But you kept trying to return to the only thing your mind seemed to think mattered. “I can do it again,” you insisted weakly, not fighting them exactly but not really hearing them either. “Please, I can finish. I’m fine.” Alysa felt another stab of pain go through her, fierce enough to make her chest seize. Even like this, even half-conscious and confused, you were still trying to earn your way back onto the ice.
She moved one of her hands to yours then, your fingers freezing cold in her grip, and held on tightly. “Baby,” she said, voice low and unsteady, trying to draw your focus back to her. “You already finished. You did it. You were amazing.” Your eyes flickered toward her again. “Just rest right now, okay? Just rest.”
Something in the sound of her seemed to reach you where the other voices couldn’t. You looked at her, really looked this time, and the frantic edge in you softened by a fraction, quieted enough that you stopped trying to rise. Alysa kept holding your hand between both of hers, rubbing warmth into it uselessly, like maybe if she held you tightly enough she could stop all of this from getting worse.
Once the medics were satisfied enough to move you, everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. A carrier came out onto the ice, the sight of it making Alysa’s throat tighten all over again because it made the whole thing feel unmistakably real in a way even the fall hadn’t yet. The medical team coordinated calmly, talking through each step, maintaining stabilization as they prepared to transfer you. They fitted a cervical collar as a precaution because of how you’d fallen forward and because you’d lost consciousness, then log-rolled you carefully onto a backboard before lifting you onto the stretcher, each movement controlled and deliberate. You looked so small under all of it. Too pale. Too still between moments of groggy blinking. Alysa hovered as close as they would let her, answering what little she could when they asked about how long you’d been overtraining, whether there had been dizziness before, what she knew about your intake. Her answers came out clipped and shaky because her whole focus kept breaking apart every time your face pinched faintly with discomfort.
When they finally started moving you off the ice, wheels rattling once they hit the rubber mats beyond the boards, Alysa went with them without hesitation. Of course she did. No one was keeping her back now, and even if they had tried she didn’t think she could have stopped. She followed close enough to reach for your hand again the second there was room, her own pulse still hammering uncontrollably, that bad feeling in her gut now transformed into something even heavier and more terrible: the confirmation that her fear had been right, and that being right had not protected you in time.
The walk off the ice felt wrong in a way Alysa would remember later not as a sequence of images, but as one long, distorted sensation. The corridor behind the rink was bright and clinical and moving too fast around her, people stepping aside, doors opening ahead, medics speaking in calm, efficient voices that only made the panic in her chest feel louder by comparison. You were on the stretcher, pale beneath the fluorescent lights, strapped down more securely now and the brace at your neck making you look even smaller than you already had on the ice. Every few seconds she squeezed your hand gently just to remind you she was there, that you weren’t alone in this, that even if your eyes kept drifting half shut and your responses were slow and delayed, there was still something solid beside you. You gave almost nothing back except small things Alysa had learned to read anyway—the faintest twitch of your fingers, the slow blink when she said your name, the way your eyes found her and stayed there for one extra beat before sliding elsewhere again because even that seemed to cost too much energy right now. Alysa kept talking in a low, shaky stream she barely registered afterward, little scraps of reassurance spilling out because silence would have been unbearable.
“You’re okay,” she kept saying, though her voice betrayed how badly she needed it to be true. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” She was so focused on you, on the frightening stillness of your body and the fragile evidence that you were awake, that she barely processed anything else. Not the footsteps behind. Not the fact that Elena and Martin were following too. Not Philip and Massimo moving off to the side with tense faces and clipped questions to whatever official had met them in the hall. Alysa’s whole world had narrowed to the hand in hers and the impossible fact that only minutes ago you had been skating and now you were here.
They reached a set of double doors with frosted glass panels, the kind that marked a threshold from public crisis into private medical reality, and that was where everything stopped. An official stepped in front of the stretcher and told the medics to continue inside, then turned to the cluster of people trailing behind and held up a hand. “Only medical personnel past this point.” Alysa blinked at him, not understanding for a second because understanding would mean letting go.
“No,” she said immediately, voice cracking on the word. “I’m coming with her.” The man’s expression softened in that rehearsed way people’s faces do when they’re used to delivering bad news kindly but firmly.
“You can’t. Not right now.” He looked past her then, toward Elena and Martin. “Same for you.”
Only then did Alysa fully register that your coaches were there at all, just several feet away, all hard edges and watchful eyes, suddenly reduced to the same powerless position as everyone else by the closed doors ahead. But Alysa barely had room in her for them yet. She turned back to you instead, leaning down quickly before the stretcher rolled any farther. Your hand was still in hers, limp and cold, and she pressed a kiss to your knuckles because she didn’t trust herself to do more without falling apart. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” she whispered, trying to smile and failing somewhere in the middle of it. You looked at her with those dazed, exhausted eyes and blinked once, slow and heavy. It was the smallest thing, but Alysa understood it for what it was—your version of okay, or as close to it as you could manage right now. Then the medics guided the stretcher through the doors and they swung shut between you. Alysa stood there staring at them as if the force of her wanting could make them reopen.
For a few seconds she didn’t move at all. She just stood in the middle of that hallway with the imprint of your hand still in hers and an immense, unbearable weight settling in her chest. It was too much feeling at once, too many things trying to occupy the same space in her body. Love so fierce it hurt. Fear so sharp it had made her hands shake. Desperation, because the doors were closed now and you were behind them and she could no longer see for herself whether you were all right. Her whole body felt wrong, wound too tight and suddenly abandoned by action. On the ice there had at least been things to do—run, kneel, hold, speak, follow. Here there was just waiting, and Alysa had never been good at waiting when it came to you. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her temples, in the tight corners of her jaw. Her breathing came a little too fast, each inhale catching against something sore and brittle in her chest.
She might have stayed suspended in that terrible, helpless stillness a while longer if not for the voices off to the side. At first they were just another blur of sound in the corridor, low enough to disappear beneath the general bustle of medical staff moving in and out. Then one phrase cut cleanly enough through the noise that Alysa turned her head without meaning to. Elena and Martin had cornered another medical officer near the wall, not close enough to seem aggressive, just close enough to make sure their version got spoken early. And what they were saying—Alysa only caught pieces at first, but the pieces were enough.
“We told her to rest…” Elena was saying, her voice pitched into something practiced and concerned.
“She gets anxious before big events, and sometimes she overdoes it on her own. She’s been taking some caffeine pills because she gets nervous and wants extra energy…” Martin added something lower, calmer, more insidious because of how reasonable he sounded. “…appetite’s been off too, likely nerves. This first official practice is a lot, but she was fine before. There really hasn’t been an issue.”
Alysa went so still it felt unnatural. Then all at once she felt cold from head to toe. Not the normal cold of a rink hallway, not the stale chill of air conditioning against damp skin. Something deeper and sharper than that, like ice had been dropped straight into her bloodstream. Her fists closed so hard her nails bit into her palms. She could feel the skin there protesting and didn’t care. Her lip twitched once. Then her eye. It wasn’t dramatic from the outside, probably—just tiny movements in a face gone frighteningly blank—but inside her, something was building so fast and violently it was almost hard to track. Because Alysa knew what they had been doing to you. She knew it in the accumulation of bruises and the exhaustion you wore at night and the meals you stopped coming to and the way your body had felt too light in her arms for weeks now. She knew it in that text message still burned into her vision. She knew it in the scale, the water restrictions, the relentless practice, the lies they’d fed you until your own voice started echoing theirs back at her. And now, standing not twenty feet from the doors you had just disappeared through on a stretcher, they were lying. Not just lying to save themselves, but shifting it onto you. Making you sound careless, unstable, self-destructive by choice. Playing the part of concerned adults trying to manage a nervous athlete who had gone rogue with stimulants and stress.
Alysa hated them so suddenly and completely it felt almost animal. She was not a person who lived in anger. She had fought too hard to stop giving ugly people power over her mood, over her body, over her peace. She had learned how to laugh things off, how to shrug, how to stay light. Most of the time anger slid off her before it could root. But this wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t even normal fury. It was hatred with sharp teeth. It rose through her so fast it made her vision pulse at the edges. For one raw second she genuinely thought she could kill them.
She turned toward them slowly, but only because the force of what she felt had to gather itself somewhere before it could move. Elena was still talking, still wearing that awful polished expression—the controlled frown, the hand lightly touching her own wrist as if she were burdened by concern. Martin stood beside her in his usual measured way, solemn and careful and every bit as false. If you didn’t know them, if you hadn’t seen what they did to you when no one else mattered, they might even have looked convincing. That was what made it worse. They were playing victim now, or close enough to it. They were the responsible coaches. The people caught in a difficult situation because their athlete had, tragically, pushed herself too hard.
Alysa’s body moved before her coaches could fully stop it. One second she was standing there rigid with rage and the next she was launching forward, all that cold fury tipping into motion so abruptly it startled even her. Philip was on her almost instantly, clearly having read the shift in her posture a beat before anyone else did. His hands caught her shoulders hard enough to jolt her back. “Hey, hey—” he was saying, voice low and urgent, trying to anchor her. “It’s okay, she’s going to be okay.” But Alysa didn’t hear him. Or maybe she heard the shape of the words and they simply couldn’t compete with the blood rushing in her ears. She jerked against his hold anyway, trying to get at them, and that was when Massimo came in too, grabbing at her forearms, helping keep her from actually making contact. Elena had gone wide-eyed now, Martin stepping half in front of her with that same infuriatingly calm expression as though he were the aggrieved party here. That almost made Alysa lose it worse.
“This is your fault!” she screamed. The sound ripped out of her throat so hard it hurt. She was not elegant when she was this angry. Not controlled. Her voice shook and broke and still she kept going, straining forward against Philip and Massimo as they held her back. “You did this to her! You pushed her, you kept pushing her, you made her do all this and now she’s hurt and it’s your fault!” The words were loud enough to turn heads all down the corridor. Alysa didn’t care. If anything, some vicious part of her wanted people to hear. Wanted the nice, professional little story Elena and Martin were spinning to be shattered publicly. “How dare you lie?” she shouted, her face hot now, tears stinging unexpectedly at the backs of her eyes from the force of everything in her. “How dare you stand here and act like she did this to herself? You know exactly what you’ve been doing to her!” Elena opened her mouth—whether to deny it, deflect it, or tell Alysa she was being inappropriate, Alysa never found out, because the second she saw Elena trying to form another lie she surged forward again with enough force that Philip had to actually haul her back against him.
“Don’t,” he warned, breathless himself now from the effort of holding her, but Alysa was beyond hearing warnings. Her whole body had become one line of desperate, shaking fury aimed at the two people standing there pretending innocence while you were behind those doors being examined for damage they had caused.
“She collapsed!” Alysa yelled, voice gone ragged. “She collapsed because of you! Because you wouldn’t leave her alone, because you kept starving her and pushing her and drugging her so she could stay on her feet for you—”
“Alysa,” Massimo cut in sharply, not because he disagreed but because she was close to ripping herself apart trying to get through them. “Enough. Come on.”
“No!” she snapped, twisting again, but the word came out thinner than before, already fraying under the strain. Philip’s hold on her shifted from restraint into something more protective as the fight started bleeding out of her all at once.
That was the thing about anger that big—it burned brutally, but it didn’t hold forever, not when the person carrying it was already exhausted, terrified, and running on nothing but adrenaline. The second the immediate chance to get at them was truly gone, the whole force of it folded in on itself and left Alysa shaking. Her breaths turned uneven. The scream in her chest changed shape. She gave one last, useless jerk against Philip’s grip and then just… gave up. Her knees didn’t fully buckle, but the tension holding her upright did. She sagged back into Philip’s chest like her strings had been cut, one hand fisting in the front of his jacket because she needed something to hold and because if she didn’t grip something she thought she might fall apart right there on the floor. Philip’s hands moved immediately, one flattening between her shoulder blades, the other firm at the back of her head for a second in that grounding, almost parental way he had when she was too far gone to steady herself.
“Shh,” he murmured, softer now, his mouth near her hair. “It’s okay. Come on. Breathe.” Massimo was there too, one hand rubbing down her arm, the other briefly touching her shoulder, all his earlier sharpness gone because now this wasn’t about management, it was about keeping her from imploding. Alysa pressed her face into Philip’s chest and felt how badly her whole body was trembling now that the rage had nowhere to go.
When she spoke, it came out in broken, desperate little fragments she probably would have been embarrassed by any other day. “I’m scared,” she mumbled into the fabric of his jacket, voice so small compared to how loud she had just been. “I just want her to be okay. I just—” The rest dissolved. Philip kept rubbing slow circles into her back like she was something frightened he was trying not to startle more.
“She’s getting help,” he said quietly. “She’s getting help now.” Alysa clung to the words because there was nothing else to cling to.
By then she was too tired to keep fighting anyone. Too wrung out from days of alertness, from the collapse, from the helplessness of those closed doors, from the hatred that had just ripped through her so violently it left her hollow. So when Philip and Massimo steered her gently away down the corridor, she went. Not because she wanted to leave the doors that separated her from you, but because there was no strength left in her to protest. Her steps felt strange, unsteady, like she was moving through water. She glanced back once, just once, at the double doors, and the sight of them still shut made something ache so sharply in her chest she had to look away again. Behind her, Elena and Martin were still there somewhere, still playing whatever role they thought might save them. Alysa couldn’t deal with that again right now. She let her coaches guide her toward the locker room, one on either side like they were escorting someone barely keeping it together, which, at that point, they were. The anger was still in her, yes, simmering hot and poisonous beneath everything else, but it was drowned for the moment by fear and by the awful emptiness of not knowing.
All she could do now was wait. And Alysa hated waiting almost as much as she hated them.
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the cure by olivia rodrigo is sooooo good. it had nothing to do with the making of this story but i love promoting my girl... stream if u want another update from me LOL
Alexia Putellas Segura. La Reina. Legend of the game. Culer forever.
The woman that has quite literally done it all in football. I could not be more proud of what she has done for women's sports. She's been through it all, from the growth of the sport to winning every throphy out there that Barca has competed for.
A player that has inspired thousands and thousands of people all around the world. You can see in the way she is with the younger girls on the team, just how much of an inspiration and leader she really is.
I can't quite comprehend that tomorrow will be her final match for Barcelona yet, but I know I will forever be grateful to have watched her play in blaugrana. Witnessing her play in of a sold out Camp Nou against Bayern, and her scoring a goal right in front of me will be a memory I will cherish forever.
Thank you for everything, Alexia 💙❤️
SUMMARY — a little wine spill leads you to ending the night in a way you definitely didn't see coming.
WARNING — mentions of sex, alcohol
WORD COUNT — 3.7K
MASTERLIST
Music filled every corner of Brooke Glenn's house. The living room was packed with freshly graduated people, friends of friends, half-empty cups abandoned on every surface, and conversations blending together with the too-loud laughter of people who were already a few drinks deep.
Brooke had wanted to celebrate finishing college 'properly', and honestly, she was killing it.
You'd arrived a little over an hour ago with a mutual friend, though by now you'd completely lost track of how many drinks you'd had. You weren't totally drunk, but definitely at that dangerous point where everything felt funnier, warmer, and walking in a straight line suddenly took way more effort than it should.
You were wearing a light white shirt, way too thin for the amount of warm lighting in the house, and dark jeans. You'd half tied your hair up because it was hot and because, honestly, you'd stopped caring what you looked like hours ago.
And then it happened.
You were distracted, looking back while laughing at something someone had just said. At the same time, Amber Glenn was crossing the hallway from the kitchen with a glass of red wine in her hand, talking over her shoulder to somebody else.
Neither of you was looking where you were going.
The collision was brutal.
"Fuck!" you blurted out between half-drunk laughs as you felt the impact.
Amber's wine glass practically launched out of her hand a second before the wine splashed all over you.
Right across your chest.
Cold at first. Then wet. Sticky.
The silence between you lasted maybe two seconds, but it felt way longer.
Amber stared at you in horror.
"Oh my God. Oh no, no, no, no— I'm so sorry, seriously, I'm so sorry"
But then her eyes dropped.
Your white shirt had absorbed the wine instantly. The fabric, already thin to begin with, clung completely to your skin. The red stain spread slowly across the middle of your chest... and underneath, way more was visible than anyone probably should've seen at a college party.
Amber froze.
Her face went from normal to dangerously red in about two seconds flat. And the worst part was that she kept staring.
You looked down too and let out an incredulous laugh. "Well... that definitely makes this worse."
Amber snapped her eyes back up immediately, caught red-handed.
"I wasn't staring!" she lied instantly.
The look on your face only made her spiral harder.
"Okay, yeah, I was staring, but it was accidental. Well... not accidental. It just-happened."
You couldn't help laughing again.
She was still holding the empty wine glass with the expression of someone having a full-on personal crisis.
Even tipsy, you could tell one very specific thing: Amber Glenn was ridiculously hot up close.
Way hotter than in pictures.
She wore a fitted black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled to her forearms, her hair slightly messy like she'd spent all night pushing it out of her face. She had that dangerous kind of beauty that looked effortless. Natural. Almost annoying.
And she was looking at you like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
"I swear I'll buy you another shirt," she said quickly. "Or ten. Whatever you want."
"Amber, I don't think any shirt can save this situation now."
Her eyes dropped to the stain again.
Bad idea.
Because she stared a second too long all over again.
Her lips parted slightly before she caught herself.
"Jesus Christ."
You laughed.
"You okay there?"
"I'm trying really hard to be a good person right now and you are not helping."
The honesty caught you off guard.
Amber dragged a hand down her face, defeated.
"Okay. Come with me. The upstairs bathroom has cold water and... some stain remover, I think. Brooke literally keeps everything in there."
"Does this happen to you a lot?"
"Usually not with pretty girls, so this is kinda new for me."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. And somehow the silence after that was even worse.
Amber shut her eyes for a second.
"Please ignore that."
But you were already smiling.
"I don't want to ignore it."
That made her finally look directly at you for the first time since the accident. Not at the stain. At your eyes.
And something shifted.
Because suddenly the embarrassment made room for something heavier. Warmer.
Amber swallowed hard.
"Come upstairs before anybody else sees you like this."
You went upstairs through the distant noise of the party. Much quieter up there. The contrast made everything feel weirdly intimate.
Amber opened the bathroom door and let you walk in first.
The bright light showed the full disaster your shirt had become.
"Yeah... that's definitely not coming out easily," she muttered.
You leaned against the sink while Amber rummaged under it looking for towels or literally anything useful. She kept mumbling to herself, obviously nervous.
And honestly, it was adorable.
"I think Brooke has stain remover... or baking soda... or witchcraft, I don't know."
"You're getting nervous again."
"Because I still feel guilty."
"Only guilty?"
She slowly looked back up at you.
There it was again. That silence.
The bathroom suddenly felt way too small.
Amber stepped a little closer, holding a damp towel in her hand.
"I can help if you want."
Her voice came out softer this time.
You looked at the towel. Then at her.
"You gonna try not to stare?"
Amber let out a short laugh, completely doomed.
"No promises."
Amber was still standing in front of you, damp towel in her hands, very obviously trying to keep some kind of self-control while you were barely making an effort to help her out.
The tension in the bathroom had completely changed.
It wasn't just the accident anymore.
Or the embarrassment.
It was that weird electricity that suddenly appears between two people when they both realize the exact same thing at the exact same time.
You crossed your arms almost on instinct, though that only made the effect of the soaked shirt clinging to your skin worse.
Amber looked away immediately.
Way too late.
"Sorry," she muttered again, letting out a nervous laugh. "I'm seriously trying to behave right now."
"And who says you have to?"
The question came out light, almost teasing, but it made Amber lift her head so fast it was actually kind of funny.
Her eyes locked onto yours.
For a full second, she didn't answer.
Just stared at you.
Like she was trying to figure out whether you were actually flirting with her or if the alcohol was making her hallucinate the whole thing.
"That is not helping at all," she said finally, voice low.
You shrugged with a tiny smile.
"You started it when you called me pretty."
Amber exhaled through her nose, already defeated.
"Yeah, well... because you are."
The honesty caught you off guard again.
It didn't sound like a line. Or something smooth. Or rehearsed.
It sounded real.
Very real.
She stepped a little closer and slowly lifted the towel.
"Can I?"
You nodded.
The first touch was gentle. Careful.
Amber tried focusing only on cleaning the stain, pressing the damp fabric against the spilled wine while avoiding looking directly at you for too long.
But it was impossible not to notice how nervous she was.
Her fingers were trembling slightly.
Her breathing wasn't exactly steady either.
And you could feel the heat coming off her from this close.
"I think I'm making it worse," she muttered.
"Definitely."
Amber let out a short laugh.
"Awesome. Perfect. First I ruin your shirt and now you probably look like you survived a fight with a bottle of merlot."
"Could be worse."
"Oh yeah?"
"You could be less cute while doing it."
That absolutely destroyed her.
She literally froze.
The towel still pressed lightly against your chest. Eyes slightly wider than before.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"I don't know. Is it working?"
Amber nervously ran her tongue over her lips before stepping back half a pace, like she needed oxygen again.
"Brooke is gonna make fun of me for months if she finds out about this."
"The wine part or the fact you can't look me in the face for more than ten seconds?"
She laughed in disbelief.
"You have no idea how hard you're making this for me."
"I think I actually do."
The way Amber looked at you after that shifted the whole atmosphere again.
Heavier.
Slower.
Downstairs you could still hear the music and distant voices from the party, but it felt like it was happening in a completely different universe.
Up here, it was just the two of you.
The bathroom mirror slightly fogged from the heat.
The harsh white light.
The closeness.
Amber finally set the towel down on the sink and braced her hands on either side of it near you, not touching, but close enough that your stomach tightened anyway.
"I need to ask you something," she said.
"Depends what it is."
She let out a small, nervous smile.
"Are you flirting with me because you're drunk... or because you actually want to?"
The question landed between you with dangerous honesty.
You studied her for a few seconds.
Amber didn't just look embarrassed anymore. There was something vulnerable in her expression now. Like she genuinely needed to know the answer before letting herself take one more step closer.
And that softened you more than you expected.
"What about you?" you asked softly. "Did you stare that much completely by accident?"
Amber laughed quietly, shaking her head.
"No. Definitely not an accident."
Your smile widened just a little.
She smiled too then, finally relaxing, though she was still red all the way to her ears.
"Good," you murmured.
Amber watched you for another couple seconds. Her eyes flicked down toward your lips for a moment before lifting again.
"You have a really dangerous way of looking at people."
"And you have a really shameless way of staring at boobs."
Amber covered her face for a second, laughing. "I'm gonna need you to forget that happened."
"Never."
"Fantastic."
But she was smiling when she said it.
And even though she was still trying to play it cool, she didn't pull away anymore whenever her fingers accidentally brushed your waist while moving near you.
And you definitely weren't doing anything to move away either.
The night had turned into something completely different from what either of you could've expected when you crashed into each other in that hallway.
The bathroom had only been the beginning.
Then came the conversations leaning against the sink, the nervous laughs, the silences that lasted a little too long while you stared at each other, and that growing tension neither of you was really trying to stop anymore.
Amber had tried to stay 'responsible' for exactly twenty minutes.
Right up until you stopped playing fair.
A hand resting on her arm while you talked.
Your fingers brushing against hers.
The way you smiled every single time she blushed. And Amber... Amber was absolutely gone for you.
You ended up sitting on the bathroom floor talking about random nonsense for almost an hour. The music downstairs sounded muffled while the party kept going without you.
Amber told you ridiculous stories about competitions, training, and stupid injuries. You teased her constantly about how embarrassingly easy it was to make her lose focus.
And little by little, you kept getting closer.
Until eventually the words started feeling unnecessary.
The first kiss had been slow.
Almost hesitant.
Amber had looked at you like she was silently asking if she was really allowed to do this before leaning in carefully.
But the second you kissed her back, all the tension from the entire night snapped at once.
After that, neither of you really thought too hard anymore.
It just felt natural.
The nervous hands. The muffled laughs between kisses when one of you bumped into the sink or the wall. Amber still trying to be careful even while she was very obviously losing her mind over you.
And honestly, there was something dangerously attractive about watching her completely lose composure.
The bedroom happened much later.
The party downstairs slowly died out while the two of you disappeared entirely from the rest of the world.
And now...
The next morning.
Sunlight streamed through the half-open curtains of Brooke's guest room. Everything had that strange quietness that comes after a night that lasted way too long.
Your head felt slightly heavy from the alcohol and from barely sleeping.
The first thing you noticed was warmth.
Then the soft weight of an arm wrapped around your waist.
You opened your eyes slowly.
Amber was still asleep beside you.
Her hair completely messy across the pillow, breathing slow, still half wrapped around you like even asleep she wanted to make sure you were still there.
She looked adorable.
Like, ridiculously adorable.
The sheet barely covered part of her back, and there were faint kiss marks scattered across her skin that made way too many memories hit you way too fast.
Your smile showed up automatically.
Amber made a tiny sleepy sound and buried her face further into the pillow. And right when you were considering going back to sleep...
The door flew open.
"Amber, have you seen my—?"
Brooke froze completely in the doorway.
You slowly lifted your head.
Amber took a few more seconds to react... until she opened one confused eye.
Then she saw her sister.
And internally died.
"Oh my God!" Brooke yelled way too loudly.
Amber shot upright, yanking the sheet up like that could somehow fix literally any part of this situation.
"Brooke!"
"Are you naked?!"
"Get out!"
You were already hiding your face laughing while Brooke looked back and forth between the two of you with a mixture of absolute scandal and pure amusement.
"I knew you were gay, Amber, but damn, that escalated fast."
"Brooke, please."
"Wait—is this the white shirt girl?"
That made Brooke start laughing even harder.
Amber was completely red.
"I'm gonna kill you."
"Mom is gonna love this story!"
"You are not telling her anything!"
"Oh, I'm absolutely telling her."
Amber launched a pillow directly at her face.
Brooke slammed the door shut, still cackling while walking away down the hallway.
The silence afterward was lethal.
Amber collapsed backward onto the bed, covering her face with both hands.
"I want to disappear."
You were laughing way too hard to help her.
"It's not funny."
"Your sister literally caught you naked cuddling me."
"Exactly why it's not funny."
But even she ended up laughing too, completely defeated.
By the time you finally got dressed and managed to find decent clothes in the chaos from the night before, Amber was still muttering empty threats about 'moving to another state' every time she remembered Brooke's face.
The two of you walked downstairs together pretty late.
The house was way quieter now. Just leftovers from the party remained: abandoned cups, blankets tossed over the couch, and the lingering smell of alcohol and cold food.
And there were Brooke and her boyfriend David in the kitchen.
Waiting for you.
Brooke looked up the second you appeared.
The grin she gave Amber was absolutely unbearable.
"Look at her!" she told David. "Here comes Casanova."
Amber let out a noise of pure suffering.
David tried not to laugh while sipping his coffee.
"I'm gonna assume the party ended well."
"David, don't encourage her," Amber muttered.
But you noticed something immediately.
Amber had walked downstairs practically glued to your side.
Brushing against your hand constantly.
Sneaking glances at you like she was still checking whether last night had actually happened.
And when Brooke smirked before asking you:
"So... are you gonna see her again or what?"
Amber tensed slightly.
Just a little.
But enough for you to notice.
You looked at Amber.
She avoided your eyes for half a second before finally looking back at you, still red.
And for the first time since you met her, Amber looked genuinely nervous about something that had nothing to do with sports.
Like your answer actually mattered to her.
Brooke's comment hung in the air like somebody had suddenly turned the volume down on everything else.
Amber didn't answer right away.
For her, that was already an answer.
She stood beside you in the kitchen too straight, too aware of every second passing, like she genuinely didn't know what to do with her hands anymore. Every time her eyes met yours, she looked away again with this weird mix of embarrassment and something softer, more intimate, that she wasn't fully hiding anymore.
Brooke, meanwhile, looked way too comfortable enjoying the chaos.
David drank his coffee like this kind of thing happened every weekend in his life.
"Don't start," Amber muttered finally, not looking at her sister.
Brooke raised her hands in fake innocence.
"I didn't even say anything bad. I'm just trying to understand the statistical miracle of you socializing with someone who isn't your physical therapist."
"Brooke..."
The warning came out low, but there was no real force behind it. It sounded more like emotional exhaustion than actual annoyance.
You leaned lightly against the counter, watching the scene with a mix of amusement and something dangerously close to affection. The way Amber kept trying to pull herself together was almost more revealing than what had happened the night before.
Because she was trying.
Just... not very successfully.
Every now and then her body angled unconsciously toward you, like instinct still hadn't caught up with the fact that you weren't alone in the bathroom anymore or hidden away in the guest room.
You were standing in the middle of her family's kitchen.
Brooke noticed too.
"Okay," Brooke said finally, leaning against the counter. "Topic change. Are you guys eating breakfast or staying in your little romantic drama era?"
Amber closed her eyes for a second.
"Breakfast. Definitely breakfast."
David casually slid a plate toward the table.
"There's toast."
Little by little the atmosphere started loosening up, like the kitchen was slowly recovering some more stable version of reality. The smell of coffee, the sound of the toaster, sunlight pouring through the windows... all of it helped ease the tension even if it never fully disappeared.
Because Amber was still there.
Right beside you.
Too close.
When you sat down, she sat first and then you, but the chair was narrow enough that your legs brushed accidentally under the table.
Amber froze for half a second.
Then she didn't move away.
That tiny detail made you smile before you could stop yourself.
Brooke saw it and nearly choked on her coffee.
"I'm not gonna say anything," she announced way too fast, which obviously meant the exact opposite.
Amber shot her a murderous look.
"Please do."
"No, no, this is way more fun."
David, either oblivious or pretending to be, scrolled through his phone.
And for the first time since you'd come downstairs, Amber let out a short laugh. Nervous, yeah. But real.
You glanced at her.
She held your gaze a second longer than necessary.
And there it was again.
That invisible thing between you two, like a conversation that didn't need words anymore.
Brooke cleared her throat dramatically.
"Okay, you guys are giving me emotional allergies."
Amber sighed, but this time she didn't seem annoyed.
Just... exposed.
"It's not what you think," she said automatically.
Brooke raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't say anything."
Amber went silent.
Rookie mistake.
You looked down at your toast to stop yourself from laughing. Because it was painfully obvious Amber had been losing this battle for hours already.
After breakfast, the whole vibe of the house started shifting. Brooke cleaned things here and there, David helped out, and the general mood slowly transitioned from 'college hangover disaster' to 'chaotic but functional Sunday morning'.
Amber, though, seemed stuck somewhere in between.
She kept following you around.
Not in an obvious way.
Just enough to always stay close.
If you went to get water, she somehow ended up there too.
If you stood up, her eyes followed you before she even realized she was doing it.
And when you finally ended up alone together in the hallway for a moment, while Brooke argued with David about something in the living room, Amber spoke quietly.
"I'm sorry about... all of this."
You leaned against the wall, looking at her calmly.
"Your sister or last night?"
Amber pressed her lips together, clearly debating whether to answer honestly or hide behind humor again.
She picked humor.
"Both."
You stepped a little closer, enough that she had to tilt her head slightly upward to look at you.
"You don't need to apologize," you said.
Amber let out the tiniest laugh.
"Yeah, well... that's easy to say now."
"Amber."
The second you said her name like that, she stopped talking.
Not fully tense.
"Last night wasn't a mistake," you added more quietly.
That cracked something open in her a little.
You could see it in the way her breathing shifted, in the way her eyes dropped for a second before finding yours again.
"Yeah..." she murmured. "But my life usually doesn't work in simple ways like this."
"Maybe it should."
The words stayed between you.
Amber watched you for a few long seconds, like she was trying to figure out what to do with this version of herself that only seemed to exist around you.
The version that wasn't thinking about competitions or schedules or expectations.
Just this moment.
From the living room, Brooke burst out laughing at something David said, breaking the spell a little.
Amber closed her eyes briefly, took a breath... and when she opened them again, something in her expression looked clearer.
Less chaos.
More certainty.
"I'm not good at this," she admitted.
"At what?"
"At... whatever this is."
You smiled a little.
"I'm not really trying to solve it either."
That pulled a softer laugh out of her, this one more genuine.
SUMMARY — you find out Alysa made you a friendship bracelet with her number on it, and you can't help but text her about it.
WARNING — none
WORD COUNT — 3.5K
PT.1 PT.2 PT.3 PT.4
MASTERLIST
The noise of the Kia Forum was still buzzing long after the concert ended.
It wasn't music anymore. It was that chaotic mix of thousands of people leaving at the same time—excited yelling, rushed footsteps, stage crews tearing things down, overlapping conversations echoing through the arena halls.
And in the middle of all that, Alysa desperately wished she could go back four hours in time and slap herself.
"That was kinda cute," Madison said for the fifth time, trying not to laugh.
"No, no, no," Amber immediately lifted a hand. "That was clinically insane. Different thing."
"Amber!" Ellie protested, even though she was grinning.
Alysa sank deeper into the white couch in the VIP lounge and covered her face with both hands.
"I wanna die."
"You can't die yet," Isabeau replied calmly. "We need to see how this ends."
That made Amber laugh so hard she almost spilled her drink.
The VIP area was lit with warm, dim lighting. Outside, they could still hear pieces of the stage getting dismantled, but inside everything looked ridiculously fancy: glass tables, untouched catering trays, overpriced bottled water, fresh flowers, giant couches, and the constant hum of the AC.
And there they were.
Amber Glenn sprawled out like she was watching the best reality show of her life.
Isabeau Levito sitting elegantly with her legs crossed, studying Alysa like a scientist observing a deeply concerning phenomenon.
Ellie Kam trying to be the only compassionate person in the group. And Madison Chock stuck between helping and laughing her ass off.
"In my defense..." Alysa muttered from behind her hands, "it sounded smart at the time."
"At the time?" Amber repeated. "Alysa, you wrote your number on a bracelet."
"The bracelet was cute!"
"And then you tried giving it to a literal global pop star in front of twenty thousand people."
"Because I had a plan!"
Everyone stared at her.
Alysa slowly lowered her hands.
"...sort of."
Amber leaned forward immediately.
"You had absolutely no plan."
"Well technically I did."
"What was it?"
Alysa hesitated.
"Hope fate did something."
Ellie accidentally snorted.
Madison covered her mouth.
Even Isabeau cracked a tiny smile.
"Oh my God," Amber said. "You're worse than I thought."
Alysa groaned in embarrassment and buried her face into the pillow again.
It had all started before the concert.
The bracelet had seemed like an innocent idea. Cute, even. She'd spent almost an hour making it: silver beads, tiny stars, letters lined up carefully.
And the beads with her number on them.
Not because she actually thought it would work.
Well.
Maybe a little.
But mostly because she had a massive crush on you and the whole romantic idea sounded adorable at two in the morning.
What she hadn't considered was one very important detail: how the hell she was actually supposed to give it to you.
Because imagining cinematic scenarios in her head was one thing.
Actually getting to the Kia Forum and realizing there was:
Security.
Barricades.
Staff.
Thousands of people.
And exactly zero realistic opportunities to get near you without being tackled by a six-foot security guard.
So for almost the entire concert, the bracelet stayed hidden in her jacket pocket while she silently suffered.
And then somehow—through some absurd, incomprehensible chain of events— you found out about it.
That was the real problem.
She had no idea how.
Nobody did.
But around forty minutes after the concert ended, while they were hanging in the VIP area thanks to some of Madison's connections, Alysa's phone buzzed.
At first she barely paid attention.
Until she saw the name.
And felt her soul leave her body.
"What happened?" Ellie asked.
Alysa had gone completely still.
"...no."
"What?"
"No."
"Alysa?" Amber practically snatched the phone out of her hands.
And then she screamed.
A real scream.
Loud.
High-pitched.
Dramatic.
"She texted you!?"
Madison nearly choked on water.
Isabeau's eyes widened for the first time all night.
Ellie immediately tried grabbing the phone too.
"Let me see!"
"Amber!"
But Amber was already reading the message out loud with full telenovela narrator energy.
"I heard somebody made a bracelet for me and now I kinda need to see it because apparently there's a story behind it."
Amber slowly looked up.
The entire lounge exploded.
Ellie fell backward laughing.
Madison covered her face.
Isabeau was red trying not to laugh.
And Alysa...
Alysa wanted to spontaneously evaporate.
"Who snitched on me?" she asked in horror.
"That does not matter!" Amber was literally bouncing on the couch. "What matters is it worked!"
"It did not work!"
"She DM'd you on Instagram! That is literally the definition of working!"
"That wasn't the plan!"
"Then what was the plan?"
"I don't know!"
Madison was fully crying from silent laughter now.
Ellie finally managed to grab the phone and reread the message. And the more she looked at it, the worse the situation became.
Because it didn't sound cold.
It didn't sound like some copy-paste celebrity response.
It sounded genuinely curious.
And that was absolutely destroying Alysa.
"Oh, you're done for," Ellie said through laughter. "Look at this. She's actually interested."
"Don't say that," Alysa whispered, horrified.
"No, seriously, listen," Amber leaned closer again. "The important question here is—"
She paused dramatically.
"Did you answer yet?"
All four of them looked at her.
Alysa looked away.
Amber's mouth slowly dropped open.
"Alysa."
"..."
"ALYSA."
"I panicked."
"What does that mean?!"
"It means I closed Instagram!"
The whole room lost it again. Even Isabeau was openly laughing now.
"There's no way," Madison wheezed.
"You closed the app?!"
"I didn't know what to do!"
Amber collapsed backward dramatically.
"I have never seen somebody sabotage themselves that fast."
"She's nervous," Ellie said, trying to defend her.
"I would be nervous too!" Madison admitted. "I'd literally pass out."
"Exactly, thank you."
"But it's still hilarious."
"Madison."
"Sorry."
She was not sorry.
Alysa grabbed a pillow and threw it at her.
Madison caught it while still laughing.
And in the middle of all the chaos, Alysa's phone buzzed again.
The entire lounge went silent.
Completely silent.
Alysa slowly looked down at the screen.
Another message from you.
Amber made a strangled noise.
"Open it," Isabeau whispered immediately.
"I can't."
"Open it."
"I can't breathe."
"That's not relevant right now," Amber said. "Open the message!"
With shaking hands, Alysa unlocked her phone.
The second message was short.
"so was the bracelet just an urban legend?"
For one second, nobody spoke.
And then—
"OOOOOOOOOH!" Amber screamed.
Madison literally fell onto the floor laughing.
Ellie started smacking the couch in excitement.
Isabeau covered her mouth, shocked.
And Alysa felt like she was about to die right there. Because now the problem wasn't the bracelet anymore.
The problem was that you were very clearly having fun with this.
Alysa kept staring at the screen like her phone had suddenly turned into a live explosive device.
The message was still there.
Small.
Simple.
Flirty.
"Text her back," Amber said immediately.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No, physically I cannot."
"Your fingers work perfectly fine."
"My brain doesn't."
Ellie was already pressed against her side trying to analyze every micro-expression on her face.
"She's going into shock."
"She's been in love for months, that's different," Madison corrected while settling back onto the couch.
"I am not in love."
All four of them looked at her.
Alysa paused.
"...maybe a little."
Amber let out another victorious scream.
"She admitted it!"
"Keep your voice down!"
"Why? You think she's gonna hear us from backstage?"
And honestly, considering how the hell you'd somehow found out about the bracelet in the first place, nothing felt impossible anymore.
That was still the detail haunting Alysa.
Because she hadn't talked to you.
She never got close to you.
She hadn't even held the bracelet up during the concert because she was too scared of embarrassing herself.
So the only possible explanation was that somebody talked.
Or somebody saw something.
Or the universe had personally decided to destroy her emotional stability.
"I still wanna know who snitched," she muttered.
"Probably someone on staff saw the bracelet," Madison said. "Or overheard you hyperventilating before the encore."
"I was not hyperventilating."
Isabeau raised an eyebrow.
"Alysa, you said, 'If she looks directly at me, I'm gonna disintegrate'."
"Because it was true."
"And then you hid your face in my shoulder for like two songs," Ellie added.
"Yeah, that really doesn't help your case," Amber commented.
Alysa dropped backward again in defeat.
The VIP lounge still carried the distant echo of the event ending. People walking outside. Staff members coming and going. Faint laughter. The metallic clanging of equipment being taken apart.
But inside that room, time basically stopped around her phone.
Because you still hadn't gotten a reply.
And apparently that was killing the entire group.
"It's worse now because she knows you saw the message," Madison said.
"Don't say that!"
"How long has it even been?" Ellie asked.
Amber checked the time.
"Three minutes."
Alysa's eyes widened.
"Only three!? Feels like thirty years."
It really did feel like thirty years.
Especially because her brain kept replaying every catastrophic possibility.
Maybe you thought she was weird.
Maybe you regretted texting her.
Maybe you expected a normal response and instead accidentally discovered a girl incapable of functioning like an actual human being.
"Okay," Ellie finally said, taking control of the situation. "We're gonna solve this rationally."
"Good luck with that," Amber muttered.
Ellie ignored her.
"First: she is very obviously interested in talking to you."
Alysa made a strangled little noise.
"Second: the message was funny. Which means she's trying to make you feel comfortable."
"Or she's making fun of me."
"Flirting and teasing are not mutually exclusive," Madison said.
"Madison!"
"What? It's true."
Meanwhile, Isabeau kept watching the phone with suspicious levels of calm.
"I think you should send something simple."
"Like what?"
"Something natural."
"I don't know how to act natural."
"That is also true," Amber admitted.
Alysa shot her a murderous glare.
Amber smiled without a shred of regret.
"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "You've got two options."
She raised one finger.
"You either keep ignoring her and spend the rest of your life wondering what would've happened."
She raised a second finger.
"Or you answer and maybe end up married."
"Amber!"
"I'm thinking long-term here."
Ellie was trying not to laugh again.
Madison had already completely lost the battle. And somehow, unbelievably, Isabeau looked like the most reasonable person in the room.
"You could just tell the truth," she suggested. "Something like, 'The bracelet is real, I just got embarrassed trying to give it to you'."
Everyone went quiet for a second. Because honestly... it was a good idea.
Simple.
Honest.
Cute.
And that made it infinitely more terrifying.
"That sounds way too vulnerable," Alysa whispered.
"Because it is," Ellie said softly.
Alysa's expression shifted slightly.
And for the first time since everyone started clowning her, the real nerves showed again.
Because yeah, she was embarrassed.
Very embarrassed.
But underneath all the humiliation was something worse: hope.
That was the real problem.
If you hadn't answered, the whole thing would've stayed a ridiculous inside joke between friends.
The secret bracelet.
The impossible crush.
End of story.
But you answered. And not only did you answer— you sounded genuinely interested.
And that made everything feel dangerously real.
Alysa swallowed hard.
"What if she thinks I'm intense?"
Amber looked directly at her.
"You made a bracelet with your number on it for a celebrity."
"Amber!"
"I'm saying we passed the 'intense' stage hours ago."
Madison started laughing so hard she nearly fell over again.
Ellie finally shoved a pillow over her face.
"Stop helping her spiral."
"I am trying!"
"You're terrible at it."
The phone was still in Alysa's hands.
The conversation open.
Your messages sitting there above.
The empty little text bubble below waiting for a response.
And the longer she stared at it, the more nervous she got.
"What if I type something weird?"
"Then you send another message after," Isabeau said.
"What if I sound desperate?"
"You already gave her a bracelet with your number on it," Amber reminded her.
"I'm gonna hit you."
"But lovingly."
Alysa took a deep breath.
Exhaled.
Inhaled again.
Then finally started typing.
All four girls immediately leaned toward her like emotional vultures.
"Don't look."
Nobody moved.
"I'm serious."
Amber literally adjusted herself for a better view of the screen.
"This is a group project now."
"It is not."
"It is for us."
Alysa finished typing one sentence.
Read it.
Immediately deleted it.
"Too desperate."
She typed another.
Deleted it again.
"Too dry."
Another.
"Too weird."
Another.
"Why did I type 'LOL'? I sound psychotic."
"Everyone uses 'lol,'" Madison said.
"Yeah, but I used four L's. That communicates instability."
SUMMARY — your life changes when your older brother takes you to a college party and you meet Alysa. But what happens when she starts skating again and kinda starts leaving you on the sidelines?
WARNING — death, angst (sorry)
WORD COUNT — 4.3K
MASTERLIST
Alysa loved taking photos. Not in that pretentious 'I'm into photography' way where people buy an expensive camera and then post blurry café pics on social media. No. Alysa's thing was a quiet, constant, almost intimate obsession.
She saw the world through a viewfinder even when she didn't have her camera in her hands. She was always noticing light, colors, the shadows on walls, the way someone smiled without even realizing it.
And you became her favorite subject really fast.
You met at one of those awful college parties that feel specifically designed to make everyone uncomfortable. Way too loud music, sticky cups, a mix of cheap alcohol and strong perfume, groups of strangers pretending they were having way more fun than they actually were.
You didn't even want to go.
You'd spent the whole afternoon trying to convince your older brother, Patrick, to let you stay home. But Patrick was a senior, absurdly popular, and had that annoying habit of deciding what was "good for you."
"You need to meet people," he said, practically pushing you out the door. "You can't spend your first semester hiding out."
And there you were. Sitting on the arm of a worn-out couch, hugging a lukewarm soda like it was a lifeline, just wishing you could disappear.
Then Alysa showed up.
The first time you saw her, she had a camera hanging around her neck. Not a small or subtle one either. It was big, heavy, professional. She stood out in that crowd of people dressed to impress. She, meanwhile, looked completely uninterested in the party.
Her hair was a bit messy, she wore an oversized hoodie, and had that constantly-focused expression people get when they're always observing something.
She didn't talk to you right away.
First, she took your photo.
The flash didn't go off, but you heard the click.
You looked up, startled.
"Did you just take my picture?"
She barely lowered the camera and looked at you like the question had an obvious answer.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Alysa shrugged.
"You looked sad in a pretty way."
And honestly, that should've weirded you out. You should've been offended, or at least uncomfortable. But there was something about her... something totally straightforward. It didn't sound mean or mocking. Just honest.
After that, she sat next to you like you'd known each other forever.
Later on, when you became friends, you learned two important things about Alysa.
The first was that she used to be a figure skater.
Not just 'she skated a bit'. She had competed for years. Training since she was a kid, national competitions, constant pressure, injuries hidden under makeup and smiles. A whole life built around ice.
She never really talked about it.
Sometimes she'd mention something random: a broken ankle, a horrible coach, the feeling of not knowing who she was after she quit.
But she'd always change the subject fast.
The second thing you learned was that she was completely obsessed with her camera.
She never left without it.
Ever.
She wore it cross-body even just to grab coffee. She had thousands of photos stored on perfectly organized hard drives. Shots of rusty signs, stray cats, forgotten cups on library tables, cloudy skies, sneakers hanging from power lines.
And then there was you.
Alysa photographed you constantly.
At first, it was casual. You walking across campus. You reading in the library with your head resting on your hand. You laughing at something off-camera.
But then it escalated.
Or maybe improved.
Depending on how you looked at it.
Because the closer you got, the more Alysa seemed unable to stop photographing you. Like she was scared of losing something. Like she needed proof you were real.
"Again?" you'd complain every time you heard the click.
"Yep. Again."
"Alysa, I'm literally eating cereal."
"And you look adorable doing it."
She had hundreds of photos of you you didn't even know about.
Sleeping on the couch with a book open on your chest. Frowning while studying. Tying your hair up before cooking. Looking at her over a coffee mug.
Sometimes you'd catch her watching you from across the room, camera ready, waiting for the exact moment.
"That's creepy, you know."
"Shh. The lighting is perfect."
And the worst part? You could never really stay mad.
Because Alysa looked at you like you were something precious.
Not in some over-the-top, movie-style way. Something quieter. More real.
She photographed you when you were messy. Tired. Crying over dumb movies. With dark circles during finals.
And in every single photo, she seemed to find something worth keeping.
When you officially started dating, the number of photos basically exploded.
It was ridiculous.
Your phone was full of her texts like:
"Don't move." Immediately followed by a photo of you.
She'd take pictures of you cooking while you danced around the kitchen. Photos of you asleep face-down taking up the whole bed. Photos of you studying with pens between your lips. Photos of you wearing her oversized hoodies. Photos of you staring out the window when you thought she was working.
And Alysa always had an excuse.
"The lighting was nice."
"Your expression was nice."
"The moment was nice."
"You're nice."
She said it so casually it always left you speechless.
One night you found a folder on her computer simply named: "Her."
You opened it expecting maybe twenty photos.
There were literally thousands.
Years of your life documented in tiny moments you didn't even remember. You laughing with your head thrown back. You asleep hugging a pillow. You walking in the rain. You looking at her with that soft expression you only used with her.
And suddenly you understood something.
Alysa didn't take photos because she wanted perfect images.
She did it because she was scared moments would disappear.
She'd spent too many years losing things: skating, routine, the identity she built as a kid.
Maybe that's why she needed to keep everything.
Maybe that's why she kept you like that.
Like every photo said: "Look. This happened. She was here with me."
You found her on the couch that night, editing photos with her legs tucked under a blanket.
"Do you have any idea how many pictures of me you have?" you asked.
Alysa didn't even look up.
"Yeah."
"That's kind of a concerning amount."
"Probably."
You stepped closer.
"What if one day I get sick of it and run off?"
That's when she finally looked up.
And for a second, behind all her usual sarcasm, you saw something vulnerable. Something small and real.
"Then at least I'll be able to remember you properly."
You just stared at her for a moment.
Because that was the thing about Alysa: she loved in this quiet, obsessive, careful way.
And every photograph was proof of it.
Everything started changing the day Alysa got back on the ice.
Not as a hobby. Not 'just for fun'. Not to casually train on weekends.
She came back for real.
You noticed it even before she said it out loud.
Something about the way she moved after practice felt different. Electric. She'd come home exhausted, cheeks red from the cold, hair damp and stuck to her forehead, but she had that look again-the one you hadn't seen in years. That quiet intensity. Like a part of her had woken up.
The first time she seriously told you about going back to competition, you were sitting on the kitchen floor, eating instant ramen at like two in the morning.
Alysa didn't look at you while she spoke.
"I think I want to go back."
You slowly put your chopsticks down.
"Back to training?"
She shook her head.
"Back for real."
And even though you already knew exactly what she meant, you still asked:
"Competing?"
Alysa took a couple seconds before answering.
"Yeah."
You remember exactly how that moment felt. Because you knew her story. You knew the injuries, the pressure, the brutal post-retirement crash. You'd seen her avoid even watching competitions on TV some days.
But you'd also seen the way her eyes lit up whenever she talked about the ice.
So you smiled.
Even though, deep down, something small inside you felt scared.
"Then do it," you told her.
Alysa did.
She went all in.
Everything after that happened ridiculously fast.
Her training got longer. Her calls got shorter. Your nights together got fewer.
At first, it didn't feel like a big deal. You made it work.
You always did.
When Alysa was in another city, she'd call you the second she left the rink, still breathing hard, wrapped in oversized jackets.
Sometimes she'd leave the phone on while stretching just to keep listening to you talk about random nonsense.
And she still took your photos.
Blurry screenshots from video calls. Half-asleep pics of you she'd save. Pictures of your morning coffee when you sent them to her.
Even from miles away, she still seemed to need little pieces of you.
And whenever she could... she came running back.
Literally.
There were times she'd take ridiculously expensive flights just to spend thirty-six hours with you before flying off again.
She'd show up at your door completely wiped, dark circles under her eyes, a cap hiding her messy hair, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"You flew across the world again?" you'd say, half shocked, half in disbelief.
"Maybe."
"Alysa..."
"I missed you."
And then she'd kiss you like she hadn't seen you in months, even if it had only been a few days.
You were proud of her. Like, insanely proud.
You watched every competition. Every program. Every jump.
You watched her fall back in love with the ice.
And when the international competitions came in 2025, your chest felt like it was going to explode every time you heard her name announced.
People started recognizing her again.
More interviews. More followers. Brands coming out of nowhere.
And still, at first, she was just Alysa.
Your Alysa.
The girl who called you at 3 a.m. from ugly hotel rooms. The one who still filled your camera roll with ridiculous photos. The one who sent you airport ceiling pics like, "This would suck way less if you were here."
Then the Olympics happened.
And everything changed.
You'll never forget seeing her there, standing on the ice under those massive arena lights. Sparkly costume. Perfect makeup. Her breath shaking right before her program.
You were basically crying before she even finished.
Because you knew every sacrifice behind that moment.
Every injury. Every sleepless night. Every time she doubted herself.
And when she won gold...
Damn.
The world just exploded for her.
Interviews. Sponsorships. TV shows. Campaigns. Podcasts. Events. Photoshoots. More training. More travel. More people.
Everybody wanted a piece of Alysa.
And at first, you tried to understand.
You really did.
Because yeah, she was busy. Yeah, she was exhausted. Yeah, her whole life had just flipped upside down.
But there were small things.
Little absences.
Calls got spaced out. Then shorter. Then some days, none at all.
She used to send you photos constantly. Now sometimes weeks went by without a single one.
You started hearing things online before hearing them from her.
New contracts. New interviews. New trips.
And the worst part was every time you tried to say something, you immediately felt awful.
Because Alysa was literally living the dream she'd worked her entire life for.
How could you ask for more?
How could you become another weight on her shoulders?
So you started settling for scraps.
Two-minute video calls. Messages answered hours later. Promises like, "After this week, okay?" "After this event." "After the next competition."
But there was always something else.
Another interview. Another flight. Another obligation.
And you started hating yourself a little for how much it hurt.
Because in your head, it sounded so selfish.
Alysa was winning. Alysa was happy. Alysa had gotten back the part of herself she thought she lost.
And still...
You just wanted a weekend.
One.
One weekend without cameras. Without reporters. Without agents blowing up her phone. Without rushing.
Just her with you again.
Like before.
Sometimes you'd find yourself scrolling through old photos at 2 a.m.
Alysa asleep on your lap. Alysa laughing while cooking. Alysa pointing her camera at you from the couch.
And there was one picture that always hit the hardest.
Back when you were still freshmans. You were blurred in the background, wrapped in a blanket, looking at her like she was the center of your entire world.
Back then, she always made time for you.
And now there were nights you'd stare at the ceiling wondering when exactly you started feeling lonely even while being in love with her.
The worst part wasn't the distance.
It was the feeling that slowly, you were becoming something Alysa had to remember to reply to.
Like a pending message. Like a task she kept putting off.
And still, every time your phone rang and her name popped up, your heart reacted the same way.
Because you still loved her exactly the same desperate, all-in way.
Maybe even more.
The fight didn't even start like a fight.
That was the worst part.
No yelling at first. No explosive argument that had been building up for weeks. No dramatic blowup.
Just dinner. A random night. One small sentence that slipped out of your mouth, too tired to keep pretending everything was fine.
Alysa had shown up late again.
Not crazy late. Just late enough that the food had cooled down twice while you sat in the kitchen, staring at your phone every few minutes.
"I'm heading out."
"Twenty minutes."
"Sorry, one more interview and I'm gone."
In the end, she showed up almost two hours later.
Exhausted. Still gorgeous, even like that. Hair tied up messily, an expensive athletic hoodie on, dark circles barely covered by rushed makeup.
She walked in and dropped her keys on the counter with a heavy sigh.
"Smells good," she muttered.
You smiled automatically.
Because even when you were annoyed, you still did that stupid thing-reaching for her anyway.
You reheated the food without saying much. Alysa sat at the table, scrolling on her phone while you stirred the pasta absentmindedly.
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the microwave and the constant buzz of notifications coming from her phone.
She used to turn it off when she was with you.
Now she couldn't seem to.
You sat across from her when you were done.
Alysa was still looking at her screen.
Her fingers moved fast. Reply. Swipe. Reply again.
It wasn't like she was ignoring you on purpose. You knew that.
And maybe that's what made it worse.
Because she was so used to splitting her attention between a hundred things that she didn't even notice you sitting right there anymore.
You ate in silence for a few minutes.
You poking at your fork. Her checking emails between bites.
Then her phone buzzed again.
Alysa let out a tired breath.
"Shit, I forgot to confirm that Toronto podcast thing."
And something inside you just... cracked a little.
Not dramatic. Not movie-style.
Just a quiet break.
You looked at her for a couple seconds before speaking.
"Lately it's kinda hard to get time together."
It came out soft.
Calm, even.
No accusation. No sarcasm. Just exhaustion.
But the second the words left your mouth, you saw the shift in her.
Her body tensed.
Shoulders. Jaw. Even the way she slowly pulled her phone away.
And for a second, you got that awful feeling-you'd just stepped on something way more sensitive than you realized.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
You blinked, caught off guard by how fast she got defensive.
"Nothing bad. I just miss you."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Her tone was sharp now. Too fast. Too cold.
You frowned slightly.
"Alysa..."
"No, seriously. What do you want me to do? I'm doing the best I can."
You stared at her, totally confused. Because you weren't attacking her. You didn't even want a fight.
You just wanted her to look at you. To get it. Maybe just say, "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry."
But Alysa was already putting up walls before you even got the chance to explain.
"I never said you weren't trying," you said.
"But that's what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything."
"Yeah, you are."
Her voice started rising just a little, tension building underneath it, something deeper than just this conversation.
And then it hit you.
Alysa already knew.
She knew she was distant. She knew she was leaving you alone more than she wanted to admit.
And she'd probably been carrying that guilt for months.
That's why she snapped like that.
Because hearing it out loud made it impossible to ignore.
"I just wanted to spend time with you," you said finally, much quieter.
That should've helped.
It should've.
But Alysa let out a short, exhausted laugh, rubbing a hand over her face.
"God, you just don't get the pressure I'm under right now."
That line hit harder than she probably meant it to.
Because you did try to get it.
For months.
Every canceled flight. Every postponed plan. Every night you stayed up waiting.
You'd understood it all.
And suddenly there was this ugly feeling growing in your chest. Not quite anger.
More like hurt.
"I'm trying, Alysa," you said.
She immediately looked away.
And that somehow hurt even more.
Because she used to always look at you during arguments. Even the bad ones.
Now she couldn't even hold your gaze.
"I don't want to fight," she muttered, standing up.
You watched her slowly get to her feet.
"I'm not trying to fight either."
"Doesn't seem like it."
"Because I said I miss you?"
"I can't do this right now."
And there it was. That moment.
The small, awful realization that your relationship had started turning into just another obligation in her life.
Not something safe. Not something she could rest in.
Just another thing asking for her time.
The chair scraped back as she stepped away.
And you were still sitting there, frozen, trying to fix something you didn't even know how to start fixing.
"Alysa—"
But she was already walking toward the hallway.
"I'm tired, okay? Just... not tonight."
And she disappeared into your bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Not even a slam.
That would've been easier.
No.
She closed it gently.
Carefully.
Like somehow that made leaving you alone in the kitchen hurt less.
Then there was just silence.
The fridge humming. The pasta cooling again. Your plate barely touched in front of you.
You stared at her empty chair for a long time. And for some absurd reason, what finally broke you wasn't even the argument.
It was the phone.
Because she'd left it on the table for a few seconds before rushing back to grab it.
And in that tiny moment, you'd seen the screen light up.
Dozens of messages. Emails. Notifications. People constantly needing her.
And still...
All you'd asked for was a small piece of her.
A little time. A conversation. One quiet night.
You stayed in the kitchen until the pasta went completely cold.
You felt real fear.
Not the fear of losing her suddenly.
Worse.
The fear of losing her slowly.
When you left it didn't feel like a big decision.
Not at the time.
It didn't feel like the kind of thing that changes your whole life.
It was just... going out.
Taking a breather. Stepping away for a few hours. Clearing your head a bit.
Alysa was in the bedroom when you grabbed a small bag. You didn't argue with her. There was no dramatic goodbye.
Honestly, you didn't even try to provoke anything.
You just walked down the hallway with your coat in hand.
"I'm going to Patrick's," you said from the doorway.
Alysa didn't come out right away.
There was a pause.
That kind of silence you were starting to know way too well.
Then her voice, muted, from inside the room:
"Now?"
"I just... need a bit."
Another silence.
And you waited.
You waited for her to tell you not to go. That it was a bad idea. That it was raining. That you should stay.
She used to always do that.
Alysa used to always find a reason for you to stay.
But that night, nothing came.
When you opened the door, the cold air hit you instantly.
The rain had already started, but it wasn't a full storm yet. It was that misleading kind of rain-calm at first, like the world wasn't sure what it was doing.
You didn't look back when you left.
And later... that would be the part that hurt the most.
The car was dark and empty, smelling like damp fabric and old heater vents. You started the engine without thinking much. Outside, everything was already blurred by rain.
Patrick's place wasn't far.
You just needed to drive. Just needed a few minutes to clear your head.
That's it.
But the rain got worse fast.
Like, really fast.
Within minutes it wasn't rain anymore, it was a wall of water hammering the windshield nonstop. The wipers could barely keep up.
Warnings popped up on the car screen:
"AVOID TRAVEL"
"FLASH FLOOD RISK"
"REDUCED VISIBILITY"
But you were already on the road.
The world outside the car was just warped lights and shaky reflections. And somewhere along that road, everything went too fast.
A turn. A flash. The sharp sound of metal losing control.
The impact wasn't what you'd expect.
It wasn't slow.
It wasn't conscious.
It was just a single, absolute moment.
And then... nothing.
Patrick was the first one to call.
Not emergency services.
Alysa.
Because in his mind, that still made sense.
Because you were going to his place.
Because you were coming back.
Because nothing in his world had accepted the opposite yet.
When Alysa picked up, she was in the bedroom.
Tired.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, half-looking at something on the screen without really seeing it.
"Yeah?" she said, low-energy.
Patrick's voice on the other end didn't sound right.
Not at all.
"Alysa... something happened."
And something in her shifted.
Not consciously.
Just a tiny internal click, like her body understood before her brain did that this kind of sentence never means anything good.
"What?"
Silence.
Too long.
Too heavy.
"She was in an accident."
The world didn't stop.
But Alysa did.
She didn't speak. Didn't ask where. Didn't ask how. Didn't ask if you were okay. Because that part of the sentence had already landed.
She just dropped the phone onto the bed.
And went still.
For a few seconds, there was nothing.
No movement.
No visible breathing.
No sound.
Just a total absence of human reaction, like her body forgot what to do with information like that.
Then, almost mechanically, she stood up.
Grabbed her jacket. Her keys. Her phone again.
And left.
By the time Alysa reached the road, the rain was a full-on wall.
Flashing lights. Police cars. Ambulances.
And that weird, heavy silence that exists inside chaos-when everyone already knows something is never going back to normal.
Alysa doesn't remember getting out of the car.
Doesn't remember asking anything.
She just remembers one phrase.
One sentence.
"She didn't make it."
And everything after that turned into noise.
That night, Alysa didn't cry like in movies.
No falling to her knees.
No screaming.
Nothing dramatic.
Just... empty.
A kind of emptiness so big it felt like it swallowed everything that used to be you.
The months before started rewriting themselves in her head in the cruelest way.
The short calls. The delayed texts. The canceled flights. The times you waited alone.
And especially...
That last conversation.
"I miss you."
Your voice.
Her reaction.
The door closing.
And her choosing exhaustion.
Choosing the world.
Choosing everything except staying.
Back home, Alysa didn't turn on the lights.
She went straight to the bedroom.
Everything was exactly how you left it.
Too normal.
Too untouched.
Like the world had picked the wrong person.
She sat on the edge of the bed without taking off her wet jacket. And then, her body reacted.
She shook.
She opened her laptop with shaky hands.
And went into the folder.
"Her."
Thousands of photos.
You laughing. You asleep. You cooking. You looking at her from the couch. You annoyed over something dumb. You. Always you.
The first photo she opened was an old one.
You were laughing. Blurry. Imperfect.
And Alysa realized something awful.
She'd spent months chasing the entire world... while the only place she actually belonged was already gone.
Photo after photo.
Like looking at them could undo what happened.
Like saving pictures had ever been enough to keep you here.
But it wasn't.
Never was.
The last time Alysa talked to you, she left you alone in the kitchen.
And now the kitchen was empty.
The car was empty.
The bed was empty.
Everything was empty.
Except the photos.
Alysa didn't sleep.
She sat in front of the screen until the laptop battery died. And when the room went completely dark, she did something she hadn't done in years.
She pulled her camera close to her chest.
Not to take pictures.
But like she could still hold onto something.
Something that wasn't there anymore.
For the first time since going back to skating, Alysa understood that she'd gotten everything the world wanted to give her... and lost the only thing she never learned how to protect.
i LOVE older girlfriend, and have reread it like 6 times since its release (boss makes a dollar, i make a dime, so i read fanfic on company time) But like also i cannot blame the parents. As someone two years younger than Amber, I personally think age gaps above 3 years are only acceptable when the younger person is 25 or older
Wow, I'm flattered you've read Older Girlfriend so many times. It honestly means a lot. And yeah, I totally agree with you about the whole age-gap thing. I can't really blame the parents either, they're just worried about their daughter, y'know? I'm basically gonna explain all of that in Part 2.
SUMMARY — amber can't handle the fact that you don't talk to your parents because of her, so she's out here trying to fix everything herself.
WARNING — small age gap (18&26)
WORD COUNT — 5K (i think, don't know really)
PT.1 PT.2
MASTERLIST
The drive back to the apartment was quiet.
Not awkward.
Worse.
The kind of silence that comes after emotional exhaustion. After too many things said out loud. After too many feelings still bleeding open.
The radio stayed off.
City lights swept through the car in brief flashes, lighting up Amber's profile for a second before fading back into dim darkness.
You stayed curled into the passenger seat, arms wrapped around your stomach like maybe you could physically hold yourself together that way.
You kept crying on and off.
Not loudly.
Just constant tears that never really seemed to stop.
And every time you wiped your face, more showed up.
Amber didn't pressure you to talk.
Not once.
She just drove with one hand on the wheel while the other kept reaching for you every now and then. Brushing your knee. Lacing your fingers together for a few seconds. Quietly reminding you she was still there.
That almost made it worse.
Because after everything that had happened... she was still taking care of you first.
Not herself.
You.
When she finally parked outside your apartment building, you realized you didn't want to move.
The idea of getting out of the car felt impossible.
Your whole body was exhausted.
Your mind too.
Amber slowly turned the engine off.
The silence rushed back in immediately.
Then she turned slightly toward you.
"Do you wanna go upstairs, or do you wanna stay here for a bit?"
Even that she asked like you actually had a choice in any of this. Like your emotions weren't some burden. Like she hadn't just survived the worst family dinner imaginable because of you.
Something inside you finally cracked.
You covered your face immediately.
"I'm so fucking sorry."
Your voice came out muffled.
Amber frowned instantly.
"Hey. No."
"Yes. Yeah, fuck, yes."
The words started spilling out through tears again.
"Everything was awful. They treated you horribly. My family treated you like you were, I don't know, like you were doing something wrong just by being with me."
Amber unbuckled her seatbelt immediately.
"Look at me."
You shook your head.
Because if you looked at her, you'd cry even harder.
And that happened anyway the second you felt her gently grab your wrist and pull your hands away from your face.
Her eyes met yours.
Calm.
Tired too, now that you could really see it.
But unbelievably patient.
"You are not responsible for other people's reactions."
You let out a broken laugh.
"Yeah, well, they're my family."
"And they love you."
"Didn't exactly feel like it today."
Amber sighed softly.
"It felt more like they were scared."
That pissed you off instantly all over again.
"And that somehow makes it better?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Honest.
"But I think it makes it more complicated."
You clenched your jaw.
Because of course Amber would find the most compassionate way possible to look at all of it.
Even after they spent hours making her feel watched.
Even after all the uncomfortable questions.
Even after your dad practically implied she was too old for you.
"They shouldn't have treated you like that."
Amber held your gaze for a few seconds.
Then she smiled a little.
A sad smile.
"It's not the first time people have questioned a relationship with me."
That hit you right in the chest.
Because of course it wasn't.
Amber was famous. Older. Visible. Openly queer in a world that still treated that like some kind of debate.
How many times had she dealt with looks like that.
How many times had she been "too much" of something for someone?
Too public.
Too complicated.
Too different.
"But I'm supposed to be the first person protecting you from that," you whispered.
Amber's expression changed immediately.
Real hurt.
"Don't say that."
"It's true."
"No."
Now her voice was firmer.
More serious.
"You didn't bring me there to hurt me."
"But it still happened."
Amber stayed quiet for a moment.
"You know what the worst part of today was?"
You instantly braced yourself for something awful. Something that would confirm every fear you had.
But Amber shook her head slightly.
"Watching you think you had to choose between them and me."
That completely shattered you.
Because that was exactly what you'd felt all afternoon.
Like loving Amber automatically meant disappointing somebody else.
The tears came harder again.
"I don't wanna choose."
Amber moved closer immediately.
"Then don't."
"How am I not supposed to? Did you see the way they looked at you?"
"And I also saw your brother hug me. And your grandma kiss me goodbye."
That only made you cry harder.
Because even now she still found the good parts.
How the hell did she keep doing that?
Amber wiped away one of your tears with her thumb.
"Come on. Let's go upstairs, okay?"
The first few days after the barbecue were awful.
Not in some explosive way.
Worse.
Your family stopped calling you nonstop after that night, but that didn't mean peace. It just meant distance. Half-written texts getting deleted. Dead silence in the family group chat. A weird emptiness where there was usually always noise.
Your mom sent you a:
"Did you get home okay?"
That same night.
And you replied with nothing but:
"Yeah."
That was it.
After that... silence.
Not total silence, technically.
Your little brother kept sending you stupid memes and random gaming videos like the world wasn't partially on fire. Your grandma left you a voicemail saying you looked too skinny and needed to learn how to cook something besides pasta. Your aunt Laura reacted to one of your Instagram stories with a heart.
But your parents...
Nothing real.
And honestly, at first you were too angry to care.
The anger stayed alive in you those first few days like a fresh burn.
Every time you remembered the way they looked at Amber.
The questions.
The constant tension.
Your dad telling you you were acting like a child.
Your mom talking about Amber like she was some inevitable disaster waiting to happen.
It all came rushing back.
And every time it did, you shut down a little more.
You refused to call them.
Ignored your mom's longer texts for hours before replying.
Even hearing the word 'family' made your body tense up.
Amber never pressured you.
Not once.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.
Because it would've been easier to stay angry if she'd said:
"Your parents were awful."
Or
"You shouldn't talk to them."
But Amber never said any of that.
She still asked if you'd eaten.
Still left coffee ready before your early classes.
Still wrapped her arms around you from behind when you studied too late into the night.
Still stayed careful whenever the subject came up.
Too careful.
And after a while, that started hurting too.
Because you could see the effort.
The way she avoided saying anything bad about them even when she clearly had every reason to.
The way she changed the subject whenever she noticed you getting worked up.
Like she was scared of taking up too much space between you and your family.
And slowly... the weeks kept moving.
Summer ended.
The new semester started.
And life, cruelly enough, kept going.
Your classes started eating up your time again. Professors handing out impossible syllabi on day one. Packed libraries. Cheap coffee somehow still keeping your body alive. New schedules taped to the apartment fridge.
You went back to complaining about group projects.
Went back to falling asleep on top of your notes.
Went back to living in that constant mix of academic stress and physical exhaustion.
Amber went back to training seriously.
The next season was getting closer, and you started noticing the gradual shift in her.
More hours on the rink.
More physical therapy.
More early mornings.
More ice packs on her knees at the end of the day.
There were mornings when you'd stumble out for class half asleep while she was already awake stretching in the living room as the sun came up.
And still...
She always made time for you.
She stayed awake waiting for you some nights even when she was obviously exhausted. Texted you during training breaks asking how an exam went. Automatically kissed your forehead every time she walked past you.
It was ridiculously easy to keep falling in love with her.
Ridiculously easy.
And maybe that was exactly why the silence with your family started scaring you a little.
Because eventually the initial anger started fading.
Not completely.
But enough for other feelings to crawl up underneath it.
Sadness.
Guilt.
Missing tiny things.
Your mom sending recipes you never actually made.
Your dad asking about classes while pretending not to care.
Chaotic FaceTimes with your little brother showing you horrible drawings.
All of it started hurting quietly.
And Amber noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She always noticed everything.
The first time was on a random night.
You were eating Chinese takeout straight from the cartons because neither of you had the energy to cook. You were sitting on the living room floor going over notes while Amber was sitting next to you.
Your phone buzzed on the table.
You looked automatically.
Mom.
Your body tensed immediately.
You didn't answer.
Amber noticed that in silence.
Didn't say anything.
But a few minutes later she asked softly:
"How's your brother doing?"
You looked up, surprised.
"Good... I think."
"It's been a few days since he talked to you, huh?"
You clenched your jaw.
"That's not my fault."
"I didn't say it was."
And that was it.
But after that, the subject started coming up more often.
Little by little.
Carefully.
Like Amber was approaching a wounded animal.
"Your grandma commented on your last photo."
"Your mom sent another text."
"I think your dad watched yesterday's interview."
Never pushing.
Never insisting.
But never ignoring the growing emptiness either.
Until one night, almost a month after the barbecue, you woke up and Amber wasn't in bed.
The clock read two-thirty in the morning.
You found her sitting in the living room in complete darkness except for the faint streetlight coming through the window.
She was wearing an oversized hoodie with her knees pulled up against her chest.
She looked thoughtful.
Really thoughtful.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, voice rough with sleep.
Amber lifted her head immediately.
And smiled a little when she saw you.
"Sorry. Did I wake you?"
You shook your head as you walked over.
She automatically made room for you on the couch.
You curled up half on top of her, still sleepy, resting your head against her shoulder.
For a while neither of you spoke.
You just listened to Amber's slow breathing and the distant sound of cars outside.
Then you felt her absentmindedly running her hand along your arm.
"I've been thinking about something," she finally said.
Your body tensed slightly.
Because that tone usually meant important conversations.
"About what?"
Amber took way too long to answer.
Bad sign.
"I don't want you losing your family because of me."
You lifted your head immediately.
"Amber—"
"Hear me out first."
Her voice stayed soft. Calm.
But you could hear nerves underneath it.
That was rare for her.
Really rare.
"I'm not saying you should pretend nothing happened. Or accept things that hurt you. I just..." she exhaled slowly. "I don't want to become the reason you stop talking to the people you love."
You frowned immediately.
"You're not the reason. They are."
"And still, you're the one suffering right now."
That shut you up.
Because some awful part of you knew she was right.
You missed your family.
Even angry.
Even hurt.
You missed them.
Amber brushed a piece of hair away from your face. "I don't think they're bad people."
"They didn't act like good people that day."
"No."
She admitted it instantly.
"But I think they were scared and reacted badly."
You pulled back slightly so you could look at her better.
"Why do you always understand them?"
Amber let out a small tired laugh.
"Because I've spent a long time being the person who scares somebody's parents."
That cracked your heart open a little.
Because she said it too easily.
Like it was already accepted.
Like she was used to it.
You sat up completely now.
"I hate when you talk about yourself like that."
Amber raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Like what?"
"Like you're some problem people have to learn how to tolerate."
Her expression shifted slightly.
More vulnerable.
"I don't think that."
"Then stop acting like it's your responsibility to make everybody comfortable."
Amber opened her mouth to answer.
Then closed it again.
And right there, you knew you'd hit exactly where it hurt.
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
Then she took a slow breath.
"I'm gonna talk to your parents."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Not to convince them of anything. Just... talk."
You pulled away from her completely now.
"Amber, no."
"I can't keep watching this destroy you."
"It's not your responsibility to fix it."
"I know."
But the way she said it made it painfully obvious that wasn't going to stop her.
Anxiety hit you instantly.
"What if they say something awful again?"
Amber smiled faintly.
Barely.
"I'll survive."
"I don't want you to have to."
Something warm and sad flickered across her face at that.
She took your hand slowly.
"Baby... I've spent my whole life surviving people's opinions about me."
You hated how much pain she managed to hide inside one calm sentence.
You shook your head quickly.
"You don't have to do this."
Amber traced her thumb across your knuckles.
"Maybe I need to."
"Why?"
She held your gaze for a long moment.
And when she answered, her voice was so honest it made your chest tighten.
"Because I love you way too much to sit here comfortably while you're breaking yourself apart between me and them."
Thursday started like any other day.
You half asleep.
Amber awake before the sun.
The smell of coffee filling the tiny apartment while you tried to convince yourself that an 8 a.m. class should legally count as a human rights violation.
Nothing seemed different.
And maybe that's why you didn't notice anything weird at first.
Amber was especially quiet that morning. Not distant. Not cold. Just... thoughtful.
You found her in the kitchen already dressed for training: black leggings, an oversized dark hoodie, and her hair pulled into a messy bun still damp from the shower.
She was leaning against the counter scrolling through something on her phone while waiting for the toaster to pop.
When she looked up and saw you dragging yourself into the kitchen, she smiled immediately.
There it was again.
That softness she saved only for you.
"Morning, struggling college girl."
You grunted something completely unintelligible while collapsing onto one of the stools.
Amber let out a low laugh.
"Those are not words."
"Too early for human language."
She slid a cup of coffee toward you.
Perfectly made.
Like always.
She watched you take the first sip and smiled faintly, clearly pleased with herself.
"You got a long practice today?" you asked.
"A couple hours."
Lie.
You didn't know it then.
But later, replaying the conversation over and over in your head, you realized it.
She'd lied gently.
Carefully.
Because she knew exactly what you would've done if she'd told you the truth.
You looked at her over the rim of your mug.
"What about you? A ton of assignments today?"
You rolled your eyes immediately.
"I have this horrible sociology presentation and I'm probably gonna die in front of thirty people."
Amber set her phone aside.
"You're not gonna die."
"That's easy for you to say."
She walked over to where you were sitting and automatically placed her hands on either side of the stool, leaning toward you.
"You're gonna walk in there, talk for ten minutes, and then come back dramatic as hell telling me it was the worst moment of your life."
"Because it will be."
Amber smiled.
How did she still smile like that?
Even after months.
Even after all the chaos with your family.
"See you tonight," she murmured before kissing you.
Slow.
Soft.
Familiar.
Nothing about that kiss prepared you for what she was gonna do a few hours later.
The morning went horribly, exactly like you predicted.
Your presentation was a disaster in your opinion and totally fine according to literally everybody else.
You sent Amber a three-minute voice message complaining the second you walked out of class.
She replied almost immediately:
"You survived. Very proud of you."
And then a second text right after:
"Did you eat anything?"
That made you smile involuntarily while walking across campus.
Normal.
Everything felt normal.
Until it suddenly wasn't.
Because around twelve-thirty, you got a call from your mother.
You frowned instantly.
You hadn't really talked in weeks. And lately every interaction had been reduced to short, emotionally tense texts.
You stopped outside the library staring at the screen vibrating in your hand.
Mom.
Your stomach tightened automatically.
You answered after the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
Brief silence.
Weird.
Then your mother's voice.
Strangely careful.
"Hi, honey."
Something was wrong.
You knew it immediately.
"Did something happen?"
Another silence.
"Not exactly."
That did not help at all.
You started walking again, slower this time.
"Mom, what's going on?"
You heard her exhale slowly.
And then she said the words that made your heart drop straight into your stomach.
"Amber came over."
You stopped dead in your tracks.
The entire campus disappeared around you.
"What?"
"She's here."
Your whole body went cold.
"Right now?"
"Yes."
"Amber is at the house with you right now?"
"She's talking to your father."
Oh God.
Oh God, no.
The anxiety hit so fast it almost made you dizzy.
"Why the hell is she there?"
Your mother went quiet for one second too long.
And then you understood.
She'd hidden it from you.
On purpose.
Because she knew you would try to stop it.
"Mom."
Your voice came out much sharper now.
"What is happening?"
"Honey, she just wanted to talk."
You immediately started walking faster toward the parking lot.
"Talk about what?"
"You."
That only made everything worse.
You pulled your car keys out with shaking hands.
"She should not be doing this alone."
"It was her decision to come."
"Well, you shouldn't have let her!"
You heard movement on the other side of the phone.
Your mother lowered her voice.
"I didn't want you two staying like this."
That made you stop for half a second.
Because there was something tired in the way she said it.
Sad, even.
But you were too nervous to really process it.
"I'm coming over."
"Honey—"
"I'm coming over."
You hung up before she could answer.
And then the panic really started.
Because you knew your parents.
And you knew Amber.
And the combination of both of those things without you there in the middle felt dangerous as hell.
The drive to the house turned into a horrible spiral of thoughts.
What if your dad implied again that Amber was taking advantage of you?
What if your mom accidentally said something cruel?
What if Amber finally got tired of all of it?
That was the worst part.
The constant fear that one day somebody would wear her down enough.
Because Amber was patient, yeah.
But she was still human.
You parked so fast in front of the house you barely even remembered turning the car off properly.
The front door was closed.
Everything looked weirdly calm from the outside.
That did not reassure you at all.
You practically burst inside.
"Mom?"
Your voice echoed through the entryway.
You heard movement in the kitchen.
And when you walked in, the scene stopped you cold.
Your mother was sitting across from Amber at the kitchen table.
Two cups of coffee sat between them.
Amber looked up immediately when she saw you.
Oh.
Oh, she was nervous.
You saw it instantly.
Very hidden.
Very controlled.
But it was there.
Her shoulders tense.
Her hands too still around the coffee cup.
And something inside you cracked a little when you realized she'd probably been feeling like that all morning.
"What are you doing here?" you asked too quickly.
Amber opened her mouth.
Your mother spoke first.
"Your father stepped out for a minute."
That answered absolutely nothing.
Your eyes snapped right back to Amber.
"You came here alone?"
She nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
The anger and fear collided violently inside you.
"Amber..."
Her name came out almost like a plea.
Because you didn't understand how she could've done this without telling you.
Amber slowly set the cup down on the table.
And when she spoke, her voice was unbelievably soft.
"I knew you would've tried to stop me."
That hurt because it was true.
You walked closer immediately.
"Of course I would've tried to stop you. What if they said something horrible to you again?"
Amber held your gaze.
And for one second she looked so emotionally exhausted it hurt to breathe.
"Then I'd deal with it."
"I don't want you having to deal with it!"
Your voice was rising again now.
Pure anxiety.
Your mother watched silently from the other side of the table.
Amber, meanwhile, kept looking only at you.
"I didn't come here for me."
"That doesn't make it better."
"I came because I love you."
The ease with which she said things like that still destroyed you. And worse: she sounded completely sincere every single time.
Your breathing came out shaky.
"You don't have to fix this."
Amber shook her head slightly.
"I'm not trying to fix it."
"Then what are you doing?"
A short silence.
And then Amber answered with something that made you go completely still.
"I'm trying to make sure that someday you can come home without feeling like you have to leave a part of yourself outside."
The words hung in the kitchen.
Heavy.
Still.
And suddenly all the anger you'd carried with you from campus started mixing with something way more painful.
Because Amber hadn't come here to defend herself.
She hadn't come to convince your parents to approve of her.
She came for you.
Again.
You just stared at her, not knowing what to do with the pressure building in your chest.
The afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window, lighting part of her face. And now that you were closer, you could really see her.
She looked exhausted.
Not physically. Not the way she did after training.
Emotionally.
Like someone who'd spent hours having difficult conversations while carefully choosing every single word.
And still, when she looked at you, she did it with that impossible softness she only ever saved for you.
Your mother slowly stood from the table.
"I'm gonna give you two a minute."
Neither of you answered.
She hesitated briefly before leaving the kitchen.
And the second you were alone, the silence changed completely.
More intimate.
More vulnerable.
You walked closer slowly until you were standing right in front of Amber.
"How long have you been here?"
"A while."
"Amber."
She sighed softly.
"Two hours."
Your eyes widened immediately.
"Two hours?"
Amber nodded.
A ridiculous mix of guilt and desperation hit you all at once.
"And you've been talking to my parents this entire time?"
"With breaks. Your mom forced me to eat something."
That almost made you laugh out of pure nerves.
Almost.
But you were still way too overwhelmed.
"Why would you do this alone?"
Amber looked up at you from her chair.
There was something so painfully honest in her eyes right then that it was hard to hold her gaze.
"Because I didn't want you feeling like you had to protect me."
That hit you straight in the chest.
Because you had been doing exactly that.
From the beginning.
Protecting her from comments.
From questions.
From looks.
Like the entire world could wear her down if you weren't constantly standing between her and everything else.
You slowly dropped into the chair across from her.
And for the first time since you arrived, you actually noticed the atmosphere in the kitchen.
It didn't feel like a war zone.
There wasn't explosive tension.
The coffee cups were half empty. A plate of cookies sat open in the middle of the table. Even Amber's jacket was folded over another chair like she'd been there long enough to settle in a little.
That threw you off.
Badly.
"What did you talk about?"
Amber rested her forearms on the table.
Thoughtful.
"A lot of things."
"That answers literally nothing."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Weak.
But real.
"Your mom cried a little."
You blinked in surprise.
"What?"
"I think she expected me to get angrier."
That sounded painfully believable.
Your mother was used to defensive arguments. To people reacting with anger when they felt judged.
Amber, meanwhile...
Amber had probably sat there listening patiently all over again.
That made you frown immediately.
"Did she apologize to you?"
Amber hesitated.
Bad sign.
"Sort of."
"Amber."
She raised a hand gently.
"Hey. I didn't come here demanding apologies."
"But you deserve one."
Her eyes softened instantly.
And for a second she looked like she was debating whether to answer honestly or not.
Finally she spoke more quietly.
"I think your parents were expecting someone completely different."
That confused you.
"Different how?"
Amber let out a short breath.
"I don't know. Someone arrogant maybe. Or controlling. Or somebody trying to pull you away from them."
The idea made your stomach twist.
Because some part of your parents had probably built this monstrous version of Amber in their heads before they'd even met her.
The older famous athlete dating their college-aged daughter.
All of that was easy to turn into a threat when fear got louder than logic.
"That's horrible."
"It's human."
It frustrated you how she still found compassion for everybody.
Even now.
Even here.
You rubbed your face with both hands.
"God... I can't believe you came here alone."
Amber watched you silently for a few seconds.
"Your dad asked me if I thought I'd marry you someday."
Your head snapped up so fast it almost made you dizzy.
"What?"
This time Amber actually laughed a little.
Tired.
Still slightly shocked herself.
"Yeah. Pretty direct too."
You completely froze.
"And what did you say?"
For the first time since you got there, Amber looked genuinely nervous.
You saw it in the way she glanced away for a second.
In the way she absently played with the edge of her coffee cup.
"I told him we've been together less than a year."
That answered absolutely nothing.
She knew it too, because she slowly looked back up at you.
And then she said:
"I also told him I've never wanted to build a life with someone this quickly before."
Your breathing stopped.
Completely.
Because Amber didn't say things like that lightly.
Ever.
She wasn't dramatic about feelings. When she said something serious... you knew.
You knew.
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.
"Amber..."
She smiled a little seeing you emotionally wrecked all over again.
"Don't make that face."
"What face?"
"The 'I'm about to cry at any second' face."
Too late.
Your eyes were already burning.
Amber slowly held her hand out across the table.
Waiting.
Always waiting for you to decide to move closer first.
You intertwined your fingers with hers immediately.
"Did my dad say anything else?"
Amber stayed quiet for a few seconds.
Clearly thinking carefully about her answer.
"He asked me if I understood why he was worried."
That made you tense up again.
"And?"
"And I told him yes."
You let out a frustrated breath.
"Of course you did."
Amber squeezed your fingers softly.
"Baby..."
"No, it's just, you always do that. You always understand everybody."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Understanding doesn't mean I think they're right."
That shut you up.
Because yeah.
There was a difference.
And maybe you'd been too hurt to see it.
Amber kept speaking softly.
"Your dad isn't worried because he thinks you're stupid."
You swallowed hard.
"Then why?
"Because he loves you a lot."
That made the anger inside you wobble a little.
Just a little.
"And because he knows what the world is like," Amber added more quietly. "He knows people can be cruel. He knows an age gap makes people talk. He knows my public life complicates things."
It hurt hearing her say it so calmly.
Like unavoidable facts.
"I don't care about any of that."
Amber smiled sadly this time.
"I know. But sometimes parents care about pain that hasn't happened yet."
You understood her way too well in that moment. Because you were constantly terrified of future things too.
That one day she'd get tired.
That public pressure would become too much.
That someone would eventually hurt her.
Fear was love in its ugliest form sometimes.
Then the front door opened.
Your body tensed automatically.
Footsteps.
Your father's voice calling from the entryway.
And before you could emotionally prepare yourself, he appeared in the kitchen doorway.
He stopped completely still when he saw you there.
So did you.
The tension came back immediately.
But different this time.
More fragile.
Your father slowly set his keys down on the counter.
And then he looked at Amber first.
Not you.
Amber.
"Did she stay?"
Your chest hurt instantly.
Because the question sounded genuinely concerned.
Amber nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
Your father exhaled softly.
Like he'd been worried she might've already left. And then something even stranger happened.
He looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And suddenly he seemed way more tired than angry.
"Your mother said you were coming over."
You nodded faintly.
Nobody really seemed to know what to do now.
Your father finally stepped farther into the kitchen.
The distance between you and him felt enormous even though it was only a few feet.
And then he said something you'd been needing to hear for weeks.
"I never wanted to make you feel like you couldn't love who you love."
The air left your lungs.
Because your father wasn't someone who apologized easily.
Never had been.
And even though it wasn't exactly a full apology... it was probably the closest he knew how to get.
Your eyes started filling again.
Goddammit.
Your father stayed standing on the other side of the kitchen like he didn't really know what to do after saying that.
And honestly... neither did you.
Because for weeks you'd been feeding the anger. Holding onto it tight so you wouldn't have to think too hard about how much you missed your family. About how badly that afternoon had hurt you.
But now, looking at him standing there with exhaustion written all over his face, he looked less like the terrible villain you'd built up in your head and more like... your dad.
Just your dad.
Scared.
Imperfect.
Clumsily trying not to lose you.
That didn't erase the damage.
But it made things more complicated.
And complicated was a hell of a lot harder to hate.
I recommend reading the fanfic on which this headcanon is based c: (Click)
It took a long time, although the ideas for this headcanon came to me easily and quickly. But I am happy with the result.
8.8k words
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♡ After the official verdict is delivered — terminated, fined, banned from touching bow or arrow for a probationary period of no less than fifty years, stripped of trainee status — Alysa walks out of the Empyrean hearing chamber with her head held high, her wings trembling only slightly, and promptly bursts into tears the moment she reaches the mortal plane. She will never admit this. If you bring it up, she will claim it was "atmospheric moisture."
♡ The fine is astronomical. She is now in debt to the Empyrean Bureaucratic Council for an amount that, converted to human currency, would buy a small island. She reacts to this by developing an intense, almost pathological obsession with your budgeting app. She sits on the counter while you cook, your phone in her hands, frowning at the grocery category. "Do you know how much you spend on oat milk?" she asks, genuinely scandalized. "We could buy oat milk, or we could put a dent in my interplanar debt." You tell her you're going to keep buying oat milk. She adds this to her mental list of "Human Inefficiencies I Must Learn To Tolerate."
♡ Her wing maintenance becomes a shared ritual almost by accident. The first time she tries to groom them herself in your tiny bathroom, she knocks over the shower caddy, the towel rack, and a framed print you'd had since freshman year. You find her sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wings awkwardly half-spread, feathers poking into the shower curtain, looking so defeated that you grab a comb and ask what to do. Now it's a thing. Once a week, she sits on the floor in front of the couch, wings extended across your lap, and you work through the feathers section by section while she makes small, involuntary sounds of contentment she refuses to acknowledge. If you stop before she's ready, one wing will flap pointedly in your direction. She pretends it was a muscle spasm.(Its not a muscle spasm)
♡ She talks to inanimate objects constantly, a habit left over from being invisible for most of her existence and having no one else to talk to :c. Your toaster now has a name (Gertrude) and Alysa thanks it after every use. She apologizes to the coffee table when she bumps into it. One time you heard her muttering to a jar of pickles that wouldn't open, and the muttering was not frustration — it was a genuine, reasoned argument about the philosophical implications of being sealed. The pickle jar did not respond, but Alysa seemed satisfied with the conversation nonetheless.
♡ She loves tactile sensations. She pokes you on the cheek all the time, squeezes your cheeks, holds your hand, bites, and simply strokes your skin. In the Empyrean, creatures don't usually express feelings through touch and aren't as sociable as she is in general. That's precisely why she stood out from them and ended up in this situation. Perhaps fate decided to bring you together? Who knows. But you became what she always lacked. You see her. Those who saw her before you "didn't see" her anyway.
♡ Her relationship with your phone charger becomes a point of ongoing domestic tension. She doesn't have a phone, because she is a supernatural being who communicates through higher planes of existence, but she has decided that your phone charger is "the optimal perch accessory" and keeps stealing it to wrap around her wrist like a bracelet. You have bought three replacements. She has claimed all three. Your phone is constantly at four percent.
♡ She experiences her first thunderstorm as a corporeal, somewhat-human presence and reacts with undignified terror. She has spent millennia watching storms from the other side of reality, where lightning is just light and thunder is just sound. Now, suddenly, thunder is a physical sensation that vibrates through her wings, and lightning is bright enough to hurt her eyes, and the whole experience is so overwhelming that she wedges herself between the wall and the bed and refuses to come out. You end up sitting on the floor with her for two hours, her wings wrapped around you both in a feather fortress, while she flinches at every rumble and pretends she is not clinging to your arm. Later, she claims she was "protecting you from atmospheric discharge." (You don't answer her to that, because you know she's afraid)
♡ She writes letters to Instructor Callow that she will never send. You find one by accident, tucked into your copy of a book you haven't read in years, and the handwriting is precise and old-fashioned and the content is half apology, half defense, half something that sounds a lot like a daughter writing to a disappointed father. You put it back exactly where you found it and never mention it. A week later, it's gone, and Alysa is slightly more subdued than usual, and you both pretend nothing happened.
♡ Her understanding of human technology is wildly inconsistent, which makes perfect sense when you consider that she's been observing humanity for centuries but has never had to use a microwave. She can explain the complete political hierarchy of the Empyrean, the mechanics of love-magic, and the historical significance of three different extinct mortal civilizations, but she once stared at your electric kettle for forty-five seconds before asking, in a very small voice, "Where do you put the fire?" You think about this at least twice a week. She thinks the toaster is a portal to hell, and that's why toast appears.
♡ She develops an inexplicable, all-consuming feud with the pigeon that lives on your fire escape. The pigeon is entirely ordinary and, by all accounts, has done nothing wrong, but Alysa insists it "watches her with intent." She spends hours stationed by the window, wings twitching, glaring at this bird. "I am a celestial being," you hear her mutter. "I will not be intimidated by a glorified rat with wings." The pigeon coos. Alysa clenches jaw. She forbade you to feed the pigeons and is leading you away from them.
♡ She doesn't understand the concept of "lying down in bed normally." Every night, without exception, she waits until you are settled, then arranges herself directly on top of you — head on your chest or shoulder, legs tangled with yours, wings blanketing the entire bed and everything in it — with the methodical precision of a cat kneading a blanket. She is heavier than she looks, especially the wings, which have actual muscle and bone beneath the feathers. The first few nights you tried to gently shift her off. Now you've accepted that you will spend the rest of your life waking up slightly crushed and strangely warm. Sometimes you wake up to find she's wrapped a wing around your head, blocking out all light and sound, and you have to fight your way out like you're escaping a very soft tomb.
♡ She steals clothes(obviously). Not intentionally — it starts with her borrowing a hoodie because "mortal dwellings are unreasonably cold" and the Bureau confiscated her climate-adaptive tunic — but it escalates quickly, because your clothes smell like you and she is a creature driven by sensory input in her newly physical form. You will open your drawer to find your favorite sweater missing and discover her curled up inside it, wings poking through slits she definitely made with scissors while you were asleep. Confrontation yields no remorse. "You have other sweaters," she says. "I have only this one." It's your sweater. She has appropriated it with the unassailable logic of someone who has decided that sharing means "mine, and also some of it is yours, but mostly mine."
♡ Her cooking skills are nonexistent in the most alarming way possible. She was not required to eat in the Empyrean. Food was optional, aesthetic, a sensory indulgence for higher beings. Now she has a mortal appetite and absolutely no framework for what is edible. You once caught her trying to eat a raw potato like an apple. She argued that it was "crunchy and hydrating" and seemed genuinely confused about why this was incorrect. You now handle all cooking. She has been promoted to Assistant Vegetable Washer, a role she performs with intense, slightly unnerving focus. (It's dangerous to give her a knife)
♡ She gets attached to the ugliest throw blanket you own — a lumpy, pilled, faded thing you've had since high school and keep only because it's warm. This becomes her nest. She wraps it around herself constantly, over the hoodie she stole from you, and stalks around the apartment looking like a very beautiful, very strange ghost with wings poking out of the blanket folds. She calls it "the artifact." You call it "that ratty thing." She made you apologize to it once. She named this blanket "Harry".
♡ Fireworks. This is the worst thing that has happened to her in her entire immortal life. The first time fireworks scared her so much that she cried. You comforted her all night and stroked her head as she cuddled with you. Later, you took her with you to a festival where fireworks were supposed to start. You taught her for a long time not to be afraid of fireworks and... it worked. It worked because you were there and held her hand, and she sat next to you and watched the fireworks. You looked at her, at her profile, at her facial features, and how she looked like a sculpture. (People at the festival sometimes looked at you. You stared into the void with a soft smile as fireworks exploded in front of you. But no one dared to approach)
♡ She misses flying. This is a quiet, unspoken thing that lives in the corners of your apartment and the way she looks at the window sometimes. Her wings still work — she can hover, she can glide across the room — but the Bureau's disciplinary measures included a flight restriction. No sustained aerial activity. No altitude above roof level. Her wings are effectively grounded, and some days you find her standing at the window with them half-spread, feathers brushing the glass, looking at the sky with an expression that predates language. On those days, you don't say anything. You just stand beside her and wait until she folds her wings back down and returns to the world. One time, she reaches for your hand without looking. You hold it for an hour. At night, when you can't fall asleep, you notice her wings twitching. She dreams of flying and falling.
♡ On one of the days, she stole your new notebook, which was intended for llecture. Like all celestial beings, she has a wonderful ability to write poems and verses. She wrote her thoughts, her feelings, how she spent her day in this notebook. And you. You found the notebook while she was eating in the kitchen and glanced inside. She wrote about how where she was born, no one thought about people more than work. When she was still studying, she always asked her peers about people, and they always answered as it was written in books. But no one ever warned her that people have feelings that cupids do not possess. To love. To be sad. To care. At the Academy, everyone strove for their own goals, and no one helped each other if it wasn't necessary. Sometimes the sentences are cut off, possibly because it is difficult for her to find words, associations, or she simply cannot describe her feelings. Especially in lines about you. She tries to describe your appearance, but cannot compare. She remembers her homeland, but even heavenly beauty cannot compare to you. Because with you, in this small and modest apartment, she learned what home is. On the edges, she carefully draws a square so that her text doesn't interfere, and draws you inside the square. Not perfectly, almost childishly, but very diligently. Sometimes, she allows herself to draw her and you together. Her, with wings and a bow, arrows, and you, looking tired, as usual after all the lectures, and angry pigeons. But what she describes most often is how your hands feel on her skin. She is used to the cold, to her skin being touched only by the wind. She didn't know what it was like to be touched for affection, for care, for the expression of feelings and emotions, and not for a question or a report. She describes you as warmth. But not temperature. A warmth she has never felt. But what causes the strangest feeling in chest is that she writes all the time about how she spent her day. Sometimes something new, sometimes something mundane, but always "she went to university, I stood at the door and waited for her." She has no problem with time, because she can stand there all day and not lose time, because she is immortal. But the fact that she stands at the door and waits for you, instead of occupying herself with something, makes you think. You put the notebook back and pretend you never read it. Now you try to come back from university earlier.
♡ She is, despite everything, absurdly, impossibly, irreversibly in love with you. It's in the way she steals your food and wears your clothes and crushes you in her sleep and argues with pigeons and steals your phone charger and writes you into her notebook in crossed-out poetry you were never meant to read. It's in the way she chose you — accidentally, at first, and then, every day after, on purpose. She never says it outright. She doesn't have to. The weight of her wings draped over you in the dark says it for her, every single night.
♡ She develops a habit of perching. Not sitting — perching. You will come home to find her balanced on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, wings half-spread for equilibrium, reading one of your textbooks upside down. When you ask why, she says, "Chairs are a mortal construct. I am adapting." You point out that the couch has actual cushions designed for sitting. She looks at the cushions with deep suspicion and does not move. The couch-back perch becomes her official daytime station. You've started leaving a pillow up there for her. She pretends not to notice, but the pillow is always slightly warm when you get home.
♡ Her first experience with spicy food is a disaster of mythic proportions. You made stir-fry with chili flakes, a completely normal amount, and she took one bite before her entire face went red and her wings snapped open so fast they knocked a picture frame off the wall. "My mouth," she gasped, "is under attack." She drank an entire carton of oat milk directly from the container while you watched, torn between concern and helpless laughter. Now she eyes every meal you cook with the wary vigilance of a bomb disposal expert. "Is it angry?" she asks, pointing at your dinner. You have to reassure her, every time, that no, the pasta is not angry, the pasta is pesto, they just sound similar.
♡ She discovers the concept of "lazy Sundays" and embraces it with the fervor of a religious convert. In the Empyrean, every day was structured, purposeful, accountable. Here, you have days where nothing happens, and this blows her mind. The first Sunday you spend together doing absolutely nothing — staying in pajamas, watching bad TV, eating cereal for lunch — she lies on the floor with her wings spread out like a white rug and stares at the ceiling in a state of what she later describes as "transcendent purposelessness." Now she demands Sundays. "It's Sunday," she will announce, blocking your path to the desk. "The rules are different. Return to the pajamas." It was Monday.
♡ She gets jealous of your houseplants. You have a monstera in the corner that you water every Tuesday, and every Tuesday Alysa watches you do it with narrowed eyes, her feathers slightly ruffled. "You speak to it," she says, as if this is incriminating evidence. You do, in fact, say "hello, beautiful" to the monstera sometimes. You didn't realize she was keeping track. One day you come home and the monstera has been moved three inches to the left. Just slightly. Just enough to be wrong. Alysa claims ignorance. Her expression is perfectly innocent. One of her wing feathers is caught on the pot. Sometimes she expresses her feelings to Harry that the monstera is not worthy of you.
♡ Her understanding of personal space, which was already theoretical, deteriorates entirely after the first month. The concept simply… dissolves. She walks into the bathroom while you're brushing your teeth because she "had a thought" and "wanted to share it while it was fresh." She opens the shower curtain to ask if you've seen her notebook. She stands directly behind you while you cook, her chin on your shoulder, her wings folded around you both, narrating your cooking like a nature documentary. "The human approaches the onion," she murmurs. "A bold choice. Dangerous. Note the protective eyewear — ah, she forgot it. Tragedy imminent." You cry over the onion. She says "I told you so" with her wings.
♡ She steals your shampoo. She doesn't have hair that needs washing at a human frequency, but she has decided that smelling like you is a non-negotiable requirement of existence. You buy a new bottle and it's half-empty within four days.
♡ The first time you cry in front of her — bad day, stress, everything piling up — she panics so completely that she forgets how to speak English for a solid thirty seconds. The sound that comes out of her is a string of Empyrean syllables that sound like wind chimes and distress. Then she wraps herself around you — arms, legs, wings, the full crushing Alysa Special — and stays there, silent and trembling slightly, for two hours. She doesn't try to fix it. She doesn't give you advice. She just holds you with every limb she has, a fortress of feathers and warmth, until your breathing evens out. When you finally pull back, her face is wet too. You don't mention it. She doesn't either. But from that day forward, the crushing Alysa Special appears within thirty seconds of any sign you might be sad, even if you're just frowning at a difficult paragraph in your textbook.
♡ She starts referring to the apartment as "the nest." Not in a cute, metaphorical way — in a literal, biological, "this is our territory and I will defend it" way. The mail carrier who shoves packages too aggressively through the slot gets a full-wing intimidation display that he cannot see but somehow, viscerally, feels. He starts leaving your packages on the doorstep instead of forcing them through. Alysa is inordinately proud of this. "The nest is secure," she reports. "You're welcome."
♡ She discovers glitter. You don't know where she found it. You don't know why she thought it was a good idea. All you know is that you come home one day and your apartment looks like a craft store exploded and Alysa is sitting in the center of the chaos, absolutely covered in shimmering particles, her white wings now approximately forty percent glitter by volume. "I wanted to be shiny," she says, as if this explains everything. It takes three weeks to get the glitter out of the feathers. You find sparkles in your bed, your food, your textbooks, your hair. Months later, in moments of direct sunlight, Alysa still shimmers faintly. She loves it. You have accepted your sparkly fate.
♡ She writes a ten-page essay titled "The Ethics of Involuntary Love-Magic: A Case Study in Personal Error and Systemic Reform." It's dense, academic, and absolutely scathing about Empyrean training protocols. She doesn't send it to anyone. She just gives it to you to read, hovering anxiously while you flip through the pages, her wings twitching at every facial expression you make. When you tell her it's brilliant, she cries. Then she makes you promise never to tell Callow she cried. Then she steals your snack from the fridge and eats it in front of you, tears still drying on her cheeks, because emotional vulnerability must be balanced with petty theft. It's her process.
♡ She learns what a forehead kiss is and becomes obsessed. The first time you kiss her forehead — absentminded, on your way to the kitchen — she freezes like a statue, wings locked mid-twitch, eyes wide. You have to ask if she's okay. She whispers, "Do that again." Now it's a requirement. Every morning. Every night. Every time you leave the apartment and every time you come back. Sometimes she just wanders up to you and tilts her head down, pointing at her forehead with an expression of regal expectation. The former Cupid, the celestial being, the immortal entity who once shaped the romantic destinies of mortals — stands in your kitchen in your stolen hoodie, demanding forehead kisses like a cat demanding chin scratches.
♡ She has another nemesis. It is the smoke detector. It went off exactly once, when you burned toast, and the sound — a piercing, mortal-engineered shriek — sent her diving behind the couch with her wings wrapped around her head like a cocoon. She has never forgiven it. Now she glares at it whenever she passes. "I havefaced down the Bureaucratic Council of the Empyrean," she mutters to the small white disc on the ceiling. "You are a plastic circle with a battery."( The smoke detector does not rrespond)
♡ Late at night, when the apartment is dark and her wings are draped over you like a weighted blanket and the city outside is quiet, she talks about the Empyrean. The gardens. The way the light bent through the crystal trees. The way the wind smelled like morning, always, even at midnight. She tells you about the libraries where books wrote themselves as you read them, the rivers that sang in harmonies only Cupids could hear, the fields of silver grass where she used to lie on her back and watch the sky change colors. Her voice is soft and distant and aching. You listen without interrupting, your hand moving slowly through her feathers, and she talks until her voice trails off into sleep. She never talks about the Empyrean during the day. Only in the dark. Only to you. You hold these stories like something fragile, something precious, something given. But she doesn't talk about other Cupids. They were not as sociable and open as she was, so they didn't take her seriously.
♡ You are a being she cherishes too much. All the celestial beings she was familiar with before treated her with condescension, neglect, and irritation. She sometimes had to trail after her determined groupmates and ask something. You, on the other hand, could easily communicate with your groupmates and friends. Sometimes, more often than she should, she gets jealous. She sees you interacting with friends, hugging them, smiling at them. Without realizing it, she constantly reaches for your hand to squeeze the fabric of your hoodie or to hold your hand. One day, she squeezes your hand and doesn't let go. Tears stream down her eyes. " Please promise me that you will be only with me. No one else. Promise that I will be your only one, even if I can't give you anything but myself. Please." Her voice trembled on the last word. She practically begged you. And you swore to her that you would only be with her.
♡ The first snow catches Alysa completely off guard. She stands at the window, palms pressed to the glass, wings slightly lifted, watching the white flakes fall from the grey sky with an expression that can only be described as reverent horror mixed with childlike wonder. "Frozen water is falling from the sky," she whispers. "Millions of tiny crystals. And humans just… walk on them? Like it's normal?" She refuses to go outside for the first hour. By the second hour, she is standing barefoot in a snowdrift because she "wanted to feel the texture," and her wings are dusted with snowflakes that don't melt, because the temperature of her feathers runs lower than human body temperature. You drag her back inside, wrap her in a heated blanket, and ply her with hot tea. She shivers, but she smiles like she's witnessed a miracle. From this day forward, winter is her favorite season.
♡ She does not understand the concept of "dressing for the weather." You can explain layers, thermal underwear, moisture-wicking fabrics, but she looks at you like you're speaking a dead language and then walks out into the freezing cold in your stolen hoodie and shorts. Her wings offer some insulation — the feathers contract, trapping heat — but her legs and arms still go numb. She returns from her walks with blue lips and absolutely radiant. You buy her her own winter coat with wing slits that you make yourself, because such a thing does not exist in nature. She wears it every day. She sleeps in it, if you don't stop her.
♡ The pigeon on the fire escape vanishes with the coming of the cold, and Alysa declares victory in their war with the triumph of someone who has personally conquered a continent. "I knew it," she says, pacing the apartment like a general. "Perseverance and resolve. The bird understood who it was dealing with." You do not remind her that pigeons migrate or shelter in warmth. You give her this victory. A week later, she starts to worry about whether the pigeon froze. You find her sitting by the window with breadcrumbs in her palm, staring at the empty fire escape with an expression suspiciously close to concern. "He was a worthy adversary," she says quietly. "I don't want him to suffer." You kiss her forehead and tell her pigeons have been surviving winters for thousands of years. She scoffs and pretends not to care. But she leaves the breadcrumbs on the windowsill. Just in case.
♡ The heating in your studio apartment is unreliable, and on especially cold nights the temperature drops low enough to see your breath. Alysa responds by turning your bed into a feather cocoon that blocks out everything — light, sound, cold air. You sleep at the center of this construction, wrapped in her body and wings like a living sleeping bag. It's the warmest thing you have ever experienced. In the mornings you don't want to crawl out, and she doesn't make you — just lies there, murmuring something Empyrean into the crown of your head until the sun rises high enough to warm the room.
♡ She discovers hot chocolate. This becomes a problem. Not financially — you're willing to buy cocoa in bulk, that's fine — but logistically. She drinks it by the liter. She adds marshmallows, cinnamon, whipped cream, and one time, in a fit of experimental madness, a pinch of cayenne pepper, after which she declares she has "recreated the taste of sunset over the Crystal Gardens." You don't know if that's true, but cayenne hot chocolate becomes her signature drink. She makes it for you every evening. You're not sure you like the taste of sunset, but you drink every cup to the dregs because she glows every time you do.
♡ Before the New Year, you decorated the walls, the tree, and other things. She was so happy, happier than any child. She took the transformation of the house with complete seriousness and made sure that everything was perfect. She even decorated you (she wrapped tinsel around you)
♡ She builds a snowman. It's lopsided. It has pebbles for eyes because you couldn't find coal, and a twig for a nose because the carrot froze and snapped. Alysa names it "The Threshold Guardian" and demands you treat it with respect. She bows to the snowman every time she leaves the apartment. The neighbors give you strange looks — they can only see you, standing beside a girl they cannot see, bowing to a crooked snowman. You have stopped explaining. You simply live with it.
♡ On the coldest night of the year, she tells you that she used to sing. In the Empyrean. Before the training, before the field work, before the bow and arrows. She was in the choir that greeted the dawn over the Crystal Gardens, and her voice was part of the harmony that made the flowers bloom open. She hasn't sung since she was dismissed. You ask her to sing now. She's silent for a long time, staring at a candle on the windowsill, and you're already sure she'll refuse. Then she starts — quiet, uncertain, in a language you don't know. Her voice trembles on the first notes, but it gains strength with every word. When she finishes, the room is silent, and the snow outside is falling thicker, as if the world had been listening too. "I miss it," she whispers. "But here, I miss it less." You pull her into your arms and hold her until the candle burns out.
♡ She gives you a Midwinter gift — a feather from her own wing. Not a shed one. She pulled it out herself, and you know it hurt, because it's from the very edge, one of the flight feathers, and there's still a tiny bead of silvery, non-human blood at the tip. She places it in your palm as carefully as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. "This is a part of me," she says. "Now it's yours. If you ever lose me, if I disappear, if the Bureau decides… This will stay. It won't vanish. It's real." You can't speak. You just close your fist around the feather and pull her close, and you stand there in the silence while the snow falls outside.
♡ You taught her to make snow angels. To your surprise, she leaves a trail in the snow. She enjoys this activity, but afterwards she shivers to the bone, even though you told her to dress warmly. At home, she presses her cold body against you, warming the two of you with her wings, with an old "Harry" blanket. At this time, she tells you that she would like to dedicate herself to winter someday. She would like to become a person, to love winter and snow. Perhaps, in another world, she would like to become a figure skater.
♡ Somewhere around the second year of living together, you notice the change. Not a sharp one — Alysa doesn't shift overnight, she doesn't change outwardly at all — but noticeable nonetheless. She's become… closer. Not just physically (though that too), but in a different way, a deeper way. She used to be able to let you go — to class, to work, to meet up with friends — with a small sigh and a murmured reminder to "come back soon." Now she stands in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the frame, wings slightly drooped, and in her eyes is a longing she's desperately trying to hide. "You won't be long, right?" she asks, and her voice is too even, too calm to be real. You kiss her forehead and promise you'll be back in two hours. She nods, but you know — she will be counting the minutes. She will wait at the door and write about it in her notebook.
♡ The jealousy arrives without warning and completely blindsides her. There was no jealousy in the Empyrean — Cupids don't experience emotions, they trigger them. Alysa has absolutely no idea what to do with this hot, unpleasant feeling that flares in her chest when you laugh at the barista's joke, or when a classmate's hand lingers too long on your shoulder, or when you mention someone's name with warmth in your voice. She gets angry at the feeling itself. "It's not okay," she says one evening, lying on top of you with her face pressed into your neck. "I know you're mine. I know you come back to me every night. But when someone looks at you, I want to…" She trails off. "What?" you ask. "Spread my wings," she whispers. "Full span. So they understand." You stroke her hair and tell her it's normal. She scoffs. "Normal for humans. I'm not human." But it helps.
♡ At night, often, she opens her eyes and looks at your face for a long time, studying your features. Sometimes she runs her fingertips over your skin, snuggles closer, inhales your scent, and looks at your sleeping face. She is immortal. You are not. She is afraid of not hearing your breath one day.
♡ Your friends notice that something about you has changed. Chloe says you've become more… absent. Not in a bad way — just that sometimes you stare into empty space and smile, or answer a beat too late, as if you're listening to someone else. "Are you okay?" she asks. "Yeah," you say. "Just zoned out." You can't tell her that Alysa is standing right behind your shoulder, murmuring commentary about everyone who walks past into your ear. "That man looked at you twice," Alysa mutters, her breath tickling your neck. "His aura is the color of stale soup." You choke on a laugh. Chloe gives you a bewildered look. You take a sip of coffee and explain nothing.
♡ She becomes possessive in the smallest ways. Your mug — now her favorite, and she will only drink from it, even when the others are clean. Your side of the bed — now her side if you get up first, because "it's warm and smells like you." Your daily schedule — she's memorized it and starts to fret if you're fifteen minutes late. "You said you'd be home at six," she says, meeting you at the door, wings folded, arms crossed. "It's six-seventeen." You apologize, explain the traffic, hold out a box of cookies as a peace offering. She takes the cookies, but she still hugs you a second longer than usual, and her wings wrap around you so tightly you feel every feather.
♡ You can no longer cook with garlic. Not because you have an allergy, but because Alysa refuses to kiss you after garlic. "It's an assault on the olfactory senses," she declares, scooting to the far edge of the bed with the air of an offended queen. You laugh and tell her humans have been eating garlic for millennia, and it's fine. "Humans also eat raw fish and call it a delicacy," she retorts. "I don't trust human tastes." You eat the garlic pasta anyway. She doesn't kiss you for two hours. But at night she presses against you just as tightly as always, nose buried in your shoulder, and you know — she was just waiting for the smell to fade.
♡ She gets jealous even of your thoughts. Once, you were lost in thought, staring at the ceiling, and you didn't answer her question the first time. Alysa immediately loomed over you, wings blocking the lamplight, her face inches from yours. "Where were you?" she demanded. "I was right here," you said, bewildered. "Just thinking." "About what?" You hesitated, because the truth was something mundane — a deadline, a grocery list, the need to change the batteries in the smoke detector. "About you," you said, and it wasn't entirely a lie, because you're always thinking about her somewhere in the background. Her wings relaxed. "Good," she said, and settled back onto the bed. "You may continue."
♡ She hates your phone. Not the phone itself — but how long you sometimes look at it. "You spend more time with that rectangle than you spend with me," she says one day, and her voice carries such genuine hurt that you immediately set the phone aside. It turns out she's been keeping count. She has a mental log where she tracks how many minutes you spend on the screen and compares them to the minutes you spend on her. You don't ask about the results. You just institute a rule: after eight in the evening, the phone goes in the desk drawer, and you belong entirely to her. She blooms. Literally — her feathers get glossier, her wings lift slightly, like she's ready to take flight from happiness.
♡ The jealousy toward Chloe becomes the most complicated. Alysa knows Chloe is your best friend. She knows there has never been anything between you. She knows the spark she herself tried to plant has long since faded. But Chloe can touch you in public. Chloe can hug you when you meet. Chloe can sit with you in a café and laugh, and no one looks at her strangely. Alysa cannot. Alysa stands invisible two steps away, fists clenched, feathers bristling with tension, and she says nothing, but you feel that gaze on your skin. After every meet-up with Chloe, she's quieter than usual. She clings to you tighter. She asks — casually, far too casually — "Did you have a good time?" You sit down beside her, take her face in your hands, and say, "I love you. Only you. Always you." She closes her eyes and exhales. "I know," she whispers. "I just… remind me sometimes."
♡ "You're mine," she says one day, and it doesn't sound like a question. "I've learned this now. To love is to know that you're mine."
♡ People stare at you strangely all the time. It's not surprising because they only see you, not Cupid complaining about pigeons in the street. You smile into the void, placing part of the food in the empty spot next to you.
♡ At cafés, you always take the corner table, and you always order two drinks. One for yourself, one that you place on the opposite edge of the table and never touch. Alysa drinks hers when no one is looking — or rather, when no one can see her. You've learned to time it carefully. The barista thinks you're waiting for someone who never shows up. One day she asks, with careful politeness, "Is your friend still running late?" You smile and say, "No, she's here." The barista looks at the empty chair, at the untouched latte, at you, anddoesn't ask again.
♡ In public, you sometimes forget yourself. You're walking down the street and suddenly you smile — because Alysa said something funny, because her wing brushed your shoulder, because she pointed at a pigeon with the expression of an offended aristocrat. You laugh into empty space, and passersby turn their heads. Some smile back — a nice girl, probably listening to a podcast or remembering something pleasant. Some frown. An elderly woman once asked if you were feeling all right. "Yes," you answered, still smiling. "Just a good day." Alysa, standing beside you, beamed.
♡ Your coworkers notice that you sometimes stare into an empty corner of the room and nod. "Are you talking to someone?" a colleague asks, glancing into the same corner. There's nothing there. "Myself," you say. "Thinking out loud. It helps." The colleague accepts this explanation, because people tend to accept plausible explanations. But you're not thinking out loud. You're answering Alysa, who is sitting on the windowsill critiquing your work, her wings trailing down to the floor.
♡ The neighbors are a whole separate story. You've lived in this apartment for several years now, and some of them have noticed odd things. Music playing when you're not home (Alysa figured out how to work your playlist). The sound of wings, like wind, even though the windows are shut. A silhouette in the window — tall, with something like enormous wings behind it — visible when you forget to close the curtains. One neighbor asked if you keep a large bird. You said no. She didn't believe you. Now she eyes you with suspicion whenever you meet in the elevator. Alysa, standing behind you, stares back at her with regal disdain.
♡ You can't take normal photos anymore. Every picture where you're alone, you come out slightly out of focus — as if the camera is trying to capture something else, something just behind your shoulder, and can't quite manage it. Friends joke that you have an "aura" or a "ghost in the shot." You laugh along with them. You don't tell them it's not a ghost. It's a girl who insisted on being in every photo, even if no one can see her. "I want to be part of your life," she said. "Even the part that other people can see."
♡ The strangest thing is when someone accidentally walks through Alysa. She's intangible to everyone but you, but when a person passes through her wing, they shiver — like a draft, like a sudden chill, like something they have no name for. Once, on the subway, a man walked straight through her spread wing and froze, looking around with an expression of deep bewilderment. "What was that?" he muttered. Alysa sniffed. "Rude," she said. "He could have apologized." You hid your smile in your scarf.
♡ Dating. Oh, dating. You don't go on dates anymore, but once, in the very beginning, you tried — out of inertia, because everyone around you said you should. It was a catastrophe. Alysa would sit at the next table and comment on every word your date said. "His aura is the color of swamp water." "He doesn't wash his hands thoroughly enough, I saw in the men's room." "Ask him about his views on household chore distribution. Now." You choked on laughter, your date had no idea what was happening, and the evening ended in awkward goodbyes. After the third attempt, you surrendered. "You're impossible," you told Alysa. "I'm protecting our interests," she replied, her wings spreading in victory. " You are still mine, don't forget "
Time.
♡ You don't notice it right away. A year passes, two, five — and you realize Alysa isn't changing. Not a single new wrinkle, not a single grey hair in her dark strands. Her face remains exactly the same as the day you first saw her beneath the atrium ceiling — young, frightened, beautiful. You bring it up at breakfast, trying to keep your voice light, almost joking. "Do you even age?" Alysa freezes with a piece of toast in her hand. Her wings press flat against her back. "No," she answers quietly, and in that single word there is an abyss. It's the first time you talk about it. Not the last.
♡ Thirty. Your temples aren't touched by grey yet, but fine little rays of lines are gathering around your eyes — lines Alysa calls "laugh tracks" and kisses every morning with particular tenderness. You're still young, still full of energy, but somewhere deep inside, the awareness is already ticking: she hasn't changed a single day. Her skin still just as smooth, her movements still just as light, her wings still just as snow-white. You watch her sometimes when she's not looking and try to imagine what she'll look like in ten years. The answer is always the same: exactly the same. It's terrifying and comforting in equal measure.
♡ Forty. You find your first grey hair and pluck it out while Alysa isn't watching. She notices anyway — she always notices everything that concerns you — and finds you in the bathroom with tweezers in one hand and that treacherous silver strand in the other. She doesn't say anything. She just takes the tweezers from you, cups your face in her palms, and kisses your forehead very, very slowly. "You're beautiful," she says. "Always. At every stage." You cry. She holds you until you stop. The next day, you notice she's gathered your grey hairs — the ones you missed — and woven a thin silver thread into a strand near her own temple. "Now they're mine too," she says, shrugging as if it means nothing.( It means everything)
♡ Fifty. Your peers are marrying, divorcing, having children who are already finishing university. Your mother asks why you're still alone. Chloe, who never learned the full truth but has learned to accept your strangeness, gently asks if you'd like to "meet someone." You smile and say that you're not alone. You've never been alone. They don't understand, but they stop asking. Alysa is standing behind you as they say these things, invisible to them, her wing brushing your shoulder, and you feel the warmth even through your clothes. "I'm here," she says, though you already know. "I'm always here."
♡ Sixty. Your hands start to tremble when you groom her feathers. It's barely noticeable — a faint tremor that comes and goes — but Alysa feels it with every cell of her unchanging body. She takes the comb from your fingers and replaces it with a warm mug of tea. "Let me do it myself today," she says, but she's not good at it alone — the wings are too large, the angles too awkward. You help her anyway. You manage together, slowly, clumsily, like two people learning all over again how to do something that was once simple. You laugh about it. The laughter turns into coughing, the coughing turns into silence. At night, she presses against you tighter than usual, her wings wrapping around you like a shroud, like a shield, like a promise — I won't let go, I won't let go, I won't let go.
♡ Seventy. Your body is a map of the life you've lived. Wrinkles, creases, scars, age spots that Alysa calls "constellations" and names in Empyrean. On your left forearm, you have a cluster of freckles she named "The Three Sisters" — after a star system visible only from the highest tower of the Empyrean — and when she kisses that spot, you don't feel old. You feel sacred. She hasn't changed. Her face is the face of the girl she was the day you met. Sometimes that hurts. More often, it doesn't. More often, you just look at her and think: how lucky I am that I get to see this, that I get to know this, that this miracle chose me.
♡ Eighty. You can no longer walk as easily as you used to. Alysa carries you in her arms — literally. Her arms lift you as carefully as if you were made of smoke, her wings create a cushion of air, and you hover a foot above the floor, wrapped in her body, as she carries you from bed to armchair and back. You protest — "I'm not an invalid, I'm just slow." She ignores you with regal Empyrean haughtiness. "You carried me," she says, and she doesn't mean with her body, she means with her heart, her life, everything you gave her. "Now it's my turn." You surrender. Her wings smell like snow and something not of this world, and you feel safer than you ever have.
♡ Ninety-two. You look like a raisin, and you know it. Your skin is parchment, your fingers are knotted twigs, your voice is a whisper the wind could carry away at any moment. But you're still here, and she's still here, and that's the only thing that matters. Your nieces and nephews — Chloe's children, because you never had children of your own — come to visit you once a week. They've grown used to you talking to empty space. "Grandma's talking to her angel," the youngest one said once, and everyone laughed, because it sounded like a sweet old-person quirk. Only you and Alysa knew it was the truth. Alysa glowed for the rest of the day.
♡ Ninety-eight. You can barely see and barely hear, but you can still feel. You feel the weight of her wings on your body every night. You feel her forehead kisses — more of them than ever, as if she's trying to fit an eternity into every touch. You feel her fingers laced with yours, young and strong, holding your old, trembling hands as if they are the fragile thing in need of protection. "I'm scared," you whisper one night. You don't specify what you're scared of — death, loneliness, oblivion, the unknown — because you're scared of all of it at once. Alysa is silent for a long time. Then she says, "Me too. But I won't leave. I'll be here until the very end. And after." You don't know what "after" means. Maybe she doesn't either. But her voice sounds so certain that you believe her.
♡ One hundred. You never thought you'd live to a hundred. No one did. The nurses at the hospice call you a miracle, and you laugh — quietly, raspingly, because laughter is harder now — because they don't know the half of what made your life miraculous. You're surrounded by people who love you — nieces, great-nieces and nephews, their children, tiny great-great-niblings you held in your arms when they were newborns. They look at you with love, but also with a kind of wonder — how you've lived so long, how you've stayed so serene, how you never complained of loneliness even though you never had a partner. "I have someone," you say, when someone finally gathers the courage to ask. They think you mean God. You mean the girl with white wings standing in the corner of the room, smiling at you through tears.
♡ You leave in your sleep, quiet and peaceful, like snow falling to rest. Alysa is holding your hand. She was singing to you — that same song, the Empyrean dawn hymn — and your breathing slowed, slowed, until it became silence. She doesn't scream. Doesn't cry — not yet. She just sits there, holding your hand as it slowly cools in her fingers, her wings wrapped around the both of you, just like that very first winter when she was terrified of the thunderstorm and you held her on the bathroom floor. Now everything is reversed. Now she is the one holding you.
♡ She vanishes from the human world that same night. The magical bond no longer holds her here. The Bureau no longer holds her here. Nothing holds her here anymore except memory and love, which didn't end with death. She goes where Cupids go when their time among mortals is done. But before she leaves, she places something on your pillow. A white feather — long, a flight feather, with a silver shimmer — and a note, written in your native language, in that same old-fashioned handwriting she once used for letters to Callow.
"Thank you for seeing me. I will come again. Wait for me in the gardens."
♡ Your relatives find the feather and the note when they go through your belongings. They don't understand. They turn the feather over in their hands, wondering what kind of bird it could have come from to be so large and so white — no bird they know has feathers with a silver sheen. They read the note aloud, and someone suggests it must be an old love letter from someone you knew in your youth. They're wrong only in the details. It is a love letter. It is old and new all at once — written on the last night of your life and somehow still smelling of snow and morning. They place it in a box with other important papers. A generation from now, no one will remember where it came from. But the feather will not decay. The feather will lie in that box, white, silver-edged, untouched by time — a small miracle that refused to disappear.
♡ Somewhere in the gardens of the Empyrean — those very gardens where crystal trees bend the light, where rivers sing in harmonies, where the wind always smells like morning — a girl with white wings stands at the threshold and waits. She looks exactly the same as the day you first saw her. Young face, enormous brown eyes, silver bow finally returned to her hands. She waits. She has always been waiting. And when you appear — young, radiant, at the very age you were when you met — she doesn't say anything. She just opens her wings. And you step into them, like an embrace, like a home, like forever. And there is no snow falling, but the air smells like snow. And somewhere in the distance, someone is singing the dawn hymn. And everything is right. Everything is finally right.
"Thank you for meeting me. Thank you for seeing me."
SUMMARY — you and Alysa were inseparable, two skating prodigies everyone thought would own the ice forever. But what happens when an illness ends your career way too soon?
WARNING — cancer, doctor negligence, grief, depression.
WORDS COUNT — 3.2K
MASTERLIST
The ice in Oakland always smelled the same.
Cold metal, freshly sharpened blades, and cheap coffee clutched in parents' hands while they shivered in the stands at six in the morning. It was the kind of smell that got burned into your brain before you even learned how to land a proper turn. Before you understood words like competition, scores, or sacrifice.
You were six years old when you met her.
And the first thing you did was knock her flat on her ass.
It wasn't even graceful. You were skating way too fast for a tiny kid, your laces half untied, cheeks red from the cold, and she was trying to do something that looked super important. You turned wrong, lost your balance, and slammed straight into her.
Both of you went flying onto the ice.
It hurt like hell.
But before you could cry, you heard laughing.
Not an adult laughing. Not someone making fun of you.
Her.
Alysa Liu was sprawled on her back on the ice, arms spread out, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
"We died!" she gasped between laughs.
And you, with your aching nose and frozen hands, started laughing too.
The coaches rushed over thinking somebody had broken a bone.
They had no clue they'd just witnessed the beginning of something way more important than a skating career.
Because after that, you two were inseparable.
You basically grew up at the rink.
While other kids learned how to ride bikes, you learned how to fall without snapping your wrists. While everybody else went to birthday parties, you were doing warmups at five in the morning.
Everybody knew you together.
"Alysa and you."
Never apart.
If one of you showed up late, people automatically asked where the other was. If one of you got sick, the other looked incomplete out on the ice.
You shared warmups, jackets, snacks, headphones, and silence.
Mostly silence.
Because there were things only the two of you understood.
The pressure.
The exhaustion.
The constant ache in your legs.
What it felt like to be eleven years old while grown adults talked about your future like you were some kind of investment.
And even with all that, you were still kids.
Kids chasing each other across the ice.
Throwing shaved ice at each other after practice.
Doing dumb races to see who could get to the locker room first.
Your coaches were losing their minds.
"Five minutes apart! I'm begging you, just five minutes apart!"
Never happened.
Alysa always ended up sitting next to you. You always caught yourself looking for her in a crowd.
It was automatic.
Natural.
Like breathing.
The first time someone called you 'prodigies', you were nine.
That word followed you everywhere after that.
Prodigies.
Future Olympic champions.
The next stars of American figure skating.
You both pretended not to hear it, but of course you did.
How could you not?
The expectations grew up right alongside you.
And so did the talent.
Alysa was pure electricity on the ice. Explosive. Fearless. Unstoppable.
You were different.
Sharper.
More elegant.
More calculated.
Whenever you competed against each other, the whole rink held its breath.
Because nobody ever knew who was gonna win.
And the best part was that neither of you wanted to lose… but neither of you could stand seeing the other sad either.
So somehow you always ended up celebrating together anyway.
In 2019, Alysa won Nationals.
You were standing behind the boards when they announced her scores.
She didn't even look at the scoreboard first.
She looked for you.
She always looked for you.
You both started screaming, jumping into each other's arms while cameras flashed nonstop. Reporters immediately started talking about legendary rivalries and fierce competition.
They didn't get it at all.
You weren't rivals.
You were a team.
Even when you were competing against each other.
A year later, you won.
And Alysa cried harder than your own parents.
Seriously.
She was a complete mess in the stands, tears streaming down her face while she yelled:
"That's my person! That's my person!"
You laughed so hard during the ceremony you almost ruined the official photos. Back then, it felt like the future had already been written.
Olympics.
World Championships.
Years of dominating the sport.
Everybody saw it.
Everybody was sure.
Until you started feeling pain.
At first, it was small.
Just soreness.
Something manageable.
The coaches called it fatigue. Sports doctors said overuse injury.
You kept training.
Obviously you did.
Pain was part of figure skating.
But then it got worse.
And worse.
And worse.
Until walking up stairs made your legs shake.
Until you woke up crying in the middle of the night.
Alysa was the first person who realized something was seriously wrong.
Because she knew you too well.
She knew when you were faking it.
She knew what your fake laugh sounded like.
She knew the difference between 'I'm tired' and 'I'm falling apart'
The diagnosis hit like a bomb.
Tibial cancer.
Advanced.
Aggressive.
You still remembered the silence in the hospital room after the doctor finished talking.
Your mom crying.
Your dad completely frozen.
And Alysa sitting beside you, gripping your hand so tightly it almost hurt.
Like letting go meant losing you.
The amputation happened a few months later.
Right below the knee.
You were fifteen years old.
Fifteen.
You were supposed to be thinking about Olympic programs, not prosthetic legs.
The day you woke up after surgery, you didn't look down right away.
Because you already knew.
You could feel it.
The missing weight.
The emptiness.
And when you finally looked…
Something inside you shattered for good.
You didn't cry.
That was the worst part.
You just stopped feeling anything at all. After that, you became a ghost of yourself.
The loud girl at the rink disappeared.
The one who made terrible jokes.
The one who dragged Alysa out for hot chocolate after practice.
The one who talked too much.
Gone.
You shut down so completely that even your family started tiptoeing around you.
Your siblings tried to make you laugh.
Your parents pretended everything was normal.
You gave them tiny polite smiles that never reached your eyes.
But with Alysa…
It was different.
Because she never tried to fix you.
She never told you to 'stay strong'.
Never gave you speeches about how 'everything happens for a reason'.
She just showed up.
She laid there with you in silence.
Showed you stupid videos.
Roasted terrible movies with you.
And sometimes… she managed to make you laugh for real.
Not one of those automatic fake smiles.
A real laugh.
The kind that made your chest hurt because you'd forgotten what laughing felt like.
And every single time it happened, Alysa looked at you like she'd just gotten a piece of you back she thought was gone forever.
Then Beijing happened.
The Olympics.
And you couldn't watch them.
Not really.
Because it hurt too damn much.
Alysa never said it out loud, but through the entire Olympic season she felt incomplete.
Reporters thought she was nervous.
Coaches said she seemed distracted.
The truth was simpler.
She missed you.
She kept searching for you in every crowd even though she knew you weren't there.
Still, she competed.
Because you basically forced her to.
"I'm not letting you use my tragedy as an excuse," you told her one night.
She cried afterward.
Angry tears.
Because she hated hearing the word tragedy attached to you.
When Beijing ended and she announced her retirement, the whole world was confused.
She was too young.
Too talented.
Too damn good to walk away.
Reporters wanted answers.
She gave them the simple version. "I don't love skating the way I used to."
But that wasn't the whole truth.
The real truth lived in those nights sitting on your bedroom floor.
In the way she rewatched old videos of the two of you practicing together.
In how she never walked into a rink again without pausing for a few seconds first.
Because the ice without you felt different.
Empty.
Quiet.
Like a song missing half its melody.
And one night, she finally admitted it.
You were sitting on your porch sharing a blanket because it was freezing outside.
Her head rested against your shoulder.
"It just didn't mean anything without you," she whispered.
You took a while to answer.
Because there were too many feelings jammed inside your chest.
Guilt.
Love.
Pain.
Anger.
Everything tangled together.
"You can't stop living because of me."
Alysa lifted her head immediately.
"It's not your fault."
"But—"
“Listen to me.”
Her voice shook.
Just a little.
Enough to break your heart.
"You were the best part of skating. Not the medals. Not the jumps. Not the Olympics. You."
And for the first time in a very, very long time…
You cried.
Really cried.
Not because of the leg.
Not because of the cancer.
Not because of the shattered dreams.
But because somebody was still looking at you and seeing the same person you’d been before the world fell apart.
College arrived in this weirdly quiet way.
After years where your lives had been nonstop noise — blades scraping across ice, coaches yelling corrections, cameras flashing, hospitals, rehab, headlines, and those awful pity-filled looks — UCLA almost felt unreal.
Normal.
And for the longest time, you'd thought you'd never get anything close to a normal life again.
But then there you were.
Sitting on the campus lawn next to Alysa, textbooks spread out between you, iced coffee forgotten on the table because you'd spent the last twenty minutes talking about absolutely nothing important.
And you were happy.
Not the huge, explosive kind of happiness from movies.
Nothing dramatic.
It was quieter than that.
Deeper.
Like finally being able to breathe after spending years holding your breath.
Alysa picked psychology.
Nobody was really surprised.
She'd always understood people in this almost terrifying way. She could read silence, spot pain hiding behind smiles, tell when somebody needed space and when they needed company.
Especially you.
You picked medicine.
And that surprised the hell out of people.
Because after everything you'd been through with hospitals, most people assumed you'd never want to step foot in one again if you could help it.
But that was exactly why.
You wanted answers.
You wanted to understand how so many doctors looked at a fifteen-year-old girl who could barely walk and decided she was just 'overtrained'.
You wanted to know how nobody saw the cancer growing inside your leg until it was already too late.
Sometimes you still woke up angry.
Not sad.
Furious.
Thinking about every warning sign people ignored.
About how your career ended before it ever really got the chance to begin.
About how part of your body had been sacrificed because of mistakes that never should've happened.
And then Alysa would grab your hand under the table while you studied in the library.
Without saying anything.
Never trying to fix the anger.
Just reminding you that you were still here.
That you survived.
Life got quiet after that.
Weirdly quiet.
And at first, you didn't know what to do with it.
Because your whole childhood had been nonstop motion. Training. Competitions. Interviews. Pressure.
Now there were slow mornings.
Afternoons studying.
Nights spent watching terrible TV shows on the couch in the apartment you shared near campus.
Alysa left hoodies everywhere.
You stole them anyway.
You argued about whose turn it was to do the dishes.
She always lost because she'd get distracted halfway through and end up dancing around the kitchen with music blasting in the background.
And even in that softer, quieter life, the ice never fully disappeared.
Because you both kept going back to the rink.
Always.
Like some part of you still belonged there.
The first time you asked your doctors whether you'd ever skate again with a prosthetic, you were terrified.
You didn't want to hear another no.
You'd already had enough of those.
But the specialist just smiled a little and said:
"If your body allows it, and you're careful… I don't see why not."
You remembered crying in the car afterward.
Quietly.
Staring out the window while Alysa drove.
She didn't say anything for a couple minutes.
Then:
"You wanna go today?"
You turned toward her.
"Today?"
"Yeah. Right now."
"Lys…"
"Let's go to the rink."
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Going back onto the ice was terrifying.
And painful.
And humiliating.
And incredible.
Because your body didn't move the same anymore.
Your balance was different.
Falling felt different.
Everything felt different.
But the ice still felt like home.
You remembered standing frozen in the middle of the rink while cold air hit your face.
The familiar sound of blades cutting the ice.
The echo inside the arena.
And then Alysa slowly skating toward you until she stopped right in front of you.
"Ready?"
No.
Absolutely not.
But you nodded anyway.
And she smiled.
The same smile she used to have as a kid whenever she was about to do something impulsive that would probably get both of you in trouble.
Then she started skating backward slowly, holding your hands.
Just like she had when you were six years old.
Like nothing had changed.
And maybe, deep down, some things never really did. You weren't exactly sure when your relationship changed.
That was the weird part.
Because Alysa had always been your favorite person.
Always the first one you looked for when something good happened.
And the only person you wanted around when everything went to hell.
You loved her long before you understood what being in love even meant.
Maybe that's why it took you so long to realize it.
Because loving Alysa felt as natural as breathing.
There wasn't some big obvious beginning.
There was just… her.
Always her.
But New Year's 2023 changed something.
You knew it even before the kiss.
The Liu family had thrown this huge party. Loud music, food everywhere, little cousins sprinting through the house, lights hanging all over the backyard.
You were sitting outside wrapped in a blanket because it was freezing.
Needed a break from all the noise.
Alysa came outside a few minutes later.
Without saying a word, she sat next to you.
Your shoulders bumped lightly.
Inside, everybody started the countdown.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
You stared at the streetlights.
She stared at you.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
"You know what I think?" Alysa murmured.
"What?"
Three.
Two.
One.
People inside the house exploded into cheers.
And then she kissed you.
Just like that.
Like she'd been wanting to do it for years.
Like she'd finally reached the end of this ridiculously long wait.
You remembered freezing for half a second.
Your heart pounding so hard it actually hurt.
And then kissing her back.
Because obviously you did.
Because you'd been in love with her since you were way too young to put a name to it.
When you pulled apart, Alysa was smiling nervously.
Nervously.
Alysa Liu, the girl who could throw a triple axel in front of millions of people, looked terrified because of you.
"Well," she said. "That happened."
You started laughing so hard you almost cried.
And she started laughing too.
And somehow… everything changed.
But at the same time, nothing really changed at all.
She was still Alysa.
Still your favorite person.
Only now you got to kiss her too.
The ski trip in 2024 was Alysa's idea.
"A terrible idea", according to you.
"I already lost a leg, Alysa. Statistically speaking, I should probably avoid sliding down mountains."
She nearly fell over laughing.
But you went anyway.
And during that trip, you noticed something different about her.
Something lit up again.
You saw it whenever she talked about getting back on the ice.
Whenever competitions were on TV.
Whenever she accidentally started analyzing entire programs without realizing it.
Figure skating was still inside her.
It had never really disappeared.
It had just been sleeping.
One night, while you were sitting by the hotel fireplace, Alysa finally said it. "I think I wanna come back."
She said it quietly.
Almost scared.
You looked up immediately.
Because there was something vulnerable in her expression that very few people ever got to see.
"To compete?"
She nodded slowly.
"But not if you think it's a bad idea."
You stared at her for several long seconds.
At the girl who walked away from the sport because doing it without you hurt too much.
At the girl who rebuilt your life with you piece by piece.
At the girl who still looked at you like you were home.
Then you smiled a little.
"Alysa… you were born to be on the ice."
And something inside her fully came back to life after that.
And now here you were.
2026.
At this tiny improvised afterparty thrown by Team USA after the Olympics.
The music was way too loud.
Lights flashing everywhere.
People laughing.
Reporters trying to stay away for one night.
Athletes still wrapped in American flags.
And right in the middle of all of it was Alysa.
Olympic champion.
Team gold.
Individual gold.
The entire world was talking about her historic comeback.
Her resilience.
Her talent.
But all you could see was the six-year-old girl lying on the ice laughing after crashing into you.
She was talking to some teammates when she turned automatically, searching for you.
She always found you.
Your fingers absentmindedly played with the medals hanging around your neck.
Her medals.
Because after the ceremony she'd draped them over you without even asking.
"They're heavy," you'd complained.
"Perfect. Then somebody can guard them while I talk."
But the truth was something else.
Alysa always handed you the important things.
Like she needed to share them with you to make them real.
Finally, she walked over.
Her hair was still slightly damp with sweat, and her eyes were glowing with exhaustion and happiness.
You'd never seen anybody so beautiful.
She picked up one of the medals between her fingers. "They look better on you."
You let out a soft laugh.
"Sure. Because I'm the one who landed all those jumps."
"You helped me mentally."
"Alysa."
"It's true."
Her voice softened then.
More intimate.
The noise of the party faded a little around you.
"I wouldn't have come back if it weren't for you."
You looked at her for one second too long.
Because you still weren't fully used to how much she loved you.
To how easily she said things like that.
And suddenly you thought about everything.
Oakland.
The freezing mornings.
The cancer.
Hospitals.
Prosthetics.
Tears.
Beijing.
UCLA.
That New Year's kiss.
Every single time life tried to tear you apart.
And how it never really managed to.
Alysa brushed her knuckles softly against your cheek. "What're you thinking about?"
You smiled.
Looking right into her eyes.
"That we were six years old when you crashed into me."
She laughed immediately.
"You crashed into me."
"Details."
"You almost killed me."
"And you still stuck around after that."
Alysa looked at you for a few quiet seconds.
With that unbearably loving expression.
Then she rested her forehead against yours in the middle of that huge Olympic party, like nobody else in the world existed.
SUMMARY — you've been trying to keep your relationship with Amber Glenn on the down-low because of what your family might think, but one pic of you two kissing online could change everything.
WARNING — small age gap (18&26)
WORDS COUNT — 5K
PT.1 PT.2
MASTERLIST
The first time you saw Amber Glenn, you had no idea who she was.
That, for her, was kind of a relief.
The ice rink was packed that January afternoon in 2025. Kids crashing into the barriers, teens filming TikToks, exhausted parents hauling backpacks and hot chocolate. You were only there because your little brother had been begging to learn how to skate for weeks, and honestly, you'd thought it might be fun.
It wasn't.
"Stay still for like five seconds," you muttered, kneeling on the rubber floor while trying to tie his skate laces.
Your brother was squirming like he had ants under his skin.
"They're too tight!"
"That's the point."
"You're breaking my foot!"
"You still have all ten toes, dramatic."
You sighed and pulled the laces again. The problem was you had no idea how to properly tie skates. And it showed.
"You're crossing them wrong."
The voice came from behind you. Low. Smooth. Amused.
You looked up—and there she was.
Tall. Dark coat open over a gray sweater. Black beanie tucked over blonde hair. No obvious makeup. Still, ridiculously pretty.
It took your brain a second too long to reboot.
She smiled a little.
"Mind if I?"
You blinked.
"Huh?"
"The laces," she said, pointing at your brother's skates. "Or he's gonna roll his ankles before he even hits the ice."
Your brother, traitor that he was, immediately nodded.
"Yes please."
You scooted back, a little embarrassed.
"Sorry. I… I've never skated before."
"That explains a lot," she said with a small laugh, kneeling down in front of him.
You watched her hands move fast and precise. It was almost hypnotic. She tightened and crossed the laces perfectly like she'd done it a thousand times.
She probably had.
"Better like this?" she asked your brother.
He stood up and lit up.
"Yeah!"
She looked up at you then.
And something weird happened.
She held your gaze a second too long. Not creepy. Just… direct. Like she was figuring you out.
"First time here?" she asked.
"That obvious?"
"Kinda, yeah."
You laughed, and she did too.
Your brother had already taken off toward the ice, leaving you behind.
"Thanks," you said. "You just saved me from a full-blown kid meltdown."
"Happy to help."
A short silence.
She was still looking at you.
You were still trying not to notice how attractive she was.
"Amber," she finally said, holding out her hand.
You gave her your name.
And the second her fingers touched yours, something in your chest tightened in the dumbest way.
"Got any advice?" she asked.
"Depends."
"Don't go on the ice if you don't know how to stop."
"Do I look that bad?"
Amber tilted her head slightly.
"I think you'd last like seven seconds."
"Wow. Rude."
"Honest," she corrected.
Then she smiled again.
After that, everything moved too fast.
You found out who she was almost an hour later when a nervous teenager came up asking for a photo.
"Are you Amber Glenn?"
That Amber Glenn. The one competing for the Olympics. The one all over skating videos. The one sitting next to you holding two hot chocolates because she insisted on buying them.
You just stared at her.
"Wait… you're famous?"
She laughed.
"Depends who you ask."
"You didn't tell me."
"You didn't ask."
And honestly… that was part of the problem.
Because you fell for her before you even fully understood who she was.
You fell for the patient woman who made goofy voices to make your brother laugh. The one who texted you good morning even from training camps. The one who showed up at your dorm at 11 p.m. just because you bombed an exam and needed a hug.
You fell for Amber.
Not the Olympic contender.
Even though eventually, she became both.
When she won team gold at the Winter Olympics, you cried harder than she did.
You watched from your college apartment couch, shaking with nerves, hands pressed to your mouth. And when the final score came up and the whole arena exploded, so did you.
Hours later, you got a video call.
She was still in makeup. Still in the Olympic uniform. Still looking unreal.
But her eyes were glassy.
"Hey," she said, smiling tiredly.
And you started crying all over again.
"Don't cry or I'm gonna start too."
"You just won an Olympic gold!"
"Yeah, well…" she let out a weak laugh. "The first thing I wanted to do was call you."
That's when it hit you.
You were completely gone for her.
Because nobody had ever looked at you the way Amber Glenn looked at you.
Like you were peace.
Like you were home.
The months after that were chaos. Interviews, events, sponsors, fans recognizing her everywhere. And somehow, she still made time for you.
Sometimes she came straight from the airport.
Sometimes she fell asleep on top of you during movies because she'd been awake for thirty hours.
Sometimes she kissed you in the kitchen like she couldn't help herself.
And you loved her so much it scared you.
But there was still a whole part of your life she wasn't in.
Your family.
Your parents knew you were seeing someone, but you hadn't given details. It was easy at first. She traveled constantly. You were in school. And honestly… you didn't want to hear what they'd say.
Because you knew your parents.
"Twenty-six? You're eighteen"
"She's in a totally different stage of life."
"What does someone like that even want with you?"
It wasn't just the age gap.
It was everything.
Amber was famous. Successful. Confident.
And you were still surviving exams and eating instant ramen three times a week.
But Amber never made it matter.
Never.
"Does it stress you out a lot?" she asked one night, lying on her couch while you traced circles on her bare arm.
"Not you," you said quietly. "My parents are just… intense."
"I can handle intense."
"You don't get the level."
Amber turned her head toward you.
"Hey."
She waited until you looked at her.
"You don't have to hide me if you don't want to."
And that was the problem.
Because you did want to.
You just also wanted to avoid the disaster.
The disaster came anyway.
A Wednesday afternoon.
You were leaving a café with Amber. She had sunglasses and a cap on, trying to stay lowkey. You were laughing at something she'd just said when she grabbed your waist and kissed you—quick, casual.
Nothing big.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a kiss.
But someone took photos.
By the next morning, they were online.
By the afternoon, your mom was calling you for the third time.
You stared at your phone, heart hammering way too hard.
Amber was sitting across the hotel kitchen, watching you in silence.
"I have to pick up, right?"
"Probably."
You let out a shaky laugh.
"I'd rather take another final exam."
She smiled faintly.
"Come here for a second."
You walked over, and she took your hand, kissing your knuckles.
"We didn't do anything wrong."
And you hated that she was right, because it didn't make you any less terrified.
You answered.
"Hi, Mom."
Silence.
Then:
"Who the hell is Amber Glenn?"
You closed your eyes.
Here we go.
But even as panic rose in your throat, you felt Amber's thumb slowly rubbing your hand.
Steady.
Calm.
Like she was saying: I've got you.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Or the best.
That after eight months—after secrets, fear, and excuses—you couldn't imagine your life without her anymore.
Sunday came way too fast.
All week you'd been trying to convince yourself it wouldn't be that bad. That maybe your parents would've gotten over the initial shock by now. That maybe, just maybe, they could act like normal human beings for a few hours.
Yeah… you were being wildly optimistic.
The invite to the barbecue had popped up Thursday night in the family group chat from your aunt Laura.
"Sunday at Grandma's! It's been forever since we've all gotten together ❤️"
Normally, it would've just been a regular family hangout. Meat burning on the grill, kids running around the yard, dumb arguments about sports, way too much food.
Except this time, everybody knew something.
The photos were already everywhere.
Not just on Amber Glenn fan accounts, but on sports pages, TikTok, even those obnoxiously invasive articles breaking down 'the mysterious college girlfriend' of the Olympic champion.
Your cousin Lucas had even dropped a link in the group chat followed by:
"WAIT, is that YOU??"
You wanted to disappear off the face of the earth.
Your parents hadn't let it go since.
Your mom had gone too quiet, which was worse than yelling.
And your dad had that tight-jaw thing going on, like he was actively trying not to say everything he was thinking.
So yeah.
Sunday morning you woke up fully prepared to fake a terminal illness.
Amber was in your apartment kitchen when you came out of your room. She was wearing an oversized gray hoodie, making coffee while low music played from her phone on the counter.
She glanced over when she heard you.
"Morning."
She looked… calm.
Honestly offensive.
You, meanwhile, had been up since 7 a.m. spiraling.
"I don't wanna go," you said.
Amber let out a small laugh.
"I know."
"No, seriously. I think I'd rather get hit by a car."
"That would make the day kinda complicated," she said dryly.
You gave her a drained look as you walked over.
"Why are you so chill about this?"
She set the spoon down and studied you for a second.
"Because I'm not dating your family. I'm dating you."
And there it was again.
Her saying the simplest thing in the world like it wasn't completely wrecking your chest.
You leaned into her immediately, hiding your face in her shoulder.
"They're gonna hate you."
"They can't hate me yet. They barely know me."
"That's never stopped my relatives before."
Amber actually laughed at that, the sound rumbling in her chest.
Then she gently pulled back to look at you.
"Hey."
Her hands came up to your cheeks.
"If at any point you wanna leave, we leave. Got it?"
You nodded slowly.
Because that was the thing about Amber.
She never pushed.
Never made your fear feel stupid.
She just stayed with you through it.
The drive to your grandma's house was honestly brutal.
Like, genuinely awful.
Every minute in the car made your anxiety worse. The seatbelt felt too tight. Your hands were freezing. And every familiar street you passed made your stomach drop a little more.
Amber drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh.
Every so often she'd absentmindedly rub her thumb against your skin.
Small thing.
Constant thing.
Like she knew exactly what you needed.
"You want to practice possible questions?" she asked.
"No."
"Possible aggressive answers?"
You turned your head toward her.
"That one, yes."
Amber smiled.
"Perfect."
You actually managed a tiny laugh.
Just for a second.
Then you turned the final corner and saw your grandma's house.
And you damn near stopped breathing.
Too many cars.
Too many people.
Kids running through the front yard. Music blasting from the backyard. Voices. Laughter.
Your whole family.
Waiting.
"Oh my God," you whispered.
Amber pulled into the driveway slowly.
"You want a minute?"
"I want to move to another country."
"That's valid."
You just stared at the house.
Windows open.
Smoke rising from the grill.
Your uncle flipping tongs around like he was on a cooking show.
Everything looked so normal.
Which somehow made it worse.
It felt like you were walking around with a ticking bomb in your chest and nobody else could hear it.
Amber turned off the engine.
The silence hit instantly.
She looked at you.
No discomfort. No irritation. No regret.
Just patience.
"You don't have to prove anything to anybody," she said softly.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
"What if they say something awful?"
Amber shrugged a little.
"Then that says more about them than you."
That sounded great in theory.
In practice, you were two seconds away from throwing up.
Movement at the front door.
Your little brother.
Before you could even react, he bolted toward the car.
"They're HERE!!"
Oh no.
Nope.
Now the whole family knew the exact moment you'd arrived.
"Traitor," you muttered.
Amber let out a low laugh.
Your brother was already knocking on the window.
"Open up!"
You did, reluctantly.
He immediately leaned halfway into the car to look at Amber.
"Hi."
Amber smiled.
"Hey, champ."
He'd been obsessed with her ever since the rink.
Which honestly did not help your situation at all.
"Mom said Dad has to behave," he whispered conspiratorially.
Your eyes widened.
"Uh… what does that mean exactly?"
"I dunno. But Grandma hit him with a spoon like ten minutes ago."
Amber had to turn her face away because she was very obviously trying not to laugh.
Awesome.
Just great.
Your brother looked back at Amber.
"You coming in?"
"That was the plan."
"Cool. Aunt Laura thinks you're really pretty."
"Oh my God," you groaned, closing your eyes.
He shrugged.
"I'm just saying facts."
And ran off again.
You slumped back into your seat.
"I wanna die."
Amber was openly laughing now.
"Your family seems… entertaining."
"You haven't met the scary part yet."
"Your grandma with the spoon?"
"My aunt Patricia after two glasses of wine."
Amber raised her eyebrows.
"Noted."
You took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then you opened the door.
Summer heat hit you instantly, along with the smell of charcoal, grilled meat, and fresh-cut grass.
And then it happened.
The conversations started dying down.
Not completely.
But enough.
Heads turning slowly.
Your cousin stopping mid-bounce with a ball.
Your aunt lowering her drink.
Your grandpa pushing his sunglasses up.
And you felt your whole body lock up.
Because hiding your relationship behind screens was one thing.
Showing up holding Amber Glenn's hand in front of a very opinionated traditional family was something else entirely.
Amber closed the car door and walked beside you like it was nothing.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Giving you space.
Always giving you space.
And when your fingers brushed hers out of pure nerves, she just laced them together without looking down.
Natural.
Easy.
Like there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
Like loving you was the most normal thing in the world.
The walk from the front gate to the backyard couldn't have been more than twenty meters.
It felt like a public execution.
Every step on the grass made you hyper-aware of everything. The uncomfortable sweat in your palms. The sound of conversations slowly dying down. The stares.
God, the stares.
Your family had never exactly been subtle.
Your aunt Patricia straight-up turned her whole body to get a better look. Your older cousin was pretending to scroll his phone while very obviously recording you with his front camera on. Even your grandpa, who usually only cared about the grill and baseball, was locked in on Amber.
And Amber…
Amber looked absurdly calm.
She was wearing dark jeans, white sneakers, and a simple black tee half tucked in. Nothing flashy. Nothing Olympic champion about it. And yet she still stood out too much.
Maybe it was just that natural presence she had—impossible to ignore.
Or maybe it was because you couldn't stop noticing how ridiculously pretty she was.
Your grandma was the first to approach.
Thank God for your grandma.
"Well," she said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, "at least one of my granddaughters brings pretty people to family gatherings."
"Grandma," you groaned, horrified.
Amber, to your absolute emotional betrayal, smiled immediately.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am."
Your grandma studied her for a few long seconds. Not mean, just… assessing.
Then she nodded.
"You've got better posture than my grandkids. I like that already."
And she just walked off like nothing happened.
You blinked.
Amber leaned slightly toward you.
"I think I just passed a military inspection."
"Don't get cocky. You still have my aunts."
"Ah. The final bosses."
You didn't want to laugh.
You laughed anyway.
It helped a little.
Just a little.
Because then your mom showed up.
And your anxiety came right back full force.
She was carrying a huge bowl of salad, but stopped dead when she saw you both.
Your parents had seen photos of Amber already.
But photos don't really prepare you for seeing her in person.
Amber was warm. Charismatic. Unfairly beautiful in a way that almost felt annoying. And she had this calm confidence that made even standing still look graceful.
Your mom stared at her for a few seconds in silence.
You straight-up forgot how to breathe.
Then:
"Hi."
Her voice was careful. Too careful.
Amber immediately let go of your hand to greet her properly.
"Ma'am."
Your mom ignored that.
"You can call me Elena."
Amber nodded with a polite little smile.
"Thank you for having me."
"Well…" your mom glanced briefly at you, "the circumstances changed a bit."
There it was.
The tension.
Subtle, but definitely there.
Your stomach dropped.
Amber, meanwhile, didn't flinch at all.
"I understand."
That was another thing about her that drove you a little crazy.
She handled hard situations way too well.
Probably because she'd spent years being watched, judged, and picked apart in public.
While you were one awkward comment away from mentally short-circuiting.
Your mom opened her mouth again, probably searching for more to say, but then your little brother came running between you.
"Dad burned the bread again!"
And just like that, the moment snapped.
Your mom sighed in defeat and walked off toward the grill.
You stayed frozen for a second.
"That could've gone worse," Amber murmured.
"There's still hours left."
"Optimistic as ever."
The real chaos started when your whole family decided they all wanted to meet Amber at once.
It was basically a press conference.
Your aunt Laura wanted Olympic behind-the-scenes stories.
Your teenage cousin asked how much she made in sponsorships and nearly gave you a heart attack.
Your uncle Roberto kept saying stuff like:
"I think I've seen you on ESPN."
While Amber nodded politely for the fifth time.
And then there was your aunt Patricia.
Your aunt Patricia—already slightly drunk before dinner—was basically a human wildfire.
You saw her coming and immediately knew it was about to get messy.
"So you're Amber," she said.
Amber looked up from her drink.
"Yes."
Patricia scanned her head to toe.
No shame whatsoever.
"You're taller than I expected."
"Yeah."
"And prettier too."
"Aunt Patricia," you warned.
She completely ignored you.
"So… how old are you exactly?"
There it was.
The question.
The entire area went silent.
Like, instant silence.
Even your cousins stopped talking.
You felt your face heat up.
"Patricia," your mom said sharply.
"What? I'm just asking."
Amber didn't even look bothered.
"Twenty-six."
Your aunt let out a soft whistle.
"And she's eighteen."
You wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Amber slowly set her glass down.
And then something weird happened.
Instead of getting defensive… she looked at you.
Not your aunt.
You.
Like she wanted to make sure you were okay first.
That tiny gesture almost wrecked you emotionally.
Then she looked back at Patricia.
"Yes."
No shame.
No apology.
Just yes.
Your aunt crossed her arms.
"That's a pretty big gap."
Your chest tightened again, but Amber answered calmly.
"It hasn't been an issue for us."
Patricia opened her mouth again, clearly ready to keep going, but a new voice cut in from the grill.
"Patricia, stop interrogating the girl or I'm taking your wine away."
Your grandpa.
You had never loved a man more in your life.
Patricia huffed.
"I'm just trying to understand."
"Then do it quietly," he grumbled.
And honestly, that saved the situation.
Mostly.
Because even though the conversations slowly picked back up, the tension still hung in the air.
You could feel the occasional looks.
The subtle observations.
The curiosity.
But then you started noticing something else too.
Amber never let go of your hand when you got nervous.
Every time someone asked something awkward, her thumb would gently rub your skin.
Every time you went quiet, she'd glance at you like she was checking you were still okay.
And the more you watched her with your family… the worse it got for you emotionally.
Because she just… fit.
Your little brother was already obsessed with showing her video games.
Your younger cousins were asking her to teach them spins like in the Olympics.
Your grandma even gave her an extra slice of cake, which was basically a formal approval announcement.
And Amber handled it all effortlessly.
Never trying too hard.
Never performing.
Just being herself.
You watched her laugh with your grandpa.
Listen to your aunt Laura's endless stories.
Help clean plates without being asked.
And the worst part was you could literally see the exact moment your family started to relax around her.
Because Amber did that.
She disarmed people.
Not with fame.
Not with medals.
But just by being genuinely good.
The problem came later.
When the sun started going down and most people were on dessert.
You'd gone inside to grab more ice when you heard voices in the kitchen.
Your dad.
And Amber.
You stopped instantly.
They couldn't see you from the hallway.
"I don't have anything against you personally," your dad was saying.
Your heart slammed.
Amber stayed quiet for a few seconds.
"But…"
Your dad sighed.
"But my daughter is eighteen."
There it was.
The real issue.
Not fame.
Not photos.
Not the internet.
That.
The fear.
"I understand why that worries you," Amber said calmly.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes."
You heard ice clink in your dad's glass.
"Then you'll understand why this is hard for me."
A short silence.
Then Amber spoke softer.
"I love her."
Your breath completely caught.
Because she'd never said it in front of your family.
Not like that.
And there was something devastatingly real about how it sounded.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just true.
Your dad took longer to answer.
"She's young."
Amber didn't argue it.
"I know."
"She's still figuring out who she is."
"Yes."
"And you've already got your life figured out."
This time, the pause was longer.
When Amber spoke again, her voice was quieter. "I'm not trying to decide who she should be."
Because it was true.
Amber had never tried to change you.
Never made you feel small for being in school, for not having everything figured out, for being younger.
Never treated you like you were less.
You heard your dad exhale slowly.
Tired.
Conflicted.
Human.
"I just don't want her getting hurt."
And for the first time since the conversation started, Amber's voice cracked a little.
Barely.
But enough.
"Me neither."
After overhearing that conversation from the hallway, nothing felt normal anymore.
Even though technically the barbecue was still going on.
Your cousins were still laughing out in the yard. The little kids kept running around the plastic tables with melting ice cream dripping down their hands. Your uncle was still insisting on blasting music way too loud through some ancient speaker.
Life kept moving.
But there was something weird sitting under your skin now.
Because hearing Amber say 'I love her' had changed something inside you.
And because you'd heard the real fear in your dad's voice.
Not anger.
Fear.
That was worse.
You finally walked into the kitchen pretending you hadn't heard anything.
Amber looked at you first.
And you knew immediately she'd figured out you probably caught part of the conversation.
Her eyes softened just a little.
Your dad, though, instantly tensed up.
"We needed more ice," you said too fast.
Your voice sounded weird. Forced.
You grabbed the bag from the freezer trying to act normal while feeling both of them watching you.
Nobody said anything.
The silence felt thick. Awkward as hell.
Until your dad cleared his throat.
"I'm gonna go check the grill."
And he left the kitchen almost immediately.
You stood there for a second holding the bag of ice way too tightly in your hands.
Amber stepped closer.
"Hey."
"I didn't know you guys were talking."
"It's okay."
But it wasn't okay.
Because now there was this huge knot in your chest.
Because you'd heard how exhausted Amber sounded.
And because you were suddenly realizing how freaking draining it had to be for her to constantly justify herself.
Your age.
Your parents.
The age gap.
Public opinion.
Everything.
You dropped the bag onto the counter harder than necessary.
"I'm sorry."
Amber frowned a little.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"For this. For all this bullshit."
She moved closer.
"Look at me."
You did.
Big mistake.
Because Amber had this unbearable way of looking right at you when you were seconds away from falling apart.
"You are not a problem," she said softly.
Your throat tightened immediately.
And right before you could answer, your mom walked into the kitchen.
Again.
Perfect timing.
Her eyes instantly moved between the two of you.
Tension. Immediate.
"We need more drinks outside," she said, even though she'd obviously forgotten what she came in for the second she saw you together.
Nobody moved.
Your mom let out a slow breath.
Then leaned against the counter.
"This is weird for us, you understand that, right?"
Amber nodded once.
"Yeah."
"She just started college."
You felt something inside you getting tired.
Because everyone kept talking about you like you weren't standing right there.
"Mom—"
"No, let me finish."
She looked at you then.
And there was real emotion in her eyes now. Frustration. Fear. Confusion.
"You're still my little girl."
That hit way harder than you expected.
"I'm not ten anymore."
"I know," she said immediately. "But suddenly you're online kissing an older famous woman and everyone's calling me asking questions and—"
"Older woman?" you repeated, staring at her.
"You know what I mean."
Amber stayed completely still beside you
Too still.
And you started hating that too.
Because you could tell she was trying to make herself smaller in a conversation that was constantly about her.
"She's twenty-six, Mom. Not forty-five."
"It's not just the age."
"Then what is it?"
Your mom opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
And there it was. The problem.
Because no answer was gonna sound good out loud.
Finally she spoke quieter.
"She has a completely different life than you do."
"So?"
"So I don't want you waking up one day realizing you gave things up trying to keep up with somebody else."
Silence dropped hard after that.
Painful silence.
Because that was a real concern.
A brutally reasonable one.
Your eyes immediately went to Amber.
And the worst part was the look on her face.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Just… sad.
Like she'd heard that before.
Like some part of her already believed maybe your mom was right.
That made something snap inside you.
"You know what?" you said, feeling yourself start to shake. "I'm tired of everybody talking like I don't know what I'm doing."
"Honey—"
"No. Seriously."
Your voice was getting louder now.
You could hear it.
But you couldn't stop.
"I'm not some victim. Nobody manipulated me. I'm with her because I want to be with her."
"Nobody said that—"
"Everybody keeps implying it."
Your mom actually flinched a little.
Amber gently touched your arm.
"Hey—"
"No, Amber, because I'm sick of this."
The words were coming out too fast now.
Months of anxiety finally exploding all at once.
"Do you know how awful it's been hiding her? Hearing comments about the age difference constantly? Acting like my relationship is something shameful?"
"I never said it was shameful," your mom said, hurt.
"Then stop looking at her like she's the problem."
That was the thing that broke everything.
Because right then your dad walked back into the kitchen.
And heard the last part.
"Lower your voice."
"Why? So we can keep pretending everything's fine?"
"We're trying to talk to you like adults."
You let out this disbelieving laugh.
"No. You're talking to me like I'm five."
Your dad's expression hardened immediately.
"Because you're acting like a child."
Silence.
Total.
Brutal.
You physically felt those words hit you.
Your breathing immediately turned uneven.
And then something even worse happened.
Amber spoke.
Very calm.
Way too calm.
"I think I should go."
You turned to her instantly.
"What?"
"Amber…" your mom started, clearly already regretting how bad things had gotten.
But Amber was already stepping back.
That calm expression was back.
The one she used whenever she was trying not to show too much.
"I don't want to make this worse."
"You're not making it worse," you said quickly.
But even while saying it, you could see the exhaustion on her face.
The emotional burnout.
She'd spent hours being watched, questioned, silently judged.
And now she was stuck in the middle of a family fight.
Your dad rubbed a hand over his face.
"That wasn't my intention—"
"I know," Amber answered politely.
That was the worst part.
That even now she was still being nice.
And suddenly it pissed you off.
Because nobody was being kind to her except you.
"You can't leave."
Amber looked at you again.
Her eyes were soft.
Too soft.
"I think right now it's better."
"For who?"
She didn't answer right away.
And honestly, that was answer enough.
You felt angry tears burning behind your eyes.
"Awesome," you muttered. "Awesome. Perfect. Exactly what you guys wanted, right?"
"That's not fair," your mom said immediately.
"Oh, really?"
Your voice was already cracking now.
You hated that.
Hated crying in front of them.
"You've spent the entire day making her feel like she has to defend her right to love me."
"Honey…"
"No."
You looked at your dad.
Then your mom.
And for the first time since all of this started, you let the whole truth out.
"I love her."
The kitchen went completely still.
Even you felt the weight of those words the second they left your mouth.
Because it was the first time you'd actually said it out loud.
For real.
Not half-asleep whispers.
Not texts.
Like this.
Clear.
Real.
Amber stopped breathing for a second.
You literally saw it happen.
Your parents looked too shocked to react.
And you finally felt the tears fall.
"I love her," you repeated, shaking. "And I'm tired of feeling like that's something wrong."
this has been in my drafts for WEEEKS i finally edited it...
uh oh... 20k words... new record reached IM SORRYYY i rlly tried condensing it
for anon's request
The moment you step through the door, it’s like walking into something alive, warm, loud, constantly moving. The air smells like food you can’t quite name but want to taste immediately, voices overlapping in quick bursts of Mandarin, laughter cutting through it all like punctuation. Before you can even fully take it in, Alysa’s hand tightens around yours—nothing serious, just out of instinct—and then she’s being pulled forward, absorbed into it like she belongs to the current. Which she does.
You stay anchored to her, fingers laced together, but it’s obvious how easily Alysa slips into this version of herself. Her posture loosens, her smile comes quicker, brighter, her voice shifting as she responds in Mandarin, fluid, effortless, like she doesn’t have to think about it at all. People greet her all at once, hands on her shoulders, her arms, her cheeks, voices layered over each other as if they’ve been waiting specifically for her to walk through that door. And because she won’t let go of you, you’re brought along too, passed from person to person in a way that’s not overwhelming exactly… just disorienting. Faces blur together, smiles kind, welcoming, but conversations slip past you like water. You nod when it feels right, laugh when others do, hoping it lines up.
At some point, Alysa gets pulled a step too far ahead of you—still holding your hand, but just enough distance that you’re left standing half a beat behind her conversation. You catch maybe one word in ten, watching the way her expression shifts as she talks, how animated she gets, how her family mirrors it.
You don’t feel unwelcome. If anything, it’s the opposite because there’s warmth in every glance sent your way but it’s also like standing just outside a glass wall. You’re included, but not quite inside.
Then there’s a gentle tug at your sleeve. You turn to find Alysa’s grandma is right there, her hand wrapped lightly around your arm. Her face is soft, smiling in that patient, knowing way that older women have, like she really likes you without needing to say it. You brighten instantly, shoulders straightening a little as you reach out, removing your hand from Alysa’s to shake her hand with both of yours like you’ve seen people do before.
“Hi—hi, it’s so good to see you,” you say, slower than usual, like that might somehow make it easier to understand. You gesture vaguely between the two of you, nodding, your smile widening. “You look… amazing. Really, you do.”
You add a little thumbs up at the end without thinking, and immediately feel a tiny flicker of embarrassment, but she just nods along, smiling just as brightly, murmuring something back in Mandarin. You have no idea what she said, but you nod anyway, like you understood every word.
For a second, you both just stand there, smiling at each other, this silent agreement settling in that this is enough. It’s a little awkward, a little funny, but not uncomfortable, just truly limited.
Alysa appears at your side again because she noticed immediately when your hand left hers, her hand sliding back around yours without making a show of it. She leans down to greet her grandma properly, her voice softening, respectful in a way you’ve only seen in moments like this. Then she glances at you, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“She’s asking how you’ve been,” Alysa says, easy, natural. “And she said you look very pretty today.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shoulders relaxing. “Tell her she looks even better.”
Alysa huffs softly through her nose, translating, and her grandma laughs this time, patting your arm like she approves. It’s small, but it helps. Alysa stays close, translating here and there, filling gaps without making it obvious she’s doing it. It’s subtle, the way she includes you—never making you feel like you’re slowing anything down, never making it a big deal.
Eventually, you drift toward a quieter corner where her siblings are gathered, the noise dipping just enough that you can breathe again. Justin leans back against the wall, half-smirking as he watches the room, Julia and Jaylinn mid-conversation, Selina scrolling through her phone before glancing up.
“You made it,” Justin says, nodding at you like you’ve passed some kind of test.
“Yeah, just about,” you mutter, but there’s a small smile tugging at your mouth.
Alysa doesn’t let go of your hand even here, her arm brushing against yours as she slots into the group. The conversation shifts easily into English, and you feel yourself settle more, finally able to follow without guessing.
“I heard Maya’s bringing her new boyfriend,” Julia says, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like gossip.
You blink, trying to place the name, your brows pulling together for a second, and before you can even ask, Alysa tilts her head toward you slightly.
“She’s the short one with red hair,” she murmurs.
Recognition clicks immediately, your mouth forms the shape of an O and you nod, remembering her from the last party Alysa invited you to. Alysa just nods, like it was obvious she’d fill that gap for you, her thumb still tracing along your hand.
It’s easy here with her and her siblings that you almost forget that feeling of being an outsider from earlier—almost. Until the front door opens again.
There’s a subtle shift in attention as people glance over, Julia straightening a little. “That’s her.”
You follow their gaze, watching as Maya steps in, bright and confident, and beside her is her boyfriend. You feel that flicker of relief immediately, something in your chest loosening. Because he just looks normal. Like really normal. Just an average white guy, mid-twenties, clean-cut. There's nothing about him that screams prepared for this. No cultural cues, no hint that he belongs here more than you do.
Okay. Good. Not just you.
He looks like someone who's about to go through the exact same thing you just did. He'll probably walk in with the smiling and nodding and try to piece things together as he goes. You almost feel a little bad for him, already bracing yourself to watch him fumble through the respectful, slightly awkward interactions.
He reaches Alysa’s grandma. You expect the same polite smiles, maybe a few gestures. A shared understanding that neither of you fully understands the other but you'll meet somewhere in the middle anyway. But then, he bows his head slightly and starts speaking...
In Mandarin.
It's fluent and smooth. There’s no trace of hesitation, it flows out of him like it belongs there, like he's done this before, like he fits in a way you just assumed he wouldn't. Alysa's grandma lights up instantly, her face opening with genuine excitement, responding just as quickly and suddenly, they're having a full conversation.
The reaction is immediate. You see the way a couple of the aunts and uncles glance at each other, impressed, eyebrows lifting. Justin lets out a quiet, surprised laugh under his breath. Even Alysa’s posture shifts a little beside you, her attention sharpening.
And you just… sit there. Still smiling but something in your chest tightens in a way that’s harder to ignore this time, annoyed.
Of course he speaks Mandarin. Of course the new guy walks in and just fits.
You look down for a second, your fingers curling slightly in Alysa’s hand, suddenly hyper-aware of how little you understand, how much you’ve been relying on her to fill in every gap, every silence. It hadn’t felt like a problem before because Alysa and her family never made it seem like one. But now it’s loud in your head because it's not about being new anymore. It's about you not trying.
Who are you, really, if you can’t even meet her family halfway? Who are you if you haven’t taken the time to understand something that’s such a big part of her?
It's not like anyone's ever made you feel bad about it. But rather, they've all done the opposite. They're patient, kind in ways that never once made you feel like you didn't belong. So pressure isn't coming from them but rather from you. It creeps in as a feeling you can't shake. It's like you've somehow slipped into a place you didn't fully earn, like you've been getting by on Alysa's presence alone, letting her carry you through every interaction. It feels like this is something temporary. Like you're replaceable so there’s no point in trying to learn.
You don’t say anything and you don’t pull away. When someone looks your way, you’re still smiling, still present. But there’s this quiet shift under it all, something unsettled. Your grip on Alysa’s hand tightens just slightly, and this time she notices. She glances at you, briefly, her expression softening in that subtle way she gets when she’s reading you without asking. You shake your head a little before she can say anything, offering a small, easy smile like nothing’s wrong. But as your eyes flick back toward the room, toward the conversation you still can't understand, toward the ease you can't replicate, that feeling gets deeper and more certain.
You don't want to be the person who just stands there and smiles anymore. For the first time, it's not just a passing thought.
It's something you know you're going to act on.
-------
It doesn’t happen all at once. It starts quiet and a little stubborn.
That night sticks with you longer than you expect. It lingers in the background, replaying in pieces. The sound of Alysa’s voice slipping so easily into Mandarin. Her grandma’s smile. The way you stood there, smiling, present but not really part of it. And then that moment of watching someone else step into that space so effortlessly, like it wasn’t even something to think twice about.
You don’t feel angry. You don’t even feel embarrassed anymore. You just feel… aware. And that awareness settles into something steady, something that doesn’t fade after a day or two. It turns into a decision.
This isn’t about proving anything to anyone in that room. It’s about Alysa. It’s about the way she didn’t let go of your hand once that entire night. The way she translated without asking, without ever making you feel like you were behind. It’s about the way her world opened up around you. You realized how much of it you were only skimming the surface of.
If you’re going to be here, like really here, long-term, years from now, holidays and birthdays and quiet family dinners, you don’t want to just exist in the corner of it. You want to fully belong in it.
You start small at first, like a copy of Chinese for Dummies and Duolingo, and then you don’t.
The first Mandarin class feels humbling in a way you weren’t fully prepared for. It’s not an app you can casually scroll through in bed. It’s structured and intentional. You chose to go to an actual classroom, see a professor who expects participation, pronunciation that matters. You sit there the first day, notebook open, pen hovering, listening as sounds are broken down into tones that feel almost impossible to control.
You repeat them anyway and you mess up. A lot.
Your voice feels awkward in your own mouth, unfamiliar shapes forming with every word. But you don’t stop. You write everything down, your notes messy at first, then more organized as weeks pass. You practice in your car, under your breath, in front of the mirror sometimes, watching how your mouth moves, correcting yourself over and over until it starts to feel a little less foreign.
And then there’s everything else too. Your apartment slowly fills with books and not just textbooks, but novels, memoirs, essays. Stories written by Chinese authors, about Chinese families, traditions, relationships, identity. You sit curled up on the couch at night, highlighter in hand, pausing every few pages to look something up, to understand context you don’t want to skim over.
It’s not just about language. It’s about truly understanding why certain things matter, why certain traditions are done a certain way. The small details that no one explains out loud because they’re just known.
You want to know them too. You don't want to rely on Alysa for the smallest interactions forever. You want to meet her more than halfway.
This takes time. A lot of time you don’t always have. Time you start making.
At first, it’s easy to hide. Alysa’s away for competitions for a few months, traveling, training, her schedule packed in a way that gives you space to build your own routine without raising questions. You tell her you’re catching up on work, that you’ve been busy, and it’s not even a lie. You are busy, just not in the way she thinks.
Your days start revolving around it. Classes, studying, reading, repeating, learning. You fall into a rhythm, one that feels productive, purposeful. There’s something satisfying about it too, watching yourself improve, even in small ways.
But then she comes back and that’s when it gets hard. Now it’s not just about commitment—it’s about choosing.
You miss her in a way that feels physical sometimes, like it sits in your chest and doesn’t quite go away. You want to be with her, to fall back into your usual routine of late nights, lazy mornings, the easy way you exist together without effort.
But you can’t do both, so you start by making excuses. They're small at first. “I’ve got something I need to finish tonight.” “I can’t make it, I already promised someone I’d help them with something.” You reschedule plans, push things back, cut time shorter than you normally would. And every time, it feels wrong. She doesn’t get upset—Alysa’s easygoing in that way, understanding even when she doesn’t fully get it. She’ll just nod, shrug a little, kiss your temple like it’s nothing.
“Okay. Tomorrow then?” she says one night, standing in your doorway, already halfway out because you told her you had something to do.
“Yeah,” you answer, forcing a small smile. “Tomorrow.”
But tomorrow turns into next week. Next week turns into “I’ll see you after this.” And it builds quietly, this distance that wasn’t there before.
You notice it in the little things. Like in the way she lingers a second longer when she hugs you goodbye. The way she looks at you sometimes, like she’s trying to figure something out but doesn’t ask. The way her texts come in a little more often—nothing overwhelming, just small check-ins.
u busy?
can I come over later?
miss you
And you sit there, phone in your hand, staring at the screen longer than you should before replying because you miss her too, so much. There are nights where you’re sitting at your desk, notes spread out in front of you, repeating phrases under your breath and all you can think about is how much easier it would be to just stop. To text her, tell her to come over, forget about all of this for a few hours.
But then you remember why you started. You remember that feeling of standing in that room, knowing you weren’t even halfway there. Knowing that if this is the person you’re choosing, if this is the life you’re stepping into, you don’t want to stay on the outside of it. This isn’t for a moment. It’s for everything that comes after, for years down the line, when it’s not just parties and introductions, but real relationships with the people that matter to her. You want to be someone her family doesn’t just welcome but someone they can know. And more than that you want to be someone Alysa doesn’t have to carry through those moments. So you keep going. Even when it’s hard and even when it means missing her.
You give yourself until Alysa's birthday which comes out to be ten months. Ten months of learning, of building something quietly that isn’t for show, isn’t for approval. Something that’s just yours and for her and for the life you’re trying to grow into with her.
And if it costs you a little distance now, you tell yourself it’ll be worth it later.
———
At first, Alysa doesn’t think anything of it.
That night at her mom’s birthday passes in her head the way most family parties do. She remembers keeping hold of your hand through most of it without really thinking about why, remembers translating here and there when she caught that look on your face—that polite little smile you got when you were trying hard to keep up even while clearly not understanding half of what was happening around you. But to Alysa, none of that reads as a problem. You looked okay. Maybe a little quieter, maybe a little clingier than usual, but still smiling, still laughing when it counted, still leaning into her side when you found those calmer moments with her siblings.
She doesn’t notice the small shift when Maya’s boyfriend starts speaking Mandarin. There was your hand tightening in hers but then you smiled when she checked your face, so there wasn't anything there that felt urgent enough to ask about. She lets it go. In her mind, the night lands where it always does—fine. Good, even. Another family thing you came to, another room you survived with that easy willingness of yours, another night where she got to bring you into her world and you handled it like you always did. She leaves thinking you did well.
Then competition season starts, and like always, life breaks into pieces.
Alysa leaves, and distance becomes normal in the way it has to when travel takes over everything. When she and you talk, she doesn’t overanalyze the fact that you seem a little split between her and something else. Your calls are still happening. Your texts are still sweet, still full of enough warmth that nothing feels off in any major way. You pick up when you can. You answer her messages. You tell her about your day, even if a little vaguely. Sometimes she hears papers shifting in the background or the click of your laptop keys while she’s talking, and maybe once or twice she jokes, “Are you even listening to me?” and you laugh and say, “I am, keep talking,” and she does. It’s not ideal, but it’s fine.
She tells herself that a hundred times because from far away, fine is easy to believe in. Especially when you still show up for the events you can like the domestic ones, the competitions close enough that your being there feels possible. She sees you in the crowd and the whole room settles. She gets that same stupid rush every time, that automatic softening in her chest just from spotting your face. So whatever slight distraction lives in your calls, whatever busyness fills your texts, she writes it off. You’re still there and that’s what matters.
It’s when she really comes home that it changes.
Not slowly, either. That’s the thing that gets under her skin the fastest. It feels immediate, like walking into a room expecting the furniture to be where it’s always been and realizing someone’s moved everything two inches to the left. Nothing is technically wrong, nothing is obviously broken, but the entire shape of things is off enough that she can’t stop noticing it. You’re suddenly hard to pin down in a way you’ve never been before. Plans become tentative, then flexible, then constantly changing.
You’re “so sorry” and “something came up” and “can we do later instead?” and at first she takes it the way she takes most things—with a shrug, with a quick yeah, okay, with the assumption that whatever’s going on has nothing to do with her. Because Alysa, by nature, is easy. She doesn’t like making things heavier than they need to be. She’s not someone who wants to trap you into explaining every schedule change or every canceled night.
The first month, she adjusts. That’s the word she’d use if anyone asked. If you can’t come over, fine, she’ll meet you somewhere. If you only have a few hours, fine, she’ll take the few hours. If the only way she gets time with you now is by waiting for you to fit her into your calendar, then she tells herself to stop being weird about it.
And when she does get you, it only confuses her more because nothing is wrong when you’re actually there. That’s what makes it hard for her to grab onto any one explanation. You still kiss her the same way when she opens the door. Still step into her space like you belong there. Still let your hand find the back of her neck when you’re talking, still laugh at the same things, still melt into the couch beside her like you always have. The conversations are normal. The touches are normal. She still gets that same warm, stupid, full-body ease whenever you show up, that same sense that everything in her settles the minute she has you in front of her again. It’s just that now those moments come with a clock attached.
There’s always somewhere else you have to be. Always a reason you can’t stay the night. Always a glance at the time eventually, followed by that apologetic look she’s starting to hate. And Alysa, who can usually let things roll right off her, starts feeling every goodbye harder than she should. You’ll be standing in her kitchen finishing a conversation like nothing’s wrong, and then suddenly you’re putting your shoes on and saying, “I have to go,” and she has to stand there pretending it doesn’t hit her in the chest every single time. She tells herself it’s temporary. She tells herself you mean it when you say you’re busy. She tells herself people go through phases.
By the start of the second month, all that understanding starts to wear thin around the edges because now she’s home. Fully home. Competition is over, her schedule is open, and all that time that used to have you in it is just empty.
She isn't good at stillness. During season, missing you has somewhere to go—it gets tucked into routines, into training and recovery and the constant forward motion of needing to be somewhere else. But home strips all that away. At home, missing you becomes so obvious.
She wakes up and there’s time. She gets through her day and there’s time. She’s in her apartment at six in the evening and there’s nothing pressing, nowhere urgent to be, and all of that space used to fill so naturally with you that she almost doesn’t know what to do with it now.
She finds herself reaching for her phone more. Opening your text thread just to stare at it. Thinking I should ask if she wants to come over, then stopping because she asked two days ago and you said you couldn’t. She misses the ordinary parts most like the way you used to just exist around her, not even doing anything special. It becomes this ache she can’t really name without sounding dramatic, so she doesn’t say it. But it’s there, constant, low and annoying at first, then sharper, more restless, until by the middle of the second month it starts putting her on edge.
And that’s when her mind turns on her. If Alysa can’t find a reason, she starts looking for one in herself.
At first it’s just little thoughts, passing ones she doesn’t fully believe.
Did I miss something? Did I say something weird? Was it that night with my family?
But then the thoughts start linking together, building structure, and once that happens they get harder to shake.
You’ve never been this unavailable before. Never this slippery or this consistently almost-there. What else is she supposed to think? She starts replaying conversations in her head after they happen, combing through them for tone, for hesitation, for anything she might’ve missed. She thinks about every time you looked distracted on the phone while she was away, and suddenly those moments don’t feel harmless anymore. She thinks about how easily you say sorry now, how practiced it sounds. She starts wondering if you’re pulling away on purpose and if there’s something she did that hurt you and you’re waiting for her to be smart enough to figure it out on her own. That thought gets its claws in her fast, because it would almost be easier if she had done something wrong. Then at least there’d be an explanation, at least she could fix it. But the harder she looks, the less she finds, and that uncertainty turns into frustration, then anxiety, then a kind of quiet panic she keeps mostly to herself because she doesn’t even know how to make it sound reasonable.
When she finally asks, it doesn’t happen in some huge blowout. It’s too late in the day for that, and Alysa’s too thrown off to come in angry right away.
It’s one of those shortened evenings again. You’re at her apartment because you’ve stopped inviting her over, sitting on the edge of her bed while she stands across from you, pretending to tidy up when really she’s just trying to work up the nerve to say something without sounding needy. You’d been normal all night—sweet, affectionate, tucked under her arm on the couch like nothing in the world had changed.
And then, like always, you checked the time. Started gathering your things. Started leaving. That’s what finally does it so Alysa says your name before she can overthink it, and there’s something in her voice that makes you pause immediately. She’s not looking at you at first, which is rare for her when something actually matters. Her hands are busy with nothing—picking up a hoodie, dropping it again, jaw tight in a way she doesn’t know how to hide.
“Did I do something?” she asks finally, and the question comes out flatter than she means it to, less emotional, more careful. “Because it kind of feels like I did.”
You stare at her for a second like you genuinely don’t understand what she means, and somehow that throws her off more than if you’d immediately gotten defensive. “What?”
Alysa lifts a shoulder, but it’s tense, not casual. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Busy, I guess. A lot. Since I got back.” She glances at you then, finally, and there’s enough rawness in her expression that she hates it instantly. “And I’m trying not to be weird about it, but it feels like you’re avoiding me.”
The incredulous look on your face comes fast. “Alysa, no.” You step toward her right away, your brows pulled together, like the idea itself bothers you. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not mad at you, I promise.” And for a second, the tension in her eases just a little but then you keep going. “I’m just really busy right now. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” You say it sincerely, you sound honest. You sound apologetic, like someone who cares.
And still, nothing changes.
It starts souring something in Alysa by the end of the second month—not because she stops believing you care, but because your reassurance stops matching your actions.
She tries after that conversation to settle back down, to trust what you said, to stop making herself crazy over it. But the next week comes and goes and you’re still hard to reach. Still rescheduling and still finding time for her only in small, pre-measured pieces. “I’ll make it up to you” becomes one of those phrases that starts echoing in her head in a way she hates, because she keeps waiting for the making-up part and it never comes. And Alysa, who is usually the least dramatic person in the room, starts getting irritated in this quiet, simmering way that’s foreign to her. At some point “busy” stops feeling like an explanation and starts feeling like a wall.
She can’t tell if you’re hiding something, sparing her something, or just genuinely refusing to let her in but whatever it is, she can feel it now every time you leave too early, every time she checks her phone and sees another changed plan, every time she wants to ask what the hell is going on and stops herself because she already asked once and you gave her nothing she could actually hold onto.
So she ends up in this awful in-between state of feeling restless, on edge, trying not to push too hard while feeling more and more certain that if she doesn’t push, nothing will change. If you were angry, she could deal with that. If you were upset, if you needed space, if there was an actual reason—something clear, something solid—Alysa could work with it. She could apologize. She could adjust and try but you won’t tell her anything.
And she doesn’t know how to start a conversation with someone who keeps insisting everything is fine while slowly disappearing from the life you used to share so easily.
———
Alysa doesn’t go to her friends looking for answers. At least, that’s not how she frames it to herself.
She tells herself she just needs to get out of the apartment, just needs noise, something to fill the empty space that’s been sitting too loudly around her lately. So she meets them for something casual. They’re sitting across from her, half-eaten plates in front of them, drinks sweating against the table, and Alysa’s leaning back in her chair trying to act like everything’s normal. She listens to them talk for a while but she’s not really paying attention. She’s nodding at the right times, chiming in just enough to not seem completely checked out.
Eventually, one of them notices. “You’re quiet,” she says, narrowing her eyes slightly, not accusatory.
Alysa shrugs, reaching for her drink. “I’m fine.” She says it too quickly which they both catch immediately.
“What’s going on?” the other one asks, leaning forward a little now, elbows on the table. “Is everything good with you and—” she gestures vaguely, like she doesn’t even need to say your name.
Alysa hesitates.
That’s all it takes because once she pauses, even for a second, they know there’s something there.
“It’s nothing,” she says, but softer this time, less convincing even to her own ears. She exhales, running a hand through her hair, gaze dropping to the table. “She’s just… busy. Like really busy. Since I got back.”
“Busy how?” one of them presses.
Alysa shakes her head, trying to downplay it. “I don’t know, just… stuff. Work or whatever. She keeps having to reschedule, or she can only hang out for like a few hours and then she leaves.” She shrugs again, like it’s no big deal, like she hasn’t been thinking about it constantly. “It’s just different. She doesn’t even invite me over to her place and if we’re not in my apartment I’m having to go meet her somewhere instead of just driving together. She’s kinda always on her phone too when we are together.” There’s a pause. A look passes between them. It’s quick, subtle, but Alysa sees it and something in her stomach drops before either of them even says anything. “What?” she asks immediately, her voice sharper than she means it to be. “Why are you guys looking at each other like that?”
One of them hesitates, like she’s trying to decide how to say it without making it worse.
“Alysa…” she starts slowly, carefully, her tone shifting into something more cautious. “You don’t think…?”
Alysa frowns, confusion pulling at her expression. “What?”
But there’s something else under it too. Something tighter.
The other friend doesn’t hesitate. “It sounds like she’s cheating on you.”
It hits her like a drop, like that sudden, weightless feeling in her stomach, like everything just fell out from under her for a second. Alysa actually has to inhale sharply, like she forgot how to breathe for a second there, her hand tightening around her glass without her realizing it. She shakes her head immediately, too fast, like if she does it quick enough the idea won’t stick.
“No,” she says, almost instinctively. “No, that’s not—what are you talking about?” Her voice sounds off to her own ears. She doesn’t sound fully convinced even to herself but it’s also not fully dismissive either. “We’re fine when we’re together,” she adds quickly, like that proves something. “Like nothing’s different. She’s not weird, she’s not distant when she’s there. Wouldn’t—wouldn’t someone cheating be… different?” She frowns, trying to make it make sense. “Like tired? Or distracted or something?”
One of them tilts her head slightly. “Alysa, she is distracted. You literally just said she’s always doing something else when you guys talk.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Alysa pushes back, but it comes out weaker than she wants it to.
The other friend leans in a little more, her tone gentler but firmer. “You just said this is out of character for her. She’s never been this hard to get ahold of, right? She’s not letting you come over anymore. She’s always going to your apartment or you’re meeting her somewhere. That’s weird.”
Alysa opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. When it’s said like that, when it’s laid out in a straight line like this, it does sound weird.
“She could be living a whole separate life right now and you wouldn’t even know,” her friend adds, not harshly, just matter-of-fact.
“And people don’t always act different when you’re with them,” the other one chimes in, a little more blunt. “They pick up right where they left off like nothing happened. It’s like—psychotic behavior, honestly.”
Alysa lets out a short, hollow laugh at that, but it doesn’t reach anywhere real. Their voices are still there, still talking, but they feel further away now to Alysa, like someone turned the volume down just enough that she has to strain to catch the words. Her focus drops to the table again, her fingers pressing into the condensation on her glass, dragging through it without thinking.
Cheating.
The word sits wrong in her head. She tries to push it away instantly but it doesn’t go because now it’s attached itself to everything. Every rescheduled plan and every “I’m sorry, I’m busy.” Every time you left early with every distracted call. Every moment she brushed off because she trusted you.
Her chest tightens. Actually tightens—like something is physically pressing down on it, making it harder to take a full breath. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, her eyes stinging in a way that catches her off guard. She blinks hard, once, twice, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t help at all because her brain won’t stop.
What if that’s why?
What if that’s what all of this is?
The thought makes her feel sick, not metaphorically but actually sick. Like her stomach flips, a wave of nausea rolling through her so suddenly she has to lean back in her chair just to steady herself. Her grip tightens again, knuckles going pale around the glass.
The idea of you—of you doing that, of you choosing someone else while still standing in her apartment, still kissing her like nothing changed—
It hurts. It hurts in a way that’s immediate and overwhelming, like it bypasses everything logical and goes straight to something painful. Her chest aches, sharp and deep, and she doesn’t even realize her vision’s blurring until she has to blink again and a tear actually slips free.
“Hey,” one of her friends says immediately, her tone softening as she reaches across the table. “Hey, don’t cry. It’s okay.”
Alysa inhales shakily, shaking her head like she can physically push the feeling away. “I’m not—” she starts, but her voice cracks halfway through and she has to stop.
The other friend leans back a little, her expression shifting—less certain now, more careful. “We don’t know that she is,” she says quickly, softer than before. “Okay? We’re just—guessing. It could be something else.”
Alysa doesn’t respond right away because now that the idea’s in her head, it’s not just a guess anymore.
It’s a possibility, which, in circumstances where you don’t have much to go off of, is enough to wreck something in you.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asks finally, her voice quieter now, rougher. She wipes at her face quickly, like she’s annoyed with herself for reacting this way. “I already asked her. She said nothing’s wrong.”
“Check her phone.”
Alysa looks up immediately, frowning. “What? No.”
“That’s the easiest way to know,” her friend says, like it’s obvious.
“That’s—” Alysa shakes her head again, more firmly this time. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”
One of them gives her a look. seriously?
“Alysa.”
She exhales, frustrated now, running a hand over her face. “I’m not doing that.”
But the idea’s already there. What if that’s the only way she finds out? What if she’s just… sitting here, being stupid, trusting something that’s already broken?
Her jaw tightens. She looks down at the table again, blinking hard once more before finally nodding—small, reluctant. “…Fine,” she mutters. “I’ll… think about it.”
They don’t push her further after that. The conversation shifts, softens, but Alysa doesn’t really come back into it. She stays quiet for the rest of the night, answering when she has to, but mostly just sitting there, the weight of that one idea pressing heavier with every passing minute.
By the time she gets home, it’s changed shape. The sadness is still there—but it’s not the only thing anymore. It twists and sharpens until it turns into something hotter. The more she thinks about it, the more it starts to make sense in a way she hates.
That’s why you’re busy.
That’s why you won’t let me come over.
That’s why you leave early.
Her chest tightens again, but this time there’s something under it—anger, low and simmering, building with every new thought that slots into place.
“How could she do that?” she mutters out loud to no one, pacing her apartment now, hands dragging through her hair. “How could she actually do that?” Her voice breaks at the end, but she pushes through it, because now her brain is moving too fast to stop.
After everything?
After bringing you into her family, into her life, letting everything blend together so easily—it feels like a betrayal just thinking about it. Like something sacred got handled carelessly. Like she opened something up for you and you decided it wasn’t enough.
if this is what you’re doing then she wants to know. She just can’t sit here wondering or dragging it out. She wants proof. Something real she can hold onto so she can stop guessing, stop spiraling, stop feeling like she’s losing her mind trying to piece this together.
Because if you’re going to break her, she’d rather you just do it all at once.
———
Alysa is already wound too tight by the time you come over. It’s not obvious at first but it’s there in the way she keeps glancing at you when she thinks you won’t notice, in the way her shoulders never fully relax even after you’ve settled onto her couch, even after your shoes are off and your body has leaned into the familiar shape of her apartment like you’ve done a hundred times before.
The room itself is normal, almost painfully so. The lamp in the corner casts that same warm low light over everything, there’s some half-finished show playing that neither of you is really paying attention to. And that normalcy is almost offensive to her now, because it makes her feel crazy. It makes her feel like the only one carrying this terrible, shifting thing inside her chest while you sit there beside her looking so entirely like yourself. You answer when she talks. You smile in the right places. You let your knee knock against hers. But every few minutes your attention slips back to your phone, your thumb moving over the screen, your expression going distant in that tiny way she’s learned to dread.
Normally Alysa would say something easy about it, steal the phone from your hands, throw herself across your lap until you laughed and paid attention to her instead. But she can’t do that now, because now every small distraction feels loaded. Now every glance at your screen feels like proof of something she hasn’t been able to catch up to.
She shifts closer once, trying to make it look natural, trying to see what has your attention without directly asking. But all she catches is a darkened blur. The privacy screen turns your phone into a flat black wall the second it isn’t being looked at head-on, and the sight of it sends this immediate, irrational heat through her. Not because the screen itself means anything. People get privacy protectors all the time and you’ve had this one on for a year now so It shouldn’t matter.
But her mind is no longer in a place where it accepts neutral explanations. It’s been too many weeks of canceled plans, too many cut-short evenings, too many distracted calls, too many apologies that never amount to anything changing. So instead of seeing an accessory, she sees concealment. Instead of brushing it off, she sits there feeling her stomach turn over again, feeling that awful quiet certainty pressing harder at the inside of her ribs.
You don’t notice her looking. Or maybe you do and you say nothing. Either way, you stay where you are for another few minutes before standing up and saying you’re going to use the bathroom. You leave your phone behind on the couch, plugged in and charging, like it’s nothing. Like there’s nothing in it to hide. And that almost makes it worse.
The second you disappear down the hall, the apartment changes. It’s still quiet, but it’s a different kind now—too clear, too open, the kind of silence that makes every thought sound louder.
Alysa stares at your phone where it rests against the cushion, its charging cable stretched toward the wall, and she doesn’t move at first. Her heart is already beating too fast in this ugly, physical way that makes her feel vaguely sick, like adrenaline without somewhere to go.
She knows this is wrong. She knows it before she even reaches for it. This is not who she is, not how the two of you have ever worked. Trust has never been something she had to force with you; it was always just there, easy and unspoken, something solid under everything else. But that trust has been getting scraped thinner for months now because you keep handing her pieces that don’t fit.
She tells herself she just needs to know. That’s the justification she reaches for as her hand finally closes around the phone. She just needs to know whether she’s losing her mind or whether her body’s been trying to tell her the truth before her brain caught up.
Her fingers are clumsy with nerves when she unlocks it, but the passcode still works immediately. And then your wallpaper lights up, and it’s a photo of her you took, she’s not even posed, she’s mid-laugh, head turned slightly away from the camera, the kind of picture that only exists because you were looking at her with affection and reached instinctively for your phone.
That detail hits so hard it almost stops her. Her chest tightens with this sudden painful sadness, because if you were really building something behind her back, why would your phone still open to her face?
But the question doesn’t save anything. It just makes the next part hurt more.
She starts with Instagram because it feels like the easiest place to confirm it, and for a few brief, miserable seconds she actually hopes it’ll be obvious. Some hidden account, some flirty thread, some stranger’s name appearing too often. Something clean and straightforward. But there’s nothing. You only have your normal account, the one she’s seen a million times with no secret profiles logged in. There aren’t any suspicious message requests with no weird conversations.
She moves faster after that, more tense instead of relieved, checking the places her friends had thrown out as possibilities.
Twitter is the same. Your regular account with retweets from Alysa fan pages, clips of her programs and your defensive replies under mean tweets from people who don’t know what they’re talking about, and likes about movies you’re excited about.
It’s so completely, embarrassingly loyal that it makes her stomach twist. It should reassure her. Instead it makes her feel worse, because now the phone feels split in two—one half still so clearly built around her, the other half maybe hiding something she hasn’t found yet.
The photos app is no better in giving her tangible proof. You have a bunch of work screenshots, notes. There’s random saved images and pictures of your fish she’s already seen because you always send them to her. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
And at this point the pounding in her chest has become something almost unbearable, because if she’s wrong, then what is all this distance? What is all this pain she’s been carrying around? What is she supposed to do with the last two months if the answer isn’t sitting plainly in front of her?
That’s why she leaves iMessages for last. Not because it makes the most sense, but because some part of her is stalling. Some small, desperate part wants to hear the bathroom door open before she has to press it, wants to be interrupted, caught, forced to stop before she sees something that can’t be unseen.
She sits there with her thumb hovering for a beat too long, breathing shallowly, every muscle in her body tight. Then she taps it anyway. The text message list opens. Her own contact is pinned right at the top, and that almost makes her laugh from how cruel it feels. Of course she is after all this, after everything unraveling under her hands, your phone still arranges itself like she’s the center of your life. Beneath it are the names she expects—friends, family, spam, appointment reminders. Again, so normal that for one suspended second she thinks maybe this whole thing is about to collapse in on itself, maybe she really is just a paranoid mess who let two friends and too much silence rot her brain.
And then she sees it.
A contact she doesn’t know. Not a family member, not one of your usual friends, not anyone Alysa’s ever heard you mention.
P. Lucas.
Her entire body reacts before she has a thought coherent enough to name what she’s feeling. Her stomach drops so hard it’s almost disorienting, like she missed a stair that wasn’t there. Her mouth floods with that awful metallic saliva that comes right before throwing up. She opens the thread.
The messages are not dramatic. If anything, they’re worse for how ordinary they look.
Voice memos stacked one after another. A few short texts.
Can I call you? I’ll see you tomorrow. Great session today.
The words rearrange themselves instantly into the shape her fear has been waiting for. Her mind doesn’t pause to consider alternatives because she already built the framework weeks ago. It’s all been leading here.
Now there’s a name attached to it, and suddenly every piece slots in so neatly it makes her feel sick. Actually, physically sick. Her stomach turns so violently she thinks for a second she might genuinely throw up onto the floor. Her vision goes strange around the edges. Her chest feels like something inside it is caving in under pressure with this real, ugly pain that makes it hard to get a full breath.
And through all of it, one thought keeps battering into her from every angle: you lied to me. Not just once, not just tonight, but for weeks. You stood in her kitchen, sat on her couch, kissed her goodbye with this hidden thing tucked somewhere, and she had still been trying to understand you gently.
Then your voice breaks across the room and the whole moment jerks violently back into motion.
You’re standing there just inside the living room now, fresh from the bathroom, your expression changing the second you register what she’s holding.
“What’s going on?” you ask, and your voice is not defensive yet, it’s just earnestly confused, thrown off, cautious.
Alysa can’t look at you. That’s the first thing she realizes. She physically cannot make herself turn her head. She keeps staring at the thread like if she looks away, she’ll lose her nerve and let you explain it into something survivable.
You cross the room quickly, and she feels rather than sees you take the phone from her hands. There’s no fight in it, no scrambling. You just take it, look at the screen, and sigh.
That sigh destroys whatever was left of her ability to doubt herself. Because to Alysa, already deep inside this hurt, that isn’t the sound of someone confused by a misunderstanding. It’s the sound of someone caught.
You slide the phone into your pocket, shoulders dropping in this tired, defeated way, and say, “Alysa, can we talk?”
That’s the last click in the lock. If it were innocent, you’d say the innocent thing immediately. If there were nothing to hide, you’d laugh in disbelief, correct her, show her, explain it in one breath. But instead you sound guilty. You sound resigned and you sound like someone trying to manage fallout.
So when she tells you to get out, she's not bluffing. It isn’t an opening for you to convince her. It comes out of her with the force of two months of confusion finally finding a target.
“Get out.” The words sound sharper than anything she’s ever said to you, and even she feels the violence of them as they leave her mouth.
You blink at her, stunned. “What?” You look genuinely lost, and under any other circumstances that expression would undo her instantly.
But her mind is made up now. It has been making itself up for weeks, collecting evidence, bracing for impact, preparing her body for this exact kind of break.
“Get out,” she says again, louder, each word trembling with the effort it takes not to collapse. “Now. I don’t want you here.”
You take a step toward her, and she can hear the panic entering your voice now, hear the urgency in the way you say her name, in the way you ask what she’s talking about.
Right now, to her, even your confusion folds into the story she’s already accepted. You’re denying it, it’s expected and you’re trying to slow this down. So she throws Lucas at you like a weapon because she needs you to know she saw it, needs you to understand that whatever lie you had prepared no longer has room to work.
“Go have another session with Lucas or whatever that means.” Saying it makes her mouth water again with nausea. The words taste toxic but she gets them out anyway.
You’re staring at her now with this open, horrified look, and you say no immediately, too quickly, hands lifting slightly like you can still stop this.
“Alysa, what? No. This isn’t what you think it is. I promise. Please. I can explain.” But explain to her now sounds like stall. Explain sounds like twist it, soften it, make her doubt what she saw long enough for you to leave with your dignity intact. Alysa has nothing left for that since the hurt is too huge, too physical, too all-consuming. It feels lodged beneath her sternum like shattered glass.
“No,” she says, and her voice breaks with the force of it. “Get out. Now.”
When she moves, it’s to get away from you before the crying starts. Before her body betrays how destroyed she really is. But you reach for her wrist on instinct, maybe to stop her, maybe just to make her stay long enough to listen—and she jerks away so violently it shocks you both. The motion is harsh, almost wild, born from pure reflex and raw panic, and for a second the entire room freezes around it. Alysa turns back toward you with a look you’ve never seen directed at you before, her face drawn tight with fury and heartbreak so tangled together they’re almost indistinguishable. Her eyes are wet now, shining, furious, wounded. Her breathing is uneven. Every inch of her looks like she’s holding herself together by force alone.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, and it comes out low and shaking and deadly serious.
You physically shrink, enough that Alysa notices, enough that something inside her almost buckles. Your shoulders draw in, your face changes. The fight in you goes quiet. You grab your jacket without another argument, and she hates that too—hates that you’re leaving, hates that you’re listening, hates that some terrible traitorous part of her still wants to stop you even now. But she doesn’t. She just stands there rigid and trembling while you walk out of the apartment you’ve moved through so easily for so long, and the second the door closes behind you, all that anger burns off and leaves only the wreckage underneath
She breaks immediately. One second she’s standing there, jaw locked, chest heaving, and the next her body just gives up the performance entirely. A sound tears out of her—small at first, then broken open—and she folds in on herself like she’s been hit somewhere vital. Her hand flies to her mouth as if she can physically hold the grief in, but it’s useless. Tears spill fast enough to blur everything. Her knees weaken and she stumbles backward until the couch catches her, and then she’s sinking onto it, curling over herself, one hand gripping her shirt right over her chest like maybe pressure there will dull the pain. It doesn’t, nothing does. Her heart hurts in this brutal, humiliatingly real way, like an injury instead of an emotion. Her stomach is still turning and her throat burns. Breathing feels uneven and wrong. Under all of it is this enormous, unbearable grief because you are not some casual person she can hate cleanly.
You are built into her life, into her routines, her body memory, her sense of comfort. You’re in her apartment and in her phone and in the way she reaches automatically for someone at the end of the day. You matter in all the soft places. So the idea that you would do this—that you could look her in the eye for weeks while belonging partly somewhere else—doesn’t just upset her. It makes the whole world feel rearranged into something colder and uglier than it was an hour ago.
———
The door closing behind you doesn’t feel real at first. It’s just a sound—sharp, final—but your body doesn’t catch up to it right away. You stand there in the hallway for a second longer than you should, your hand still loosely wrapped around your jacket like you forgot what you were doing mid-motion. The quiet outside her apartment feels wrong, like you stepped into a different version of the world where everything is slightly off.
Just minutes ago, you were inside. Sitting next to her, leaning into her, existing in that same space that’s always felt like yours too.
And now you’re not allowed there.
The shift is so abrupt it leaves you disoriented. You walk out of the building on autopilot, barely registering the cold air when it hits your face, barely noticing the way your steps feel uneven beneath you. Your mind is stuck on a loop, replaying the last few minutes over and over again, but it keeps getting stuck on one thing…
That look on her face.
You’ve never seen Alysa look at you like that before. Not once. You’ve seen her annoyed, playful, even frustrated—but never that. Never something so sharp, so full of anger that it almost didn’t look like her. It wasn’t just anger either. There was hurt under it. Deep, unmistakable hurt. The kind that doesn’t come from a small misunderstanding. The kind that comes from feeling betrayed.
Your chest tightens at the memory of it, your stomach twisting uncomfortably as you unlock your car and slide into the driver’s seat. You don’t start it right away, sitting there with your hands resting on the wheel, staring straight ahead at nothing.
You know what she thinks but you didn’t fix it.
You had the chance to fix it. When she told you to leave, when she looked at you like you’d broken something that couldn’t be put back together—you could’ve just told her. You could’ve explained everything right then. You could’ve told her it’s all for you.
But you didn’t because in that moment, it didn’t feel like it would land the way it was supposed to. She was too upset, too far gone in whatever she was feeling. You saw it in her face, in the way her voice was shaking, in the way she couldn’t even look at you for more than a second at a time. If you had tried to explain it then, it would’ve sounded ridiculous. Like an excuse or like something you made up on the spot to cover whatever she thought she found. You couldn’t risk that, not after everything you’ve been doing. So you let her believe it for now.
The thought makes your chest ache in a completely different way, something heavier, quieter, harder to sit with. You know how much that hurt her. You saw it and you felt it in the way she pulled away from you, in the way she told you not to touch her like your hands suddenly meant something else.
And you still walked out.
You exhale slowly, finally starting the car, the engine breaking the silence just enough to pull you back into the present. The drive home is a blur. Your mind just keeps drifting back, filling in all the moments you should’ve said something and didn’t. By the time you make it to your apartment, the weight of it has settled deeper.
You drop your keys on the counter, shrug off your jacket, and for a second you just stand there in the middle of the room like you don’t know what to do with yourself. You were supposed to be somewhere else tonight. You were supposed to be at her place, spend the night and then wake up and give her birthday kisses. You’re supposed to go to her dad’s house together tomorrow for her birthday party and finally show off what you’ve been working on for months. The entire night and day after had already been planned in your head without you even realizing it.
And now, none of that is happening.
You swallow, your throat tight as you move toward your bedroom, your body feeling heavier with each step. When you sit down on the edge of your bed, the emptiness hits harder. It’s not just that you’re alone—you’ve been alone plenty of nights over the past few months. It’s that you shouldn’t be.
You lean back slowly, staring up at the ceiling, your phone resting on your chest as if you’re waiting for it to light up but it doesn’t. You don’t text her either because you don’t even know what you’d say that wouldn’t make things worse right now.
You close your eyes as your mind drifts to the image of her face, clearer now in the dark. The glare she gave you which wasn’t just anger but it was also something that looked like it hurt her to even look at you. You shift slightly, trying to get comfortable, but there’s nowhere for that feeling to go.
These past few months have been hard in a way you didn’t fully let yourself acknowledge. You filled every gap with purpose—classes, studying, reading, pushing yourself through something that felt worth it because it had her at the end of it. Every late night, every canceled plan, every moment you chose this over being with her, you told yourself it was temporary. That it would mean something when it was done. That it would bring you closer, not push you apart.
And now, you’re lying here, alone, and she thinks you betrayed her.
Your chest aches at the thought, your hand unconsciously curling slightly against your shirt as if you can hold that feeling in place. You miss her. Not in some passing way, but in this constant, physical sense of something missing where it’s supposed to be. You miss her voice, her presence, the way she fills a room without trying. You miss how easy it used to feel to just be with her. And tonight, more than anything, you miss what this night was supposed to be. You let out a slow breath, your eyes opening again as you stare at the ceiling, unmoving.
Tomorrow.
That’s all you have to hold onto now.
Tomorrow was supposed to be the moment everything paid off anyway. It was going to be the reveal and proof that all of this time, all of this distance, had a reason. That you weren’t just drifting away, you were building something.
You just have to make it there, just have to get through tonight.
But the night doesn’t move. It stretches and every time you close your eyes, that look comes back. Every time you start to drift, your mind snaps back awake, like it won’t let you rest while things are unresolved. So you stare into the dark, holding onto tomorrow like it’s the only thing keeping everything from falling apart.
———
Alysa wakes up slowly at first, still half inside sleep, her body reaching for something before her mind has caught up enough to know what it’s doing. One arm slides across the sheets beside her, searching for warmth on instinct, for the shape of you curled somewhere in the bed the way you were supposed to be, the way you said you would be. For one soft, stupid second there’s even disappointment before there’s pain—just that dull little feeling of where is she—and then everything from last night comes crashing back all at once, hard enough that it almost feels physical.
Alysa opens her eyes fully to an empty room that suddenly feels too bright, too still, too honest. The bed is only half slept in. The other pillow is untouched except for where it had been fluffed for you before everything went wrong. She stares at it for a long moment, throat tightening so fast it burns.
There’s no anger in that first minute but grief. Heavy, immediate grief, the kind that makes her feel like she’s mourning something that was still alive yesterday. Because in her head, that’s what this is now. It’s over. The best thing that’s happened to her in years—easily, undeniably—has been taken out from under her, and worse, it’s been taken out from under her by you. Her face twists before she can stop it, and tears come hot and fast, slipping sideways into the pillow while she lies there staring at the spot where you should have been.
Normally she’d be irritated with herself by now, annoyed at crying first thing in the morning, annoyed at how dramatic it feels, how weak. But today she just lets it happen. It’s her birthday after all. She doesn’t have the energy to police her own grief. So she presses her face harder into the pillow and cries quietly into the emptiness you left behind, her chest aching with every shaky breath, every thought returning to the same impossible point—that you were meant to wake up beside her today, and instead she’s alone in a bed that still looks like it was expecting you.
The whole day moves like that after. Each hour seeming longer than it should be, as if time itself has become aware that it no longer has anything good to deliver her. She gets up because staying in bed would only make it worse, but getting up doesn’t make anything feel better either.
The apartment is too quiet. Even the ordinary things feel hostile in some small way. The hoodie of yours still looped over the back of a chair, the half-finished conversation sitting dead in her texts like something abandoned mid-sentence.
This was supposed to be a day already shaped out in her mind before it arrived. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to tease her awake, steal the first birthday kiss, make some comment about how you technically deserved credit for getting her into another year of life. You were supposed to get ready together, crowding each other in the bathroom while one of you complained about the lighting and the other pretended not to care. It was supposed to be easy and familiar.
Instead everything has this stripped-down, wrong feeling to it. At some point she calls her dad to cancel the party because the thought of smiling through it, of standing in a room full of people while this sits like a fresh wound under her ribs, feels impossible. But her dad, in that steady way he has, gently refuses to let her hide. He reminds her how much family is coming, how rarely everyone’s all in one place, how people are excited to see her. He tells her she doesn’t have to stay all night, just come by, make an appearance, let herself be loved a little. Alysa nearly says no again, but there’s something tired in her by then, something too worn down to keep fighting every small thing. So she agrees, though she doesn’t want to. She gets dressed without much care, pulling things on more than choosing them, and stares at herself in the mirror long enough to know she looks off like someone turned the brightness down on her from the inside.
She arrives alone, and that in itself says too much immediately. The house is already alive with voices and movement, the front rooms warm with the smell of food and that particular hum family gatherings always have when people are circulating and reconnecting at once. Under other circumstances, Alysa would have loved it. Today it feels like walking into a stage play she forgot she was cast in.
Her siblings realize the situation before she even makes it through the first round of greetings. Justin notices first because he’s Justin and because he’s already looking for you the second he sees Alysa by herself. Julia and Jaylinn catch it half a beat later, Selina’s expression changes more subtly but just as quickly. None of them say anything in front of everyone else. They just guide her with those quiet sibling instincts that don’t need much explaining, until they’ve tucked her into a back room away from the noise.
The second the door shuts, Justin asks where you are, and Alysa, already raw, already tired, has to say it out loud. Not every detail at first, just enough for the room to go still. Enough for all four of them to understand this is not some late arrival, not some scheduling issue. Her voice stays remarkably steady while she explains what she saw, what happened, how you left. Her sisters look devastated for her in a way that almost makes it harder. Justin looks immediately furious, jaw set, arms crossed so tightly it’s obvious he’s already decided what he thinks of you. Alysa tells them not to tell anyone else, not because she wants to protect you but because she cannot handle the room turning toward her in collective sympathy. She doesn’t want whispers or pity. So they promise or close enough to one. The mood that settles over the room is quiet and ugly, all of them feeling the same thing in different directions. They only know the story from Alysa’s side, and from that angle there’s not much room left for nuance. By the time they leave that room, it’s more or less understood between the siblings that they hate you now too.
She moves through the party on muscle memory, smiling where she has to, hugging the relatives she doesn’t see often enough, thanking people for gifts, for coming. It is astonishing how well the body can imitate normalcy when the mind is somewhere else entirely. People talk to her and she answers. People laugh and sometimes she even manages a version of it back. But under it all she feels hollowed out, like every interaction is happening one room away from where she actually is.
It gets worse every time someone casually asks where you are. There's the assumption that of course you’d be here and since you're not, everyone is now curious but each question lands like a bruise.
“Where’s your girl?” one aunt asks with a smile.
“Is she coming later?” another cousin says.
An older family friend looks around and says, “I thought she’d be glued to your side today.”
Alysa keeps deflecting without technically lying. “She couldn’t make it on time.” “She’s busy.” “Not here yet.”
The words feel brittle in her mouth. She can’t bring herself to say more, but she also can’t stomach inventing some clean excuse. So she lets the questions slide off as best she can and eventually retreats to sit near her sisters, letting them buffer her from the room a little. They do it naturally.
As she sits there, half removed from the center of her own birthday, Alysa can’t stop thinking the worst part isn’t even the anger. The anger is real, yes, hot and humiliating and still ready to rise any time she thinks too directly about last night. But underneath it is longing so deep it makes her feel weak. She misses you. God, she misses you. She misses you even while believing you hurt her. She misses the version of today that should have existed. She misses the idea of getting one more uncomplicated day before all of this, one more day to be with you before her brain attached betrayal to your face. She wants to hate you cleanly, but she can’t. What she really wants, in the most useless and painful way possible, is for it all to go back to before the suspicion, before the phone, before the look on your face and the one she threw back. Her sisters can tell. They can tell that this isn’t just anger, not just wounded pride, but something much softer and more devastating. They look at her with that protective sadness younger siblings get when the older one they rely on suddenly seems breakable.
———-
Outside, the air is cooler than it should be for a summer evening. The house glows from within, light spilling through windows, silhouettes moving back and forth behind glass, laughter occasionally escaping whenever the front door opens and closes. You stand at the edge of the driveway for a moment before walking up it, your body tighter with nerves the closer you get, your hands colder than they should be.
Every version of today that ran through your head last night ended with you finally getting to explain everything, finally watching that awful misunderstanding collapse under the weight of the truth. That hope is the only thing that got you through the night before, the only thing that kept you from showing up at her door again at some unreasonable hour and begging her to listen. Instead, you came here, to the party where this was always meant to end anyway—not with heartbreak, but with the reveal, with your months of effort landing exactly where they were meant to.
You’re so close to the porch when Justin spots you. He had been out there with one of Alysa’s cousins, talking quietly, both of them half-turned toward the driveway, taking a break from the noise inside. The second he registers it’s you, his whole body changes. He straightens immediately, all ease leaving him at once, and folds his arms across his chest with a look so openly hostile that you almost stop walking. His cousin glances between the two of you and wisely says nothing. You don’t have the energy for subtlety, not today.
“Justin,” you say, the plea already in your voice before you can flatten it out. “Please. Let me go in. I need to talk to Alysa.”
He lets out a humorless sound and shakes his head once, slow, incredulous. “Jesus. You can’t even let her enjoy her birthday?” The accusation lands hard because part of you understands exactly how this looks.
“I’m not here to ruin anything,” you say quickly, stepping closer despite the tension rolling off him. “I just need to explain this. It’s one big misunderstanding and I need her to hear me.”
But Justin has already made up his mind from the version of the story he got, and in that version you don’t get the benefit of the doubt.
He scoffs, looks you up and down like he can’t believe you had the nerve to show up, and tells you to get lost. Tells you, flatly, that he’s not letting you in to make her birthday worse than it already is. For one dangerous second your frustration spikes high enough that you have to physically swallow it back down. You want to argue so terribly bad, but because he’s her brother, because he loves her, because from where he’s standing this reaction makes sense, you don't. You just take a long breath through your nose and force yourself still.
“I’m not leaving,” you say at last, quieter now but no less firm. “I’ll wait out here for her.”
Justin looks at you like you’re being dramatic, like there’s no way you actually mean it. He probably assumes you’ll get tired, embarrassed, cold. That eventually you’ll give up and go home and save him the trouble of throwing you off the property himself. So he just shrugs in that dismissive, irritated way and turns back toward the house, the cousin trailing in after him. The door shuts and you are left outside with the sound of the party muted behind it, the warm light unreachable now except through windows.
You walk slowly back down toward the curb and sit on it beside Alysa’s car, close enough that the metal of it catches the house lights in dull reflections. The curb is colder than you expected. You draw your knees up and rest your chin against them, staring at the cobblestone stretch of driveway in front of you like answers might rise from it if you look long enough.
You go over it all again in your head because you need to say it right. You need the explanation to be clear enough that nothing about it feels flimsy or opportunistic. You’ll tell her you started because you wanted more than a surface relationship with a big part of who she is. You’ll tell her about the classes, the professor, the notebooks full of tones and grammar and phrases you kept practicing even when your brain felt wrung out. You’ll tell her about the books too, the fiction and memoirs and essays, all the ways you’ve been trying to understand more than just vocabulary. You’ll tell her you kept it secret because you didn’t want it to feel performative. You wanted this to be real. You wanted to surprise her by showing her that you meant it—that you were in this for the long run, for years from now, for family gatherings where you could finally hold your own without her translating every second of it.
After a while the words stop sounding abstract in your head and start needing somewhere to go, so you whisper them instead. At first it’s just little fragments under your breath, your voice almost swallowed by the night. Then it becomes practice. Mandarin phrases repeated softly again and again, careful with pronunciation even through the ache sitting in your throat. You correct yourself, repeat, try again. Some of it is practical—greetings, short explanations, respectful phrases you know you’ll need if she lets you get inside. But the one you come back to most is simpler. Smaller.
The one thing you can’t stop wanting to say directly to her even now.
I love you.
You keep repeating it, low and quiet, trying to get the tones right despite how unsteady you feel. There’s something devastating about sitting outside her family home on her birthday while she thinks the worst of you, practicing how to tell her you love her in a language you learned for her in the first place.
You are so sad you almost feel numb around the edges of it. But under it there’s still certainty. Not blind optimism, not some easy confidence that this will magically be fine, but a hard little core of belief that this work did not happen for nothing. That eventually Alysa will hear you. That eventually this awful, ruined night and this miserable morning will make sense to her. You just need time to catch up to you. And you can’t wait anymore.
So you stay on the curb beside her car, chin on your knees, whispering I love you into the dark like a promise, like practice, like the only thing holding you together until she finally comes out.
———
By the third hour of being there, Alysa feels like she’s been holding herself upright by sheer politeness alone.
The party has only grown louder around her as the evening’s gone on. Under any other circumstance, Alysa would be fine here. She’d be drifting between rooms, getting pulled into conversations, stealing bites from plates she wasn’t supposed to touch yet, circling back to you every few minutes just because it would feel automatic to do that. But today the house feels like a place she’s performing inside of, and the performance is wearing her down.
Her face hurts from smiling on cue. Her body feels too hot, too tired, too aware of itself. Her sisters have been hovering in that quiet, protective way and she loves them for it, but even that has started to make her feel trapped.
If she tells her dad she wants to leave, she already knows what he’ll say—stay for the cake, at least, stay for another hour, people came all this way. And maybe on any other day she would. But tonight every minute feels like five, and the thought of staying until cake, of standing there while people sing at her when her insides still feel torn open from last night, makes something in her want to bolt.
So she waits for the right opening, slips away from her sisters when they’re distracted by an aunt who wants photos, avoids the hallway Justin just disappeared down, and finally makes it outside with the guilty, relieved feeling of someone sneaking out of their own life.
The driveway stretches long and dim in front of the house, the cobblestones washed in low porch light and the softer spill from inside the windows. Her car is parked all the way at the end just how she wanted it—unblocked, easy to get to, already angled like escape was something she’d subconsciously planned for hours ago.
She starts toward it with her head down, one hand already reaching into her pocket for her keys, her mind half on the relief of finally being alone and half on the shame of leaving her own birthday party early like she can’t even handle one bad day properly. Then something catches her attention. It’s soft enough at first that she almost mistakes it for the wind moving through leaves or voices carrying from farther down the street. But when she stops and listens, she realizes it’s neither. It’s murmuring, whispering, almost. The sound is coming from somewhere beside her car, low and steady, so quiet it keeps getting lost in the distance between them. Alysa stills completely.
There’s something strange about the sound—not just that someone is out here, but the shape of the words themselves. At first she can only make out fragments. A phrase in Mandarin, then another, spoken in an accent that is very obviously not native and yet somehow careful enough that she understands it almost immediately. The pronunciation isn’t perfect in that seamless way family speech is perfect, but it’s good. Shockingly good.
She hears words like sorry. Hears miss you. Hears love. Her brows pull together before she can stop them, and now curiosity outweighs the tiredness enough that she starts walking again, slower this time, cautious without really knowing why. As she rounds the front of her car, the source of the voice comes into view all at once.
It’s you.
You’re sitting on the curb with your knees drawn up, your body folded in around itself like you’ve been there long enough to settle into the discomfort of it. One hand is rolling a pebble back and forth between your fingers with absent concentration, your head tipped away as you mumble to yourself, too deep in it to notice her right away.
Up close, Alysa can hear you more clearly, and the clarity only makes the scene stranger. You’re not just repeating isolated phrases. You’re speaking in sequence, practicing like someone working through a lesson. Telling the time. Mentioning when you woke up. Saying what you ate. Stumbling once, correcting yourself softly, then continuing. It is not random or like you googled translations. It sounds lived in, the kind of speech that only comes from repetition and effort and time.
And for one suspended second Alysa doesn’t know what to do with what she’s seeing. Her chest tightens, but not in the clean, familiar way it has all day. This is different—sharper, more disorienting, almost like her body has recognized something before her mind can place it.
She clears her throat, mostly because she has to break the moment somehow, and your head snaps up so fast it’s almost violent. Your eyes find hers instantly. Then you’re scrambling to your feet, stumbling a little as circulation fights its way back into your legs, one hand flying out to catch your balance on the side of her car.
For a second neither of you says anything. You just look at each other under the weak wash of driveway light, and Alysa is struck by how terrible you look. Okay maybe not terrible, maybe she still hates you, but you look tired. Eyes blown wide with nerves and hope and fear all crowding into one expression, your face drawn with too little sleep, your whole body leaning toward her like it’s been waiting hours for this exact second.
“What are you doing here?” Alysa asks, and her voice comes out flatter than she means it to, worn thin by the day and by everything that’s happened since last night.
“I need to talk to you,” you say immediately. There’s no hesitation in it, it’s just pure urgency.
Alysa exhales through her nose, the sound edged with exhaustion more than anger, though the anger is still there. It resurfaces the second she remembers why she’s out here alone in the first place, why she woke up to an empty bed, why her whole birthday has felt empty. Her hand tightens around her keys and she starts to move past you toward the driver’s side door, because leaving would be easier, safer. But you step in front of it before she can reach it. And because you’re this close now, because she hasn’t really looked at you since last night, she does it now. Your eyes are huge, glassy in the low light, your expression open in a way that makes it impossible to mistake what’s there. You look pleading, scared. Hopeful in a way that almost hurts to witness. There’s no slickness to you, no confidence, no practiced excuse waiting smugly behind your teeth. You just look terribly earnest. Alysa should still say no. She knows she should. Every instinct built from the last twenty-four hours tells her to protect herself, to get in the car, to leave before you can talk your way back into all the places she just barely managed to start sealing off. But she has never, not once, been good at denying you when you ask softly enough. And when you add a quiet, strained “please,” it lands exactly where it always does. She closes her eyes for half a beat, then opens them again and says nothing, but doesn’t move. For you, that’s enough.
You start talking too fast at first, the words crowding each other like you’ve been holding them in so long they don’t know how to come out carefully anymore. “I’m sorry,” you say immediately, and then again, stronger this time, like the first one didn’t cover enough. “I’m so sorry, Alysa. This got so big and messy for no reason, and I should’ve told you everything last night. I should’ve explained the second I realized what you thought you saw.” You stop just long enough to drag in a breath, your eyes searching her face like you’re trying to figure out if she’s still listening, if she’s already shutting down again. “I just— I froze. You were so upset, and I’ve never… I’ve never had you look at me like that before. I was scared,” you admit, your voice dropping a little. “And I didn’t know how to explain any of it without making you more upset, and then you wanted me gone and I just…” You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, jaw tight. “I handled it wrong. I know I did.”
Alysa says nothing. She just stands there, shoulders tense, keys pressing into her palm, and lets you keep going because now that the dam is broken you clearly can’t stop if you wanted to. Then you say the name. P. Lucas. And the second you do, Alysa’s stomach tightens again, but now with anticipation instead of sickness. “It’s not some guy,” you say quickly, seeing the shift in her face. “It means Professor Lucas. He’s my Mandarin teacher.” There’s a flicker of confusion in Alysa then—small, enough that it passes visibly across her features before she can smooth it out. You see it and keep going, more steady now that you’ve begun telling the actual truth. “I’ve been taking lessons for like… ten-ish months,” you say. “Not even Duolingo, I mean yeah I started there but I realized it wasn't working so then it turned into like actual lessons, in person, with a professor, every day for an hour and a half whenever I could make it work.” You swallow, glance down for half a second, then force yourself to meet her eyes again. “And I’ve been reading too. Books, essays, memoirs, fiction, history—anything I could find that would help me understand more. I’ve been watching movies and interviews and lectures and taking notes like a psycho.” There’s a small, humorless exhale at that, not quite a laugh, gone as quickly as it appeared.
And as you talk, Alysa feels that unbearable tightness in her chest building again, but now it’s changing shape faster than she can keep up with. You take a breath, slower this time, and when you speak again your voice changes. It gets quieter and less frantic. Like you’ve reached the part that matters most and now you need her to hear every word exactly as you mean it. “It wasn’t just because of that party,” you say. “Or—okay, no, that’s not true. That party stayed with me, and Maya’s boyfriend showing up and just… fitting like that. Watching him talk to your family so easily. Sure, it bothered me.” Your eyes flick away for a second, toward the lit windows of the house behind her, then back to her face. “But it wasn’t just me feeling embarrassed or left out. It was more than that. I realized I didn’t want to keep standing on the outside of your world.”
But that wasn’t the whole thing. The whole thing, you say, was, “If I’m really in this, if I’m really in your life, then I don’t want to only exist in translation when it comes to the people and the culture that matter this much to you. I don’t want to just smile and nod and follow you around and depend on you to bridge every gap forever. I want to hold my own years from now without needing you to translate every second of it for me.”
Your voice gets quieter; the words matter more than how fast they come. “I kept it secret because I didn’t want it to feel fake,” you say. “I didn’t want you thinking I was doing it for praise, or because I wanted everyone to think I was this amazing girlfriend who cares so much.” You wince faintly at yourself, then keep going. “I wanted it to be real. I wanted to surprise you with something that actually meant something. I wanted to show you that I meant it—that I’m in this for real, for the long run.” Your face softens then, sadness pulling at it openly now. “I was literally imagining today as the payoff. Showing up here with you and understanding what people were saying. Trying to answer back but probably messing it up and making you laugh and then getting it right eventually.” The smallest, saddest smile tugs at your mouth and disappears again. “I thought if I could just get to your birthday, if I could just finish it the way I imagined, it would all be worth it.”
Alysa’s chest hurts.
There’s no better way to describe it. It just hurts. Tight and full and raw all at once, because she can hear the shape of your intentions now, can see how long you’ve been carrying this, how badly you wanted this reveal to go right. And at the same time, she can’t unknow the way the last two months felt. The loneliness of it. The confusion. The nights she missed you so much it made her restless in her own apartment. The resentment that started taking root when “busy” stopped feeling temporary and started feeling personal.
Maybe you see some of that flicker across her face, because your own expression crumples a little with guilt. “I know I pushed you away,” you say, voice rough now. “I know I did, and I’m sorry. I was wrong.” There is something almost unbearable in your sincerity, in the way every word seems dragged out of a place that has nothing to do with self-protection and everything to do with wanting her back. Wanting this back. Still, there’s something pressing behind it all.
“But why did you push me away so much?” she says, and the words come out smaller than she intended, not accusing now so much as wounded. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long. Haven’t been with you in so long.”
You look stricken at that, like this is the part you knew was coming and dreaded anyway. You let out a breath, glance down at the driveway for a second, then back at her. You admit it—you were excessive. More than excessive. A little obsessive, probably. You got fixated on making it all happen before her birthday, on making the surprise complete, on reaching some invisible finish line you set for yourself without realizing you were sacrificing the very thing you were supposed to be protecting. “I got too wrapped up in it.” Your eyes shine a little now, not fully crying but close enough that Alysa notices. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have prioritized some future moment over actually being there with you in the present. I know that now. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”. Your voice is quieter by the end, stripped down, almost fragile with honesty. “I want to make it up to you now. Like actually this time.”
By the time you switch into Mandarin, Alysa is barely holding herself in the same emotional shape she started in. The words are deliberate, each one placed with concentration and respect, and the accent is still yours—still undeniably you—but now she can hear how much time sits underneath it. How many repetitions. How many corrections. How many nights and mornings and stolen hours. You look a little embarrassed speaking it in front of her, a little exposed, but you do it anyway.
You say you’re sorry. You say you’ve missed her. You say you love her.
Hearing it in that language, in her family language—spoken by you, for her, with months of private effort sitting underneath each syllable—does something to Alysa so abruptly she almost has to brace herself against the car.
That tightness in her chest finally resolves into something she can name, and the name is not one emotion but too many at once. Hurt, still, because the last twenty-four hours happened and she cannot unfeel them just because there’s an explanation now. Relief, immense and dizzying, because the explanation exists at all and it is not cheating, not betrayal, not the ugly end she had been forcing herself to mourn all day. Love, most of all, rising through everything else so strongly that it almost feels like grief in reverse.
Because of course it comes back to love.
The anger came from love. The aching all day, the empty bed, the way she could barely make it through her own birthday party—all of it was love twisted into pain by what she thought she’d lost. And now this too is love. Love is ten months of Mandarin lessons. Love is notebooks and books and films and voice memos and time carved violently out of your own life just to learn how to stand a little closer to hers. Love is you sitting on the curb outside her family home whispering apologies and practice phrases into the dark because you couldn’t bear not fixing this tonight. The feeling that climbs into Alysa’s throat is so overwhelming it almost scares her. She could actually cry.
Alysa stands there breathing through the last of the adrenaline, the last of the fear, and logic finally starts returning in pieces. This is not an easy thing to fake. Not this level of detail, not the Mandarin, not the way your face has gone soft with genuine regret instead of defensiveness. Later, she knows, she can look through the messages with Professor Lucas, can listen to the voice memos and hear that they’re about pronunciation and phrasing, can come to your apartment and see the mountains of books and the notes and all the evidence of this life you built in secret. Though, she already believes you before any of that. But only because this explanation fits in a way the other one only forced itself to fit through pain. And the second she lets herself accept that, truly accept it, something in her gives way completely. She doesn’t say yes in words. She doesn’t make some neat declaration about forgiveness. She just steps forward with a breath that sounds almost like a break and collapses into you.
You catch her immediately, like you were ready for exactly that, like some part of you has been holding your whole body in place waiting for permission to do this. Her face buries itself in the side of your neck, and the second she’s there, the whole last day finally starts draining out of her. Your hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, fingers sliding gently into her hair, while your other hand settles firm and warm against the middle of her back. Alysa’s arms wrap tight around your waist, tighter than she means them to, but you don’t react except to hold her closer. She can feel how real you are then—your breathing, the weight of your body, the warmth of your skin under the collar of your shirt—and the relief of it is so intense it almost hurts as much as the grief did.
Being held by you after spending all day believing she’d lost you feels like stepping out of freezing water. Neither of you moves for a while. The driveway is quiet except for distant party noise spilling faintly from the house, some car passing far away at the street. But here, tucked against each other in the half-dark, everything has narrowed down to breathing and contact and the stunned, exhausted knowledge that this is over now. That the worst of it has finally loosened its hands from both your throats. When you speak, it’s into her hair, your voice low and a little wrecked still.
You murmur happy birthday, my sweet in Mandarin, careful with each word even now, and Alysa lets out a breath against your neck that might be the beginning of a laugh, might be a sob, might be both. Her grip tightens once more before easing, and she stays there a little longer, because after all that distance, after all that hurt, she is not ready to let go of you yet.
———
For a little while after Alysa folds into you, neither of you seems capable of doing. The misunderstanding has burned itself out and left only the two of you standing in the driveway breathing against each other like you’ve both just survived something uglier than either of you expected. Alysa’s face stays buried against your neck long enough that your shirt grows warm from her breath, and your hand never leaves the back of her head, fingers spread there carefully, like you’re afraid she’ll slip away if you loosen your grip too soon. Her arms are still locked around your waist with that same desperate tightness, and you let her hold on as hard as she needs to because you get it. You feel the ache of the last few months, the shock of last night, the loneliness of not being able to fix it fast enough—it’s all still in both of you, but now it’s softened by relief, by the steady realization that you’re here and she’s here and neither of you lost the other after all.
When Alysa finally lifts her head, it happens slowly, almost reluctantly, like she has to physically force herself to leave the shelter of your neck. Her cheeks are a little flushed, her eyes still glossy from everything she’s been carrying around all day, and for a second she just looks at you from too close, taking you in with the kind of focus that makes it obvious she’s still grounding herself in the sight of you.
Then she kisses you.
It isn’t hesitant. It's not even particularly gentle at first. It’s the kind of kiss that happens when both people have been starved of each other long enough that the second permission exists, restraint goes with it. Alysa’s hand comes up to the side of your face as she leans in, and you kiss her back instantly. The relief of it is almost physical. It really does feel like coming up for air after being underwater too long—like the first full breath after a long panic, like your ribs finally unlocking.
The kiss deepens quickly because too much has built up. Too many nights cut short, too many missed mornings, too many almosts and not-enoughs. Alysa lets out the faintest sound against your mouth when your hands settle at her waist and pull her in harder, and for a few seconds neither of you is thinking about the house ten yards away. There’s only the fact that she’s kissing you again, that you get to kiss her back, that all day she thought this was gone and now it isn’t.
When you finally break apart, it’s only by inches, lips still brushing, both of you breathing a little too fast. Alysa’s forehead nearly knocks into yours when she chases one more kiss, shorter this time, softer, and then she mumbles, still so close that the words warm your mouth as they leave her. “I missed you so much.” It comes out half-breathed, almost embarrassed by how honest it is. You answer before there’s even room for thought.
“I missed you too. So much.” And then you’re kissing again, not because either of you planned to but because apparently this is what missing each other for months does once it finally has somewhere to go.
The tone between you has shifted now, lighter in some ways but no less intense. The panic is gone and what’s left is all that pent-up affection and need rushing to fill the cleared space. Your hands start roaming without much thought, the way they used to when privacy wasn’t an issue and time wasn’t always running out. One slides from Alysa’s waist to the small of her back, then upward, fingertips slipping under the hem of her shirt to find warm skin. Alysa shivers at the contact, just enough that you feel it under your palms, and her mouth parts against yours in a way that immediately goes to your head. You are very clearly in the mode of wanting to make up for everything at once. For the distance, for the confusion, for the fact that she woke up without you this morning, for every time she looked at the clock and you were already leaving. So when your hand moves higher under her shirt you don’t even think about where you are. You only think about how badly you’ve missed touching her like this, how familiar and unbearable it feels all at once to have her body fitting against yours again.
Alysa, for her part, is hardly less affected. Her hands are on your neck, then sliding down your shoulders, then back up again like she can’t settle on one place because she wants all of it at once. But unlike you, she does remember where you are, and eventually some sliver of situational awareness cuts through the haze enough for her to pull back with a breathless little laugh that sounds half dazed, half disbelieving.
“Okay,” she murmurs, catching your wrist lightly before your hand can get too far. “Okay—wait.” You blink at her, clearly prepared to pretend not to understand the problem. Alysa has to bite back a smile because even now, even like this, you look so earnest in your desperation it’s hard to take seriously. “You should come inside,” she says, still close enough that your mouths brush when she talks. “Everyone’s been asking about you.”
You look at her for a second, trying to gather yourself enough to process the sentence, then your brows pull together. “I thought you were leaving.”
Alysa lets out a soft exhale through her nose, one shoulder lifting as her hand smooths once over your side, grounding both of you. “I was,” she admits. “It was unbearable without you. But I can go back if you go with me.”
You stop trying to pull her closer for a second and just hold her instead, your arms winding fully around her as if the answer is already yes and your body has moved on before your mouth does.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay. I’ll go with you.” The decision settles between you with surprising ease after everything.
You both take a second to straighten up after that, partly because you need to and partly because if you don’t, you’re probably going to end up right back against her car doing something neither of you can defend to the rest of her family. Alysa smooths a hand over the front of her shirt, glances at you, then laughs under her breath at the state of your face—tired eyes, hair a little wind-shifted from sitting on the curb and being immediately kissed senseless the second she forgave you. But you’re dressed fine. Better than fine, actually. You had come expecting to walk into a birthday party, not a breakup aftermath, so your clothes fit the room you’re about to enter even if your expression gives away the long night that came before it. Alysa reaches for your hand without hesitation, threading your fingers together with a possessiveness that feels earned now, and the two of you start back toward the house side by side.
Walking in hand in hand changes the room almost instantly. The second the front door opens and you step inside with Alysa beside you, the energy nearest the entrance shifts first in surprise, then in visible relief from the people who had spent the last few hours asking where you were. Her family brightens almost immediately, several of them greeting you before you’ve even made it two steps in. And this time you’re not shrinking from it. You’re still a little flustered, still carrying the emotional wreckage of the last twenty-four hours in your eyes, but you’re eager now, too eager in a way that seems to override your nerves.
You squeeze Alysa’s hand once and follow her further in, and she, suddenly back in her element now that the central wrongness of the night has been corrected, gets a little cute about the whole thing. She’s introducing you again to people who already know you, except now her voice has that barely contained edge to it that says she’s sitting on a piece of information she enjoys very much.
“She’s been taking Mandarin lessons,” Alysa says to one of her aunts, unable to stop the pride that sneaks into her tone.
The aunt blinks, looks from Alysa to you, and then, naturally, tests it. She says something in Mandarin and Alysa watches the split second where you process it, your lips parting just slightly while you sort through the words. Then you answer. It isn't perfect like family who grew up inside the language, but clear enough, correct enough, warm enough that the aunt’s face lights up in delight.
The response from the room is instant. People gush; someone laughs in surprise. Another aunt calls somebody else over to hear you say something again. You smile, visibly embarrassed by the sudden attention but also happy in a way that makes the embarrassment worth it. There’s color rising in your cheeks, and your eyes flick toward Alysa once like help me, but there’s affection under it rather than panic. And Alysa, watching you stand there in the middle of her family trying so sincerely, feels that ache in her chest return in its way better form—the one made of pride and relief and love rather than fear.
The further into the party you go, the closer you get to the real test of whether the night has truly turned. Her siblings are gathered near the living room, exactly where Alysa left them, and they notice the two of you immediately. Julia and Jaylinn both make near-identical faces the second they register your joined hands. Selina’s brows go up but Justin reacts the fastest.
He’s halfway to standing before Alysa and you have fully reached them, his expression somewhere between disbelief and protective outrage. “Alysa,” he starts, already exasperated, “what are you doing?”
Alysa doesn’t even let him build momentum. She squeezes your hand, steps slightly forward, and says, with a patience she probably would not have had an hour ago, “Please, guys. I appreciate everything you did for me. I really do. But it’s okay now.”
Justin looks deeply unconvinced. “Okay now?” he repeats flatly. “That’s what we’re calling this?”
You stand there taking it because, honestly, you’ve earned a little bit of hostility from them even if it came from the wrong story. There’s something sheepish about the way you say hello to her siblings from behind Alysa—small, careful, not trying to force ease where there clearly isn’t any. It is painfully awkward. Alysa can feel you trying not to make it worse just by existing there.
So she turns more fully to her siblings and lowers her voice enough that the conversation becomes a contained bubble rather than a scene. “It’s not what I told you,” she says. “I was wrong.”
That gets their attention if only because they know how difficult that sentence can be for anybody in the immediate aftermath of heartbreak. Then Alysa explains in a hurried, quiet version—the Mandarin lessons, Professor Lucas, the entire surprise gone horribly sideways.
Her sisters’ expressions change first, skepticism warring with reluctant intrigue. Justin remains harder to win over, arms folded, mouth set, until Jaylinn—because she wants proof and because she’s enjoying your discomfort just a little—tilts her head and says, “Okay then. Say something.”
You look briefly horrified by being put on the spot, which only encourages them.
“Anything,” Julia adds, crossing her arms but smiling now despite herself. “Go on.”
You glance at Alysa and she only raises her brows, amused now too. You clear your throat and, after one second of visible mental scrambling, start talking in Mandarin about your fish. It’s oddly specific how you say you have alarms set to wake you up in order to feed your fish. That she likes one food but not the other one you bought. The siblings listen, and though none of them understand enough Mandarin to assess the grammar properly, the evidence is embarrassingly clear in your pronunciation, in the fact that you didn’t freeze and fake it, in the confidence that arrived sentence by sentence once you got going.
They glance at each other in that murmured, grudging way of people being forced to revise an opinion they had already committed to. Jaylinn mutters something about you being a nerd. Julia snorts. Justin’s expression loosens last and least.
He looks at you for a long second, then away, then finally says, with all the magnanimity of someone pretending he was never worried at all, “You should’ve just said that outside.”
You have the grace not to point out that he wouldn’t have let you. Gradually, the tension begins to diminish. The siblings drift back into you in pieces, the way people do when love is still the underlying structure even after irritation. Jaylinn and Julia eventually pull you into some gossip you missed, talking over each other while you try to catch up. Selina asks a quieter question about your lessons and actually seems impressed when you answer. Justin, after an appropriate period of continued younger-brother glare, eventually mutters something about whether you’re still free for the hangout the two of you had planned before all this mess, and that’s basically his way of saying fine, you’re not dead to him.
From there the night begins to feel like it belongs to both of you again. The lost months don’t disappear, but now every touch has permission behind it again, and both of you are embarrassingly unwilling to waste that.
You and Alysa stay hand in hand for most of the rest of the party. Alysa’s hand brushes your arm when she passes behind you. Your palm settles low on her back as you guide her around clusters of relatives. More than once one of you leans in for what should clearly be a simple peck and it almost derails into something more—the kiss deepening too fast, one of you smiling into it because seriously? here? before forcing the other to pull back. There is a clinginess to both of you that nobody who knows the context would dare make fun of. Too much had been held back. Too much had almost been lost. So now the smallest contact feels necessary.
When you come across Alysa’s grandma again, the moment matters more than either of you expected it to. The older woman brightens the second she sees you, reaching for your hand the way she did the first time, and this time when she speaks to you in Mandarin you actually understand enough to answer. You do have to pause and search for a word here and there, but you get it now. Enough that her face changes with real pleasure, she laughs softly and squeezes your hand and responds again with the kind of warm patience that makes trying easier rather than harder. Alysa still has to step in every so often to supply a word you’re missing, and each time you glance at her with that quick, grateful look before continuing, but it doesn’t feel like being rescued now. It feels like being a part of something, like finally stepping into the world you had spent months trying to reach. And for Alysa, standing there watching you with her grandmother, the rightness of it is almost overwhelming.
Eventually it’s cake time, and the house shifts accordingly, people being called in from the kitchen and the porch and wherever else they’ve wandered. The lights in the living room are dimmed one by one until the room goes soft and warm around the edges, and voices start corralling into one place.
You disappear briefly into the kitchen and reemerge carrying the cake with the candles already lit, their glow catching along your tired face and turning it softer. The room starts singing almost immediately—family loud and off-key and affectionate in exactly the way birthday songs always are—but for Alysa the room narrows the second she sees you walking toward her through the dim light holding that cake.
She is vaguely aware of everyone else, but none of it lands the way you do. You look at her over the candles with so much open love on your face that it steadies something deep in her.
And she knows, right then, that this is the moment that you were working so hard for. It’s not perfect, the day didn’t go anything like planned, but it went wrong in the worst possible way and still ended here. With the two of you looking at each other across candlelight and noise and family and all the complications that come with loving someone fully. The misunderstanding, the distance, the hurt, the relief—it all points to the same thing. Your relationship has weight to it. It held through months of miscommunication and a day that should have wrecked it. It held because underneath everything else there is love, real and persistent enough to survive both your mistakes.
Alysa feels it when the song finishes and everyone starts cheering, feels it when you set the cake down and immediately reach for her hand again, feels it in the way both of you break into the same private smile at the exact same time. This is not some fragile thing that only works when everything is easy. This is something sturdier. Something that will keep asking things of both of you and keep being worth it anyway.
---------
first post back???? i wouldve split this up into two parts but i wanted to use those three pics LOL like theyre perfect for this story. Also... anyone at all get the very small wicked reference,,,,, hold out my....
SUMMARY — you hit a point where you just can't take being at the awards gala anymore, so you slip away to the bathroom to hide from the crowd, but a certain Olympic athlete follows you in and helps calm you down.
WARNING — social anxiety/agoraphobia
WORD COUNT — 3.7K
MASTERLIST
The Dolby Theatre glowed under an endless storm of white lights and camera flashes. From the outside, the place looked like it was built out of glass and noise. Inside, it was even worse. The air smelled like expensive perfume, hairspray, and that constant buzz of hundreds of voices blending together until it became one giant headache.
You smiled.
Or at least, it looked like you did.
Practice had taught you how to barely tighten your lips, tilt your head just enough, and hold eye contact long enough for the pictures to come out good. Nobody noticed the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress. Nobody saw how hard your heart was slamming against your ribs.
This wasn't new to you. You'd been in the music industry for years. You practically grew up playing tiny stages, summer festivals, and local interviews where nobody remembered your name afterward.
But fame hit late—and all at once. Two years ago, you could barely fill mid-sized venues. Now your face showed up in magazines and TikTok edits because Taylor Swift had picked you as one of the openers for the U.S. leg of her tour.
That changed everything.
Streams exploded. Labels started chasing you down. Journalists suddenly wanted to know every little thing about you: what you ate for breakfast, who you listened to, why all your songs sounded so damn sad.
And then the invitations started showing up.
Award shows. Galas. After-parties.
Events where everybody somehow seemed to know exactly how to exist except you.
Your agent kept insisting you had to go.
"It's good for your image."
Always the same line.
Like an image could hold itself together when you could barely breathe in a crowded room.
The worst part was that you didn't even trust him anymore. He was the same guy who told you a few weeks ago you could still perform even though you were half sick and losing your voice. "Nobody's gonna notice," he’d said.
People noticed.
You noticed too.
You felt your voice crack right in the middle of a bridge and had to fake a smile while internally you just wanted the stage to swallow you whole.
So by the time that night started, you were already exhausted.
Every conversation inside the Dolby Theatre felt fake as hell. Laughter too loud. Hugs too rehearsed. People congratulating each other while secretly checking who was watching.
You stayed seated at your table, spine straight, untouched drink in front of you. You answered when necessary. Smiled on cue. Clapped when they announced winners.
But inside, you were counting the minutes.
Massive screens flooded the room with gold and red light. Transition music shook through the seats. Somewhere near the stage, somebody let out this ridiculously sharp laugh that made you flinch.
You took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
Didn't help.
The anxiety had been crushing your chest all night like an invisible hand. You felt overheated under the lights even though the theater was freezing from the AC. Your jaw hurt from clenching. Your shoulders were locked tight.
And the worst part was feeling trapped.
Because leaving early would mean questions.
Headlines.
"Why did she leave the ceremony?"
"Trouble with…"
People were always ready to make shit up.
So you stayed.
Until you couldn't anymore.
It happened during one of the last awards of the night. You slipped away from the table quietly. Nobody seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, but they were too busy staring at the stage.
You walked fast between rows of seats, avoiding eye contact, random greetings, and the camera flashes still chasing anyone even remotely famous.
The hallway outside the main room was darker.
Quieter.
But not quiet enough.
You could still hear the muffled echo of the ceremony through the closed doors. Applause. Music. The presenter's voice somewhere in the distance.
You walked into the bathroom without really thinking about it.
The white mirror lights felt harsh immediately. Marble everywhere—perfect, cold, way too clean. The sound of your heels against the floor disappeared once you reached the back of the room.
And then finally, silence.
Or something close to it.
You leaned against the sink and shut your eyes.
Your chest rose and fell way too fast. You pulled off your earrings because suddenly they felt unbearably heavy. Then your hands gripped the edge of the counter like you needed to hold onto something real.
There were no cameras in there.
No reporters.
No music executives trying to decide whether you were still profitable.
Just you.
And exhaustion.
Your makeup was still flawless. From the outside, nobody would've guessed you were seconds away from falling apart. Maybe that was the weirdest thing about fame—learning how to break down quietly.
You slowly slid down onto the floor of the farthest stall, not even caring that the expensive dress spread across the tiles.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
You didn't check your phone. You didn't want to read texts asking where you were. And you definitely didn't want to go back out there.
Because outside, everybody else seemed built for this.
You weren't.
And you were starting to realize maybe you never would be.
Alysa Liu still hadn't fully gotten used to rooms like that.
Even after months of magazine covers, interviews, and ad campaigns following her two Olympic gold medals, she still felt slightly out of place at events like this.
The Dolby Theatre looked like it had been built for people who were used to being watched every second of the day. Legendary actors. Musicians who'd been selling out stadiums before Alysa even learned how to skate. Producers surrounded by assistants orbiting them like tiny planets around something important.
And then there was her.
Sitting at a table way too elegant for comfort, wearing a dress that still felt borrowed somehow, with a smile she'd practiced in the hotel mirror because she still had no clue what she was supposed to do when cameras kept pointing at her nonstop.
Fame had hit her all at once.
Like a damn hurricane.
That's exactly what it felt like.
A few months ago, she was just Alysa: the girl who spent hours training, throwing her hair up in a messy rush before stepping onto the ice, someone who felt more comfortable at a freezing rink at six in the morning than on any red carpet on earth.
Now people said her name like she'd always belonged there.
Like this world naturally fit her
But it didn't.
That's why she spent most of the gala watching instead of talking. Listening to other people's conversations. Looking around at tables full of celebrities who seemed perfectly designed to exist under spotlights.
And then Alysa noticed you.
Right away.
Not because you were trying to draw attention to yourself or anything, but because there was something about the way you sat that was impossible to ignore if someone knew how to recognize nervousness hiding behind calm.
Most people in that theater took up space like it belonged to them.
You didn't.
You looked constantly pulled inward, like you were trying to make yourself smaller without realizing it. You smiled whenever somebody came over to talk to you, but the smile faded too fast. Your fingers kept messing with the base of your glass. Your shoulders stayed tense even when you laughed politely.
Alysa started noticing little things.
The way you avoided looking around for too long.
How every once in a while you'd take a slow breath like you were trying to steady yourself.
How you flinched just slightly every time the audience burst into applause.
It wasn't obvious to most people.
But Alysa understood that kind of thing better than people realized.
She'd spent too many press conferences wanting to bolt out the door. Too many interviews where she said all the right things while internally begging for silence.
So she watched.
Not in a creepy way. Not invasive.
Just… paying attention.
And the longer the night went on, the clearer it became that something was wrong.
When you finally stood up from your table, Alysa noticed immediately.
The movement was too quick. Too rushed for someone just going to the bathroom.
She watched you slip through the rows of seats while the stage still glowed gold and the presenter kept talking. Nobody at your table really reacted. One of your reps was still staring at his phone. Somebody else clapped absentmindedly.
Nobody seemed to notice the slight shaking in your hands.
Alysa did.
She watched you disappear into the side hallway and waited.
One minute.
Two.
Maybe someone would go after you.
A worried manager.
A friend.
Security.
Anybody.
But nobody moved.
And something about that twisted uncomfortably in Alysa's chest.
Because suddenly she remembered exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel completely alone.
She glanced toward the door you disappeared through again.
Then back at the table.
Nothing.
Nobody even seemed to realize you were gone.
Alysa hesitated for a few seconds.
Maybe she shouldn’t interfere.
Maybe you just needed air.
Maybe following you would be weird.
But then she remembered your trembling hands.
And the exhausted look she'd caught on your face before you left.
So Alysa stood up.
Quietly.
She muttered a quick excuse to the person beside her and slipped out of the main ballroom without drawing too much attention. The noise of the gala dulled behind the massive theater doors until it became a distant echo.
The hallway was emptier.
The lights out there were softer, less harsh than inside the main room. Alysa walked slowly at first, unsure where exactly you'd gone.
Then she saw the bathroom door slowly swinging shut at the end of the corridor.
She took a breath before walking over.
She didn't actually know what she was gonna say.
She'd never really been great at comforting people. On the ice, everything was easier: exact movements, choreography, routines practiced thousands of times.
Real emotions were messier.
More complicated.
She stopped outside the door for a second.
There was no sound coming from inside.
Just silence.
Too much silence.
Alysa carefully rested a hand against the cold metal door and stepped inside.
At first glance, the bathroom looked empty. White marble. Huge mirrors. Perfect lighting. Everything overly polished and way too still.
Then she saw you.
Sitting on the floor of the farthest stall, your dress spread around you, your back resting against the wall.
For a second, Alysa felt something tighten painfully in her chest.
Because seeing you like that stripped away the entire public image instantly.
You weren't the famous singer.
You weren't the artist selling out stadiums.
You weren't the girl from viral interviews or the industry's newest obsession.
You were just a completely exhausted person trying really hard not to fall apart.
Alysa quietly closed the door behind her, careful not to let the sound echo too loudly through the silence of the bathroom.
For a moment, she didn't say anything.
Not because she didn't want to, but because suddenly every sentence felt useless. The usual lines — are you okay?, do you need help? — sounded hollow in her head, way too small for something that had clearly been building up inside you for hours.
So she just stayed there.
At a careful distance.
Without crowding you.
The white overhead lighting spilled across the marble, making everything look fake-level perfect: spotless mirrors, pristine sinks, polished tile floors. And right in the middle of all that cold perfection was you, sitting on the floor like your body had finally decided it couldn’t carry the weight anymore.
Alysa watched you for another second.
Your tense shoulders.
Your hands still trembling a little.
The way your eyes stayed fixed downward, staring at some invisible spot on the floor.
You looked exhausted in a way that went way beyond being physically tired.
Finally, Alysa spoke.
"Hey."
Her voice came out soft. Careful.
You didn't answer immediately.
You barely looked up, clearly surprised you weren't alone. For a second, it looked like instinct kicked in automatically — like you were about to pull the public version of yourself back on. Neutral expression. Small polite smile. Quick reassurance that everything was fine.
But you didn't.
Maybe because you were too tired.
Maybe because Alysa didn't look like she came with cameras, questions, or hidden motives.
She took a small step closer, slow and cautious.
"I saw you leave," she said. "And… I dunno. Just wanted to make sure you were okay."
The words hung there between you.
Simple.
Honest.
Nothing extra.
You let out this small, cracked laugh that didn't really sound like laughter.
"Well, you picked a pretty bad time to check."
The honesty caught Alysa off guard enough to make her smile a little.
Not a huge smile. Not awkward. Just something small and human.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I kinda figured that out."
Silence again.
But this time it didn't feel as uncomfortable.
From somewhere deep inside the theater came muffled applause. A speech. Brief transition music. It sounded so far away it almost felt like another universe compared to the quiet bathroom around you.
Alysa leaned back against the marble near the sinks.
Not too close to you.
Just close enough to stay.
"I hate these kinds of events," she confessed suddenly.
You lifted your eyebrows slightly, surprised.
Alysa Liu's public image was practically flawless. Confident. Charming. Smiling. The skating prodigy who looked perfectly comfortable under pressure since she was thirteen.
Alysa exhaled through her nose like she could read exactly what you were thinking.
"No, seriously," she continued. "I have no clue how any of this works. Everybody always seems to know exactly where to look, when to talk, how to pose… and I still feel like I accidentally snuck in here."
That pulled a small smile out of you.
Tiny.
But real.
And Alysa noticed immediately.
"Also," she added, crossing her arms, "half the people here were famous before I was even born. That's honestly terrifying."
You dropped your head for a second as a more genuine laugh finally escaped you.
Brief.
But enough to loosen some of the tension filling the room.
Alysa felt something in the atmosphere ease just a little.
Then she watched you take another deep breath.
And the exhaustion came rushing right back into your expression.
"Sorry," you muttered after a few seconds. "I didn't mean to make a scene."
Alysa frowned slightly.
"You're not making a scene."
"I'm literally hiding on the floor of a bathroom during a televised awards show."
"Well… technically, yeah," Alysa admitted with a tiny amused grimace. "But that still doesn't count as a scene."
You softly shook your head and leaned it back against the wall behind you.
The white lights made the exhaustion under your eyes even more obvious. Up close, it was impossible not to notice how hard you'd been holding yourself together all night.
"I just needed five minutes without people looking at me."
That, Alysa understood.
God, she understood that way too well.
Because one of the worst things she'd learned after the Olympics was that people started feeling entitled to pieces of her. Her time. Her smile. Her energy.
Everybody wanted something.
A picture.
An interview.
A reaction.
A specific version of who they thought you were supposed to be.
And the more famous you got, the less space there was to simply exist while tired, anxious, or sad without somebody trying to analyze it.
Alysa slowly tilted her head back toward the ceiling.
"After the Olympics" she said calmly, "I had to hide in a closet during a sponsor party because there were too many people."
You looked at her directly for the first time.
"A closet?"
Alysa nodded, completely serious.
"A janitor's closet. With brooms and everything."
That got another laugh out of you.
Louder this time.
And it was weird how quickly the whole mood shifted a little over something so dumb.
Alysa smiled too, feeling the tension in the room become slightly less suffocating.
"My agent spent forty minutes looking for me," she continued. "When he finally found me, he thought I'd been kidnapped."
You covered part of your face with one hand, still laughing somewhere between exhausted and disbelieving.
"That is… honestly kinda iconic."
"Thank you. One of my classiest moments."
The silence afterward didn't feel as heavy anymore.
The exhaustion was still there. The anxiety too. All of it.
But now something else sat beside it.
Presence.
Company.
The strange feeling that somebody had finally noticed you weren't okay and decided to stay anyway.
And maybe that was the part you didn't know how to process most.
Because in this industry, you were used to people showing up when you were shining.
Not when you were quietly falling apart on the cold bathroom floor.
Up until that moment, you still hadn't really looked at her.
Not fully.
It had been easier to keep your attention fixed on the floor, on the white tiles, on any tiny meaningless detail that stopped you from feeling too exposed. Because looking directly at someone meant letting them really see you too, and you'd spent the entire night trying to avoid exactly that.
But then you lifted your head.
And looked at her.
Actually looked at her.
Alysa was still leaning against the marble near the sinks, her arms crossed loosely, dark dress falling softly around her figure. The white bathroom lights painted silver highlights through her dark hair and left soft shadows beneath her cheekbones.
And suddenly, for some ridiculous reason, the whole world felt strangely still.
Alysa was beautiful in a way that didn't fully translate in magazines or sports broadcasts. Here, away from the ice, without perfect HD-camera makeup or carefully trained interview smiles, there was something way more human about her.
Warmer.
Her eyes were the first thing that got you.
Dark. Focused. Ridiculously alive.
She wasn't looking at you with morbid curiosity or that fake sympathy people used when they wanted to feel like a good person. Alysa was looking at you like you were actually there with her. Like she wasn't waiting for a shinier or easier version of you to show up instead.
And that wrecked you faster than anything else had all night.
Because it was hard to remember the last time somebody looked at you like that.
Without wanting something.
Without analyzing you.
Without turning you into a story, an opportunity, or a headline.
Just… looking at you.
Alysa noticed the change immediately.
The way you were finally meeting her eyes for real.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
And then Alysa went completely still too.
Because now she was really looking at you.
Up until then, she'd been focused on other things: your shaking hands, the obvious exhaustion, the anxiety hidden behind every deep breath. But seeing you finally lift your head beneath that cold white lighting felt like taking a soft, unexpected hit straight to the chest.
You were gorgeous.
Not in some artificial, untouchable celebrity way built perfectly for magazine covers.
Worse.
Way worse.
Because there was something devastatingly real about you.
Your flawless makeup had started smudging just slightly around your eyes after hours of wearing it, and somehow that only made you look more human. Closer. The faint gloss on your lips had mostly faded away. A few loose strands of hair had escaped the perfectly styled gala look.
And Alysa couldn't stop staring.
Especially at your eyes.
Tired.
Way too tired for someone your age.
But unbelievably pretty.
There was sadness there. Anxiety. Exhaustion that had been building up way too long. And something else too — something softer, vulnerable in a way Alysa couldn't fully explain but that made this weird pressure settle in her chest.
Suddenly she understood why she'd been watching you all night without realizing it.
It hadn't just been concern.
She'd been attracted to you from the beginning, and it had been growing quietly the entire night while she pretended to pay attention to the gala.
And now, stuck in that bathroom with you, there was nowhere for her to run from it anymore.
Alysa realized way too late that she'd been completely silent for several seconds.
Just staring at you.
Lost.
You noticed too, apparently.
"What?" you asked softly, almost unsure.
The question snapped the moment apart just enough.
Alysa blinked quickly, dragged back into reality.
"Nothing," she answered way too fast.
Obviously way too fast.
Because you lifted an eyebrow slightly, exhausted but amused.
And Alysa immediately felt heat rush up her neck.
Jesus.
Olympic cameras had never made her this nervous.
She let out a small embarrassed laugh and glanced toward the mirror for a second.
"Okay, maybe not nothing."
You kept looking at her now, more curious than before.
Alysa swallowed.
She wasn't used to feeling this… thrown off balance. On the ice, everything had structure. Movement. Control. Even under pressure, she always knew exactly what to do with her body.
But this was different.
Way worse than any jump.
Because this was real.
And because you kept looking at her with that calm expression that made pretending to be normal basically impossible.
Alysa finally looked back at you.
And there it was again — that ridiculous feeling in her chest.
"Just…" she started, exhaling softly. "I think you might actually be the prettiest person I've ever seen."
The silence afterward was immediate.
Heavy.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full of something thick and electric that suddenly filled all the space between you.
Your eyes widened slightly, clearly caught off guard.
And Alysa instantly wanted to slam her head into the sink.
Perfect.
Good job, Alysa.
Trapped in a gala bathroom and that's what she decide to say.
But then something unexpected happened.
You smiled.
Not the polite red carpet smile.
Not the small automatic one you'd been using all night.
This one was different.
Slow.
Almost disbelieving.
And so pretty Alysa felt her brain completely short-circuit for a full second.
"That was really direct," you murmured.
Alysa let out a nervous laugh.
"Yeah, well… I usually have way better social skills than this."
"Usually?"
"Not when I'm nervous."
"And you're nervous?"
Alysa held your gaze for another second before answering.
"Very."
And for the first time all night, the exhaustion on your face softened enough to look almost like happiness.
• Amber always remained your loyal knight, protecting you, even from her heart. She kept her feelings, even when you walked to the altar in a wedding dress.
4,1k. angst
Finally. This turned out to be more difficult than Cupid Alysa...
Amber was twelve when she realized her life no longer belonged to her.
It didn't happen when she took her oath. Not on the training field, when a sword hit her ribs for the first time. Not the day her father — an old knight with gray whiskers — said: "You will serve the princess, and that is above any battle."
It happened when you dropped your crown.
You were seven. You were walking down the hallway — somewhere important, probably to an etiquette lesson or to the king and queen — and the crown, too big for your head, slipped down to your forehead, then over your eyes, then fell to the stone floor with a dull clatter.
You stopped. You looked at it. Then at Amber, who stood guard by the doors.
"Help me," you asked. Not ordered. Asked. The way you ask a friend. The way you ask an older sister.
Amber dropped to her knees. It was a breach of protocol — shouldn't a knight kneel before a princess? Yes. But not like this. Not at eye level. Not with that expression on her face — soft, almost tender. She picked up the crown, brushed the dust from your dress, straightened your collar. Her fingers, already beginning to roughen from the sword, were surprisingly gentle.
"Your Highness, let me carry it for you," Amber said. "When you grow up, you'll wear it yourself."
You looked at her seriously. You tilted your head — so your hair fell over your face. And you answered: "I don't want a crown. I want you to stay."
Amber felt something inside her turn over. Something she had no name for. She was too young to understand. Too inexperienced to be afraid. She just nodded, tucked the crown under her arm, and followed you into the garden.
From that day on, Amber was everywhere.
She stood outside your bedroom door when you had nightmares. You cried out in your sleep and she burst inside, breaking every security rule, sat on the edge of your bed and took your hand in hers. "Shh," she said. "It's just a dream. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You opened your eyes, red from crying, looked at her, and your breathing slowly steadied. "Stay with me," you asked. She stayed. Until morning. Sat in the chair by your bed, sword across her knees, listening to you breathe. It was more important than any sleep.
She carried you on her shoulders through the garden because you couldn't reach the tallest roses. You laughed, bright and joyful, and grabbed her hair with your small fingers. It hurt. She didn't complain. She smiled, because your smile was the only light in her gray, training, endless life.
She endured it when you braided her hair. You weren't good at it — the braids came out crooked, too tight, sometimes you pulled so hard her eyes watered. But she sat still as a doll and waited for you to finish. "Beautiful," she said, though she had no mirror. You beamed with pride.
She trained to be a knight for you. Not for the kingdom. Not for honor. And not for her father. For the smile that appeared on your face when she walked into the room. So that no one would ever dare raise a hand to you. So that you could always sleep peacefully.
She didn't understand back then that this was called love. She thought it was duty. Loyalty. Friendship. She was wrong.
You grew up. And her love grew with you.
When you were ten, you developed a fever and drifted in and out of consciousness for three days. The healers shrugged helplessly. The king and queen never left your bedside. But when they fell asleep in their chairs, Amber was there. She sat on the floor, leaning against your bed, listening to you breathe. "If you die," she whispered into the darkness, "I won't know why I have a sword. I won't know why I need the morning."
You didn't die. You opened your eyes on the fourth day, saw her — disheveled, sleepless, eyes red and said: "Have you been crying?"
"No," Amber lied. "Dust in my eyes."
You smiled your weak smile and whispered: "You're always here."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because if she opened her mouth, she would say something that could never be taken back.
When you were thirteen, you fell in love for the first time. Not with her — with some page boy with golden curls and a stupid smile. You told her about him for hours, sitting on a windowsill, swinging your legs, staring out the window. "He's so handsome, Amber. You have no idea."
Amber had an idea. She imagined walking up to that page, grabbing him by the collar, whispering in his ear: "If you hurt her, I will rip out your tongue and feed it to the dogs." She did none of that. She listened. Nodded. Smiled. Because your happiness was more important than her broken heart.
The page turned out to be an idiot — like all pages. He dared to say that your dress was "ugly." You ran to Amber in tears. Amber didn't say a word. She found that page an hour later. He apologized. He had a split lip and a black eye. You never found out who did it.
Amber was always there. When you laughed. When you cried. When you danced at balls with foreign princes, and she stood against the wall, gripping her sword hilt so hard her knuckles went white. When you asked her to brush your hair before bed, because no one did it as gently as she did.
She knew every habit of yours. How you drank your morning tea. How you bit your lip when you were nervous. How you looked at the moon before sleep, as if searching for answers in it. She knew you better than you knew yourself.
But you didn't know her.
You didn't know that at night she lay awake, replaying your conversations in her head. That she stored every smile of yours in her memory like a treasure. That she never allowed herself to think of you for more than a few seconds — because if she did, she would go mad.
You didn't know that she loved you. With all of herself. Every cell. Every heartbeat.
She was a knight. You were a princess. You can't love the sun too close — you'll burn. She was ready to burn.
War.
When the war with the neighboring kingdom began, Amber felt relief.
That sounds monstrous. War is death, blood, mud, the screams of the wounded. But war gave her what peacetime could not. War gave her distance. From you. From your eyes. Fromm your smile. From the pain that ate at her from the inside every time you looked at her as a friend.
She went into battle with joy — not from cruelty, but from despair. Because in battle, she could scream. In battle, she could slash, smash, fall, rise, and not think about you for at least a few minutes.
But you were with her. Always. In every swing of the sword, in every prayer before battle, in every gulp of water from her canteen. "Bring me something beautiful," you asked before every departure. She brought you things. Silk from enemy tents. Stones that sparkled in the sun. Feathers from rare birds. You collected them in a box. You didn't know that some of them were stained with blood. You didn't know that she cried over them at night.
She fought for you. Not for land. Not for resources. Not for the king. For the chance to come home. For the chance to see you smile again. For the chance to stand guard at your door and listen to you breathe.
She survived where others fell. She pulled arrows from her own shoulder and stitched her own wounds because the field medics were busy with those who could still scream. She didn't scream. She thought of you. Of your hands, which once braided her hair. Of your voice, when you called her name.
The war ended in a stalemate.
No one won. Both kingdoms lay in ruins. The death toll was in the thousands. Amber returned home with a wounded body and a heart that still beat — defying every arrow and sword.
You met her at the gates. You ran to her, hiked up your skirts, ignoring protocol, ignoring the advisors, ignoring the king and queen. You threw your arms around her neck and cried. "I thought you wouldn't come back," you whispered. "I thought I'd lost you."
Amber stood still, not breathing. Her arms hung at her sides because she was afraid to touch you. If she touched you, she would never let go. Never.
"I'm here," she said quietly. "I always come back."
And one month after the war ended, the advisors announced their decision.
The princess would marry the prince of the enemy kingdom.
Amber stood in the council chamber when it was announced. She stood against the wall, where a knight is supposed to stand. Her face didn't flinch. Her hands didn't clench into fists. She looked the same as she did in battle: expressionless, cold, ready for the blow.
Inside, everything was screaming.
She looked at you. You sat in your place, next to the king. Your face was paler than usual. You weren't looking at her. You were looking at the table before you. At your hands. At the ring they hadn't put on you yet.
"This is necessary for peace", said the chief advisor.
"It will bring prosperity to both kingdoms," chimed another.
"The princess agrees", the king finished.
You lifted your head. Your eyes found Amber's for a fraction of a second. In that look was everything. Apology, pain, despair. And something else.
"I agree," you said.
Amber felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. She nodded to herself, to something inside her that was howling with pain and continued standing against the wall. As always. As everywhere.
The one who was always there.
The wedding day was sunny.
Amber hated the sun. In her life, she had come to love rain, fog, cold — anything that hid her face. The sun was too honest. It showed every wrinkle, every scar, every tear she hadn't wiped away in time.
She wore her ceremonial armor — gold, engraved, with the kingdom's crest on her chest. She had worn it only twice in her life: when she was knighted, and today. She felt like a fraud. The gold shone, but underneath was the same thing — a broken heart, tired eyes, hands that had held a sword too much and held you too little.
She stood among the guests. Her place was among the nobility, among dukes and barons who looked at her with envy or indifference. She was a knight. Her place was to protect. Not to die alive.
But today she wasn't protecting. Today she was watching.
You walked down the aisle.
Your dress was white, so white that Amber's eyes hurt. The train stretched for several meters, carrying lace, pearls, thousands of tiny sequins that sparkled in the sun.
She had helped you choose that dress.
You asked her to come to the fitting. You stood before the mirror, turning, asking: "What do you think? What about this? Maybe this one is better?" Amber looked at you and died. Slowly. Just melting from the inside.
"It suits you," she said then. She wasn't looking at the dress. She was looking at you. At your shoulders, which trembled slightly. At your eyes, which searched her face for support. At your smile — the same one she had fallen in love with twelve years ago.
"God," you said then. "I'm so nervous. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't like me? What if..."
"Everyone likes you," Amber interrupted. "You've always been liked. And if he doesn't see that..." She didn't finish. She couldn't finish. Because the next sentence was: "...then he's a fool, and I'll kill him." She couldn't say that out loud.
You didn't notice her pause. You smiled at your reflection and said: "Thank you for being with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Amber knew. You would live. You would smile. You would marry the prince and be happy. And she would stand against the wall and watch.
The organ began to play. You walked down the aisle. Your father led you by the arm — proud, happy, unaware that his daughter was marrying not for love but for duty. Or perhaps aware. What did it matter.
Amber watched your feet step across the carpet. She knew your knees were trembling a little — you always trembled when you were nervous. She knew you were biting your lip — you had done that since childhood. She knew you were searching for her eyes in the crowd.
You found them.
For one moment, as you passed her row, you turned your head. Your eyes met hers. And in that look was everything you couldn't say.
"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."
Amber nodded. Barely noticeably. So that no one else would notice. She didn't smile. She couldn't. She just nodded, and you understood. "It's okay. I'm fine."
You reached the altar. The prince was waiting for you — young, handsome, with dark hair and calm eyes. He wasn't evil. Amber had checked. She had watched him for a month, gathered information, interrogated servants. He wasn't a bad person. Maybe even a good one.
That only made it worse.
If he had been a monster, Amber could have hated him. Could have dreamed of his death. Could have devised a way to save you. But he was just a person. Neither good nor bad. Just a person standing at the altar now, looking at you with admiration.
You smiled at him.
"Do you consent?" asked the priest.
You looked into the hall. At your hands. At the prince. And again — at Amber. Only for a second but that second stretched into eternity.
Amber wasn't breathing. She stood, gripping her sword belt so hard her nails dug into the leather. Her heart had stopped beating — or was beating too fast, she couldn't tell. The whole world narrowed to your lips, your eyes, to the one word you were about to say.
"I do," you said.
And the world collapsed.
......
After the ceremony came the feast.
The hall was decorated with flowers — white roses that smelled so strongly Amber's head spun. The tables groaned with food, wine flowed like water, musicians played cheerful melodies. Guests laughed, danced, toasted the newlyweds, peace, the future.
Amber stood bby a pillar. She didn't sit at the table — couldn't. She didn't touch the food — couldn't taste it. She didn't drink the wine — afraid that if she did, she wouldn't be able to hold back what was clawing to get out.
She watched you.
You were dancing with the prince. Your dress spun, the train slid across the floor, you smiled — that smile she hated. The smile of someone who had accepted her fate and stopped fighting it.
The prince held your waist. His hands were where Amber's hands should have been. His lips whispered something in your ear — something that made you nod and smile even wider.
Amber looked away. She couldn't watch. But she couldn't leave either. She was a knight. Her place was here — protecting you. Even from her own broken heart.
An hour later, you found her.
You left the hall — quietly, unnoticed, leaving the guests and the prince behind. You walked down the corridor, your dress rustling on the stone floor, and somewhere inside you, something led you to her, as it always did.
She was standing by a window, her back to you. Her shoulders were too straight — unnaturally straight. She was squeezing her gloves as if she wanted to tear them apart. She didn't turn when you approached because she knew your footsteps with her eyes closed.
"Amber," you called.
She didn't answer.Her voice was stuck somewhere in her throat, trapped between an oath and love.
"Amber, look at me," you asked.
She turned.
She looked at you and her heart sank. You were so beautiful it took her breath away. Up close, you were a painting Amber had always wanted to create. You looked just how she had always wanted you to look. But at your shared wedding, not at the wedding of you and the prince.
"Happy wedding day," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She had learned this over years of war, dying inside but not showing it. "You look beautiful, Your Highness."
You winced at the title. You had never asked her to call you that. Always said: "Amber, I'm not a stranger to you." Today you didn't argue. Because today you had become a stranger. Forever.
"I wanted to..." You trailed off. You couldn't find the words. What can you say to someone who gave you their whole life, and you married an enemy? What can you say to someone who carried feathers for you from the battlefield, who sat by your bed during your fever, who braided your hair when you were little? What can you say? "I'm sorry"? "I regret"? "I never wanted this"?
"I'm happy for you," Amber said. It was the biggest lie of her life. "Peace is most important. You did the right thing."
You stepped forward. You did what you had done a thousand times before — took her hand, brought it to your cheek. Her fingers were rough, scarred. You remembered them soft. When you were little, she touched you so carefully, as if you might fall apart. Now her hands were calloused from the sword. You kissed every scar. Every single one.
"Don't," Amber whispered. But she didn't pull her hand away.
"You were always with me," you said. "Since childhood. You braided my hair when no one else wanted to bother with me. You listened to my silly stories about princes I dreamed about. You fought for me. You fell. You rose. You were always there."
Amber looked at your hands. She remembered every second. When you were seven and dropped your crown. When you were ten and had a fever, and she sat by your bed for three nights straight, not sleeping. When you were fifteen and cried over a page with golden curls, and she found that page and made him apologize.
She remembered everything. Every breath of yours. Every smile. Every tear. She stored them in her memory like sacred relics.
"I'm still here," she said. Her voice wavered. For the first time that evening. For the first time in many years.
You shook your head. "No," you said. "Now you'll stand on the sidelines. Like everyone else. And I will live in a foreign castle, bear his children, smile at his guests. And every day I will remember you."
"Don't," Amber asked. Her voice cracked — like ice underfoot in spring.
"I will always remember how you braided my hair," you continued, not listening. "How you brought me feathers from the war. How you looked at me as if I were the only light in this world. I never thanked you. I never told you..."
You stopped.
Amber knew what you wanted to say. And you knew she knew. The words "I love you" hung between you like a sword on a thread. But they were not spoken. They never would be. Because it was too late now.
"I love you," Amber said. Not "loved." "Love." Present tense. Because her feelings hadn't died. They would never die. Even when she grew old. Even when her sword rusted. Even when you forgot her name. "I've loved you since the day you dropped your crown. I was twelve, and I didn't understand what it was. Now I understand. I love you in every battle, every night, every breath. I love you now. And I will love you when you grow old, and I stay in this armor that you put on me for the first time."
A tear fell on the stone floor. You didn't know whose. Maybe hers. Maybe yours.
"Amber..."
"Go," she said. "Your husband is waiting. Your kingdom is waiting. Your happiness is waiting." Her voice broke on the last word. "And I... I will always be here. By the door. Like when we were children. If you have a nightmare — call me. I will come. Even if it's another castle. Even if there's a war between us. I will come."
You stood for another minute. Then you turned and left. Your dress rustled again on the stone. Amber watched you until you disappeared around the corner. She heard you sob once. Very quietly. She didn't follow you.
Then she sank to her knees.
Not because she was bowing to anyone. To God. To fate. To the emptiness. She pulled from under her armor an old ribbon — the same one you had used to braid her hair when you were little. The ribbon had faded. The edges were frayed. Amber had kept it for twelve years. She had taken it to every battle. In her left breast pocket, close to her heart.
She pressed the ribbon to her lips.
"My princess," she whispered. "My goddess. My light. My meaning. My war. My victory. My defeat. I will keep you. Even if you never come back to me. Even if you bear his children. Even if you forget my name. I will keep you here."
She touched her chest with her hand. Under the armor, under her shirt, under her skin, a heart beat — stupid, faithful, unkillable.
"For a thousand years I will stand at your door," she said. "For a thousand lives I will search for you. In each one I will be your knight. In each one I will watch you marry another. In each one I will shatter against your wedding like a cliff. And in each one I will come when you call."
In the hall, music played. Guests laughed. You danced with the prince.
And Amber Glenn, the greatest knight in the kingdom, sat on the cold floor of an empty corridor, pressing an old ribbon to her lips, and cried. For the first time in many years. For the first time since the day she was told she would guard a little princess whose crown kept falling over her eyes.
She wasn't crying because you got married. She was crying because for all twelve years, she had known this day would come. Known and done nothing. Never said anything. Never confessed. Never tried to steal you the way she stole feathers for you from the battlefield. She just loved. Silently. Faithfully. Hopelessly.
But many years later you never called for her.
Not after one year. Not after five. Not after ten.
Amber wasn't waiting. She just existed. She guarded the kingdom — the one you had saved with your wedding. She trained new knights, taught them to hold a sword, endure pain, never give up. She never told them about you.
But at night, when the castle grew quiet, she took out the old ribbon. Pressed it to her face. Closed her eyes and imagined you were still there.
That you were still the little girl with the crooked crown. That you still called her — "Amber, help." That you still laughed when she tossed you in the air.
She knew it wasn't true. She knew you had children by now. That your husband had become a good king. That you rarely thought of her — except perhaps in those moments when your daughter asked you to brush her hair, and you suddenly remembered someone's rough, gentle fingers.
Amber wasn't angry. She never knew how to be angry at you.
When word came of your death — quietly, in your sleep, surrounded by grandchildren — Amber didn't cry. She sat in her room, clutching the old ribbon, and stared out the window. Outside, the sun was setting.
"You were the light," she said to the emptiness. "You were always the light. And now that light has gone out. But I'm still burning. Because you lit me. And I will burn until I crumble to dust."
She lived another ten years. She never loved anyone else. Never danced at weddings. Never took off her armor at night — as if she were waiting for you to call.
You never called.
But she was still at your door.
Always.
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