#(original writing)

[16tinyfrogs]

on watching a parent age

i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening

[valemrsn]

making aus for ocs are so funny cause like. theyre already in a situation… but what if they were in a DIFFERENT situation

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from the afterword

[ocmaker]

It takes one minute to imagine the scene and 500 hours to write it

[wanderingsins]

[somnambuletta]

the baby is a mess.

a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.

chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.

coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”

simon is already looking.

he can’t not look.

that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.

the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.

he’s staring. hard.

“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”

“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”

as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.

you laugh. and something in simon cracks.

he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.

simon's not just looking at a baby.

he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.

and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”

you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”

he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”

you blink. “a strawberry?”

“no,” he rasps. “a baby.”

[helpmeimblorboing]

The eight stages of writing :

- this is awesome

- this is slightly less awesome

- this is shit

- I’m shit

-oh god oh fuck what the hell am I doing

-wait this might not be that bad actually

- How the fuck is this working

-This is awesome