PICK A CARD: what sacrifices you’ll need to make (harsh yet understanding)
Hello and welcome to this new post. This time I will tell you what sacrifice you are going to have to make in your life. I hope you enjoy and find this to resonate.
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Divider credits: @bbyg4rlhepls @dividers-are-us
Pile 1
this pile is about a decision that feels way bigger than it actually looks on paper. It is about what you truly wish to do, like the dream you have been holding onto for a long time, versus what you need to do to become more stable. And I do not mean stable in a boring way, but stable in a way where you can actually support yourself and not constantly feel like you are drowning. You definitely have a dream that feels very personal to you. It is something that feels aligned with who you are, not just what you can do. It could be something creative, something spiritual, something that does not necessarily promise money right away. And the sacrifice here is not that you have to let this go forever. It is that you might need to put it on pause, even if that hurts your ego a bit. Because there is something you need to focus on first. This could be school, finishing a degree you do not even fully like but know would help you in the long run. It could be accepting a job that is not your dream job but would give you stability, routine, maybe even an inheritance or family responsibility that you need to handle before you can move freely. It feels very “adult” and you do not like that word. You might feel like if you choose the stable option you are betraying yourself. But that is not fully true. The cards show that if you jump straight into your dream right now, without the foundation, you would end up resenting it. You would be stressed about money, about where you live, about whether you can afford things. And that stress would slowly kill the love you have for that dream. So the sacrifice is time. And patience. And definitely pride. You need to sacrifice the idea that everything has to happen now. You need to sacrifice the romanticized version of struggling for your dream and instead choose a more boring path for a little while. It feels stale, yes. It feels like you are becoming someone you did not plan to be. But this is temporary, even if it does not feel like it. There is also a sacrifice in identity. You might have to stop calling yourself something for a bit. If you see yourself as an artist, you might need to just be “a student” or “an employee” for now. And that hurts because it feels like you are shrinking. But in reality you are building. You are not letting the dream go. You are building the ground it will stand on.
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Pile 2
For this pile the main sacrifice you will have to make is definitely about time, and where you put it. You have a very big goal, and I do not mean just a small wish or something you kind of want to try out. This is something that would change your life long term; going to university, getting very high grades, doing certifications, starting a business, getting a promotion, moving abroad for work etc. It is something that requires consistency and effort and definitely discipline. And that is where the sacrifice comes in. You cannot give 100% to this goal and 100% to your social life at the same time, that is just not realistic. If you choose to spend most of your evenings out with friends, constantly helping family members with their things, always being available and reachable, then your goal will be delayed. Maybe not fully destroyed, but definitely delayed. And for some of you even put at risk if you keep doing that for too long. This does not mean you have to cut everyone off or become cold. It is not that extreme. But you will have to put yourself first in a way that you maybe are not used to. You will have to say no sometimes. You will have to skip certain hang outs, birthdays, random trips, late night calls. And some people will not fully understand that. They might think you are changing, or that you think you are better than them, when in reality you are just focused. There is also something here about guilt. You might feel guilty for not being there as much. For not always helping. For choosing studying over family dinners, or working on your business over going out. But this pile really says that if you do not make this sacrifice now, you will definitely regret it later. Because your future self will wish you had taken it more serious. You can still socialise. You can still laugh, help others, have fun. But it cannot be your priority. Your goal needs to be primary. Your dream needs to come first. Otherwise you will always be half in, half out. And that never fully works.
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💌 paid, personal readings here
Pile 3
This pile is about a sacrifice that does not feel like one at first. It is something, or someone, that has definitely been your comfort for a very long time. And I do not mean comfort in a dramatic way, but in the small ways. The thing you reach for when you are tired. The presence you feel safe with when everything else feels loud. It could literally be a pet that has grown old, or a plushie that is falling apart at the seams, or even a version of your life that just does not fit anymore. Whatever it is, it has had its time. And the sacrifice here is not leaving it behind. It is not you being forced to abandon it or give up on it. It is more quiet than that. It is accepting that its condition is deteriorating. That it cannot carry you the way it once did. That you cannot keep pretending it will stay the exact same forever just because you need it to. You have definitely known this for a while. There has been this small voice in the back of your mind telling you that things are changing. But instead of listening you try to hold it tighter. You tell yourself that if you love it enough, or take care of it enough, it will not go anywhere. And that is not how life works. This pile feels like softly grieving while it is still here. Enjoying every moment, but also subconsciously preparing yourself so that when the time comes you do not fall with it. Because the danger here is not the loss itself, it is you attaching your stability to something that is already unstable. You are being asked to slowly detach your sense of security from this thing. Not your love. Just your security. There is a big difference. Love can stay. Memories can stay. But the way you rely on it to hold you together has to shift. It will hurt, definitely. But it will not destroy you if you allow yourself to prepare instead of pretending it is not happening. This sacrifice connects to a fear you have of being alone without this specific comfort. Because it is not just about the object or the being itself. It is about what it represents. Stability, and safety.
💌 The extended version of this pac (~800 words per pile) and 130+ other extended and exclusive readings are found here
SUMMARY: you think seeing #81 everywhere is just a co-incidence, until you do some research, and you think you might have a soulmate. only problem is now you have to find them, before you lose them. funnily enough, you've known them for as long as you can remember. This fic is intended to span months, please keep that in mind, as the passing of time is badly written. Also, please use your imagination for blanks or things that don't quite fit- the world of soulmates is a confusing one!
WHAT'S INSIDE: angst with a happy ending, soulmate au, swearing, haunting the narrative, lando and clara mention <3
WORD COUNT: 6.5K (Was aiming for 8.1k but.. plans changed.)
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: based on this request by my dear friend @fruityfluter <3. i looooove 'about you' so bad, and yk i fw soulmate!oscar SO BAD. so this is a tad self-indulgent.. anyway... i've decided to give you a happy ending! maybe??? (kidding..) thanks everyone for all the support recently! also, ive got a couple of requests which might take me longer than i thought, sorry! heavily reccomend punisher by phoebe for the vibe of this fic, tbh. maybe moodboard for this fic too if yall enjoy it! also, tiny easter egg for Doomed, Chap 9: this is basically the happy version of that! eek.
MASTERLIST | ABOUT YOU | THE FULL PLAYLIST | #81
There was once a time, long before money gripped the world in a claw so tight one could not breathe; where love and marriage were one and the same, and the economics of it all ceased to matter.
It was back then, when people devised an understanding for a unique way of the world. A soulmate, they called them. Someone supposedly gifted to you by the Universe, and then you had to find them. Some philosophers theorised it was to give us a purpose; others, to be cruel. But the system itself was fairly simple. The only thing that is truly infinite, is numbers. So people would be sent numbers, and they would sub-consciously notice them, over and over again. Until eventually, it would become all too overwhelming to ignore, and they’d know they were close to finding their so-called soulmate.
For generations, this worked. As long as numbers existed, so did soulmates. So did huge, universal, undoubtable love.
Numbers still exist. Soulmates? Now a myth.
Historians assume it was the rise of capitalism. The invention of the dowry. The birth of the belief of the perfect couple. The new societal classes. That dragged apart love-matches, and paired them to financial ones instead. Monarchs could not marry boys covered in mud, and a woman could not love another woman. And so, society scrapped soulmates, and left everyone rather miserable, and both poorer and richer simultaneously.
Still, fate did not let up. It was weaker now, easier to ignore, but it still tried.
Most people would start seeing the numbers. The percentage on their phone, the time on the clock. The same number, popping up every time. Still, there was a limit, of sorts. If you didn’t believe in them at all, you’d never notice. If you believed in love, but not quite enough, you probably won’t see it until it was ever too late, or far too early, and then it would be lost again.
It was not infinite, if you did not believe, did not try.
It was easy to dismiss. Everyone has a lucky number. It was those brave enough to be sceptical of its consistency that ever got a reward. Still, it was so rare now. The few cases of soulmates were almost all co-incidences, from lucky run-ins on city breaks.
Very few chased it, and you are not one of the few.
81. That’s your favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. You were born on 8/1, anyway. You figure it’s that. Just seems to settle in the right way in your soul, like a guidance. You’re not sure what it means, if it means anything at all.
81. That’s Oscar’s favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. He’d been drawn to it, and at the mere age of ten, he’d been told to pick a number to drive under. He’d blurted it out instantly, without thinking at all. Just a quick, definite decision. He’s not sure what it means, if it means anything at all.
The first time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is when you’re barely five years old. You’re having a taster day at kindergarten, and you’re being rather moody about the whole thing.
“Mum, I don’t want to go in. I already don’t like it here.” you grumble, tugging on her sleeve, and she shrugs you off.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be fun, come on.” she replies quietly, giving you an enthusiastic smile, and you scowl in response.
“Here are some kids you can buddy up with for the day, okay? Amy, Jules, Henry and Oscar.”
You count the heads dutifully, but come up one short. Amy is dramatically adorable, with red pigtails and muddy knees. Jules looks a little colder, and she’s tall, but she’s carrying a bright pink lunchbox so you figure she’s not nearly as tough as she looks. Henry is covered in freckles and his shirt has a ridiculous assortment of paint stains, but you think he might be fun. So, that just leaves Oscar, who is apparently a no-show.
The teacher grimaces.
“Does anyone know where Oscar is?”
The kids look from you to her blankly, with scattered shakes of their heads and shrugs, and she sighs.
“Alright, you three give her a tour, and we’ll see if Oscar ever shows up.”
Amy grabs your hand instantly, while Jules and Henry bicker over which staircase to take, and you let yourself relax a little. But something blares in your mind: Oscar. You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on the fact he didn’t make it, on who he is at all, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s almost… important. Still, by the time you’ve made it to the art room, that’s long forgotten.
Once you make it back to the main foyer, dutifully following the three children around with the desperation of a new kid, you hear the teacher from the morning.
Her voice is quiet, but her tone is serious, and she’s muttering about impressions and tardiness.
The boy on the receiving end of the lecture looks about your age, with floppy brown hair and bunny-like teeth. He's gripping his orange backpack and shuffling his feet, and you wonder if he might cry if she raises her voice even just a little. When he looks up from the floor, his eyes shift from her stern face to your curious one, and for a second, the world seems to inhale. And then you’re dragged into an overly colourful classroom, and you wonder if you made it all up. You don’t see him again, as the final bell rings, and you reach your mother’s open arms.
“Still don’t wanna come here? You look like you had fun!” she says cheerfully, and for a second, you think about when the World Stopped. And then you stop thinking about it, fold your arms, and shake your determined head.
The second time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is at a funfair. The dodgems are gleaming, playing some obnoxious music, and you can feel Jasper tugging at your arm relentlessly.
“Come oooooon. I want to go.” he whines, yanking you into the queue.
You don’t like dodgems. Primitive, insane, and overly painful. And way too expensive.
But Jasper is desperate, with a disgusting grin on his face. You’d always found him to be slightly too energetic for a nine year old. Still, apparently maturity was a myth for many boys at school, and they seemed to take the foundational skills of maths as rather unimportant.
So you oblige, chucking him one of your last tokens, and you pile into the arena, darting towards an open car. As you reach an orange one, the number #81 painted on it, you feel something that isn’t the plastic of the seat beneath your hand.
You look up quickly, meeting brown eyes.
The boy looks oddly familiar, and you just can’t quite place it, until the sounds of shrieking children and blasting music fades into something quieter than the hammering of your heartbeat. He glances down, at your hand on his, and his ears turn a vicious shade of pink. Still, he doesn’t shift away, and neither do you, and you stand like that for what feels like an eternity and less than a second. You begin to splutter out something between an apology and an accusation, his name somewhere hidden in the fog of your brain, but he’s gone by the time you manage to remember it started with an O.
The third time you almost meet Oscar Piastri will also be the last, or so you think. Marty is shimmying into various different skirts in front of your mirror, while you offer short comments about how she ‘looks good in anything’ and she really ought to ‘stop stressing.’
“Who’s this party even for, anyway. Who’s the pastry kid?” you ask, lying down on your messy bed.
“Piastri,” she corrects, with a hidden laugh, “and it’s a goodbye party. He’s off to England, to drive, or something. I don’t actually know him.”
“England? At fifteen? Lucky bastard.” you complain, with a disgruntled scoff.
“What, would you move if you could now? Wouldn’t you miss us all terribly?” she asks, catching your eye in the mirror, and you shrug.
“Terribly, sure. But worth it. I’m going there, one day.”
Marty pauses. “Are you going to come back?”
“I don’t know.”
You both fall quiet, before you realise there’s no point in thinking about it too deeply. So instead, you hit play on your speaker, and wait for her to finish getting ready.
It’s busy, when you arrive at the house. You don’t know who’s house it really is, or who the people piling out the door are, but Marty's hand in yours keeps you calm.
“We can find Jasper and the others, okay? C’mon.”
She drags you through crowds and awkward people shuffling to the blaring house music, before you see familiar faces sprawled on the couch.
As you sit down, you scan the sofa, and in one inhale, it blurs.
He gives you a flicker of a smile, and his name finally forms in your whirling head.
“Everyone, this is-”
“Oscar.” you whisper, cutting off Jasper’s introduction.
“You know each other?"
You nor Oscar reply, because you’re not sure what the right answer is. How to explain whatever’s going on.
It’s soon forgotten, and then Marty is leading you away. You try not to think about how this is probably the last time you’ll ever see him. He tries to understand why he feels such a sharp sting in his stomach, and a sudden urge to chase after you.
It’s only when the charm on your necklace gleams at him, a small silver ‘81’, that he feels a deep regret as you disappear into the evening.
⛐✦
8:01. The number blurs as you unlock your phone, clicking off your alarm. With a desperate effort, you’re up, and the day begins. Clara is already fiddling in the bathroom, her music quietly waking you up, as you stumble towards the sink.
“G’morning.” she chirps, dabbing at her concealer, and you give her a tired smile.
“Well, if it isn’t my best friend!” exclaims Lando, his voice slightly distorted by his evidently bad wifi.
“Lando.” you mutter, rubbing your face, and he laughs.
Lando and Clara had been a thing for a while now. Never quite official, but something more unspoken hummed between them both. It was hard, you appreciated that. Clara was never one to reach for fame, and it was somewhat impossible to be seen with Lando and not have it rub off on you. So, she didn’t go to races, and they existed hidden in summer breaks and glitchy facetimes.
You’re not sure why they keep going. How they’re surviving. But you don’t judge, don’t comment, just stare at their lovesick eyes and question the eventuality of it all.
Once he hangs up, the noise increasing behind him, she looks disappointed for a second, and then it’s gone.
She passes you the toothpaste wordlessly, and you search her eyes for something, but instead you look at her hands. And there, as she flexes her knuckles, is something resembling a ‘4’.
“When d’you get a tattoo?” you ask, gesturing to her fist, and she frowns.
“I don’t have one?”
She scans her hand, giving you a confused shrug.
“Can you not, like, see it? That is a four, is it not?”
She stares at you now, her voice faltering a little.
“What did you say?”
“A four.” you repeat. “Y’know, like Lando’s number? I know you’re a 444 person, so-” you begin, but her widening eyes make you fall silent.
When you look again, it’s gone.
“I don't, I don't know what you’re talking about. See? Nothing there.”
You swallow, rubbing your eyes again, and wonder what you just saw.
81 hangs over Oscar’s head as he sits on the concrete step, trying to block out the clamour of noise from the paddock.
“Yeah, love you too. Bye.”
Lando shuts off his phone and sits beside him, extending a palm. Oscar takes it gladly, but he notices the stretch of his number on his thumb.
“I like that.” Oscar states, nodding towards the ‘4’ on his finger, and Lando frowns.
“Like what?”
“The four, up the side of your thumb. It’s cool. Maybe I should match.”
Lando retracts his hand and analyses his thumb carefully.
“I know you’re obsessed with me, mate, but you’re seeing my number now. Nothing there.”
It’s ironic, Lando thinks, considering he spent the last year trying to convince himself he wasn’t going insane when he saw his number everywhere. Still, he waits for Oscar to react, and he just blinks.
“Oh. Right. I’m tired.”
Once Clara closes the door behind her, you descend to your laptop. It blinks back at you, 81%, and that’s what cements it for you.
‘What does it mean when I see the same number a lot and start seeing tattoos of other peoples lucky number?’
The initial results are unhelpful- number tattoos inspiration, maths answers, what different numbers mean, and so on. Until you see a title that catches your eye- ‘I can’t stop seeing the number 47 everywhere I go, what’s going on?
With a determined click, you read the responses. People agreeing, people unsure. And then, an answer.
‘Not sure how helpful this is, but these are some historical accounts of the same things happening. People called it the ‘soulmate way’ back then. Not really a thing anymore, but maybe that’s what you’re experiencing?’
You click onto the link in the answer, and you’re engulfed by a rather wordy account of exactly what you’re going through. The constant appearance of the same number, some strange understanding linked to it, and feeling a bit overwhelmed.
The second page goes into detail into the ‘apparitions’ of numbers. When someone is running out of time to find their soulmate, they start seeing marks on other people, of their number, as if to entice you to try and find your ow-
When someone is running out of time?
Your next search is more frantic. ‘Can you run out of time to find your soulmate?’
Another article pops up, confirming your fear.
‘Yes. Once a person starts seeing their number, they have a finite time to find the person who sees the same number. They will know when they’ve found them, as there is often a feeling of ‘the world stopping’, or ‘time slowing down.’. They will also begin to see those who have found their soulmates with identical markings, to try and keep them believing a little longer, and keep the number alive. Some people see their number from birth, other in old age. It can be terribly unfair. Once it becomes noticeable, overwhelmingly so, then you know you do not have long left. If you are to meet your soulmate after this subsides, you will be unaware of who they are.’
The world stopping. It’s a familiar feeling.
You wonder if that boy with the orange backpack, whose name you’ve forgotten once again, was your soulmate. And now, he was in England somewhere, and you’d lose him without ever having him at all.
The next few weeks are hell for Oscar. Every time he opens his phone, he sees it. 81 unread emails, 81k likes, 81 songs on his playlist. His fruit, 81g. His fucking McDonalds order. Still, he ignores it. He smiles at the fans, posts the stupid videos, and focuses on the championship. When Lando asks him what’s up, he doesn’t answer. Just a shrug, another complaint of tiredness, and then it’s free practice. 0.81 seconds between him and Lando, naturally. And so, it becomes part of life, but he remains as unbothered as he can be. That’s until he starts dreaming about you.
It happens for the first time in his driver’s room, after an exhausting qualifying. As soon as his eyes close, he sees it. Kindergarten.
The corridors are exactly as he remembers them; lined with crappy art working and half open backpacks. But it’s oddly silent, only the muffled shouts of impatient children behind closed doors. With a mortifying step, he releases he’s late, and that classic childish terror hits him square in the chest. It drags, time slows, and his breaths grow heavy. It’s the closest thing to a nightmare he’s had in a while, and he just can't figure out why he’s dreaming of this right now. He also doesn’t understand why he’s so aware he’s asleep, but then he hears an awkward cough.
And it's you, although he doesn’t really know who you are. And he’s no longer at school, he’s stood by that scuffed dodgems car. That crawling heat he’d felt when your hand had pressed on his comes back instantly, and he wants to pull his arm away, but he can’t. When he looks up at you, you’re not the nine year old he’d met that night. Instead, you look older. As he assumes you might look now.
“Oscar.”The background shifts to that leaving party now, your necklace gleaming at him once again.
“Oscar?”
You’re speaking, and it sounds different from how he remembers you saying his name.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t know why he’s replying. How he’s replying.
“What the fuck is going on?”
He straightens.
“Are you talking to me?”
You look around the room, at the blurred faces and the hum of music.
“Can we even talk to anyone else? They don’t have, like, faces.” you whisper, a slow look of horror painting your face.
Oscar wants to wake up. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but seeing your matured face, and knowing you without really knowing you at all is abrasive in a way he wasn’t expecting.
“It is Oscar, right? That’s your name?”
He nods, his mouth drying.
“This isn’t real.”
You snort. “Nice one, genius. Obviously we’re not back at a house party from nine years ago.”
He frowns, and then Lando’s voice rings out.
“Oscar, mate? It’s time.”
You scrunch your face up in disdain.
“Is that Lando? Why can’t I escape that guy?”
Light is pouring into the room now, as his eyes begin to open begrudgingly. Before he can ask you how you know Lando, he’s awake.
“Coming,” he croaks, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.
⛐✦
“Who’s Oscar?”
Clara blinks at you curiously, with a wicked grin.
“Who?”
“Oscar.” she repeats, with a determined eye roll.
You shrug. “I don’t know an Oscar.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Mate, you called his name last night. While you were sleeping.”
You give her a mortified look.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
You hide your face in your hands, bringing your knees to your chest.
“That’s so embarrassing. I genuinely don’t even know an Oscar!”
“You seriously don’t know him? What were you dreaming about?”
“I can’t remember.” you mumble, desperately trying to think, but nothing comes to mind.
She explodes into an outrageous fit of giggles, and you drop your head further into your knees.
“Stop, s’is not funny.” you groan, but she keeps cackling, giving your shoulders an affectionate shake.
“You really need to go talk to some more people. Or go find this Oscar guy.” she suggests, and you scowl.
“Don’t mention this. Ever again.”
Oscar doesn’t dream that night. Or the night after. He barely even sleeps. Something keeps him up, keeps him thinking. Like he’s lost something, or something’s missing. It’s the third restless night, when his eyes finally close, that he sees you again.
“I think I’ve figured it out.” you nod wisely.
“Where are you? We?” he asks, gesturing to the sofa you’re crouched on, and the bustling blank people around you.
“I was thinking about work before I fell asleep. This is where I eat lunch.” you explain casually, and he blinks.
It suddenly occurs to him that he wants to know everything about you.
“What do you do for work?”
You pause, and give him a sideways glance. He’s gripping the armchair he’s sitting in rather tightly, and it’s so bizarre that he can feel the fabric beneath him.
Your voice is muffled when you reply.
“I couldn’t understand that.”
It’s the same jumbled sound when you try again.
He stares at you, exasperated.
“I’m an F1 driver.”
As he speaks, he sounds just as distorted as you.
“Personal stuff. I don’t think we can actually tell each other anything.” you suggest, and he frowns.
“Why?”
You shrug. “So we actually have to find each other, I don’t know? I don’t think we remember this when we wake up, either.”
You wait, to see if he says anything. When he stays silent, you continue.
“I figure it’s about dreaming at the same time. So, if we’re both asleep, then we show up. I mean, I obviously don’t have much data to go off. But it makes sense. Like, I’m assuming you’ve just fallen asleep, ‘cause you’ve ended up in my office now.”
Oscar pauses to think.
“So, if I fall asleep first, you’ll end up with me, in whatever I’m dreaming of?”
“That’s my current guess, yeah. I wish I could remember this, so I can google it later.”
He laughs. “D’you really think google can help you here?”
“It helped me before. With seeing the number, and everything. And Clara’s tattoo.”
“You see it too? 81?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ everywhere. It’s killing me.”
“What does it mean?”
You give him an awkward stare.
“Apparently, that we’re soulmates. Interlinked and all that.”
He swallows, and you both sit with it for a minute. Then Clara becomes your interruption, shouting about dinner, and the room disappears.
As Oscar’s timezones change with every other week, your meetings seem to shift into things a little more desperate. You test what your subconscious and the fates choose to blur.
You learn he has three sisters, but he can’t say their names. He learns that you cried for a week when your cat died, and that he was named after a Star Wars character, but you can’t say who.
You make fun of him for his house music- he plays it as he falls asleep in the hope it’s still playing when you see each other, so he can convince you it’s worth listening to.
It turns out you have a much stronger imagination than he does, so you often hope you fall asleep first. Because you can weld the dreamscapes into anything you want. When you tell him you’ve always wanted a conversation pit, you can make one appear.
When he tries to show you his favourite model of car, you end up in some badly imagined saleshouse, with deformed buggies and odd workers in plastic suits.
You do not mention the ‘soulmates’ idea again, but it settles between you like a mantra, a truth. You agree with it, he strives for it, and you talk of when you’ll see each other, one day.
It turns into something a little more affectionate, and it feels just as real as if he wasn’t hidden somewhere else in the world. When you brush his arm on false walks through fake fields and tours of your childhood town, comparing your favourite parks, it feels true.
Maybe even a little like love, which is such a ridiculous thing to admit that you keep it to yourself.
He pieces it together, that Clara is your best friend, and she’s Lando’s girlfriend. He curses himself that he can’t just find you through them the next morning, because he’ll forget it all.
You live whole lifetimes together, in your heads. Dreams have no concept of time. Sometimes, they’re years. Sometimes, they feel like less than an hour.
On some days, when you’ve fallen asleep with your head in a book, that’s where you end up.
On this particular occasion, the two main characters are getting married, but it seems that it’s morphed a little. You’re the one with the ring on your finger.
“Who got you that?” he asks, gesturing to the rock, and you laugh.
“Hi, Osc. Didn’t think I’d see you tonight. You haven’t been around for a while, or at least it feels like that. Guess you’re somewhere far away.”
Oscar nods, but his eyes tear around the setting. It’s an extravagant barn, with an arch at the end of the aisle, and an officiant with some large headgear. The guests on the benches are clearly well dressed, but he can’t make out who they are. Except, he recognises a man standing up by the front of the room.
“That’s Lando.” he mutters, pointing towards him, and he’s right. And stood beside him is a girl he swears he knows, in a pale pink dress, matching her hair.
“And Clara.”
He runs his hands through his hair inquisitively.
“Why can we see them? They’re not blurred. And that’s my sister. How did you-” he calls, rushing towards Edie who’s clapping in the front row.
“This isn’t my dream anymore. I wasn’t the one getting married, before you showed up. And I sure as hell didn’t make up your sister, so, it’s our dream, I guess.”
That hits him, so hard, he almost doubles over. He can see them now, his family materialising. The lull of the piano, the grin on Lando’s face. You. He sees you.
‘It’s our dream.’ And he realises it’s your wedding. Your fucking wedding, and it’s not even real, and when he wakes up, his chest will ache as always.
“This is, I mean, it’s a lot.”
“It’s not real, Oscar.”
There’s a level of defeat in your tone, and it’s bitter.
“But it feels even more real this time. I can see them. I can hear them.”
“I think we’re running out of time. They’re getting desperate.”
He looks to the guests, bewildered.
“The fates, I mean. The universe, I don’t know. We’re running out of time.”
“What are you saying?”
“They’re giving up on us. That’s why we can see everything clearer. My cat’s name was Luke.”
He shakes his head in denial. “Or maybe we’re getting closer, and it’s stronger, and we’re beating them.”
“Oscar.” your voice breaks a little, like you’ve accepted it. That you’ll never make it, and that you’ll forget him permanently, not just when the sun rises.
He doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to admit you might be right. So he soaks up the sight of you desperately nonetheless, until it burns his eyes and he doesn’t care about the rules of this stupid ordeal. He will wake up, and remember how you look right now, how you are, and that will be enough.
“We can get married, in our heads, and that can be it. And then this will never have happened, and all of it will stop.”
“You mean like, seeing the number everywhere? You, haunting me? It all goes?” he asks carefully, and you purse your lips.
“I guess so. You don’t need to sound so glad.”
“I’m not glad. I’m annoyed. Seething, if anything. It’s bullshit.”
“Maybe.”
He blinks.
"Have you been seeing it less too? Like, is it just back to being more like a lucky number now?"
You give him a pained smile.
"I forgot to put my necklace on this morning, because I didn't see the charm on it. For the first time. Since I got it at thirteen."
He knows what you mean by seeing. it's more like a feeling. A consuming pull towards the number, towards him.
"We can't just, I don't know. Give up. I can't lose you." he exclaims, and it feels a little like his heart is surrendering.
"Did you ever really have me anyway? Maybe it's okay. Once we forget, it will be easier. It won't hurt for long."
What he can't bring himself to admit is that he wants it to hurt, wants to feel like he's a little insane, because he knows you're going insane with him too. The idea of you, real or not, is better than nothing at all.
"We can find our way back." you promise, but the hope in your voice almost sounds fake.
"Wait-"
⛐✦
A few weeks later, Oscar arrives rather dishevelled at the airport the next morning. There’s a dull throb in the back of his head, and a heavy sadness weighing on his chest, but he can’t explain it. He’d been feeling that for a while now; he’d woken up with a rather sudden sadness. His ticket to Monaco rests in his hands, as he goes to check in. The lists of flights flash on the board, as he scans for his own. But one catches his eye. It doesn’t jump out at him, as it usually does. He has to read it twice before he lingers on the #81 at the end. There’s something relieving in the way it doesn’t haunt him anymore, but it still feels deeply important. And there’s a small tug at his heart, pulling him to the desk. He goes to show his boarding pass, but instead, he speaks.
When he goes to drop his baggage, he is heading far away from Monaco, sandwiched on a random middle seat between two strangers, on a whim that he hopes might bring him to you. Obviously, he doesn’t know that in truth, but rather his soul is screaming that at him, and he is unaware. He instead just questions his own sanity, and that is the end of the matter.
There’s a desperation to get to work in the air the next morning. You’ve overslept, ever so slightly, and your presentation is uncomfortably soon. As you arrive at the station, you search the timeboard for an inkling of which train to get on, but your regular isn’t appearing.
Underneath it, though, is a train you don’t recognise. It’s a bit slower than you’d like, since it stops at the airport, but you’d still get there in time. It’s meant to come in a couple minutes, at 8:10, so you wait dutifully on a bench, taking a long sip from your flask.
It’s ironic, you think, when you see the number flashing at the end of the train on the screen. You almost forget how important #81 had once been to you, until your fingers flick to your neck. You’re not sure why you wore it today- you hadn’t worn it in about a month. It’s a blurry memory, how desperate you’d been. How you’d believed in that soulmate nonsense, how you’d flicked between Lando and Clara in photos and wondered if there was some invisible tie between them.
And then they’d argued, and you’d stopped marvelling at your 81 new messages, and it had all been forgotten. Even the boy in the orange backpack that had made The World Stop feels like a myth.
Oscar can barely feel his legs when he steps out from the plane, the pins and needles a searing flash of white. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s ended up back here, back home. He hasn’t even called his mum, and let her know he’s back in Australia. He’s meant to be resting, after a triple header. And yet, he still doesn’t reach for his phone. His headphones stay jammed in his ears, a drumbeat he used to listen to when trying to fall asleep, although he can’t really remember why. He waits, for his luggage to arrive, scouring the moving belt. But his half orange suitcase never comes, as the people beside him thin out.
“Shit.” he mutters curses under his breath, begrudgingly heading to lost property. There, half opened, is his suitcase, unfolded laundry spilling out.
“Mate, this yours? Someone took it earlier and realised they got the wrong one.”
Oscar nods quickly, gathering is things and shoving them back into the luggage, before hauling it ridiculously fast towards the train station. He’d wasted a solid twenty minutes there, and for some reason, that filled him with a ridiculous sense of dread. He wasn’t particularly sure why, considering he didn’t even know where he was going. Still, as he stumbles to the platform, yawning, something tugs at him to get whichever train came next.
He almost laughs at the board, at the code. 081. It feels much more like a joke now, like an elaborate, overly convenient game of ‘where’s wally’, which he finds a way to win every time. So as it arrives, he gets on and collapses onto the first vacant seat. He praises the universe for delaying it, because he would've missed it, and the next one wasn't for a while.
As he closes his eyes, for a moment of respite, you pop into his head. Not a dream, just an image. A singular shot, mid laugh, feet tucked behind you on a couch he somehow recognises. And then there’s a pang in his stomach, and he realises he misses you. Even though he’s certain you’ve never really met. You look vaguely like a girl he’d seen once-
Each memory swirls in his head like soft bullets, each blow as beautiful as they are painful. He can’t remember where they’re coming from, what they mean, but he sees them all. Conversations down roads he doesn’t know. Descriptions of restaurants he’s tried on different race weekends, and your face lighting up at the sound of them. A room you had a spelling bee competition in once, but he didn’t see you because Hattie was in a more junior category. Then, you’re both older. He has a beard. You’re walking somewhere, with a determination to not look back, to keep pushing forward. Then you’re dancing, to that same song he was playing just a minute ago. It clicks into place, like some ridiculous, made up jigsaw, as he watches lifetimes pass at the same speed of the carriage, the light flickering across his confused face in golden shards.
He realises now why his flight has taken him here. Why he's on this train. Because somewhere further down, in a carriage, you’re waiting.
You don’t take the 8:10, because it’s delayed. The red writing on the screen taunts you, testing the pulling at your chest versus the logic in your brain. You let the logic win out. With heavy steps, you sprint to the other platform, and get the train that’s actually there. It feels like a betrayal as you sit down, as the doors close, as it hums to life. But you don’t know who you’ve just betrayed.
The guy beside you has one earphone in, the other dangling by his neck. The beats of the song are familiar, like you ought to know it. It’s not really your kind of music, too blaring and not melodic enough. But this particular track feels familiar, like you should recognise the drum pattern. With an awkward inhale, you tap him on the shoulder.
“Sorry, I hate to bother you, but what’s that song called?”
The boy shrugs, flashing his phone screen at you. He’s 1:21 in, to a song with a vaguely familiar title. You take out your own headphones and play it carefully, desperately searching for an answer as to why anyone even puts up with this abomination of a music genre. And then, you hear someone humming along, and your own laugh.
“How can you even hum house music? It barely has a tune. You could at least be a man and beatbox it for me.”
It’s your voice, clear as day, ringing in your head.
“I’m hopeless at beatboxing. One of these days, I’ll figure out how to play some music here. I don’t understand how you’re so good at it.”
The person replying has a muted accent, and you can’t quite tell if he’s smiling or not, but it’s so warm that you can barely feel the chill of the morning anymore.
You hear more snippets of your conversation now, easily banter. And then they morph into more meaningful things. Things you promised you’d never tell anyone. And you hear him talking back, mumbles of things he’s normally too shy to say.
“It’s only me, Oscar.”
And with that, you remember. You remember all of it, you hear it all. Telling him you’re running out of time. All those dreams you couldn’t recall. The obsession, the insanity, the hesitancy to tell anyone. Telling him that you’ll forget it all.
Does he think you have forgotten about him?
‘Oscar, do you think I have forgotten about you?’
The song has ended a long time ago. You almost expect a response in the silence, but he does not whisper back to you. The only sound is the squeal of the brakes, and the train lurching forward. You stand up rather suddenly, throwing yourself towards the door, pressing the button rapidly.
He gets up, as the train shuttles along. He’s in the first carriage. He doesn’t know where you are, or when you’re getting off, so he moves with purpose. He checks every seat, hopeful with every turn of a head. You’re not in the second, nor the third. The fourth is practically empty, and the fifth is ridiculously packed, but you’re not there either. As he reaches the eighth door, his hope dwindles, until it’s gone. There’s no one there, except for a rather elderly woman, absent mindedly reading a book.
He clings to the pole by the door, willing himself to turn around, or to sit, but he can’t. He just keeps looking, as if you might materialise.
“It’s rude to stare, boy.” the lady croaks, glaring at him through her purple glasses. He gives her a sheepish smile and ducks his head, preparing himself to shuffle through the rows of bodies again.
“You can sit here, if you need to. You won’t disturb me.”
And so, he does. He sits on the row beside her, trying to ignore the slight welling of his eyes and the way the exhaustion and disappointment has seeped into his very bones.
“She got away?” the woman asks, rather suddenly, and Oscar startles.
“Sorry?”
“The look in your eyes.”
He shakes his head, almost giving her an incredulous laugh.
“It wasn’t ever real anyway. I’m just tired.”
“Then why are you staring at the door like you’re expecting to see her get on? Or, you’ll get off, and she’ll be there?”
Oscar hadn’t even realised he was staring so desperately at the door. It’s rather embarrassing, really. It’s then that the train jolts, and with a whistle, the very same door opens.
He’s not entirely sure why, or what takes over him, but he gets up. With a muffled ‘goodbye’, he steps onto the platform, the suitcase narrowly missing the step. It’s almost eerie, how quiet it is. The wind, and the departure of the train, are the only things he can hear. And then, the hammering of his heart, when he looks up.
Because standing there anxiously, necklace gleaming at him, is you.
