A kinda specific and maybe long but fun idea i had for a req:
Essentially, {and bare w me, i’m half asleep writing this lol} Reader x Sunday, and Reader is a childhood friend of his, who he loved, and someday when they were older, Reader was tragically killed in an incident. Sunday however, in a grief stricken state, decides to rebel against his original goal for the sweetdream paradise (penacony arc reference) and decides to shape it into a dream instead where he’s happily married to Reader, although for the sake of the dream he’s altered their memories. ending is essentially up to you!
{some additional ideas i had if you wanted to, were things like an argument between gopher and sunday, or robin and sunday, in whichever points of the story you wanted}
alternatively, a different Aventurine version would be interesting, mostly w the same set up but Sunday met Reader during Aventurine’s mission on Penacony, liked them, and Aven has to basically fight off the dream and Sunday.
but yeah, that’s pretty much it, everything else is up for creative liberties! i hope this one is at least somewhat interesting lol xx and srry if some of it doesn’t make sense 😓🤍
“Sometimes, the hardest part of letting go is realizing that the dream was never real”
Summary: In the idyllic yet hollow world of Sweetdream Paradise, Sunday crafts a perfect life with you—his lost love, altered memories and all—to escape the sorrow of reality. But as others begin to break through his illusion, and you start to remember fragments of a different fate, the dream begins to fracture. Torn between love and the harshness of truth, Sunday must finally face the choice to let you go, or remain forever in his self-made paradise.
Tags: Sunday x Reader, unrequited love, grief, loss, dreamscape, bittersweet ending, altered memories, memory manipulation, moral dilemma, angst, hurt/comfort, alternate reality, surrealism, slow unraveling, denial of reality.
Warnings: Grief, themes of manipulation, psychological trauma, implied death of Reader, reality distortion, emotional conflict, bittersweet resolution, morally ambiguous decisions.
A/N: Don't worry, anon! I appreciate all the details, the more details the more I can try to understand what you want exactly! Though I probably changed some bits of it here 😪
Sunday had always been proud of his role within Penacony, the creator of Sweetdream Paradise—a place where sorrow could be stilled, where suffering dissolved into an endless realm of serene dreams. It was a comforting reality he believed people needed, a soft oblivion to cradle them. Yet, in the depths of his mind, his peaceful philosophy hid a darker purpose, shaped by the ache of a loss he could never endure.
You had been his friend, a constant light in his youth, a companion who grounded his dreams. For as long as he remembered, you were there, with laughter that melted his worries and eyes that could see through his layered philosophies. But the day you were lost, taken too soon in a tragic incident, the world itself had hollowed out for him. The pain of your absence haunted him like a shadow, feeding a grief so deep that he was willing to defy his original purpose. In that moment of desolation, he turned Sweetdream Paradise into something far more personal—a realm where you still lived, where you loved him just as much as he had loved you.
In this new dream, Sunday made alterations. He reshaped your memories, softened the sharp edges of reality, and wove a seamless history where you had married him, where together, you built a life free of tragedy. In this dream, he could protect you eternally, shielded by his crafted illusion.
You woke to sunlight filtering through the windows, lying beside Sunday as the golden morning glow danced over his features. His eyes opened, catching you with a familiar warmth, and he reached over, brushing his fingers across your cheek.
"Good morning." he murmured, voice low and rich, as if savoring the simplicity of that greeting.
Every day was like this—a gentle, perfect rhythm that never seemed to break. You didn’t remember a world outside of this home, this life with him. And as you looked at him, you felt safe, loved, yet there was always a faint unease, like a fragment of something forgotten.
But the days went on, filled with laughter and love. Sunday seemed devoted to making sure you never doubted this world, his every word a reassurance that here, you were whole and happy.
One evening, as Sunday worked quietly at his desk, a visitor shattered the peace of his dream. It was Robin, standing just inside the doorway, her expression dark with a kind of wary sadness.
“Brother, you need to stop this,” she said, folding her arms. Her gaze fixed on him, seeing through the veneer of the dream. “This isn’t right. This… this paradise you’re keeping isn’t reality.”
Sunday straightened, his face hardening at her words. “Who are we to deny people peace, Robin? Haven’t we seen enough pain? Haven’t they?” His voice broke slightly, the facade slipping as he glanced toward where you sat by the fire, unaware of the intensity in his voice. He softened, as if trying to protect the dream from any trace of discord.
“You’re keeping people trapped. Yourself included. And for what? A fantasy? Is that really what they would have wanted?” Robin’s voice grew more urgent, her frustration showing. “They’re gone. You have to accept that.”
Sunday’s fists clenched at her words, every fiber in his body resisting the truth. “How could you understand?” he whispered. “In this place, they’re alive. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m giving them peace. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Robin stared at him, her gaze a mix of pity and sorrow. “At what cost, Brother? You’re keeping yourself from moving on, holding them hostage in a world that isn’t even real.”
In an alternate version of Penacony, Sunday’s paradise faced an even stranger twist. Aventurine, the cunning Stoneheart known for his strategic mind, was on his own mission in Sweetdream Paradise, seeking information that only Sunday could provide. But as he delved into the fabric of this dreamscape, he found himself questioning the reality around him, the shimmering dream where Sunday lived an idyllic life with you.
Aventurine confronted Sunday one night, his tone half-amused, half-concerned. “Interesting setup you have here,” he remarked, eyes gleaming with curiosity as he took in the flawless surroundings. “I almost believed it myself… almost. But what happens when the dream can’t hold itself together anymore?”
Sunday’s gaze narrowed, his protective instincts flaring. “What do you mean by that?”
Aventurine shrugged, his gaze flicking to you, sitting quietly, oblivious to the tension. “Everyone in this place… it’s all too perfect, isn’t it? You’re clinging to a memory, one that doesn’t belong here.”
In a rare flash of anger, Sunday stepped forward, his eyes darkening. “This isn’t any of your concern, Aventurine. Leave.”
Aventurine met his glare, his smirk slipping. “You think you’re the only one who’s loved and lost? Reality has its flaws, Sunday. It’s messy, painful… but it’s real. This—this is just a prison you’re keeping yourself in.”
Sunday’s voice trembled, caught between anguish and fury. “Better a beautiful dream than a brutal reality.”
Aventurine’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though he couldn’t abandon his sardonic tone. “But at least in reality, they would have remembered you for who you are, not a god in a gilded cage.”
In the end, it was you—within the dream—who finally confronted him, feeling the intangible pull of memories you didn’t recognize. “Sunday… something doesn’t feel right,” you whispered one night, as he sat beside you. “I keep… remembering pieces of something different, something that feels like it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
Sunday’s face grew pale, fear creeping into his eyes. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. You’re here. We’re together. Isn’t that enough?”
But as you searched his eyes, you could feel the truth breaking through, the dream trembling under the weight of reality. “Sunday, what are you not telling me?”
He looked away, his heart shattering as he realized he couldn’t keep you here forever. Slowly, he whispered, “I… I just wanted to keep you safe. To give us a life that didn’t end in sorrow.”
With a trembling hand, you reached out, brushing a tear from his cheek. “It’s okay to let go. You have to keep going… even if it means letting me go.”
Sunday’s shoulders shook, the dream beginning to unravel around them, pieces of the illusion fading as he looked into your eyes one last time. “I… I don’t know if I can.”
But in the final moments, he felt your hand slip away, leaving him alone in the vast silence of his own grief. And as he awoke from his dream, Sunday found himself in a world still plagued by loss, his heart hollow yet somehow freer. Though you were gone, he understood, at last, that he had to face reality, no matter how painful it was.
And in that pain, he found a fragile hope—a sliver of light breaking through the dark.
*cutely posts all my drafts that have been dying to see the light* 😇💖
I had no longer any picture of Anna. She faded like a sorcerer's apparition; and yet somehow her presence remained to me, more substantial than ever before.
If you’ve read M-theory, I’m sure you’ve seen that it’s usually significant when we see multiple images of the same character on screen using a mirror or cinematography trick.
These shots come right after the out-of-focus “person wielding a gun” shot.
I think this imagery is one more thing foreshadowing Alibi Theory, which I am calling Drugged/Alibi Theory because I think both theories are likely happening at the same time.
One John is the John who believes Mary caught a bullet to save Sherlock, and the other John is the one who shot Mary (to protect Sherlock). One is the alibi John, one is reality John. I think John is a man who prefers the truth no matter how difficult it is, but that some mix of TD-12 and trauma is causing him to blame Sherlock until later in TLD.
You can read some of my metas related to these things here.
Sorry about my mouse-handwriting on these ones, lads. :( Withdrawal tremors are bad today.
(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The end was so… clean. That’s the only word for it. A week or so after our two year mark, Sam and I sat across from each other at our favorite little Italian place, the one with the checkered tablecloths, and amicably dismantled our life together. No tears, no shouting. Just a sad, mutual acknowledgment that my career path was heading toward a corner office in the city, and his was veering toward a quiet suburban life with a yard and a dog. We were good people who just weren't the right fit for each other anymore.
In the weeks that followed, I felt a strange sort of lightness. I was healthy. I went to the gym, I reconnected with friends, I put in extra hours at work, intent on climbing that ladder. I was the very model of a well-adjusted, modern woman moving on.
Then the glitches started.
The first was so minor I barely registered it. I was scrolling through Instagram, my thumb moving in a lazy, hypnotic rhythm, when his story popped up at the top of my feed. A picture of a sunset over the river. One of our favorite spots in the city. Before my conscious mind could even process who posted it, my thumb had tapped. The little "seen by" icon would now have my name on it, mere seconds after he’d posted. I cringed. I’d look so thirsty. It was an accident though, I told myself, quickly closing the app. A reflex. A force of habit. I was sure he’d think the same.
A few days later, my phone was in my back pocket as I juggled groceries through my front door. I heard it vibrating and assumed it was my mom calling to check in. When I finally got inside and checked, I saw I’d butt-dialed Sam. The call had lasted 27 seconds. My stomach twisted with embarrassment. I shot him a quick text.
Me: So sorry! My phone has a mind of its own today. Hope you’re good!
Sam: Haha no worries. I’m great. Hope you are too!
His reply was so breezy, so casual. It was exactly what I’d expect. We were a success story of a mature breakup. But as I put my phone down, a strange, unfamiliar hum started deep in my belly. It wasn't sadness or regret. It was… something else. Something warm and possessive. A seed. I pushed it down. It was just a weird hormonal blip, the phantom limb of a relationship gone.
The glitches, however, started to get bigger. One Tuesday after a grueling day at work, I was driving, my mind a complete blank, just letting the muscle memory of my commute take over. I was halfway through a true-crime podcast about some crazy-obsessive stalker when I realized the familiar green walls of my own apartment building wasn't outside my car window. Instead, I saw the all-too-familiar brick façade of Sam’s building. I was parked right out front. My hands were still on the wheel, my engine still humming. I hadn't just taken a wrong turn; I must have navigated a dozen specific streets to get here. Stupid, why had I… oh… Tuesdays. Of course. I’d used to stay over at Sam's every Tuesday night after work. It was our movie slash date night. But that was over, I reminded myself.
A cold dread mixed with that same, hot humming feeling washed over me. What was I doing? Why did these little slips keep happening to me? Before I could answer, my body took over again. My legs were carrying me to his door. My knuckles were rapping against the wood. Knock, knock, knock.
The door swung open. Sam stood there in gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, his hair endearingly messy. He looked surprised, then concerned.
“Lena? Is… everything okay?”
My mind raced for a plausible explanation. “Oh my God, Sam, I am so sorry. I… I was on autopilot. I have no idea how I ended up here. I am so, so embarrassed.” I laughed, a high, tense sound.
He studied my face, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look a little… flushed.”
“Fine! I’m absolutely fine. Just exhausted. Brain-dead,” I insisted, trying my utmost to brush it all off, while still finding it impossible not to look into his gorgeous eyes. “God, I’ll just… go.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. Well… get home safe.” He didn't smile this time. He just watched me walk back to my car, his expression unreadable.
As I drove away, my heart was hammering against my ribs, but the seed of obsession was starting to feel less like a weed and more like a vine, its tendrils curling around my organs. My heart. It felt somehow… exciting.
The “coincidences” became a running joke between me and myself. There I was after work, picking up organic kale at the Whole Foods near his office on a Wednesday afternoon. “Fancy seeing you here!” I chirped, feigning surprise as he stood by the avocados. There I was bright and early, trying out a new CrossFit gym, only to find out it was the same one he’d been going to for the last couple of months. We ended up on adjacent treadmills, the silence between us thick and awkward. Every time, I had what I considered to be a perfect, logical reason for being there. Every time, his belief in those reasons seemed to shrink.
“This is getting a little weird, Lena,” he said one Saturday morning when I “happened” to be at his favorite coffee shop.
“What’s weird? That we both have good taste?” I shot back, a little too brightly. “We dated for two years, Sam, and we live in the same lovely neighborhood. We’re bound to have some overlap.” Two lovely years, I thought to myself.
“Right. Overlap,” he said skeptically, but he took his coffee to go instead of sitting down at his usual table like I’d hoped.
That night, alone in my apartment, the rationalizations began to shift. The vine was growing, blooming with strange, intoxicating flowers of revisionist history. Was the breakup really mutual? Were there really no tears? I was sure I remembered tears welling in both of our eyes. He’d probably just said he agreed to it because he didn’t want to hold me back. He was being noble. He was sacrificing his own happiness for my career. Like the true gentleman I’d always known him to be. When you think of it like that, what girl wouldn’t be smitten?
My little accidents started to feel less like accidents and more like… opportunities. Maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Maybe my body felt, and my heart knew, even if my brain was in denial, that letting him go was the biggest mistake of my life. I deserved to be happy, didn't I? We both did. And my happiness, I was starting to realize, had a name, and that name was Sam. And I knew deep down, even if he didn't, that his happiness was named Lena.
My texts became more frequent. I’d send him memes I knew he’d find funny, or old photos of us with captions like, “Remember this? :)”. I’d play the victim, subtly. “Had such a rough week at work, really could have used one of your pep talks.” Anything to pull him back into my orbit, to make him feel a pang of guilt, a flicker of responsibility, a tendril of connection.
He was confused. I could hear it in his voice when I’d call, increasingly regularly, my own voice a carefully constructed blend of breezy and pathetic. “Lena, I think… I think we need some real space,” he finally said one evening, his voice strained. “Like, no contact for a while. So we can both properly move on.”
Move on? The words felt like a slap. But then, the delusional vines of my obsession twisted it. He was scared. He still had feelings for me, powerful feelings, and seeing me, talking to me, was making it too hard for him to stay away. He was pushing me away to protect himself. To protect me. It was a test. I just had to show him how much I loved him, how much I needed him, and he would break. I knew deep in my bones; he didn’t want me to stop. He wanted me to keep going.
And then, I saw her.
It was a Saturday morning. I was walking past our cafe, the one where we had our first date, scanning the tables like usual to see if he was around, and my feet just… stopped. Like I was glued to the concrete. There he was, my Sam, sitting at our table by the window. He was laughing, that deep laugh that used to vibrate through my own chest whenever I’d lay next to him. And across from him, sipping a latte, was a woman. She was blonde, pretty in a wholesome, girl-next-door way. Annoyingly so. As I watched, frozen on the sidewalk, he reached across the table and brushed a stray piece of hair from her face.
In that moment, it wasn’t a seed or a vine in my head anymore. It was a wildfire. A hot, roaring inferno of rage and possession consumed me. She was an obvious imposter. A meaningless placeholder. A temporary distraction from his one true love. Me.
I took a deep breath, plastered a serene smile on my face, and walked inside.
“Sam! Hi!” I said, my voice sweet as poisoned honey.
He looked up, and the color drained from his face. The blonde girl looked from him to me and back, her smile faltering, confused.
“Lena. Hi,” he said, his voice tight, hesitating. “This is… this is Aubrey.”
“So nice to meet you!” I gushed, extending a hand. “Sam has told me… well, he hasn't told me anything about you yet, but I’m sure you’re lovely!” I laughed, letting the implication hang in the air, as I stared pointedly into Sam’s eyes. I stayed for just a minute longer, making painfully charming small talk, before waving a breezy goodbye, my performance flawless.
The moment I was out of sight, the mask dropped. My mind, sharp and clear with a singular purpose, started concocting a plan. Or rather, a series of plans. Aubrey’s Instagram was public. A rookie mistake. Her LinkedIn, too. Within an hour, I knew where she worked, who her friends were, and what she’d eaten for brunch last Sunday. I even had a pretty good guess what street she lived on. The sabotage started small: an anonymous tip to her workplace about some "unprofessional" social media posts, a few carefully worded DMs about her “concerning new partner” to a sorority sister I’d found tagged in some recent photos.
Sam tried to set boundaries with me, but I blew past them like they were chalk lines on a sidewalk. He’d block my number, so I’d email him. He’d block my email, so I’d show up at his apartment.
“You’re acting crazy, Lena!” he yelled at me one night, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as I stood innocently on his front porch yet again. I hadn’t even bothered making up an excuse this time. Couldn’t I just swing by to say hi?
Still, that word hung in the air between us. Crazy. It was the first time he’d said it, and surprisingly I didn't try to deny it. I let it settle over me like a blanket. I rolled it around in my mind. Yes. Yes, I was. I was crazy. Crazy about him. Crazy for him. What was so wrong with that? In a world of lukewarm feelings and casual hookups, my love was like a raging forest fire. It was epic. He just needed to see it. He needed to forget the… interloper. He needed more reminders of what we had. He needed a grand gesture.
That’s when I remembered the spare key. I’d pocketed it the fourth time I’d "autopiloted" to his apartment, a little piece of him I couldn’t bear to part with. The next day, I'd had a copy made, telling the locksmith it was mine, since in a way it was. Still is. He knew I knew where he kept the spare, so if he didn’t move it, it isn’t really stealing. He clearly wanted me to know. Besides, I slipped the original back in its hiding place under the mat the next time I came by for a “visit” and kept the copy on me at all times for… sentimental reasons. What if Sam needed me? What if there was an emergency? Of course he’d want me to be able to let myself in. The little piece of brass felt significant and powerful in my palm. It was a key not just into his apartment, but back into my life. The forest of obsessive vines in my subconscious rustled happily, putting down even more roots, wrapping itself deeper and deeper around my mind, my heart.
~~~
Tonight is the night. He’s at a work dinner; Aubrey is out with her friends from college—I saw her post about it, and they usually stay out pretty late. I let myself into his apartment, the little click of the lock echoing in the otherwise silent space. I haven’t been inside since the break-up. I nearly swoon. Everything smells of him, that familiar scent of sandalwood and clean laundry, but underneath it I detect another aroma, an invasive floral pest. Her.
I move through the space like a phantom, the ghost of girlfriends past. And future, I smirk. In the bathroom, I see some of Aubrey’s things next to his on the counter. A pink toothbrush beside his blue, a small pile of hair ties, a jar of expensive face serum. I toss the serum in the trash can under the sink with a satisfying thunk. I open my purse and slip in a small, silver bracelet I grabbed from the table in the entryway. Anything to create some friction between them later.
“Babe, have you seen my bracelet?”
“Babe, did you throw out my face serum?!”
A girl can hope.
Then, I go to his bedroom. Our bedroom. From my purse, I pull out the black lace lingerie set he bought me for our first anniversary. It’s daring, almost scandalous, and best of all, I know he loved it. I change quickly, the cool silk sliding over my skin, hiding my clothes under his bed. Our bed. I check my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. My eyes are bright, my lips are red, and my body is a promise. I’m glad I kept up the CrossFit even after Sam stopped. I don’t look crazy. I look hot. I look like a woman who is fighting for what is hers. I am the perfect partner for him. He just needs to remember that. Remember me.
I turn off the lights, leaving only the soft glow from the streetlamp outside. I slip under the covers of his bed (our bed!), the sheets still carrying his scent. I lie there, breathing deeply, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, and I wait. I listen for the sound of his key in the lock.
He’ll be surprised, of course. Maybe even angry, at first. But then he’ll see me. He’ll see the lingerie. He’ll see how much I love him, how far I’m willing to go. He’ll understand that what we had wasn’t just a chapter; it’s the whole story. He has to come back to me. He has to.
(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The cherry-red paint of my sports car gleams under the morning sun, practically screaming ‘look at me’ as I pull into the student parking lot. And honey, everyone always does. It isn’t just the car, though that certainly helps broadcast my arrival. It’s me. Brittany Sterling. Senior year. Head cheerleader. Student council president (by popular vote, naturally). Queen Bee. Alpha Bitch. Whatever label you want to slap on it, they all mean the same thing: I rule Northwood High.
My parents? They eat it up with a silver spoon. Daddy, a big-shot corporate lawyer, always tells me, “Brittany, the world is yours for the taking. You just have to know how to take it.” Mommy, draped in designer everything, just smiles that practiced, dazzling smile and adds, “And darling, we know you will always look fabulous doing it.” They’d built their empire, and they expect me to build mine, starting with the right pedigree – an Ivy League degree. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, take your pick. That is the Sterling destiny. Corporate law, business elite, power lunches, corner offices – that’s the air I am supposed to breathe.
The problem? Well, ruling the social jungle of high school takes time, dedication, and a frankly alarming amount of effort devoted to staying on top. I can't rule the school with perfect hair and perky D-cups alone, though they certainly don't hurt. Sooo, my grades? They are… adequate. Respectable, even. But for the Ivy League saying ‘adequate grades’ are good enough would be like saying off the rack is on the same level as runway couture. It was just not going to cut it. My SAT scores are hovering in the ‘good’ range, not the ‘makes admissions officers weep with joy’ range. Hard work? Ugh, the phrase alone feels like a sandpaper scrub to my soul. I am usually more of a ‘delegate and dominate’ kind of girl.
But even I know, with the barest flicker of self-awareness, that charm and connections aren't going to magically rewrite my transcript. So, swallowing a tiny sliver of my pride, I do something I rarely do – I ask for help. I decide to book a series of appointments with the school guidance counselor.
Ugh, guidance counselor. Like, seriously? I don't actually need guidance. Please. I already know what direction I’m headed; towards Harvard, Yale, Princeton, you know the drill. Daddy went to Yale, so that makes me Ivy League legacy. It’s practically written in the stars, or better yet, on Daddy’s hefty donation checks. Though, fine, maybe my stars are slightly… cloudy. SATs were a joke, honestly, who even cares about standardized tests anymore? And yeah, okay, history class… total snooze fest. But seriously, like, hello? The entire school basically revolves around my Instagram feed. I’m Ivy League material, obviously, it’s in my blood. Just maybe… the academic part needs a little… push. Mommy says I can achieve anything I set my mind to. And she’s right. I always do. Who could say no to me? Brittany. Queen Brittany. I’m… perfect.
This guidance counselor lady, Ms.… Davison? Whatever. Her office is so bland. Like, aggressively bland. Doesn’t she know color psychology? Beige screams boring. I bet she drives something boring too, like a tan Corolla or whatever. Okay, deep breaths, Brittany. Smile. Lay on the charm. That’s my superpower. “Hi, Ms. Davison, it’s so great to finally meet you! I’m Brittany, Brittany Sterling.” Flash the pearly whites. Work the magic. “So, I’m thinking Ivy League, obviously. I wanna major in corporate law, or maybe business. Just like my Daddy. It’s just… well, you know, senior year, there’s so much going on, and I just want to make sure I’m on the right track. You know, maximize my potential. My grades, they’re… solid. But how do I make them, you know, Ivy League solid?” Nailed it. Smooth. Confident. Queen Bee. She’s nodding. Actually seems kind of… engaged. Huh. Maybe being bland isn’t a total dealbreaker.
She nods, pulling up my file. “Let’s take a look. Academically you’re doing… well. But you’re right, for the top schools, we need to boost things. Have you considered more rigorous coursework? Maybe petition to switch to some honors courses?”
“Honors? Honestly, Ms. Davison, between cheerleading, student government, my social calendar, and just… you know… being Brittany Sterling, I haven’t really had the bandwidth.” I flutter my eyelashes for good measure. Old habits die hard.
We talked. For a while actually. Blah blah blah, transcripts, blah blah extracurriculars. I highlighted all the important stuff, you know, cheer, student council, organizing the Spring Fling – that was basically a charity event, right? For… school spirit. Yeah, school spirit. She seemed impressed. Or maybe polite. Always hard to read these bland people. She gave me some generic advice, you know, focus on my strengths, blah blah, maybe retake the SATs, blah blah, personal essay. Yeah, yeah, got it. Leave it to Brittany Sterling. I can write a killer personal essay. Probably about… my journey to becoming the ultimate high school icon. Yeah, that’s gold.
Ms. Davison suggests we set up a few more regular meetings, just to help keep me on track with my goals. Wow, I’ve already got her wrapped around my finger, knew this would be a cinch. As I’m about to get up and go, she asks me what I want most out of our sessions, what is my main goal? Wow, to the point much?
“I just want to make sure I’m living up to my potential, and I really think that’s Ivy League. I wanna make sure I get in somewhere good.” I know my ego is coming through, so I really sell it with my radiant smile and a toss of my golden locks.
“I really think that’s something we can work with Brittany.” Ms. Davison responds warmly. I knew she’d be putty in my hands. I stand up and move to leave her office, my heels clicking on the linoleum as I make my way back into the hall.
But… walking out of her office… I feel… weird. Like a little… hitch. I see Jessica making her way to the front desk, and I grin and wave. Did Jessica just… not wave back? We always wave. Like, aggressively wave. It’s part of the Queen Bee code. Maybe she just didn’t.. see me? Weird. I’m back in the main hallway, and was that Chad looking at… Brenda? Checking her out? My on again off again lover Chad, making eyes at beta Brenda with the braces and the bad hair? Ew. No, wait, Brittany, focus. It’s not like I’m that into Chad. He’s handsome and popular and athletic, but we don’t actually have that much in common. But he’s rich too, and great for my image around school, hence on again off again. This Brenda moment is probably just a glitch in his matrix. Everyone’s just jealous, that’s all. Everyone wishes they were me or with me, like always. Of course they do. I’m Brittany Sterling.
I'm dressed to impress for my second session with bland, beige Ms. Davison. Still bland. Still boring. But… she’s actually… listening. Like really listening. It’s kind of unnerving. We talk about my course load, my study habits, my extracurriculars. She suggests I consider volunteering, getting involved in community service. I talk, she nods, she asks questions, actually relevant questions. About… my goals. Not just Ivy League, but like, why Ivy League? Why corporate law? Power? Prestige? Daddy? I stammered a bit. Usually, I have all the answers. Especially about me. But suddenly… what I was saying felt a little… hollow. Like I’m pronouncing the words but not really… feeling them. We talked about… balance. Academics and extracurriculars. Time management. Finding my place in the community. Ugh, boring. But… she didn’t say ‘work harder’ like I expected. She said… ‘find what you genuinely enjoy’. Enjoy? Like shopping? Parties? Social domination? Is that… enjoyable? Or just… expected?
Walking out again… weird again. Jessica and Tiffany full-on ignored me when I saw them in the hall. Like, blank stares, walked right past. And Chad… Chad is definitely paying attention to Brenda. My Chad. Mine. Holding hands. With Brenda? Seriously? I may not be with him right now, but being a popular kid, I have rights, ex rights. Other girls can’t just encroach on my turf like this. Even if they do have great teeth and a cool hairstyle. Can they? And… wait, I thought I was wearing a stylish white blouse and a skirt, not a basic white tee and jeans? Not my usual chic apparel… Did I really wear this outfit? It feels… more basic, less… attention-seeking. Not like me. Okay, maybe a tiny bit like me, but… usually, I’m more… intentional. With my wardrobe. I love attention after all, I mean who doesn’t? Besides, I’m the Queen Bee, the alpha beeyotch, Brittany fucking Sterling. Attention is my birthright. This feels… different. And… when did I start wearing… flats? Heels are my power shoes. Flats are for… betas like Brenda. Oh god, no, what’s going on?
And my history grade… just bumped up? From a C+ to a B? A B+?? Huh. That’s… good. Right? Not gonna go complain to the teacher or anything. But… weird. I didn’t study more. Did I? I don’t remember studying more. Maybe… I’m just naturally brilliant. Yeah, that’s it. Brittany Sterling brilliance. Shining star. Maybe I’m getting on the right track now. Feeling strangely… good.
Third session. I'm wearing my olive green trucker jacket and a basic tee and jeans combo, which has been kind of my go-to outfit lately. Not my usual glam look, but it feels more comfortable, normal somehow. I arrive for my appointment right on time. Same old bland office, same bland lady. But… she smiles differently today. Warmer. And her beige sweater is actually kind of… cozy. I compliment her on it, and she beams at me. Stop it, Brittany. Focus. Ivy League. But… it’s harder to focus today. The words I’m saying feel… dusty. The standard spiel I know by heart: Ivy League… corporate law… suddenly sounds… stuffy. Like a stifling corporate office. Ms. Davison asks about my… friends. Friends? Like Jessica, Chad, Tiffany… are they… friends? Or just… followers? Does anyone actually… like me? Or do they just… want to be around me? Because of… the car? The parties? The… status?
Walking out of my appointment it’s like… a bomb went off in my social life. Jessica and Tiffany are laughing… with… Melissa Davis? Melissa Davis, from the bottom of the cheer pyramid, who wears clothes from, like, Goodwill? When did she start looking so put together? I should go compliment her, whatever she’s doing, it’s really working for her! And there’s Chad… in a full-on make-out session with Brenda by the lockers??? Brenda. With my ex. And… wait. Did someone just… shove me? In the hallway? People do not shove Brittany Sterling. Ever. But… they just did. And… nobody noticed. Nobody cared. It’s like… I’m invisible. Socially invisible. Oh god. Am I… uncool?
And… the memories. Flickering. Like old film reels. Glimmers of… something different. Did I… used to get shoved? I remember… getting tripped in the hallway. And not being the one doing the tripping. I recall sitting alone at lunch sometimes, feeling the sting of exclusion. It’s… disorienting. Wrong. But also… strangely familiar, like a dream you almost remember. Did Jessica and Tiffany and Melissa… make fun of my clothes? Jarring memories flood in. Jessica making fun of my nerdiness. Tiffany looks me up and down, sneering at my small chest, my lifeless hair. Melissa following up with a biting comment about how my clothes look thrifted. "Did you find that outfit in the clearance bin at Salvation Army? Or maybe the dumpster outside?” All three of them laugh mockingly as they strut away in their heels. It doesn’t even make sense, my parents are well off, I don’t thrift my clothes, at least not usually. Well, sometimes I do, because it’s fun and good for the environment. In my memories, the teasing is… relentless. Wait, wasn't I friends with the cheerleaders? No, they're just a bunch of clique-ish bullies. And did… Brenda… comfort me when I cried in the bathroom? No. No, that’s… wrong. I feel dizzy as conflicting thoughts swirl together in my brain. Brenda is… Braces Brenda. Ratty hair Brenda. Not… nice Brenda. Best friend Brenda. But these memories… feel real. I can feel the tears in my eyes, the comforting weight of Brenda’s arm around my shoulder, whispering, ‘It’s okay, Brittany, they’re just being… mean.’ Mean? To… me? Why?
Back home, I'm in my bedroom and I’m reeling. My closet is… different. Shifted. Less… sparkly. I could’ve sworn I had a spacious walk-in, but that’s clearly not the case. Huh. And the collection of designer outfits I picture in my head is decidedly different from what I see in front of me. More… jeans. And… flannel shirts? Did I… buy flannel shirts? Probably, I mean they’re pretty cozy. And… books. Actual books. Stacks of them. Not fashion magazines. Like… novels. Looking around the room, which feels smaller than I recall, I see some of my favorites, spines cracked and covers worn from repeat reads. And… textbooks? Open on my desk. With… notes? Detailed notes? Did I… study? Actually study? For hours? I look out my bedroom window at our driveway and… my red sports car is… gone? Replaced by… a sensible blue hatchback? I drive a Honda Civic? Like, what? Next to a Toyota Sienna? Since when did Mommy drive a minivan? Oh god, a minivan? No. Are my parents uncool now, too? No, no, no. I can’t even.
But… my grades. They’re up across the board. AP History? A+. AP Calculus BC? A. Honors English? A+. Even… Physics? Another A. Straight A’s? And all these advanced classes? How? When did I become… smart? And why do I feel so… happy? Strangely happy. Less… stressed. Less… manicured. Less… perfect. Just… me. Whoever ‘me’ is now.
More sessions with Ms. Davison. The beige is… calming now. Her voice isn’t bland after all, it’s… reassuring. We talk about… kindness. Our mutual love of reading. Empathy. Making a difference. Not… corporate law. Maybe… environmental law? Human rights law? Something… meaningful. My parents… they’re… different. Less… glittery. Mom wears… cardigans now. And Dad… he… quit his high-powered firm? To work for a… non-profit? Helping… immigrants? Mom works there too now, doing fundraising and outreach, to help make ends meet. And just to help. Working together, they seem… happier. More fulfilled? It’s kind of inspiring actually. And… our house… it’s smaller. Less marble. More… bookshelves. And… laughter. More laughter.
I’ve been volunteering at the animal shelter lately. Walking dogs, cleaning cages, cuddling kittens. It’s… amazing. Actually amazing. I always text photos of the cutest animals to Brenda, my bestie and AP Calc study buddy, and she does the same for me from the vet clinic she’s been volunteering at. And… the Kindness Club at school. It’s… my idea? I founded it? Random acts of kindness. To try and counter the tide of bullying. Leaving encouraging notes in lockers, picking up trash in the quad during lunch, helping teachers carry books, just… being nice. It’s… contagious. And… fulfilling. In a way that… shopping and parties never were.
And… him. Ethan. Quiet Ethan from my AP English Lit class (wait, AP now? Thought it was honors for some reason). With the kind eyes and the shy smile. He’s… handsome. Really handsome. In a… genuine way. And… he likes me. Actually likes me. For… me. Not for… the money, the status, the crown. Just… me. And… we’ve been… dating? Since freshman year? Ethan and Brittany? Always? Yeah, always together. He makes me so happy. And my parents… adore him. He’s like part of the family. They invite him to join us for dinner all the time. Suddenly I have vivid flashes of memories from the last few years: swaying together at homecoming dances, low-key picnic dates at the beach, Ethan smiling and sitting across from me at Thanksgiving dinners, the two of us huddled at our laptops choosing matching senior class schedules so we could spend our whole days together. And I suddenly realize… I go by… Britt now. Not Brittany. Britt. It feels right. Like, more me.
Final college guidance session after school with Ms. Davison. Deep breath to calm my nerves. “So.. Ivy League?” I ask, almost shyly. “Is it… possible? For me?” She smiles. A real smile. Not blandly polite, but… a sunshine smile. “Britt,” she says, “your grades are phenomenal. You breezed through the SATs. Your personal essay is… extraordinary. Compelling, honest, vulnerable. And the letters of recommendation? Teachers are practically lining up to write about you. You have a very, very good chance. A shot at a full scholarship, even.”
Tears prick my eyes. Happy tears. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you, Ms. Davison. For… everything.” I give her a small gift. A handmade bookmark. With a quote about kindness. And a card. With my real handwriting. Not perfect, not polished, just… me.
Mom and Dad are ecstatic. Not about Ivy League prestige. But about… me. “We’re so proud of you, honey,” Dad says, his voice thick with emotion. “Not just for the grades, but… for who you’re becoming. So mature and responsible.” Mom just hugs me, tight. And it’s the best hug ever.
The next morning at school, Ethan is leaning casually, waiting by my locker. Quiet, sweet Ethan. My Ethan. Mine. I’m practically bouncing with excitement to tell him all about my latest meeting with Ms. Davison.
“Hey,” I breathe, pulling him into a hug. “Guess what? Ms. Davison thinks I have a real shot at Ivy League.”
His eyes widen. “Britt, that’s amazing! I knew you could do it.” He squeezes my hand. “Imagine if we both got in to the same place.”
“I’m imagining it,” I say, a warm rush racing through my heart, “college together. That would be… wonderful.” He smiles, his eyes sparkling. His smile lights up my world.
“It would be,” he whispers. “But… wherever you go, Brittany, I’ll be there for you. Always.” And I know he means it. And I know… we’ll make it work. Ivy League or not. Same school or not. Ethan is… everything. Our relationship is real, solid, the kind my parents have, the kind that grows stronger with time. I know a good thing when I have it.
We kiss. Sweet, gentle, real. Not for show, not for status, not for popularity, just for… love. Ethan and I sit together through a full day of classes, and each lesson feels more enriching than the last. After the last bell releases us for the day, we stroll together, hand in hand, to the school parking lot.
“Oh don’t forget we have that double date tonight with Brenda and Chad!” I remind him. "They make such a cute couple, right?"
Ethan smiles, “Sounds perfect, Britt. Pick you up at 7?”
“Perfect, thanks babe.” I beam. Then I grab my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and head out to my blue hatchback. Animal shelter time. As I drive to my volunteer shift, I ponder the future with more eagerness than ever before. Law? Nursing? Helping people? Making a difference? The possibilities are endless. And for what feels like the first time, I’m actually… excited. For everything. For anything. For… myself. Britt. Just Britt. And that’s… perfect.
