˖᯽ ݁˖· ✧ martin as the human embodiment of déjà vu ˚｡⋆
★.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ martin & fem!reader ✶ every time you look at him, you swear you’ve met him before; dreams, past lives, something cosmic. (and maybe martin remembers more than he’s letting on).
A/N🌒𓇢𓆸 angst, fluff, mentions of mental health, has ocs, this one takes its time and so do they, time jumps, me writing this at 3 am with half a functioning brain cell 🙏
huge thank you to @kaikaikoi , @teacuplps (and my bsf) for surviving this mess, reading everything throughoutly and actually making this fic good, lyly 😭
you meet martin on a tuesday.
which is already stupid because tuesdays are for being half-alive, the type of day that feels beige and too slow. you’re on your way back from therapy, clutching the strap of your bag a little too tight, replaying everything you said and everything you didn’t say.
and then you bump into him.
literally. shoulder to chest, everything jolting so slowly if that’s even possible.
you look up, and he apologizes, but his voice sounds like something you heard when you were younger. not like a memory, more like a memory of a memory. the type of familiarity that makes your stomach drop for no logical reason.
he smiles, a small, polite, a little shy even, kind of smile.
and you swear to yourself you’ve seen that smile somewhere, anywhere.
you don’t say anything, obviously. he doesn’t either. you both just stand there, suspended in some messed up loop, until someone behind you mutters “move, please,” and you come to your senses.
you walk away. but something follows you home.
your friends don’t get it.
“you’re catastrophizing again,” ayni says, sitting cross-legged on your bed. ayni with her lavender hoodie and blue eyes that look like they know more than she ever says. she’s been with you through every spiral, every high, every low.
“no, i’m serious,” you insist. “he felt… familiar. like i’ve seen him before.”
ayni shrugs. “maybe he has one of those faces.”
“no. it’s not that. i don’t get déjà vu with
strangers. only… y’know.”
your friends know the rest. you’ve had déjà vu since you were a kid; heavy episodes that always came right before a depressive dip. your therapist says it’s your brain “pattern-seeking,” trying to make sense of things you can’t control. but this wasn’t that. this wasn’t panic dressed in nostalgia. you knew yourself better than anyone.
ayni sighs, nudges your knee with hers, and says, “if you see him again, maybe talk to him.”
but fate is funny like that.
two days later, at a small cafe downtown, a place with whimsical mugs and fairy lights even though it’s barely afternoon. you’re there with leslie and silvi, leslie with her sharp eyeliner and chronic optimism, silvi with her chaotic energy and ability to make everything and everyone around her feel safe.
sitting just at the entrance of the cafe, you’re in the middle of telling them about a nightmare you had when the door opens, bell chiming, and…
you don’t know his name yet, but it feels wrong calling him anything else. he looks the same, blonde hair a little messy, hoodie too big, tired eyes like he stayed up all night thinking about things his brain tricked him into thinking.
silvi catches your expression immediately. “who’s that?”
“nobody,” you lie, too fast, too obvious.
“liar,” leslie grins. “you looked like you saw a ghost.”
“maybe i did,” you murmur.
martin orders a tea. chamomile. that’s the type of tea people drink when they want to sleep but can’t.
when he walks by your table, hovering over you, your eyes meet, and there it is again, that flicker of recognition, like he knows you, too.
and then he says, “we’ve met before… right?”
“i don’t think so,” you whisper, but your voice betrays you.
he nods slowly, as if he expected that. “yeah. you probably… yeah.”
silvis jaw drops. “okay, so what the hell was that?”
you’re too lost in thought.
you don’t sleep that night.
déjà vu hits hard. not flashbacks, but feelings. rooms you’ve never been in. places that don’t exist. hands holding yours in the dark. someone laughing beside you. someone crying.
and in every flicker of almost-memory, there he is; blurry and just out of reach.
you sit on your floor at 3:47 AM, hands trembling, texting ayni:
what if i knew him before?
not like- irl. but. idk. something else.
this feels wrong. too real.
ayni calls you instead of typing back.
“you’re scared,” she says softly. “and that’s okay. but you’re not crazy.”
“i feel like i’m losing it.”
“no. you’re overwhelmed. deja vu can get like that. maybe he just… triggered something.”
“but he said it too,” you whisper. “he said we’ve met.”
“maybe you should talk to him.”
because maybe you’re scared of being wrong.
but maybe you’re terrified of being right.
it’s friday, finally. you’re walking from tutoring, headphones in ears, hands in pockets and a scarf trying to suffocate you. your plans for the day are to watch rom coms and binge on snacks till your tummy hurts.
but the universe, for some reason doesn’t want you to.
there he is. again. cross sitting on a bench, playing with leaves, and you just stop for a second.
he’s not even doing anything magical, just tracing the veins of a leaf with his thumb, head tilted, lashes low, the early light catching on the curve of his cheek.
like a poem you wish you wrote.
and you’re standing there realizing you’ve never actually looked at him before, not like this, not in this quiet, accidental kind of beautiful.
he looks up. sees you, and it’s like he felt your presence the moment you saw him.
he pulls off his headphones slowly.
you freeze, but you can move.
you sit beside him because something inside you begs you to.
you finally ask, “how do you know me?”
he exhales through his nose, like he’s been waiting for you to ask.
“i don’t,” he says. “not really. but… i get dreams. about people. and you’re in them.”
your throat tightens. “since when?”
“years,” he admits. “i didn’t think you were real.”
your chest squeezes. “what do you dream?”
he looks down. chipping off the polish on his nails.
“i dream that we’re older,” he murmurs. “sometimes happy. sometimes… not. sometimes you’re crying. sometimes i’m leaving. sometimes i’m dying.”
you stare at him, heart shaking.
“do you feel like you’ve met me before?” he asks, voice soft.
“yeah. and it’s freaking me out.”
the story stretches out after that.
slow, confusing, raw. you and martin aren’t really friends, but you aren’t strangers, i mean how could you be after running into each other almost every day. you orbit each other like two ghosts remembering a life that never happened. he shows up in small ways: walking home besides you, quietly. sitting with you in silence.
staring at you quite creepily.
silvi and leslie adore him. they think you’re happier ever since he came into your life, they don’t know him personally, obviously, but they say that they trust their ‘gut’. ayni is cautiously protective. your therapist is intrigued but concerned.
you’re falling apart in ways you didn’t expect.
some nights you can’t tell what’s memory and what’s imagination. sometimes you cry because you feel like you lost something huge, even though you don’t know what it is.
“you look tired,” he says one afternoon.
“i feel like i’m mourning something i can’t remember,” you whisper.
you look at him, really look, observing every detail on his face.
you ask him, “what if we were something before? like… in another life?”
he looks up, his eyes kinda widened. but then they soften.
“then maybe we’re supposed to find each other in this one, too.”
because you want to believe him.
but something in your gut whispers that déjà vu isn’t always a reunion.
sometimes it’s a warning.
sometimes it’s the universe saying:
you don’t decide to see martin again, life just keeps tossing him into your path like it’s trying to prove a point.
after the park conversation, everything between you shifts. nothing explosive, nothing dramatic. just… awareness. like every time you’re near him, the air pulls tight around your chest.
you start noticing details.
the way he curls the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands when he’s anxious.
the birthmark on his neck.
the way his eyes soften when he laughs, like he’s surprised every time something good happens.
he notices you too… too well, honestly.
“you do this thing,” he says once, tilting his head.
“you start breathing in a rythim every time you’re anxious”
your stomach drops. “i don’t—”
“it’s okay,” he says, and the softness in his voice makes you actually feel like it’s okay.
the dreams start getting stronger.
once in a while, you see flashes when you’re half-asleep:
martin leaning against a window, older, tired, saying your name like it hurts.
martin holding your hand in a hospital room.
martin running toward you in the rain. blury.
martin lying still, too still, and your lungs burning like they’re collapsing.
you don’t tell him about the last one.
your friends get involved in the way only your friends know how.
leslie is the first to pry.
she corners you at her locker, one eyebrow already raised. “so. how’s that boy?”
you glare at her. “i don’t know. he’s… weird.”
silvi overhears and practically tackles you. “WEIRD? you’ve been acting like the main character in a psychological drama ever since he showed up. that is not ‘weird.’ that’s… narratively juicy.”
“please leave me alone,” you groan.
ayni watches all this with her arms crossed, quieter than usual. she’s worried.
later, she sits beside you on the bus, hoodie sleeves brushing yours, voice soft. “you trust him.”
you freeze. “i don’t know him.”
“yeah,” she says. “but you trust him.”
she’s right and that terrifies you.
meanwhile, martin keeps showing up and you don’t know why.
once at a bookstore, hovering awkwardly in the poetry aisle.
“you read this?” he asks, holding out a book. you shake your head, and he gives you the smallest smile.
“you’d like it. the way it feels.”
another time outside a bus stop, hands deep in his pockets, hair tousled by the wind.
“you okay?” he asks when your breathing gets tight. he doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough that his presence steadies you in a way nothing else does.
“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you say.
one evening, everything goes slow, unbearably slow, in the worst way.
you’re sitting in your room, lights dim, hands shaking from no reason you can name. it’s not a panic attack. not exactly. just that heavy, sinking numbness you get when your brain decides to go full grayscale.
ayni texts you. you ignore it. silvi spams memes. leslie sends you a voice note saying “drink water, your body needs it!”
you just sit there, staring at nothing.
you didn’t tell him anything. you haven’t talked all day.
martin: i didn’t. i just… felt weird. like i should check on you.
you: im fine. just tired.
your heart jumps so hard you swear it echoes.
ten minutes later he’s sitting on your bedroom floor, cross-legged, picking lint off your rug while you hug your knees besides him. you’re sitting inches apart and you swear you could hear the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“you don’t need to talk,” he says. “we can just sit.”
so you sit. for a long time.
no noise. no pressure. just two people breathing in the same quiet.
“can i tell you something?”
he looks down at his hands. “i think i knew you,” he whispers. “before i knew you.”
you swallow hard. “…yeah.”
“i don’t know from where,” he continues. “it’s like trying to remember a dream when you’re still half asleep. but… seeing you feels like remembering something i forgot to miss.”
“that’s… sad,” you murmur.
he laughs softly. “yeah. it is.”
and for some reason, that laugh, makes something in you pull forward.
you lift your hand before you even think about it.
your fingers brush his cheek, barely there, like testing a memory you’re not sure is real.
not in fear, in recognition.
his eyes meet yours, wide, almost startled, and the air between you shifts, its gentler, charged, suddenly meaningful.
he leans into your palm just a little.
just enough to tell you he wants the moment as much as you do.
“see?” he murmurs, voice softer than the night around you.
“this feels like something i’ve done before.”
and so the story doesn’t rush.
it sits with you, heavy and patient, like the universe is waiting for you to figure out the next part on your own.
but there’s something growing, slow, trembling, inevitable.
like the déjà vu isn’t a warning anymore.
one you’re not sure you’re ready to hear.
martin disappears on a thursday.
not in a dramatic, kind of way.
no cryptic message about “it’s better this way” or “forget me.”
he just stops showing up.
and it happens so quietly that you don’t even realize he’s gone until three days pass and the air feels so tight.
at first you tell yourself he’s just busy.
at first you atleast pretend you’re normal about it.
at first you still check your phone every two minutes.
but by day five, you stop pretending.
your friends notice before you say anything.
leslie squints at you during lunch. “you look like you’ve been hit by a car.”
“thank you,” you mumble, staring into your food.
silvi leans forward, whispering, “is this about your astral-projection soulmate?”
“he’s not my—” you start, then stop. “i don’t know what he is.”
“you’re grieving someone who’s technically alive,” she whispers later on the bus.
“that’s the worst kind of grief.”
martin’s absence feels like a ghost pressing down on your chest.
they come back violent and disjointed.
you see martin in a hallway you swear you’ve walked down.
you hear him calling your name from somewhere you can’t reach.
you dream of holding his hand while he fades like smoke between your fingers.
every morning you wake up gasping, sweating through your shirt.
every morning you expect him to text.
he never does. why would he?
two weeks in, you start seeing him everywhere.
not literally, your brain isn’t that dramatic, but in that aching, familiar way grief works.
a boy with blonde spiky hair walking across the street.
a laugh in a passing crowd that sounds like his.
a hoodie in a store window that looks exactly like the one he rarely wears.
your heart stumbles every time.
your therapist asks how you’re doing.
you almost laugh. like actually laugh.
one night you end up in the park, that park,
the one where you first sat beside him.
the sky is low and heavy, kind of annoying.
the air smells like rain and endings.
“i don’t know why you feel like home,” you whisper to no one.
your voice cracks. “i don’t know why losing you feels like forgetting how to breathe.”
you hate that he mattered anyway.
you don’t expect him to come back. you’re used to this.
so when he does, it hits you like a punch.
it’s late, maybe midnight, maybe later, when you hear a soft knock at your door.
for a split second you convince yourself you’re dreaming again. and you open it.
standing there in the dark, hood pulled up, eyes tired in a way you’ve never seen before.
it comes out sharper than you mean.
your whole body is trembling.
he breathes out like he’s been holding it for weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to disappear.”
you move towards him, instinct, gravity, and he flinches, but stays.
you’re close enough now that your fingers brush his sleeve.
he looks at the spot where you touched him like it hurts.
he lifts his eyes, and they’re haunted.
“i remembered you. from… before.”
he shakes his head, stepping back, voice shaking.
“every dream you had? i had them too. all of them. the hospital. the rain. the—”
his voice breaks into pieces.
your heart rips clean in half.
“i thought I was going crazy,” he continues. “every time I looked at you, it felt like watching my past and my future collide. like losing you twice.”
“i disappeared because I was scared,” he says. “because loving you ruined me once. and i think it’s happening again.”
you reach for him on purpose.
your hand rises, hesitant and warm.
his breath catches and he leans into your palm like he’s been aching for it.
his forehead drifts toward yours until you feel the ghost of his breath against your mouth.
you suck in a shaky breath.
“you don’t even know me.”
he laughs, hollow, aching.
“that’s the worst part. i do.”
silence swallows the space between you.
finally you whisper, “so why did you come back?”
he meets your eyes slowly,
“because losing you again hurts more than staying.”
something in your chest gives out.
he inhales sharply and answers with a deeper pull, his fingers threading into your hair, drawing you closer like his body remembered the shape of you long before his mind did.
the kiss breaks for a second, barely.
your lips hover against his, your breaths mixing.
“i knew you,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“before all of this. i swear i did.”
you kiss him again, slower this time.
and the world around you disappears. everything fades to nothing when you look at him.
you don’t magically fix each other.
and the impossible, aching familiarity of two souls finally colliding where they were always meant to meet.
and for the first time in a long, long time,
holding on doesn’t hurt at all.
not when he’s holding you back.
