#fremania

[fremania]

[⸮] ⠀ 𝓽ħ𝕖ℝᵉ'𝐒⠀ ⠀ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ⠀⠀ (⠀⠀ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ⠀⠀) ⠀about⠀ …⠀𝕹i̶k̶k̶i̶⠀ ⠀⠀, ░ #𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗔 nikki freeman , by 𝓶𝓸. EST. 6 / 4 / 2026

[amyssing]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᴬᵁᵀᵁᴹᴺ˒ [?]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝔇̲ⁱ𝚊ʀᵧ ᴱ𝒩𝗍𝚛𝑦...

ℑ have always been 𝔰𝔲𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 of people who claim... they remember the exact moment a relationship began. It is almost never true. People remember the moment retrospect makes important. The first kiss becomes destiny. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃 𝙵𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙿𝙷𝙴𝙲𝚈. The first time someone says ℑ 𝔏ᵒvₑ ɏøᵾ becomes the point where the trap snaps shut. But real beginnings are smaller than that. A glance. A sentence. A shared joke. 𝒜 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹, and a plate of fries.

𝚃here is a 𝖘𝖚𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖓 kind of tame to our house, it’s what people imagine when they spend ₃₀-years climbing toward it. The quiet sold in real-estate brochures; THE QUIET BOUGHT BY MY TRUST FUND. Our backyard stretches beyond the kitchen windows in curated agricultural perfection, that can bring 𝓜artha 𝚂tewart to tears. Hydrangeas. Rose bushes. A little stone pathway Nick promised he'd finish himself and never did. Just like Nick to.... Somewhere beyond the manicured hedges, fireflies drift lazily over the lawn, ƀłɨnꝁɨnǥ in the darkness like tiny surveillance cameras. Inside, the grandfather clock ticks. nick is asleep upstairs. One arm thrown over my side of the bed, probably. He always sleeps like he expects me to return. The thought makes me smile, or perhaps it makes me sad. The distinction grows blurrier every year. This year, it's cotton. I sit curled in an armchair with a 𝐇ermès throw draped across my knees, and a glass of Puligny-Montrachet balanced on the armrest. ACROSS THE ROOM IS NIKKI FREEMAN. Cocooned on my couch like an alley cat. The one that curls around your leg, & purrs beneath your touch. Blankets are swallowed around her shoulders. 𝙴𝚇𝙷𝙰𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚆𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈.

@fremania⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ── ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ [ 03∶11 ], ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ THE LIVING ROOM.

𝚆hen I opened the door to her 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖙𝖊 outlined in the darkness, glossing over the grime under her fingernails, and the questionable stain decorating the front of her 𝐂herry-red top, There is something strange about Nikki Freeman. ───𝙸 saw a girl with sharp eyes in a bar in Manhattan in the summer. I saw a group of teenagers ᵽɍɇŧɇnđɨnǥ adulthood fit them better than it did. I saw sweat tearing through lined eyes & glossed lips. How fleeting to be young in New York. I remember buying her a plate of fries because she hadn't eaten enough. I remember her sitting across from me in a cracked vinyl booth. Elbows on the table. WATCHING ME. Studying me like she expected an answer to a question she hadn't asked.

𝙸 find my eyes return to her now, the blanket cocoon. Her, nestled in my home like a curator; 𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙸𝚁𝚂. And then she speaks, melodious. I laugh softly into my wine. Can you stay? I'd miss you if you don't, I think. 𝓕or a moment.. [something strange] passes through me. A feeling I can't quite name. How odd. Amazing Amy would make sense of this, always one step ahead of me. And as she pats the empty space beside her, I set my wine down. Rise from my chair, & lower myself onto the couch. Close enough that shoulders almost touch. I tip my head back against the ivory cushions, and feel my hair spill across the upholstery like a sheet of 𝔤𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔩ƙ. a smile curls at the corner of my mouth. What game are we playing Nikki? “ Hmm... 𝑌ᵒᵤ seem awfully disappointed by the possibility that ℑ'𝔪 just a 𝒲oman sitting on a couch. ” I turn to look at her, & regard the faint smell of something floral. 𝔉lowers left too long in a vase, sweetness on the verge of decay. Interesting. “ 𝒲hat have you been up to since New York? ”

[m4yhm]

" am i getting the silent treatment? " @fremania

" silent treatment? bitch, what? " tatum barks a laugh, incredulous, hip-checks her car door and stuffs her keys into her purse. she feels fried. sweaty. it's a bajillion degrees out, her thighs are chafing, and the last thing she needs is nikki freeman up her ass for being a little weird — like hello? pot, meet kettle. freshly re-appeared from psycho, co-dependent relationship purgatory. freed from the shackles of that one loser guy. brandon? brady? brad?

the one who used to stalk her stories. always seen within twenty seconds of posting, like he had a sixth sense for where nikki was, who she was with, what she was doing ... and there's something about her. something way beyond the standard nikki brand of weird. from cute, but cooky, to straight up freaky-deaky.

" this isn't a treatment, nik. this is a totally rationale response to — this. " she gestures to her friend as they walk, huffing a little as rummages for her lipgloss, pushing aside gum wrappers and vape paraphernalia. a bottle of cheap perfume. " you disappeared. i thought you were chained up in his basement or — i dunno. god. i was fucking worried! and now you're texting me like, hey tate, i'm actually not dead and there's this party. we should go! "

she finds her fenty gloss bomb, applies, and points it in her friends face for effect. " it's messed up, and you know it. but i'm still here, and i'm still going with you, because i'm a great friend and because i wanna know what the hell is going on. "