𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 - 𝗶 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴
warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of drugs, drinking, angst
a/n: i'll decorate this more later...
five months is around, roughly, one hundred and twenty days. that's a long time, to some. to others it seemed to fly but for you, for you, it was the most excruciating five months of your life.
one month in particular, one day, changed your life completely.
but that was in the past, you had moved on.
"i'm so glad you're back home, i missed you so much" ati beamed, lip liner between her fingers as she outlined her lips with a practiced precision. "i haven't felt whole without you here"
"i missed you too" you smile at her.
"the one thing that kept me sane was knowing you were coming back" she huffed, moving onto the next lip product to fill her lips in. "not gonna lie, i was kinda scared you wouldn't"
there was a moment of silence that passed. it was only a few seconds, really, but in your mind it felt much longer.
"i thought about it" you admit, shrugging slightly and giving her a small smile. "i really did."
to be completely honest, you thought about staying more than you thought about returning.
there you had healed, you had moved on. partly because you had no choice and partly because you had grown. you had let go of everything that seemed to be clawing at you for weeks prior to you leaving.
funny enough, coming back felt like a recovering addict putting themselves in a room full of the same drug that sent them to rock bottom in the first place. for a while, it was something you dreaded.
"well, i'm glad you didn't" she says as she turns to face you.
"yeah, me too" you smile at her.
your fingers lace with ati's as she guides you through the sea of sweaty bodies, all of them there for different reasons. some were just there to have fun, some to pretend to be something they're not, some trying to forget something...where did you fall in that?
the bass of the music bounces off the walls, the screams of people singing along doing just the same. you smiled, putting your hand up and doing the same as ati smiled back at you. you were happy, everything was fine.
before your mind has the chance to pull you away from the moment, her fingers tighten around yours, pulling you towards something. your shoulder brushing against strangers, bodies pressing in too close, too warm. the music pounds through you, syncing with the beat of your heart until you can’t tell which one is louder.
you follow her without thinking, you always do.
she leads you toward a section tucked just off the main floor, slightly elevated—not in the direct line of chaos but not too far from it either. dim lights flicker over the space, casting everything in a soft glow that makes it easier to breathe. easier to exist.
her hand slips from yours as she steps up first, greeting her friends with a big smile on her face.
"we have royalty with us tonight" she smiles before stepping to the side and revealing you with jazz hands.
you're greeted with cheers and a few squeals, immediately embraced by one of her friends who compliments your makeup.
"look who decided to show" her friend, ian smirks teasingly. "the people's princess!"
you tilt your head at him, rolling your eyes playfully at the brunette.
"very funny" you say sarcastically before he pulls you into his embrace, pressing a kiss to your head.
"you look pretty" he says as you pull away.
"thank you, ian" you say, giving him a look.
ati shoots him a slight glare, mouthing his name and he takes the hint. the private interaction was noted and respected, to an extent.
you move onto the next person of her friend group, all of them saying hi and embracing you. this was nice, to feel welcome and wanted. that feeling had felt foreign for the past few months, so very out of reach.
conversation overlaps, voices and laughter stacking on top of each other as they try to pull you back into something familiar. it doesn’t feel like being interrogated—it feels more like being folded into something warm again, piece by piece.
someone asks where you’ve been, like it’s a simple question.
like the answer isn’t complicated.
you hesitate just long enough for someone else to cut in, laughing, dragging the moment away from anything too heavy.
“don’t scare her off already,” one of them , amari, says.
you let out a small laugh at that, shaking your head slightly as you bring your drink up to your lips. “i didn’t go that far.”
it comes out lighter than it should, and there’s a slight silence that falls over you guys because there’s dishonesty in your words. sure, you were only a flight away, a day’s drive if that was your thing, but even before that, you were far away. distant, even if you were in the same room.
that’s the thing about them—you’ve learned that over time. it wasn’t always like this, not at the beginning. at the start, they were just ati’s friends. names you heard through her, faces you recognized but never really belonged around.
and then everything happened.
you lost everything all at once and were sucked into one of the darkest times of your life and the last people you thought would be there for you were the ones who were there the most.
not all at once. not in some clean, obvious way. it was quieter than that. small openings you didn’t notice until you were already inside them.
an invite out even if you didn't show.
a seat left open without comment.
a drink placed in front of you like you’d never stopped existing in the space.
questions asked gently, and then not pushed when you didn’t answer them fully. they never made you perform being okay, just…made room for you. even when you didn’t take it.
ronnie leans back into the booth, studying you for a second too long.
“you look…good though,” she adds, like they’re trying to balance out the intensity of the question with something softer. "better"
you blink at that, caught off guard for a second but your eyes soften. “thanks”
there was a time when you hated when people told you that, it made you feel guilty and would send you into tears.
moved on from one of the hardest things you've dealt with.
there’s a small chorus of agreement after that, people chiming in at once, teasing, talking over each other again.
“she always looks good” ati disputes.
“it's unfair, really” ronnie nods.
“stop, she’s gonna get a big head again” ian teases, his eyes on you.
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
not perfect. not untouched. just…easy in the way old things sometimes are when you step back into them after a long time away.
ati shifts beside you, her knee bumping yours under the table. she doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you like she’s checking something only she understands.
not too fast. not too convincing. just enough.
she studies you for another second before leaning back, satisfied—or at least deciding not to push it further.
“told you,” she repeats again, like she already knew how this would go.
you don’t ask what she means this time either.
you remember the nights you didn’t stay.
the nights you left mid-conversation, slipping out before anyone could ask you to explain it, before anyone saw the tears rolling down your cheeks. the nights you disappeared and expected it to mean something irreversible.
the next time, there was still an invite.
still ati acting like you were just late instead of gone.
and ian—ian especially, of course, after ati—never looked at you like you had to earn your way back in. he just…made space in silence. like proximity was enough. like he understood that sometimes you didn’t have the words to stay, but you still showed up anyway. he never pushed, never pulled, just understood.
you never really knew what to do with that kind of consistency.
so you stopped questioning it.
the conversation drifts again, pulling you back in.
amari is talking about a night you remember all too well, exaggerating details you vaguely recognize because for that part, you weren't there. ronnie is laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink. devon is trying to recreate a story with hand gestures that don’t match the actual timeline at all, at least not for you.
you find yourself laughing anyway.
because it’s easier to laugh than to correct it.
drinks come and go without much thought. someone hands you one, you take it. someone else replaces it later, you don’t question it. the warmth settles into your chest slowly, loosening something tight that you didn’t realize had been holding on so hard.
it doesn’t fix anything, not like he said it did.
you feel yourself slipping back into your old self again, a smile etching its way onto your face and your nerves loosening by the second. it was nice, fuzzy and warm.
at some point, the energy shifts.
not drastically. just enough that someone ronnie gets up, pulling attention back toward the dance floor, already moving to the beat of whatever song has taken over the room.
“come on,” she says, reaching for your hand before you even fully process it.
you hesitate, just for a second, caught off guard.
but the alcohol in your system—that fuzzy feeling—made you gasp at the invitation, jumping up to follow without a second thought. the guys cheer you on as you guys go, ian's voice seeming louder than the others.
the booth falls away behind you as you step back into the crowd.
and it’s immediate again—heat, noise, movement. the kind of chaos that feels almost comforting once you’re inside it. like being held by something too loud to think through.
your body follows before your mind does.
music thrums through the floor, through your bones, through your chest until it stops feeling external and starts feeling like it belongs to you. the girls brush past you, spin you, giggle into your shoulder like they’ve never left your side.
you let yourself move without thinking too hard about it.
ati appears again as 'odd look' featuring the weeknd plays, grabbing your wrist, pulling you into a spin that makes you stumble into her with a laugh you don’t have to force, one she hadn't heard in a while.
“there she is,” she shouts over the music.
you shake your head, breathless, smiling anyway. “you’re annoying.”
“you love me,” she shoots back immediately.
you don’t answer, just push her lightly away, still laughing as the group swallows you back up again. for a while, you forget to think about anything else.
it doesn’t feel like healing, like it means something.
it just feels like movement. noise. warmth.
like existing without analyzing it.
but slowly, it starts to shift again.
it creeps in slowly—the kind of slow you don’t notice until you’re already in it. the warmth in your chest starts to spread a little too far, a little too heavy. your head feels lighter than it did a second ago, like it’s not sitting quite right on your shoulders.
the lights drag slightly when you move your eyes, colors smearing together for half a second longer than they should.
you laugh when someone spins you, but it comes out softer this time, a little delayed. like you’re catching up to everything instead of moving with it.
the floor feels different.
like your steps aren’t landing exactly where you expect them to.
there’s a different burn on your body now, not within. you can’t place it, but it feels like there’s a presence that wasn’t there before.
you swallow, pressing your tongue briefly to the roof of your mouth, trying to ground yourself in something small and controlled.
she leans in, her hand finding your arm, steadying without making it obvious. “you okay?”
“yeah,” you say, but your voice doesn’t come out as solid as you meant it to.
she studies you for a second, eyes flicking over your face like she’s piecing it together.
“it catching up to you?” she asks, not accusing—just knowing.
"what?" you question, too quickly. the smile on your face slipped.
"the drinks" she clarifies.
you let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “i don’t know.”
she laughs lightly, shaking her head, but there’s no frustration in it. just recognition.
her grip on your arm tightens slightly before she lets it slide down to your hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
"i'm gonna go get some air" you say.
"okay, do you want me to come with?" she asks.
"no, no it's okay. i'll be back in a few minutes" you reassure.
she watches you for a second longer, making sure you’re actually good to go before letting go with a nod.
the crowd feels thicker now as you push through it, bodies brushing against you a little too close, a little too slow to react. you misstep once, catching yourself quickly before it turns into anything noticeable.
the music still pounds, but it feels dulled now.
you make your way toward the hallway, your hand grazing the wall for balance without fully meaning to. it helps—just enough to keep things steady as the world tilts slightly to the side and then back again.
the door comes quicker than you expect.
you push it open, stepping out onto the relatively empty balcony.
the air hits you instantly.
it cuts through everything in a way the inside couldn’t.
you inhale deeply, almost too fast.
your hands find the railing, gripping it a little tighter than necessary as you lean forward, letting the cold metal press into your palms.
your head dips slightly as you close your eyes, letting the cool air settle over your skin, trying to let everything catch up—your body, your balance, your thoughts.
you lift your head after a second, eyes drifting back out over the city.
it stretches out in front of you—wide, scattered, glowing in a way that feels quieter than it should. not like new york. not as loud, not as stacked, not as relentless. the buildings sit lower, the lights more spread out, but it’s still alive in that same restless way. still moving.
cars crawl down the streets below, headlights bleeding into one another as horns cut through the night in short, impatient bursts. groups spill out onto the sidewalks—girls stumbling over each other in heels, laughter too loud, arms linked like they’re the only things keeping each other upright. somewhere across the street, a group lingers outside a corner store, voices overlapping, one of them breaking off into a shout that doesn’t quite turn into anything.
further down, someone sits alone against the wall of a building, head lowered, unmoving as everything else passes them by. no one stops. no one really looks.
not in the way it used to be—but in a way that settles somewhere uncomfortable in your chest. like you’ve seen this before, lived in something like it, just…not here. not like this.
different version of you.
but that wasn't entirely true.
you stay like that for a second.
your body reacts before your brain does, lifting your head and turning slightly.
you let out a quiet breath, like you’ve been holding it longer than you meant to. "hi, ian"
he steps closer, not all the way into your space, just enough to stand beside you. the distance feels intentional. careful.
“you just dipped,” he says.
just observing, like usual.
you shrug lightly, eyes still on the city. “yeah, everything just got too fuzzy”
there’s a pause, he nods.
not quick. not dismissive.
he takes it in the way he always does—quietly, like he’s filing it somewhere instead of reacting to it right away. his shoulder comes to rest against the railing beside yours, close enough that you can feel the shift in space, but not close enough to touch. he’s always been careful like that. deliberate without making it obvious.
the city keeps moving in front of you, but it feels slower now. or maybe you are.
“fuzzy how?” he asks after a moment.
his voice sits lower out here, not competing with anything, not needing to. it makes the question feel more intentional than it probably is.
you tilt your head slightly, eyes still tracing the lines of headlights below. “like everything’s just…catching up,” you say. “a little spinny.”
the word feels childish when it leaves your mouth, briefly reminding you that you felt like that months but you don’t take it back.
he hums quietly beside you, the sound thoughtful more than reactive. there’s a shift in his posture, subtle, like he’s turning the answer over before deciding what to do with it.
“is that from the alcohol,” he asks slowly, “or you getting in your head?”
it doesn’t feel like a loaded question.
but the way he says it—flat, even, open-ended—makes it sound like he’s just giving you options. like either answer would make sense to him.
you glance at him then, just for a second.
his expression doesn’t give much away. it never really does. but there’s something steadier in it tonight. something more aware, more caring.
you look back out at the city.
“probably both,” you admit.
your fingers tighten slightly around the railing, the cool metal grounding in a way the rest of you isn’t. below, a car honks too long, too loud, the sound stretching across the street before disappearing into nothing. a group of girls stumbles past it, laughing like it didn’t happen, one of them nearly losing her balance before the others catch her.
he nods beside you, slow and unsurprised.
“you weren’t pacing yourself,” he says after a second.
it’s not a question, it's an out because you both know this wasn't just about the alcohol. but he wouldn't push, he never did.
you let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “since when do i ever?”
your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, edges dulled by the alcohol still settling in your system.
he glances at you briefly, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly before it disappears again. “you're right.”
the word lingers between you, light but not meaningless.
a breeze moves through the space, just enough to lift the hair at the back of your neck, cool against skin that still feels too warm. you lean a little more into the railing without realizing it, letting the weight of your body rest there instead of fully holding yourself up.
he doesn’t say anything about it.
just shifts his stance slightly, closer by maybe half an inch. not enough to touch. just enough to be there if you needed it.
“you don’t have to do that, you know,” he says after a while.
your brows pull together slightly. “do what?”
his gaze flicks out toward the city, then back to you, like he’s deciding how to phrase it.
“overdo it just to stay,” he says. “you can just…be here, just you.”
the words settle heavier than they should.
you don’t respond right away.
instead, your eyes drift downward again, catching on movement below—a man arguing into his phone, pacing in sharp lines on the sidewalk, his free hand cutting through the air like it might make his point land harder. no one around him reacts. they just move around it, like it’s normal.
“i am here,” you say finally.
it comes out quieter. less certain.
he nods once, but it’s slower this time. more measured.
“yeah,” he says. “you are.”
but he doesn’t leave it there.
you can feel it in the way he shifts again, the way his jaw tightens just slightly like he’s holding something back and deciding whether or not to let it out.
“i just don’t want you to burn through yourself trying to prove it,” he adds.
you glance at him again, sharper this time, but he’s already looking away—out at the same view you are, like he didn’t just say something that sits heavier than everything else.
your grip on the railing tightens.
you don’t have a clean answer for that.
instead, you let the silence stretch, filling it with the noise below—engines idling, laughter echoing off buildings, the low hum of a city that doesn’t really sleep, just shifts.
“i missed you guys,” you say after a while.
it’s quieter now. more honest.
he exhales softly beside you, the sound almost getting lost in everything else. “i know, we missed you too.”
the way he says it is simple.
too simple to argue with.
you nod, a warm smiling taking its place on your lips briefly as your gaze drifts again, catching on smaller things now—a couple leaning into each other near a streetlight, someone sitting alone on the curb with their head in their hands, cars passing without slowing down.
“i’m trying,” you add, almost under your breath. "i really am"
the words come out softer than you expect, like they’ve been sitting somewhere in your chest for a while and only now found a way out. you don’t look at him when you say it. instead, your gaze stays fixed ahead, following the slow movement of headlights below as they blur slightly at the edges.
you don’t need to look at him to know he heard you.
there’s a shift beside you—not big, not obvious. just enough to feel. the kind of movement that tells you he’s there, present, paying attention in that quiet way he always has. not intrusive. not overwhelming. just…steady.
for a second, you think he might let it sit.
just leave it there between you, unanswered but understood.
“you don’t have to act like you’re okay all the time.”
his voice is low, even, threading easily into the quiet around you instead of cutting through it. it doesn’t sound rehearsed. it doesn’t sound like something he’s been waiting to say.
you don’t move, but something in you stills anyway.
the city continues below—cars passing, someone shouting something unintelligible that turns into laughter, music spilling faintly from somewhere down the block—but it all feels a little further away now, like it’s happening behind glass.
he exhales softly beside you, like he’s thinking through what he’s saying as he says it.
“you went through something that hurt you,” he continues, his gaze fixed outward, not on you. “you’re allowed to feel however you feel about it.”
you swallow lightly, your throat suddenly dry, the words settling somewhere deeper than you expected them to. you shift your weight slightly, leaning a little more into the railing, letting it hold you as the rest of you feels just slightly off-center.
“it doesn’t matter how long it’s been,” he adds after a second. “months don’t just fix it.”
your gaze drops slightly, catching on the movement below—a man pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, arguing into his phone like the rest of the world isn’t moving around him. no one stops. no one really looks.
everything just…keeps going.
“you don’t have to rush yourself just because everything else does,” he finishes.
that’s the part that sticks.
because for so long, it’s felt like the opposite. like time passing was supposed to mean something had changed. like there was a quiet expectation for you to catch up, to fall back into place, to stop feeling it the way you still do.
like losing everything was something you were meant to recover from neatly.
no one ever said it like this.
not in a way that made it feel allowed.
your lips part slightly, like you’re going to respond, but nothing comes out. the words don’t form the way they should, catching somewhere between your chest and your throat.
so you don’t say anything.
you just stand there, fingers curled tighter around the railing, eyes fixed somewhere out in the distance even though you’re not really seeing any of it.
there’s a small shift beside you again, the faint sound of his shoe against the ground, and when he speaks this time, his voice is quieter—more deliberate.
it lands heavier than everything else.
in the pause that follows.
in the way your chest tightens just slightly, like your body recognized it before your mind did.
he lets it sit for a second before adding, softer, “i’m here, i'm listening.”
not trying to replace anything.
not trying to make it into something bigger.
you close your eyes briefly, just for a second, letting it settle somewhere you don’t have to look at directly. the cool air brushes against your skin again, grounding in a way that feels more noticeable now.
when you open your eyes, the city comes back into focus slowly—the lights sharper, the movement below steadier.
instead, he pushes himself off the railing, the movement subtle but enough to break the weight of the moment, and when he speaks again, there’s a faint edge of something lighter in his tone.
“i’m gonna head in,” he says. “if you pass out out here, i’m not carrying you back inside.”
the shift pulls a quiet laugh out of you before you can stop it, your head tilting slightly as you glance at him. “you absolutely would.”
he raises a brow at that, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “don’t test me.”
and just like that, the heaviness eases—just enough.
he straightens up fully then, stepping back just enough for the space between you to feel noticeable again. he jerks his head lightly toward the door. “before ati thinks you disappeared for real this time.”
you nod, a small smile still lingering. “yeah, that's probably a good idea.”
he lingers for half a second, like there’s something else sitting there, something he could say but chooses not to.
“don’t stay out here too long,” he adds.
you nod again. “i won’t.”
he gives you one last look—quick, unreadable in the low light—before turning toward the door. it opens, letting a brief burst of music spill out into the quiet before it closes again, cutting it off just as quickly.
you stay there, leaning into the railing, letting the space he left settle back into itself. the music from inside is faint out here, muffled into something distant and almost unimportant, like it belongs to a different version of the night than the one you’re in now.
you watch the city again.
this time, really watch it.
the way the lights don’t feel overwhelming anymore, just scattered and steady. the way people still move below you—still laughing, still arguing, still existing like everything is fine or at least convincing enough. it doesn’t feel loud the same way anymore. it just feels…alive.
your grip on the railing loosens without you noticing.
you think about ian first.
the way he stayed just long enough, never too much. never pushing where you couldn’t go. always letting silence exist when you needed it to, but never letting you feel alone inside it. there’s something about him that doesn’t ask you to be better or fixed or anything other than what you are in that exact moment.
but it’s ati that sits deeper.
the thought of her isn’t loud—it’s persistent.
you remember how she showed up when you couldn’t get yourself to do much of anything. how she didn’t make it a big event, didn’t treat it like something fragile you had to apologize for. she just…started helping. opening curtains. sitting on your floor while you barely spoke. reminding you to eat like it was normal, like you were normal, even when you didn’t feel like you were.
and when you said you were thinking about leaving—moving somewhere else, anywhere else, because everything here felt too full of what had happened—she didn’t try to stop you.
she just went quiet for a moment, taking it in.
not like she was happy about it.
like she understood you enough to know when holding on would do more damage than letting go.
she helped you pack when the time came.
not carefully, not like something precious might break—but steadily, practically. folding clothes, taping boxes, asking what you wanted to keep and what you didn’t need to carry anymore. and even when she didn’t say much, her presence filled the room in a way that made it easier to keep moving.
she didn’t come with you.
she just made sure you could go and that meant the world.
your shoulders sink a little without you meaning them to. the cold metal of the railing presses into your palms, grounding you in a way that doesn’t feel like effort anymore. below, the city keeps shifting—cars passing, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loudly near a crosswalk—and instead of feeling separate from it, you feel like you’ve been slowly easing back into its rhythm without noticing.
just…no longer outside of it.
a faint smile tugs at your mouth before you register it. small. unperformed. something that doesn’t ask for acknowledgment. it sits there quietly, like it belongs.
not in a way that erases anything.
just enough to breathe inside it.
the thought settles, and for once, it doesn’t immediately leave.
the door behind you opens.
you don’t turn right away.
it feels familiar enough that your mind fills in the gap automatically—ian again, probably coming back with some comment, something light to pull you inside. your body shifts slightly toward it without thinking, already halfway out of the stillness.
“i knew it, i knew you would come back to che—”
but the sentence never finishes forming.
he stands just inside the threshold for a moment like he’s not entirely sure how much of this moment he’s meant to interrupt, the light from inside catching faintly at the edges of him before spilling out into the cooler air between you.
and then, simple and steady—
there’s no build-up to it. no warning your body gets ahead of time. just the sound of it sitting in the space between you like it’s always belonged there, like it was never meant to be separated from a time you’ve worked very hard not to look at directly.
at first, you don’t move.
your expression doesn’t change right away either, just holds in place like it’s waiting for your brain to confirm what your eyes are already seeing. the railing is still under your hands, still cold, still real—but it feels further away than it was a second ago, like the distance between you and everything else has stretched without permission.
the noise from inside the club dulls again, softer now, like it’s being filtered through something thicker than air. the city below you is still there, still moving, still alive in its scattered, careless way—but it stops registering as something you’re part of.
and he becomes foreground.
your chest tightens in a way you can’t immediately place. not panic. not surprise in the obvious sense. something older than both of those things, like your body recognized the shape of him before your mind agreed to catch up.
he’s still looking at you.
just standing there like he knows better than to move too fast in a space that already feels like it’s shifted.
the kind you don’t notice until you’re already somewhere else.
the openness of the balcony tightens, compresses, like it’s been replaced with something smaller. the sound behind him stops feeling like sound and starts feeling like memory—blurred, indistinct, too close and too far at the same time.
your fingers on the railing don’t feel like they’re gripping metal anymore.
they feel like they’re remembering something.
replaced by something else you don’t immediately want to name.
the light shifts in a way that doesn’t belong to this night. the space around you folds in on itself, like time deciding it doesn’t want to stay where it was anymore.
and you’re not on the balcony anymore.
somewhere that doesn’t feel finished.
somewhere that doesn’t feel like it’s ended cleanly enough to stay in the past.
and everything after that falls away with it.
a/n: this may not be the hollis chapter you wanted butttt you got a hollis chapter! i did pretty much just write this in one sitting (the first half being while i was in class) so if it's off (or there's mistakes) because i'm impatient and wanted it out TONIGHT.
p.s. i stole this taglist off my hollis smau so lmk if you want to be taken off/added
taglist: @angelverse222, @yallnotogso, @myliifeisamess, @swagonometryfr, @jjscoquette, @2bun22, @qiyokuliife, @ash13312, @missmodelsexx, @romansbbg, @crystalchaos222, @malcomtoddsn1gf, @hepdeerness, @2romllis, @kingoveverything,
