﹙👼🏾﹚ n͟ôtes ꒰୨ৎ ꒱ a majority of my works are targeted towards a black & female audience, but all are welcome to read my writing ! ⋆ 𐙚 ̊
ℋow 𝒯o 𝒩avigate ?
(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) hiya ! ⤷ browse the categories below firstly, these symbols help you decipher the content you’ll be reading — whether it be fluff, smut, or angst; i will preface there are lighter versions of smut and angst. if you are under the age of eighteen, refrain from the exposure to any sexually explicit materials written by me — light smut or not. continuing on, my works are diverged into several sections:
i. 𝓫lurbs — generally works that are concerned with an x reader/(your name) situation, word count doesn’t apply here. 🍨
ii. 𝓼horter works — works also concerned with an x reader/(your name) situation, typically shorter than 4000 words. 🤍
𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི now you’ve entered my bookshelf ིྀ !!
iii. 𝓸riginal character & reader fics — fics are series’s which span several chapters. clicking on their link will take you to their individual moodboards & chapter indexes. 🩰
iv. 𝓵onger works — works that are either original chapter or coded readers, typically less than fifteen chapters. i consider anything about fifteen chapters to be a complete fanfic. their layout is similar to of a fic with chapter indexes as well as moodboards. 🍓
𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠
smut — ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ • MINORS DNI
fluff — ᢉ𐭩
angst — ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
light smut — ℘ ˚˖𓍢 • MINORS DNI
light angst — ☁️·˚ ༘
𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑠
character x (your name) ✿
♡ 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 𝐌𝐂𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋
texting | pics as an aphrodisiac? ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
smau | chronicles of a digital diary ᢉ𐭩
♡ 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦
𝐃𝐉𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄
ooo you’re an angel ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱
𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠
character x (your name) ✿
♡ 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 + 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦
𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃
headcanons | stateside ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
𝐉𝐎𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖
hold me, until i find the nerve ࣪ ִֶָ☾. / ᢉ𐭩
practical purgatory ࣪ ִֶָ☾. / ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
echo ᢉ𐭩
blind faith ᢉ𐭩
“The Strong, Silent Type.” ☁️·˚ ༘ / ᢉ𐭩
santa baby ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
ocean eyes ᢉ𐭩
weather that isn’t rain ִֶָ☾., / ℘ ˚˖𓍢
headcanons | peruse ☁️·˚ ༘ / ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
needed me? ☁️·˚ ༘ / ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩
𝐓𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒
it had to be you ᢉ𐭩
♡ 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐇𝐄𝐀
headcanons | i know, i know, you ִֶָ☾. / ᢉ𐭩 / ℘ ˚˖𓍢
♡ 𝘭𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘢
𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐀𝐌
summer soft ᢉ𐭩
𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑓
original character + coded (your name) fics ݁ 𝟷𝟷 : 𝟷𝟷 ݁ ۪ ୧
² ON HOLD 𝐉𝐎𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 “𝐏erfect 𝐏air” navigation ִֶָ☾. + ☁️·˚ ༘ / ᢉ𐭩
𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠
original character + coded (your name) fics ݁ 𝟷𝟷 : 𝟷𝟷 ݁ ۪ ୧
♡ 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 + 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦
𝐉𝐎𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖
Drops of Jupiter (in Your Hair) ִֶָ☾. / ᢉ𐭩 COMPLETED
i. sail across the sun
ii. dimples of venus
• bones and all , epilogue/blurb ᢉ𐭩
𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐉𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍
Natural (04•05•2026) ִֶָ☾. / ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ / ᢉ𐭩 ONGOING
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ introduction and navigation
@rosariesandangels ! est. 2025.09 — do not plagiarize with any of my works, use the prompts for ai consumption. your feedback and patience is appreciated in the process of me writing always 💌
૮ ․ ․ ྀིა requests take time ! i am not constantly active on tumblr, be respectful — i’m just as human as you are , & use specificity in requests for clarification purposes ( don’t water down your ideas !!
𝒊𝒊𝒊. 🏹 𝓦ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟:
sports players & rpf ᨳଓ
fictional characters ꫂ᭪
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚ page i. 𝒮ports Players & RPF
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚ page ii. ℱictional Characters
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅
@rosariesandangels ! est. 2025.09 — do not plagiarize with any of my works, use the prompts for ai consumption. your feedback and patience is appreciated in the process of me writing always.
summary — A quiet hotel room. Rain tapping against the windows. In the warmth of midnight stillness, CeeDee Lamb and Y/N revisit the moment everything changed—the night “I love you” was said for the first time. Through flashbacks, soft confessions, and the kind of silence that feels safe, two people reflect on a love that started unexpectedly… and became everything. Because some moments don’t just stay in your memory—they live in your bones.
words — 1162
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The soft hum of rain tapped gently against the windows of the hotel suite, casting a dreamy rhythm over the quiet room. The city lights blinked outside, blurred slightly by the mist on the glass. Inside, it was warm. Still. Comfortable in that way only long conversations at midnight could make things feel.
Ceedee sat at the edge of the king-size bed, one leg pulled up, his fingers absently tugging at the hem of his hoodie. You were beside him, curled under the throw blanket he insisted on stealing from the team plane because it "felt better than anything on Earth."
Your head rested against his shoulder, and neither of you had spoken in a while. But it wasn't awkward. It was that quiet that feels earned—built on safety, built on knowing.
Then you broke it. Softly.
"What was going through your head," you asked, voice low and unhurried, "when I told you I loved you?"
His breath caught.
You didn't ask with expectation. You asked with curiosity. Like someone reopening a journal to a page they barely remember writing.
And he smiled.
Not the one he used for cameras or press conferences or end-zone celebrations.
The real one.
The one that only ever came out when it was just you and him and no one else in the world to perform for.
"I remember every second," he said.
You turned to face him more, shifting under the blanket. "Do you?"
He nodded, eyes distant with memory. "You were wearing my gray Cowboys hoodie. The one you always said smelled like cedarwood and stadium popcorn."
You laughed. "It does. Still does."
"I know." His smile deepened. "You had your hair up, like you always do when you're nervous. And we were in the parking lot, remember? After that late-night diner run."
You nodded. "You dropped your keys twice."
"That's 'cause you said it out of nowhere!"
Your cheeks warmed just thinking about it.
⸻
[FLASHBACK – Six Months Earlier]
It was late—almost 1 AM—and the empty Waffle House parking lot smelled like syrup and engine grease. You leaned against the side of CeeDee's car, sipping the last of your milkshake, still giggling about how he nearly tripped over the curb trying to "race you to the car."
"I told you I don't run after midnight," you teased.
He shot you a look, unlocking the car, tossing his takeout bag onto the passenger seat. "You told me a lot of things. Like how you 'definitely' weren't hungry five minutes ago."
You shrugged. "I lied."
"You're a menace."
You smiled. And then something in the moment—maybe it was the streetlamp casting that soft orange glow on his face, or the way his curls were still damp from the shower, or maybe just the fact that your heart couldn't hold it in anymore—pushed you over the edge.
You stepped closer. Just a little.
"Ceedee?"
He turned, caught off guard by your sudden seriousness.
You bit your lip. "I love you."
It was the first time you said it.
No lead-in. No dramatic build. Just a quiet, naked truth thrown out into a sleepy night.
Ceedee blinked.
Twice.
You could almost see the processing happening in his brain—like he was scrolling through every possible response and every emotion at once.
That pause. That heartbeat between you.
You'd never forget it.
You started to panic. "You don't have to say it back, I didn't mean to make it a big—"
He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you.
The kind of kiss that made your knees wobble and your heart stutter. The kind that told you everything his mouth was too stunned to say.
And when he finally pulled back, he whispered, "You just short-circuited my whole brain."
You laughed, forehead resting against his.
"Love you too," he whispered. "Always did. Just didn't know if I was allowed to say it first."
⸻
[PRESENT DAY – BACK IN THE HOTEL ROOM]
"Your face was priceless," you giggled, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. "You looked like I hit you with a brick made of feelings."
"I was hit. Emotionally injured. I should've filed a report," he teased, nudging you gently.
"You really didn't see it coming?"
He looked at you with soft eyes. "Y/N, I was in so deep, I didn't know up from down anymore. But hearing you say it—out loud—I swear everything in me just... settled."
You blinked, heart tightening.
"Settled?"
"Yeah." He leaned back on his palms, gaze drifting toward the rain-slicked window. "Like, for the first time in forever, I wasn't chasing. I wasn't proving. I wasn't performing. I was just... home."
You didn't expect that answer.
Didn't expect the way your chest would ache at the way he said it.
"I always wondered," you whispered, eyes on your fingers, "if it scared you. If love made you hesitate."
"Oh, it did." His voice was warm. Honest. "Because I didn't think someone like me got to have that."
You looked at him, confused. "Someone like you?"
"Yeah." He chuckled softly, as if amused by his own past insecurity. "I've had cameras in my face since college. People making decisions for me. Shaping who I am. But you..."
He turned fully toward you now.
"You never wanted the player. You wanted me. Even when I was exhausted. Even when I was frustrated after practice. Even when I couldn't explain what was eating at me and just needed to be quiet for a while."
Your throat tightened.
He reached for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.
"What was going through my head when you said you loved me?" he repeated, his voice low, reverent. "I was thinking, Thank God she said it first. Because I was seconds away from breaking."
You laughed through the tears now welling in your eyes. "That's so dramatic."
"Because it was. I loved you so much it hurt."
He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
"And I still do."
Silence stretched between you again—but this time, it wasn't uncertainty.
It was fullness.
Comfort.
Safety.
"I love you too," you whispered.
He kissed your forehead. "I know. But I'll never get tired of hearing it."
You melted into him, legs draped over his lap now, your cheek resting against his chest. His arms wrapped around you like they were made to.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, two people who once collided in a parking lot with milkshakes and unspoken feelings were now here—whole, vulnerable, deeply in love.
"You really remember everything?" you asked after a while, voice muffled by his hoodie.
"I remember everything about you," he said. "First smile. First sleepover. First time I saw you wear my jersey and almost passed out."
summary — After a brutal game, Tee Higgins is left alone in the locker room—bruised, breathless, and trying to pretend he’s fine. But when Y/N, the team’s new personal trainer, finds him still sitting in the silence, what begins as a routine checkup quietly unfolds into something more. Beneath the pain, the stubbornness, and the weight of expectations, there’s a moment of honesty neither of them expected. Because sometimes, what hurts the most isn’t the injury—it’s learning to let someone stay.
words — 1227
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The night had been loud—roaring fans, pounding feet, electric lights slicing through the dark sky. Now, silence wrapped around the nearly empty locker room like a heavy, unseen fog.
Tee Higgins sat on the bench, his jersey damp, shoulder pads halfway peeled off. He winced as he moved his arm, pain shooting up through his side. His ribs felt like someone had wrapped barbed wire around them, and breathing came with a price. He hadn't told anyone how bad it hurt.
Just then, the door creaked open.
"You shouldn't still be here," came your voice—soft, tired, familiar.
Tee looked up, catching sight of you. Y/N, the trainer who had started with the Bengals just this season. He knew you didn't come to find anyone unless you were worried.
He gave you a half-hearted smirk. "Was just... catching my breath."
"Yeah?" You stepped closer, your expression somewhere between skeptical and concerned. "You've been catching it for forty-five minutes."
Tee looked away. He didn't like being seen like this—vulnerable, banged up, worn thin.
You crouched in front of him, setting your bag down beside you. "Take off your jersey."
He hesitated, but the look in your eyes was firm. Not cruel. Not pushy. But certain.
So he peeled off the jersey with a grunt, revealing the deep bruise blooming across his ribs. You inhaled sharply.
"I told you I was fine," he mumbled, leaning forward.
"That," you said, pointing at the swelling, "is not fine. That's likely a cracked rib."
"I've had worse."
"Not the point."
Your fingers reached out, hovering above his side, waiting for permission. He gave a small nod.
When your hand finally touched him, he flinched. "Damn."
"Stop moving around," you said immediately, your voice low but sharp. "You'll make it worse."
He froze, biting back another sound of pain.
Your hand moved more gently now, trained and sure. "Why didn't you tell anyone after the hit?"
Tee exhaled through his nose. "Didn't want out. We needed the yards."
"You can't carry a team if you're broken."
"Someone has to."
The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of you had carried all night.
You hated seeing him like this—shoulders tense, pain buried under performance. He was always the one laughing on the sidelines, picking up rookies, leading with quiet strength. But now...
"You always do that," you said quietly.
"Do what?"
"Put yourself last."
He didn't answer. You weren't sure if it was because he disagreed—or because you were right.
You reached into your bag and pulled out a cold pack. "Lean back."
He did, letting you press it gently to his ribs. He hissed but stayed still this time.
"I've seen this before," you said after a beat. "Players pushing through pain. Pretending it's not there."
"It's part of the job."
"No, it's part of the culture. Doesn't mean it's healthy."
Tee chuckled bitterly. "If I stopped every time something hurt, I'd be benched half the season."
You raised an eyebrow. "So you'd rather play broken?"
"Yeah," he said, meeting your gaze. "Because playing broken still means I'm playing."
That silence came again, but this time, it wasn't heavy—it was sharp. It cut.
You looked down at his side again, the black-blue discoloration spreading like spilled ink. You adjusted the ice slightly.
"Does it hurt to breathe?"
"A little."
"Then it's worse than you think."
"Still worth it."
You didn't realize how tight your grip had gotten on the cold pack until Tee flinched again.
You pulled back, shaking your head. "You're so stubborn."
He smiled, only a little. "You keep showing up, though."
You looked up, and something in his voice stopped you. It wasn't cocky. It wasn't teasing.
It was... honest.
"You think I wouldn't?" you asked, searching his face.
"I don't know," he said. "Some people don't stay when they see you hurt."
You swallowed, hard. That hit too close to home—for both of you.
"I'm not 'some people,'" you replied softly. "And you know that."
His eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no barrier. No act. Just fatigue, and pain, and something raw.
"You scared me tonight," you admitted. "When you went down in the third quarter. You didn't get up right away."
"I couldn't breathe," he said. "Felt like someone had crushed my chest."
You closed your eyes briefly, that image slicing through your memory like a knife. You'd been on the sideline, clutching your medical bag, your heart slamming against your ribs.
"I thought you were down for good."
"So did I," he whispered.
When you opened your eyes again, he was still watching you.
"You didn't have to come here," he said. "Most trainers clock out the second the game ends."
"Yeah, well," you replied, giving him a small smile. "Most trainers aren't me."
A pause.
"Good," he said, almost inaudible. "I don't want anyone else."
The air between you shifted. It was subtle—but unmistakable.
You cleared your throat, trying to ground yourself. "Okay, um... I need to tape this up. You'll need scans tomorrow. And you're not practicing this week."
"I can't just sit—"
"I'll go straight to Coach. Don't test me, Higgins."
He huffed a breath. "Fine. One week."
You moved carefully, wrapping gauze and support tape across his ribs, fingers brushing bare skin. Neither of you spoke for a while. The tension had changed. Not gone—but deeper now. Quieter.
"Y/N," he said suddenly.
You looked up.
"Thanks... for coming back."
You tilted your head. "Of course I came back."
"No," he said. "I mean it. Every time."
You understood then. He wasn't just talking about tonight.
Not the locker room.
Not the game.
He meant every time he had to put himself back together—emotionally, physically—and you'd been there. In ways others hadn't been.
"I'll keep coming back," you said, steady and sure. "Even if you keep pretending you don't need anyone."
"I don't pretend," he said.
"Okay," you replied with a quiet smile. "Then stop flinching when I touch the parts that hurt."
That shut him up.
You finished wrapping the last strip, smoothing the tape gently with your palm.
"There," you said. "Still hurts, but at least you won't make it worse... unless you do something stupid.
He gave you that crooked grin again. "Define stupid."
"Anything involving a football before your X-rays come back."
He groaned, leaning back against the bench. "You're the worst."
"Yeah, well, I'm the worst who keeps you breathing."
That earned a real laugh—short, careful, but real.
You stood, gathering your things, but paused before turning away.
"Need help getting to your car?"
He hesitated. "Can I ask for something else?"
You glanced back. "What?"
Tee looked down for a second, almost sheepish. "Just... sit for a minute?"
You blinked, surprised
"Of course," you said softly.
You sat beside him on the bench, close but not touching. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just breathed—slowly, quietly, together.
The noise of the world could wait.
Here, in this quiet space of bruised ribs and unspoken things, Tee Higgins wasn't a star or a warrior or a wide receiver.
summary - things don’t always go the way they’re expected to and relationships don’t always last. justin and y/n’s relationship is falling apart, but in one way or another, things will work out for the better for both of them
pairing - justin herbert x fem!reader
wordcount - 8k
masterlist
The house was quiet. All she could hear was her own breathing and the distant sound of the air conditioner, keeping the house at a bearable temperature. She was curled uncomfortably on the corner of the white couch, one that looked like it came straight out of a minimalist spread of Architectural Digest.
It was their couch, she had to remind herself. Not just some couch in a house she happened to live in, even if that was how it felt sometimes. It was their couch, their house, their home. She’d lived there for five months already, and still it didn’t come naturally to call the house ‘home’. It had to be an active thought, that it was theirs and not just his, otherwise she would forget it was hers too.
It wasn’t like the house was much of Justin’s either, in many ways. The walls were still bare, save for a few black and white prints that looked like they came with the frames they were in. The pictures they had of friends and family were so few and far between that they were easy to miss. Far too easy.
A chill ran down her spine and instinctively she looked toward the window, expecting the cool wind that used to blow into her apartment back in Eugene to be the cause. But it wasn’t. It was just the dumb air conditioner.
There was nothing interesting on TV, no fun movies or TV shows to watch on any of the unnecessarily many streaming platforms Justin paid for. No books in the half filled bookshelf against the wall in front of her managed to catch any of her attention. Her notebook, once filled with lots of doodles and sketches, now sat blank and empty on the white coffee table beside her.
Her white coffee table on her white rug. Surrounded by white walls, white shelves, white cupboards and white dressers. And, of course, the damned white couch she was sitting on.
It wasn’t a home. It was barely a house. There was no emotion, no feeling in the walls. She– they hadn’t been there long enough for there to be any strong memories associated with any room. It was just the place she ate, slept, stared at the walls and waited for Justin to come home.
She had no idea when her life had become so monotonous. When she’d become so one-sided, when she had become a person who lived in a sterile white house decorated by someone who didn’t even live there, waiting for someone who would come home late and bruised, too tired to talk but too busy to hang out.
She still had visions of the house she’d dreamed the two of them would live in someday. It didn’t much matter to her where it was, Eugene, LA or any other city in any country, just that it was hers and Justin’s. Because it automatically had to be a home then, right?
She wanted her front door to be painted some fun color. Blue, green or red, she wasn’t too picky, but she wanted a painted front door. If she thought Justin would ever agree, she’d even consider a yellow or purple door. She wanted a garden with herbs, vegetables and berries, a backyard that was both homey and fun to be in. Big enough for a dog or a couple of kids to play in, someday. She wanted a balcony or deck with a daybed for the two of them, where they could lounge in the sun and enjoy the day together.
She wanted hardwood floors and a big kitchen, so they could host dinners and parties for their friends and family, game nights and movie nights. Most of all, though, she wanted color and life. She wanted it to feel lived in, to feel homey and warm and calming. It was the kind of house she’d lived in growing up and it was the kind of house she wanted to live in now that she was an adult. It was the kind of house she wanted her kids to grow up in, the kind she wanted to grow old in.
The white walls in front of her now only taunted her. They weren’t even a pale gray or a boring beige. They were just stark white like the rest of the goddamned house. White, white, white. Nothing lived in, nothing homey. Just blank, unforgiving and emotionless white.
Lifting her left hand to her mouth to bite another of her nails down to the quick, she barely even reacted at the slight sting of blood. She felt too numb to care.
It wasn’t just the house either, no matter how much she wanted to convince herself that was all that was wrong. No, the house was just a reflection of a much bigger problem. One that they had both been actively ignoring for months now, almost since they’d arrived in California.
She wasn’t sure when the last time she had a conversation with Justin was. Not a few quick words about practice or five minutes of small talk when he was for once finally free. But a real conversation, where they talked about their thoughts and feelings, you know, like couples do. Like people who are in love are supposed to. She never got to communicate anything and it only isolated her more.
The writing was more than obvious on the wall, it had been for long. It was practically written in electric red paint all over their clinically white walls. It wasn’t a question of if they would somehow manage to save their relationship anymore, it was only a matter of time until everything crumbled into pieces too small to glue back together by desperate, shaky hands.
Pushing the palms of her hands into her eyes, she pulled her knees up to her chest and groaned loudly. It wasn’t as if anyone was around to hear or care. “What the hell am I even doing?” she asked herself aloud, throwing her head back, hands falling to her sides as she did.
She had no friends to call and ask to hangout, they were all back in Eugene. Her family too. She didn’t have a job, either. She was trying to find one, but with little experience in her chosen field and in a densely populated city like Los Angeles, it was proving difficult.
Simply put, she had nothing to do all day. Which was why she was spending her day staring at those dumb white walls. They never stopped being so annoyingly white no matter how much she stared at them, it was starting to eat at her. She didn’t want white walls.
But she was in LA now. It was her home and Justin was all she had. She should’ve felt free, finally in a big, new city with lots of things to see and experience for the first time. But instead, all she felt was trapped.
It wasn’t like it was all bad, though. She was still in love, truly, deeply in love. So in love it ached to be near Justin at times and even more when they were apart. There was not a doubt in her mind that Justin felt the same. Their love for each other was not something she was unsure about, no matter how many things felt wrong or out of place in and around their relationship.
The two of them had been dating for a little over two years, and she could say without a doubt in her mind that they were the best two years of her life. She’d never laughed and smiled so much in her life before, never felt so loved, so seen by another person.
But – there always seemed to be a ‘but’ – football came in the way more than she wanted to admit. More than either of them wanted it to. They quickly found out college football paled in comparison to professional football. Justin’s time melted away far quicker than either of them thought it would, and before either of them realized, he was getting out of bed before she woke up, spending the entire day away from her, and falling asleep the minute he got home, barely sparing her a few sentences about his day, nevermind hers.
They were practically strangers sharing a house. A home, she reminded herself. It was supposed to be their home. But even then, during those few quiet moments when Justin was making the two of them smoothies in the kitchen or stroking her back while he watched film and she cuddled into his side, she could still feel her heart grow a little, always making more room for him. Every flash of his dimples, every bone crushing hug, every longing stare from the kitchen doorway, they all had her heartbeat picking up and heat rising to her cheeks. They all made her fall in love all over again.
Those moments played over and over again in her mind like a home movie whenever he was away. A short movie with many cuts in between, a shaky hand filming it all and sometimes moving and cutting short even when she didn’t want it to, but a love story nonetheless. They were what kept her going, what had kept her afloat for these past months.
It was Justin’s first year in the league, and things were hectic. He wasn’t supposed to start yet, they were supposed to get a chance to adjust to life in the league and settle into their new normal before then, but things happen. Before either of them knew it, Justin was making headlines. He was the talking point on TV and radio shows and the subject to new scrutiny and flattery.
He was the face of a franchise. A man who lived and breathed football. He spent nearly all his time in the facility or the gym, and the rest was split between his office watching tape, and sleeping. The biggest thing, though, was the new added pressure. He had to be great, not just good. If not for all the fans and kids that looked up to him and relied on him to succeed, then for his teammates, his coaches. His family, who gave so much for him to realize his childhood dream. His girlfriend, who wanted nothing more than to see him succeed, to see him happy.
It was twisted, the thought that part of his motivation was making her proud and making sure her hard work and effort wasn’t in vain, while actively pulling the two of them apart. So when he was at the facility getting treatment and watching endless hours of tape, long after even the coaches had left, she was alone in their house, trying desperately to find a reason not to go back to Eugene. Not to leave.
All her time in that big house gave her lots of time to think and reflect. Lots of time to cry and mourn something that wasn’t even dead yet. She’d gone through all the stages of grief already. Most stages passed in a blur, but denial lasted far longer than she wanted to admit, or had even realized herself. She’d been convincing herself and Justin that things were okay for months before ever even realizing that something was wrong, that she wasn’t happy anymore.
Because who was she to complain? She lived in a beautiful house in LA, only a short walk from the beach. She had the means to buy anything she wanted, the time to do whatever she wanted and go wherever she liked, even if it was through Justin. She had a kind and caring boyfriend who genuinely did love her. From the outside, her life was perfect.
It was the kind of life she’d wanted as a teenager, the picture perfect home with the picture perfect man. She didn’t need to work, didn’t need to see her family all the time and got to live in a big and interesting city like Los Angeles. But now, in the thick of it, it was more suffocating than anything she’d ever experienced before.
It was a slow death, clawing and clinging onto the hope that the feeling would pass. That everything would be okay again, all the while slowly sinking in on herself and losing parts of herself in the process. Her entire personality had somehow gotten caught in the crossfire and now she wasn’t even sure who she was outside of being Justin Herbert’s girlfriend.
She wasn’t even sure what her favorite color was anymore or what kind of hobbies she wanted to have. The most basic facts about herself, and she couldn’t even name them. When she realized that, another painful realization followed soon after. How could she ever be with someone if she wasn’t sure who she was? It wasn’t fair to him, and it definitely wasn’t fair to her.
She could remember the day the thought finally crossed her mind three weeks ago. It was like something just clicked and she knew. She knew it was over, even if it wasn’t yet. It would be sometime soon and there was nothing she could do about it except wait in fear. Except, knowing that it was inevitable, dampened that fear and made it settle in her stomach; uncomfortable but steady, like a universal, empirical truth that she had no power in swaying.
The hurt she’d been carrying around before then lessened almost immediately after that. The last thing she wanted was to leave Justin, to break his heart – no matter if he’d broken hers first or not. But she felt optimistic, too. Optimistic that someday soon she would be herself again. Maybe a different version, a newer one, but herself nonetheless.
While she’d been losing herself in him, Justin was busy finding himself in his new role and new life. He was growing, thriving, getting better at football and realizing new things about himself. And despite the team’s record being downright abysmal, he was still happy at his core, living out his fairytale dream in real life.
It was just a shame she didn’t fit into it anymore. But maybe that was okay. Maybe they were just too different to last, to be happy enough together for it to be enough.
They both knew it; the end was near. That was probably why they were in the weird space they were in now, desperately trying to cling to each other, sinking their nails into the other’s skin until they drew blood, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to make the other stay. All while pushing the other away, protecting themselves the best way they knew how at only twenty-two. How were they supposed to know how much work relationships really took when they were still so young?
But the way they protected their own hearts was heart wrenching for the other. Justin stopped kissing her goodbye in the mornings, settling for a hug and a kiss to her head, and stopped calling between practices and meetings even when he had a few spare minutes. Nightly cuddles turned into sleeping on opposite sides of an all too cold bed, one that had once been warm and inviting, one that had been her home. They wouldn’t touch on purpose, only ever drifting together in their sleep, too scared touching for too long would open the floodgates before either of them were ready.
But what was easily the worst of it all was the fact that he’d stopped saying “I love you.” She couldn’t remember the last time she heard those three words leave his lips, even by muscle memory after a short phone call. Every time she tried to pinpoint the last time, she stuck another knife in her chest; painful as ever, but never enough to put her out of her suffering.
She couldn’t blame him, he was just protecting his heart. Underneath his stoic exterior, he was a soft, loving guy with a fragile heart. She wasn’t any better, really. She’d hurt him just as much, trying to salvage whatever relationship they had left.
She wasn’t checking in on him during the day, not sending the sweet and supportive texts for him to read once practice finished, like she used to when they were in college. She wasn’t staying up, waiting for him to get home after games anymore. She had stopped trying, so she couldn’t fault him for doing the same.
But she’d been in the ‘acceptance’ stage for long enough already, and it was time. They couldn’t keep going like this. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – live her life like this anymore.
She’d been trying to corner him, sit him down and talk to him about it all. But she could never find an appropriate time, no matter how long she waited for him to get home from the facility. And when he was finally home, he brushed her off, promising they’d talk about it later only for it to get too close to a game day for her to have the audacity to bring it up. It was like he knew what was looming and was refusing to face reality, staying even later than usual and going in at times he usually wouldn’t, just to avoid her, to avoid the conversation he knew she needed.
But eventually, finally, the bye-week arrived. There were no excuses anymore, no made up reasons to procrastinate or delay the inevitable. It was finally time, no matter how much he hated it.
On Thursday that week, they sat down for dinner, just the two of them, and made mindless smalltalk. She asked about his teammates, his coaches, how he was feeling and about his next game. Easy stuff, nothing too heavy, nothing too personal. Justin asked if she’d done anything interesting, if she’d gone out with any friends, but she hadn’t, she never did. He still didn’t understand that he was the only thing keeping her here, that she had no one else.
It was only slightly awkward sitting with him in their quiet dining room, those same suffocatingly white walls surrounding them. She knew him so well, felt so comfortable around him, that any silence was as welcome as noise and conversation. She just enjoyed being near him, no matter what. She would miss that.
They settled on the couch after dinner, not on opposite ends, but with an unusually large space between the two of them. It wasn’t purposeful, but sitting close didn’t feel as natural as it used to, especially not when they both knew what was coming.
“Your mom called yesterday,” she mumbled, sparing a glance at him, only to feel her breath catch in her throat, an uncomfortable pressure on her chest suddenly, pushing her down into the couch cushions. He was wringing his hands, eyes caught on a singular spot in their bookshelf, though she couldn’t see what. He looked a million miles away, but she knew he was listening. He always did. “She said you haven’t called her back yet.”
She brought her knees up to her chest slowly, letting her cheek rest against them as she looked back at the TV, trying her best to focus on the show playing in front of her, despite knowing it was an impossible task.
“I’ve been busy,” he defended, shrugging as he started picking at his cuticles. She could already see the redness around his nails, small pieces of skin ripped off, though he didn’t seem to mind too much. It kept his mind occupied, kept it from drifting. “I’ll call her later this week.”
It went silent again and she couldn’t take it any more.
Before she even realized what was happening, and before her mind had even sorted out how to begin her sentence, nevermind how she was going to actually say the words out loud, tears were pooling in her eyes. The pressure from before doubled and part of her thought she was about to have a heart attack, but she knew that would’ve been far too merciful for reality.
She couldn’t see clearly, the characters on the screen fading into nondescript shapes and bright colors. She refused to cry, refused to whimper or sob or so much as let out a shaky breath. She had no right to, not when she knew what she was about to do.
“Justin,” she whispered, trying her best to keep the shake and tears out of her voice. She really tried, but she was doomed from the start. Just saying his name out loud hurt, wondering when the last time would be. But she pushed through, keeping her eyes far away from his. Anywhere but his pretty green eyes. “We need to talk,” she continued, arms wrapping around her legs.
He shook his head, so slightly she almost didn’t even notice, but the tremor in his movements gave him away. “I’m actually kind of tired. Maybe we should just turn in for the night?” he tried, but it was to no avail. His voice was shaky, cuticles bleeding freely and eyes growing red with unshed tears. His jaw was clenched so tight she was sure it ached, but he couldn’t let go. “We can talk about this later.”
His leg was bouncing, shaking, up and down, incessantly. He leaned forward just slightly, and from the corner of her eye, she noticed him glance toward the patio door. It was more than clear he wanted to leave, that he was itching to run away. But something was keeping him glued in place.
“No, no. I– please. We need to talk. We need to,” she said, more determined this time, more desperate. She hid her face between her knees and let out a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut like it would stop the tears from falling. “I can’t… I can’t keep going like this. Can’t keep living like this.”
“Like what?” he chuckled nervously, completely devoid of any humor. He was so anxious she could feel it radiating off of him in waves. He almost looked nauseous, though, knowing him, he probably was. He refused to meet her eyes, much like her, so they both kept staring ahead; at the TV, the bookshelf, the rug, their own hands, anywhere but the other’s glossed over eyes.
She finally had the chance to speak, finally had the chance to be honest, but her words betrayed her. She managed to squeak out some pitiful noise, rubbing her temples like it physically hurt to even say. “I– I’m just so alone. There’s nothing for me here, no one. You’re the only one I have and you’re barely even here with me. I’m alone,” she wiped her nose with her sleeve, shaking with all the emotions she’d fought so hard to contain for so long. “I… I wanna go home,” she admitted.
That time, the words didn’t miss. They hit her square in the chest, piercing her heart with all her might. She wanted to go home. Back to Eugene and her childhood home. Back to her old, graying dog. Back to hug her mom again. Back to feeling like she was at home.
Justin couldn’t have stopped the tears that fell from his eyes even if he had tried. He didn’t, he knew there was no use. The guilt settled over him first, heavier than any loss he’d ever experienced. It was bitter and it stung as he swallowed it down, but all that did was spread it to the rest of his body. He felt so responsible. He was responsible. They both were, there was no denying it.
There had been a time when he had been her home. When it was a given that no matter where they were or what they were doing, that everything was okay, everything was good, as long as they were by the other’s side. The realization that he wasn’t, and hadn’t been that for her for a while now, hurt more than he thought it would. More than the broken femur and the broken collarbone. More than all the sprains and strains and muscle spasms all at once.
No words felt like they were enough. But Justin had never been a man of many words either. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, tripping over the syllables.
Rubbing at her eyes, she sniffled again, “It’s not your fault.” A wet smile spread across her face, though it looked pained more than anything else. But she was trying, she really was.
“What happens with…” he trailed off, scratching the side of his head. His hair suddenly felt too long. It was something she’d loved about him, something she still loved about him, but now it was just too much. Just like the smell of her perfume and the sound of her soft breaths as she did her best to keep herself together, despite failing miserably. “Is it– Is it over?”
“I think so. I think it has to be.” Tears fell freely down her face then, in rapid rivers, one after the other with no end in sight. Her chest shook with her sobs, the ones she tried to dampen and stop as well as she could because it felt so wrong crying in front of him now.
Justin wanted to reach out, to comfort her, to get some much needed comfort himself, but he was frozen in place. He couldn’t even wipe the tears that slowly stained his flushed cheeks. He saw it coming, he knew they were done long ago just like she knew it. But it didn’t stop the final twist of the knife from hurting so goddamn much. He thought he could handle it, but he couldn’t. The reality of losing her was far worse than he could have ever imagined it would be.
“I don’t… I’m not trying to fix things – I know that’s not what you want – but I just need to know if there was anything I could’ve done. Anything that could’ve fixed this, stopped all of this?” he asked. She shook her head, not as an answer, but in refusal to give him one. She understood his curiosity, as well as his aching need for closure, but there was no good answer she could give him.
“What do you want me to say to that? Of course there were things we could have done, but we can’t go back in time and change them, even if we wanted to,” she explained, wiping under her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. It was the kindest answer she could give him. Telling him he was distant, hadn’t helped her settle down enough, hadn’t noticed how alone she felt wouldn’t have made him feel any better. It wouldn’t have done him any good. “Besides, football is and should be your priority. It’s your job, your dream. It’s the most important thing right now and… and I just don’t fit into all of it anymore. We both know that.”
He hated that she was right. He really hated it. But he didn’t have time for a relationship, he barely had time for himself and his friends and family. He desperately wanted to make it work but he knew he couldn’t have both. He was just lucky that he fell in love with someone amazing enough not to make him choose, not out loud, at least.
He didn’t want to admit aloud how badly he knew he had messed up. How a few different choices months ago could have changed all of this. If he had only helped her find a job, friends, a community, anything to tie her to LA. If he had made her feel more loved, more important, more like she was actually home like he was by her side.
He still felt like his house was their house, together. He doubted that would change even when she left. This house would always be their first house, their first home. Nothing could ever change that, no one would.
But he couldn’t say any of it out loud. Couldn’t apologize for any of it. It wasn’t something he was ready to face quite yet. It wasn’t something he could handle without breaking too much for the bye-week to have time to repair. Even with his own heart crumbling in his chest, he was still thinking about football of all things. That’s how committed he was. He had to admit how big of a flaw that was when it came to relationships.
“Yeah,” he managed to croak out, voice breaking, before coughing. “We’ll be okay, right? You and I, we’re okay?” He kept nodding as if doing it enough would convince him it was the truth, like he could convince her too.
“Yeah.” Slowly, somberly, she smiled in agreement. “I think it’s for the better. I know it is. It’s for the best for both of us.”
She sounded so resolute, even through her steady, but now less frequent, tears. She felt sort of… hollow. She didn’t know exactly what she was supposed to feel. If she was supposed to cry her heart out or sit stone faced without a single expression crossing her face. She thought she would handle it better, less emotionally, given all the time she’d spent thinking about this very moment for the last few weeks, but the reality of it was much harsher to bear than she thought it would be.
Despite having known their relationship was nearing its end already, Justin didn’t feel as confident in the decision as she did. In all honesty, he didn’t want to end things. But he still couldn’t move, not to help her or himself. His fingers were completely still, splayed over his thighs, and his breaths were so slow he looked like he wasn’t breathing at all from a distance. The only thing not perfectly still was his bouncing leg, his only real sign of life, aside from the quiet tears that slowly stained his dark blue sweatshirt as they fell down his cheeks.
“I just… I loved you so much. I mean, I really hit the ceiling. I couldn’t love you any more than I do,” she shook her head with what sounded like a self-deprecating laugh, sniffling a little at the end of it. “I just need you to know that. It’s not about you at all. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”
He finally looked at her, holding back tears once more when he saw the frown she was fighting back and the way she was folded in on herself, like she was trying to take up the least amount of space possible. He didn’t think he’d ever cried more in his entire life, seeing her like that. He wanted to reach out, say or do something to make her stop crying – he hated nothing more than to see her cry – but she kept talking before he had the chance.
“I think a part of me will always love you,” she mumbled, quiet, but not heavy. Just an easy remark, some truth she could just feel. “But I’m not myself anymore. It wouldn’t be right to stay. Wouldn’t be fair to myself.”
A heavy breath later, he admitted, even though the words stung; “I understand.” She needed her own life, her space and time. He hated it, but she was right and he couldn’t keep her from finding herself. He rubbed his runny nose against the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I love you too. Always will.”
They sat quiet for a minute, falling so easily back into that comfortable silence. Except this time, it was so charged, so heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm, but without any of the lightning. All the suspense without any of the action.
“What happens now?” he finally asked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, biting the inside of his cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. By now, both of their tears had stopped running, but had yet to dry and glowed on each of their cheeks in the blue TV light.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly, once again resting her cheek on her knees so she could look him in the eye. For a second, it felt like any normal day when they were discussing what to buy from the grocery store or when they would plan the next family dinner. But reality quickly came crashing down as she spoke.
“I guess I’ll pack my things and drive up to Oregon tomorrow. I’ll mail the stuff I can’t fit in my car to my parents, but most of the stuff here is yours anyway so I’ll probably get it all myself,” she chuckled, trying to make light of the situation with a joke, but it fell flat as his frown deepened. “Sorry,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see that dreadful look in his eyes any longer. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
“Don’t be. I– we both knew this was coming,” he choked out, biting back tears again at the thought of it. He ran his hands through his hair, again, in an effort to distract himself, before returning to pulling on his cuticles, all to pull his attention away from her leaving and his sadness.
“Still, you deserve someone who can deal with all of this. Someone who can be there for you and build a home around you. It’s my fault for not trying hard enough to establish a life here with you.”
His eyes widened, almost in a panic, as he rushed to assure her that wasn’t the case. “No, no I should’ve done more. I left you all alone to deal with all this, that’s not your fault. At all. I need you to know that. I should’ve been more attentive, should’ve showed more how much I care.”
All she did was open her eyes and meet his, but it was enough to calm him down immediately.
He took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. “And as for what I deserve… I couldn’t have asked for anyone better than you. You’re more than I ever thought I could have and you deserve someone better. Someone who will be there for you,” he rambled, eyes shining with unshed tears, hands slightly shaking. But other than that, the only thing he cared about was calming her down, making sure she knew none of it was her fault. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t be that for you. I swear I wanted to be, more than anything.”
More than anything.
That didn’t mean much in the moment. Especially not considering they were breaking up because they were both choosing to prioritize football over their relationship. She would’ve laughed at the irony if it wouldn’t have made her sob if she did. But it was the thought behind it that counted, she supposed. That’s how it was with most things when it came to Justin; he always meant well, even when his execution wasn’t as flawless as he had wished.
But instead of saying any of the things on her mind, she just smiled sadly and nodded. She’d let him have it, let him have that closure and peace of mind and let him take the blame for it all. It was always how he did things, humble to a fault. If he took accountability, he could rationalize it and move on. He needed it, the least she could do was pay him that courtesy.
“I know,” was all she said, before they fell into another bout of silence, this one colder than the last. There wasn’t really anything more to say. They both did things they now regretted and they were both equally responsible for the end of their relationship. She almost wished the breakup had been a screaming match instead, it would’ve probably hurt a lot less. Then, she could’ve focused on her own anger and his, instead of on actually verbalizing her feelings for the first time in months, something that was far scarier than any argument she could imagine. But she should’ve known that just wasn’t the type of man Justin was. It was one of the many reasons she fell for him in the first place.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, maybe even too much, but is there any chance we could stay friends?” he shakily asked her, shifting on the couch. It felt awkward, even slightly embarrassing, though he knew it didn’t have to be. He was genuinely afraid of her answer.
“Maybe… maybe in a while. Sometime in the future, when we’re both, you know, over things,” she replied, pursing her lips. Truthfully, she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Even if they weren’t together, she still needed him. “I can’t let you go fully, so yeah… friends.”
“Friends,” he repeated back, frowning and grimacing, testing out how the word felt on his lips. He didn’t like it, at all, but it was better than nothing. He could do friends, he might even make her happier as her friend than her boyfriend, a thought that in turn hurt more than he could’ve ever imagined. He felt like a failure.
“Can I– can we hug? Just one more time?” It was pitiful, it really was, but she wanted it more than anything. At the same time, she wasn’t sure she could handle touching him again, only to let him go. But she wasn’t willing to risk missing out on it, not when it might be the last time ever. “We don’t have to. Not if you’re uncomfortable.”
“No I’d– I’d really like that actually,” he scratched the back of his head, turning toward her. “One more hug.”
Like so many times before, like opposite poles finding the other in the pitch black with nothing but magnetic attraction to guide them, they melted together in the middle of the couch. Her hands wound tightly around his neck, fingers clutching onto the collar of his sweatshirt tightly, refusing to let go. His hands splayed over her back, pressing her closer into him, so he could feel every inch of her against him. One more time.
He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with as much air as he could, enjoying the smell of her. He wasn’t sure if it was her shampoo or her perfume, a combination of the two or something else entirely, but there was just something so comforting about the way she smelled. He wanted his home to smell like her. Home smelled like her.
They had shut the TV off sometime during the beginning of their conversation, she couldn’t even remember when anymore, everything was such a blur. She couldn’t even call it the beginning of their breakup, that had started weeks ago. Now all she could hear was the low hum of the refrigerator and the deep breaths Justin was trying to take to stabilize his shallow breathing, fanning gently across her neck as his chest ever so slightly shook with sobs he was doing his best to keep hidden. He was trying so hard to keep his composure, to not bother her, trying to act like she wasn’t actively breaking his heart.
She wanted to tell him it was okay to cry and let go, to say or do whatever he needed to get over her. To be okay again as quickly as possible. She would’ve deserved it, no matter what he had to say, though she knew he would’ve never done anything to hurt her on purpose, even if it would’ve made him feel better.
The only problem was, it wasn’t her place anymore. She wasn’t the one who got to comfort him, nurse him back to health, to kiss his scrapes and cuts and bruises, physical or emotional. It would’ve been cruel if she tried to, just after ripping it all away from him.
Neither of them wanted to let go, but they didn’t want to overstep either. So they stayed as still as possible, hoping to get away with a few more seconds, or minutes, if they were lucky. Every single drawn out second felt like stolen time, stuck in the limbo of their past and present.
But as time slowly ticked by, they both knew they couldn’t stay that way forever. This time, it was Justin who took the leap. “Will you stay with me tonight, in our bed, like normal? For old times sake?” His voice was small as he spoke, a crack hidden somewhere in the middle of the mumbled words, pressed against the crook of her neck. Instinctively, her palm smoothed over his back, and he sucked in a harsh breath at the movement, making her still.
She hadn’t expected his question, or proposition, and though she knew it would only make letting go much harder when it was finally time to leave tomorrow, she couldn’t deny that all she wanted was to cuddle into his chest and fall asleep peacefully, the same way she had for two years. Comfortable, normal and predictable. So she nodded.
They got ready for bed slowly, not rushing through a single step. They brushed their teeth side by side, showing off their perfectly coordinated dance throughout the bathroom, not knocking into each other even once as they moved throughout the room to get ready one final time.
Justin pretended everything was normal to the best of his ability, but she could see the sadness in his eyes every time he glanced her way through the mirror, hoping she wouldn’t notice. His shoulders sagged more than normal, almost like they would after a rough loss, but heavier, and the few words he mumbled were hoarse and sounded more forced than usual.
Falling into bed was easy, normal even. Under the sheets, they curled into each other in the middle of the bed. She laid her head on his chest and she could feel a lingering kiss press to the crown of her head, before he leaned his face against that very spot, taking a deep breath in.
He kept his face buried in her hair as she moved to the crook of his neck, arms around each other and legs tangling together. He could feel the hot tears pooling by his collarbone, wetting his worn t-shirt, but kept from mentioning it. Instead, he rubbed up and down her back as she wept and burrowed his face closer into her, trying to commit the smell and feel of her to his memory.
The way she slotted so perfectly in his arms, how her head felt above his heart, the way her cold feet instinctively moved to press against his legs to warm up. The feel of his hands in her hair, the skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth seeping through her clothes. There weren’t enough words in the English language to describe how much he would miss it all.
His hand smoothed down the back of her head, his lips pressing against her forehead, her temple, her head. He pulled her closer, so close there was no space left between them, and only held her tighter, like he was scared she’d disappear from his grasp the minute he let up even a little. He was doing everything he knew he wouldn’t get to do come morning.
She didn’t know what to say or do, really, other than enjoy his warm embrace. The way his arms so easily fit around her frame, the way his skin felt against hers, even the slight stubble on his jaw that he was trying to grow out, without much luck. There wasn’t any animosity between them, no anger, only grief for their relationship and for what could have been if things had turned out a little differently. If only she could’ve stuck it out.
In the darkness of his bedroom, he whispered, just before they fell asleep. “Please text me when you get to Eugene, so I know you made it alright? That you’re safe,” he asked softly, lips brushing against her skin as he did. “It would make me feel a lot better.”
“Of course,” she promised. It was the least she could do, the absolute least.
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The morning was weird. It was stale, awkward, and normal. Too normal.
He was up early, ready to get to the facility like always, despite the bye-week. The work never ended for him. So he got dressed, brushed his teeth and got all his stuff. He was ready to leave within ten minutes.
She watched him get ready from the bed, sitting on the edge in one of his ridiculously large t-shirts, legs hanging over the edge so her sock clad feet only barely touched the ground. Every now and then, as he walked by, he’d flash her a smile. It was sad, not even nearly reaching his somber eyes, but a smile nonetheless.
When the time to leave finally came, it was almost too much to bear. He looked at her in a way that felt nearly expectant, but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t ask, he wouldn’t dare, but it was clear what he wanted. One last round of routine.
Quietly, she followed him through the hall, down the stairs and to the front door. He opened it just slightly, but didn’t cross the threshold. Instead, just like so many days before he turned around and wrapped his arms around her in a hug. He brought her into his chest, warm, lingering and perfect, before pulling back only slightly, letting his hands trail down to her waist, then her hands.
He was trying his absolute best to pretend the day was just like any other, like nothing was wrong. Like they’d say goodbye now, but still see each other at the end of the day. Like he would get to do the same thing tomorrow.
He hated every single day he’d wasted now. Every time he’d swerved a kiss or left a hug early. Every time he’d chosen to place his lips on her cheek or forehead instead of on her lips, where they belonged. But he wouldn’t make that same mistake again, not when he only had one more shot.
“Have a great day, honey,” he croaked out through bated breaths, hands gripping hers so tightly it nearly hurt. She could see it in the slight sheen in his eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, he was holding back tears. But he plastered on the best smile he could manage for her, and raised a hand to caress the side of her face. “I love you.”
And, like every other day before he leaned down and kissed her, so gently, so softly. On her lips this time, for the first time in weeks. For a few seconds, she got to lean into him, his back bent and her on her tip toes, and feel the steady caress of his lips on hers. And for just a few seconds, everything was more than okay.
“I love you,” she said against his lips when they parted, unable to hide the lump in her throat as she fell down to her usual height. “I’ll see you later.”
His lip twitched, like he wanted to frown, wanted to cry, but he pushed it back. His eyes glazed over, but he blinked it away. “I’ll see you later,” he repeated back to her, like muscle memory.
But unlike all the other times, letting go was hard. He wanted to, he tried, but his body wasn’t as connected to his mind as he thought it was. He kept a hold of her hands, looking deeply into her eyes, like he was searching for something, waiting to wake up from a nightmare. But whatever he wanted to see, he never found it.
“I’ll see you later,” he repeated, like it would force him to let go. He sounded more sure this time. It was a promise he intended to keep. Slowly he slipped from her grasp, and found the strength within himself to turn around, to look away from her and step over the threshold.
When he walked down the steps in front of his home, he didn’t look back.
