fandom: titans (its honestly the only version of jason i know)
prompt: After losing Jason to the Joker, the reader falls right into Red Hood’s trap.
ship: past!jason todd x reader, minor connor x reader (its mentioned like once if you squint)
requested?: no but i couldn’t stop thinking about it
warnings: death, grief, mentions of wanting to die
A/N: set in season 3, between the first two episodes but before the third (when Hank dies :( rip) but before they've connected Jason with Red Hood, they just know about the red hood attacks
You wanted to scream, yell into the sky and ask why the fuck life had to be so fucking cruel but knew you couldn't, your words would cause physical pain to whoever was closest or whoever you were aiming your words at. And the closest person was you and years of ugly words were already spread across your silver skin. The news had broke about Jason's death and you found out from the fucking television; you had glared at the newscaster on the screen before leaving without looking at any of your teammates. You needed to be alone and luckily your friends understood that because none of them had followed after you.
Or so you had thought; because you had nearly jumped out of your skin when your saw Connor already waiting by your bedroom door. I'm not in the mood, Connor, you sign, your hands doing the talking for you. Memories of teaching Jason how to communicate with you come flooding back and tears threaten to spill out. Connor must sense the tears threatening to escape so he doesn't say anything; instead he just pulled you into a hug. A strong, comforting hug that was almost a little too tight but it was so needed. The warmth of his chest against your face finally made the tears spill out and onto his shirt.
You had been on your own and on the run before the fatefully meeting the Titans, they had been sent to take you down and you had put up a good fight, refusing to use your actual powers until you felt you had to. But as soon as you opened your mouth; you were quickly taken down by Rachel. Your mouth was forced shut, your hands and legs tied together with invisible forces. Luckily, instead of seeing an enemy, the Titans saw a scared teenager and you've been apart of the team ever since. You've never used your powers since that day; your fighting skills were more than enough to help take down a few bad guys. Most of your team had learned sign language to communicate with you but there was still a disconnect with others.
Connor's movements were quick as he picked you up in his arms and brought you into your room. Things were him were complicated since Jason had left the Titans but your feelings about the superboy were the last thing on your mind as he gently laid you on top of your bed. An empty feeling began building inside you as his warmth left your bed. "Do you want me to stay?" Connor asked, his tone was neutral and careful, like he didn't want to upset you any further. You shook your head no and before you heard the door close, you hear Connor say, "Let me know if you need anything." Once you were alone; a sob shook through your body.
You didn't have much time to sort your feelings because soon the you and the rest of the Titans were in Gotham; in the Wayne manor. Now that Bruce was gone, killing the Joker before going, the Titans were in Gotham until further notice. You couldn't help yourself; as soon as you entered the building, you went in search of Jason's room. You'd give anything to feel closer to him again, to breathe in his familiar scent and wash yourself in him. Room after room, you finally find the one you're looking for and tears spill out once you're behind his closed door. It smelled like him; which brought you to your knees on the soft carpet.
++
After a horribly failed bank robbing mission; you needed to get out. You didn't care about the threat of these red hoods going around; you were ready to open your mouth and scream. The thing about not being able to scream and let out your emotions is that it begins to boil over and you're ready to take your anger out on anyone. But you bit your tongue because you couldn't just let it out so instead you found yourself in a bar that you were barely old enough to enter.
The music is too loud but it helps drown out your feelings as you head to the bar, you point to some random drink on their sticky menu that's taped to the counter. As you wait you look around the bar; there's an upstairs which seems like a VIP area but majority of people seem to be dancing on the ground floor. There were couples littered around the dance floor and it made you envious. How dare they be happy and dancing together while your heart felt so heavy? You were in the wrong place if you didn't want to see people be happy so you were trying not to be so bitter.
Once your drink was ready; you paid and tipped but before you could walk away, the bartender spoke, "There's someone in VIP asking for ya." You wouldn't know anyone in VIP, you were sure about that, so you raised an eyebrow. "A Jason, I think? Little fuzzy with names, miss." The drink in your hand threatens to fall at the mention of the name, your heart picks up. But Jason was dead, it couldn't be him. But he was the only Jason you knew. You just nodded and held your drink tighter, closer to you. Did you dare climb the stairs that lead to whoever was up there? Was it a trick?
Curiosity killed the cat and Jason, you thought bitterly as you climbed the stairs, using the railing to help steady your trembling body. You couldn't help the hopefulness that was bubbling inside your body; you'd let yourself be fooled in your grief if it let you be closer to him. Your heart was leading the way, all logic thrown out the window with each step you took. Once at the top of the stairs, you looked around for some other form of life. You didn't realize just how empty it was upstairs, just rows of empty tables and what looked like someone sitting in the back corner of the room. You had a bad feeling yet you gulped your drink to reassure yourself before heading towards the mysterious figure.
You had only taken a few steps before you head began to spin; your world tilting around you. You tried to steady yourself with an empty table but in your dizziness you were completely off and missed the table by a few feet. Your body hit the ground with a thud but your body felt numb and tingly so you could hardly feel the impact of the hard floor. Darkness began to consume your body as the shadow rose from his spot; even in your state you could see a male figure but that's all you could make out before everything went dark.
++
When you finally come to; your body feels like its on fire and there's a stabbing pain coming from your mouth, you can feel the rope tied around your wrists and ankles. You're weak; groggy from the drugs you assumed had been slipped into your drink. How could you be so fucking stupid? The mention of Jason and you had become completely weak; you hated yourself for that. Once you're fully aware of your situation, you begin to look around the unfamiliar room. There wasn't much to it; a basic abandoned building with graffiti scattered around.
"Pity," a voice makes your head turn and you realize you're not alone. So this was the Red Hood that was causing all the chaos in Gotham and you fell right into his game. And you had made it so easy. "I thought the Silver Tongue would be a bigger threat but little mouse-y fell right into the trap." You open your mouth to speak but quickly realize why you were in such excruciating pain (how you hadn't realized when you had first woken up was beyond you); you tongue had been cut from mouth. "Cat got your tongue?" he laughed.
Panic began to set as tears rolled down your face; you began to thrash in your restraints as Red Hood closed the distance between the two of you. He was laughing as you squirmed against the cold ground. "Sorry, not sorry," he said, grabbing your hair in his hand and held your head in place, holding a gun to the side of your head with his other hand. "Tell-" he paused to laugh again; you wanted to kill him. You were embarrassed and angry you had let him get you in this position but mostly at yourself. You wanted to die; you silently prayed he'd pull the trigger but you knew it wouldn't come. It was all a game and you were bait; he needed you alive to send a message. "Tell the Titans this is a warning." But before you could react, he hit his gun against the side of your head, successfully knocking you out for a second time.
++
When you come to for the second time; you wake up with your teammates surrounding you. You were back in Wayne Manor; your head spinning as people rushed to your aid. All you could think about was your ripped out tongue, they probably didn’t know about that yet. Everyone was talking at once; asking if you were alright, saying you had been gone for hours and you had just shown up unconscious on the manor's front steps. You opened your mouth to show your missing tongue; answering their questions without any other explanation. You pretended to pull a hood over your head; telling them exactly who did this to you.
ever since i found out the duffer brothers are twins i keep telling my twin there will be “twin on twin violence” if anything happens to steve so if any other twins wanna get in on the action i’m sending invites
why is younger eddie so much more annoying in the second movie??? he was not annoying in the first one and then the second movie jack amps eddie up by a million
General Warnings - internalized homophobia, regular homophobia, religious and evangelical themes/descriptions, cursing, drug/alcohol use, depictions of religious trauma, eventual smut
AN - before we even start let me disclaim: this series will explore heavy topics. a lot of it is self-indulgent, as a queer woman who grew up in the church. If you find any of the themes listed above triggering or upsetting in any way, DO NOT PROCEED. i’m so excited for you guys to read this one. With love ~ emma <3
On your fifteenth birthday, your father gave you a purity ring.
Today, the sun cascading through the delicate stained-glass windows reflects perfectly off the dainty diamond in its setting; your hands clasped in prayer.
‘Our Father, as we gather in Your presence, we thank You for the blessings of this day,’
Your father’s unwavering voice echoes the service’s concluding prayer over the congregation as you sit thigh to thigh with your mother, heads bowed. A singular pleated french braid fell neatly down your back, styled just how your mother liked it. The sanctuary smells of stale communion crackers and mildew. You silently scold yourself for wishing it would be time to leave already.
‘In Your holy name we pray,’
Amen.
The old wooden pews creak as the mass starts to funnel out of the church; a cacophony of chatter and laughter erupts throughout the room as different families begin to socialize. Sues and Annes, Toms and Franks– asking each other for prayer. ‘My husband got laid off.’ they’ll say, or ‘We’re having trouble conceiving.’
Sometimes when you watch them all flock together like this, you wonder if you’re being given a prophetic glimpse of your future.
“And Y/N, how are you and your boyfriend?”
You’re snapped out of your daze, “Sorry?”
“‘Ben’ is it? How are you and Ben doing?”
“Oh we’re–” you shake your head distractedly, hair swishing along the back of your perfectly ironed dress, “We’re good, thank you,”
“She and Ben are actually going to Princeton next year,” your mother adds triumphantly, “just received the acceptance letters last week!”
“Oh!” Your mother’s friend Dorothy squeals, “Isn’t that delightful?!”
“We’re very proud of her.” your father compliments as he wraps a tight arm around your shoulder, “She’s even going for ministry.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful,” Dorothy laments, “you know, I went to a bible college–” she looks at you in a stern, motherly way that makes sweat prickle at your brow, a bony finger dancing in your direction, “there is truly nothing better than committing your life to our Lord.”
This is the conversation you decide to ruminate on as you sit in front of your vanity mirror, brushing your braid out in a daze. You must’ve been sitting there, running that wide tooth comb through your hair, for at least ten minutes now– your delicate strands starting to break and frizz.
The worn pages of your leather-bound journal stick to one another as you fold it open, ready to spill your guts amongst the pages,
April 8th, 1986
Tomorrow is Monday. A new week, with new responsibilities. I’m scared to disappoint daddy, but I know he just wants the best for me. Ben came over for dinner tonight, momma really loves him, I think. I think he’s sweet. He’s been bringing me flowers more often. They’re always wrapped in brown paper instead of that ugly plastic you get at the grocery store. He’d make a good husband one day, don’t you think? Write again soon.
You always sign your name in your frilly cursive at the end of each passage as if anyone else would be writing in your diary except for you. You think it feels more formal that way. More official.
...
Eight o’clock is decidedly too early for band class. Your flute keeps drooping in your hands, your notes are flat, and your breath support is terrible. Maybe your lingering drowsiness is just the excuse you’re using to deflect from the fact that what’s really distracting you is a girl across the room that you’ve never seen before, standing awkwardly and tuning her trumpet.
She’s sporting chipped, black nail polish and bright red converse covered in inky doodles. Her hair is a sandy blonde color and looks just a little chemically damaged like maybe she’d bleached it recently. It’s miles shorter than yours, though– resting just above her shoulders.
The girl doesn’t pay you any mind, nor anyone else for that matter. Mrs. Foster didn’t even introduce her to the class, and there certainly weren’t any students lining up to meet her. She stood out like a sore thumb and her style reminded you a bit of that one super senior who was still in Mrs. O’Donnell’s English class. It makes you wonder where she came from, and why on Earth she would ever come here. Two months before graduation, no less.
She had her instrument packed and was standing by the door before the bell even rang. You hoped distantly that she had someone to sit with at lunch. Claire and Ben would be totally pissed if you ditched them to keep her company otherwise.
When you got to the cafeteria, the two of them were already seated, waiting for you and looking as if they were squabbling about something stupid again. Nothing new.
“Oh, don’t have a cow, Claire,” you hear your boyfriend say as you sit beside him. He takes a generous bite of a ham and cheese sandwich and speaks with his mouth full, “your life is hardly over.” It always makes your stomach churn when he does that. He could be so boyish and gross sometimes.
“A ‘C’ is totally gonna bring down my GPA!” Claire cries in response.
“Didn’t you like, already get accepted into your top school?” You ask carefully, as not to rock the boat. Claire was like that: easily agitated. Every conversation with her felt like walking a tightrope.
Claire scoffs, “You know, some of us actually have to work for our futures?”
Ben cuts in, somehow foreseeing the words about to spew out of her mouth, “Claire, don’t–”
“--Not all of our daddies can just buy our way into ministry school. You don’t even have to know anything to get into those programs, for Christ’s sake.” She spits, a scowl painting her face.
She’s not usually so cruel. As angry as you want to be, pesky tears prick the corners of your eyes. Why must you cry for every emotion?
“That’s not fair,” you say, trying your hardest to sound stoic but the wobble in your voice betrays you. If there’s one thing Claire hates, it’s weakness. She’s like a damned army general sometimes– every tear that rolls down your cheek just fuels her anger.
She wasn’t always this way. There was a time, before Ben and before high school, where the two of you were inseparable. Hanging upside down from your knees on the monkey bars and sharing cherry popsicles in a blistering summer heat. Claire was like the sister you never had– and now? Now a sickly, dreadful feeling washed over you every time you anticipated seeing her.
“You’re right,” Claire snaps, “It’s not.”
“You know how hard I worked to get into Princeton.” You defend.
“Please, spare me. It’s all any of us have been hearing about all year.”
“Claire–” Ben spits through clenched teeth.
Without another word to either of them, you collect your things and make a beeline for the girl's bathroom. Your boyfriend picks his jaw up off the floor in time to catch you by the forearm as you’re making a run for it.
“Hey, no, wait–”
“Leave me alone, Ben,” you say as you try and wriggle your arm from his grip, tears still breaching your lash line.
“She’s just–” he searches, “she’s just stressed out.”
“And you would know right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Ben,”
As you’re walking away, you catch bits and pieces of a hushed conversation between your friends as your boyfriend sits back down.
‘You know I’m right.’
‘Claire, enough. You know how her dad is.’
You don’t bother listening to the rest of their bickering. It doesn’t matter.
The swinging door of the restroom pushes open with a creak. You approach the large mirror mounted above the sinks, getting an up-close and personal look at your skin under the harshest fluorescent lighting you’ve ever seen. You look like a corpse and your mascara is running in two distinct paths down your cheeks.
It’s as you're aggressively wiping the streaked makeup off your face that you hear a small sniffle emanating from the stall behind you. You freeze momentarily, having previously been under the assumption that you were alone.
“Hello?” You call quietly into the void.
Only another sniffle echoes back at you.
“Is… someone there?”
A meek ‘yeah’ emanates from behind the stall door.
“Who is it?”
The stall door pushes open to reveal a disheveled looking girl. The girl from band.
The entire front of her is covered in some lumpy substance, you don’t even attempt at a guess at what it is. Maybe mashed potatoes? Maybe chocolate milk? Both?
Neither of you say anything for a moment, until you break the silence with a super helpful, “Oh my gosh…are you okay?”
“Well, other than Tommy H and his gaggle of idiots dowsing me in concoction of–” she glances down at her soiled clothes, “whatever the hell this is, I’d say pretty I’m dandy.”
You grimace in disgust on her behalf– can practically feel your own clothes stinking and sticking to your skin just by looking at hers, “I’m so sorry, they’re…” you can’t seem to find any appropriate words to describe that group of degenerates.
“Assholes?” She offers.
“Sure,” you chuckle, thankful that she filled in the blank for you.
She begins yanking paper towels from the machine hanging on the wall, running them under the faucet and wiping them down the front of her t-shirt, but to no avail.
“Shit!”
“Do you… have a change of clothes?” You ask hesitantly as she’s still furiously scrubbing.
“No, and my mom’s totally gonna murder me if I come home like this! She just bought me this shirt after I’d been begging and begging for it, and then when she finally did buy it, she just told kept telling me how expensive it was and then I felt bad and now I–”
You’ve never heard someone talk as fast as her in your life. Like actually ever.
“Hey, okay–” you cut her off, “why don’t we leave a little early? I can bring you back to my house and you can wear something of mine?” You gesture to her, “And I can wash your shirt.”
“Are you sure?” She winces, fully preparing for this to be just another esoteric joke at her expense.
In all honesty, you really weren’t sure. You’d never skipped school before, let alone brought a friend home without your parents meeting their parents first and giving you the greenlight. This was uncharted territory for you, but the girl’s wide and pleading blue eyes were chipping at your resolve. You wanted to help her.
“Yeah, of course,”
“You’re a lifesaver,” she deflates in relief, you can practically see the tension leaving her shoulders in real time. “I’m Robin, by the way.” She says, sticking out her hand for you to shake.
“Nice to meet you, Robin.” You smile and return the gesture.
...
On the ride back to your house, you learned that Robin walked to school every day all the way from where she lived in Forest Hills trailer park. Some deducing led you to the conclusion that that's at least a thirty-five minute walk both ways. She’d worried aloud and picked at the loose threads of her jeans the entire drive to your neighborhood, clearly scared of ruining the upholstery of your car; but you really didn’t mind. You were just glad to save her the trek home.
Your family wasn’t what you would consider ‘wealthy’, but to Robin, your upper middle-class home might as well have been a millionaire’s vacation house.
“So…this is me,” you state as you lead her inside, “I can give you the tour after you change, if you want?”
She looks a little awestruck, taking in her surroundings like a kid in a candy shop, “Yeah, sure…” she replies distractedly.
You lead her upstairs to your bedroom. It’s much nicer than Robin’s– just like the rest of your house– and much girlier too. All four walls are a shade of pale pink, adorned with posters of famous pop stars like Madonna and Blondie. The patchwork quilt that covers your bed matches the rest of the room's aesthetic laced with a frilly trim.
“Here’s a shirt and a pair of sweatpants,” you hold the pile of clothes out to Robin, breaking her stupor, “I hope they fit alright,”
“No, I’m sure they’ll fit great,” a beat of silence, “Where can I uhm–change?”
“Oh, duh– right, sorry,” you say with a palm to your forehead, “there’s a bathroom down the hall and to the left.”
You’re on edge the entire time you’re showing Robin around your house. Logically, you know both of your parents are at work, but the knowledge doesn’t help to ease the anxiety you feel at the thought of your father coming home to find a stranger in your house. You know what he would say about Robin– Robin and her kitchen scissor haircut and her black nail polish and pierced ears.
“Dude, you have two living rooms?” Robin asks in disbelief.
“Well, technically one’s a living room and one’s a…sitting room,” you cringe inwardly as you try to defend yourself but only feeling like a pretentious asshole the moment the words leave your mouth.
“I’ve never even had a second floor in any house I've lived in before,” she admits.
“Do you move around a lot?”
“I guess? But it’s just my mom and I now.” She answers.
“I’ve always lived here–” you start to say but are quickly cut off by the blur of Robin’s figure rushing past you and to your entertainment center.
“Holy shit! Is this an Atari?” She picks it up excitedly– the way she handles it admittedly makes you a little tense.
You laugh despite yourself at her bewilderment, “Yeah, do you wanna play while we wait for your clothes to finish in the wash?”
“Uhm, are you kidding? Obviously!”
So that’s how you spend the next two hours: thigh to thigh on your sofa with this hyper, golden retriever of a girl you just met less than a day ago, playing Slot Racers for long after her clothes are finished drying.
Just as you were about to beat Robin for the third race in a row, you hear the telltale sound of a key turning in the lock of your front door.
To say your father– who clearly was not expecting anyone to be home yet– was surprised, would be an understatement.
“Y/N?”
“Dad!” You shout, whipping around from where you’re sitting on the couch, “What’re you doing home already?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Oh I– I uhm–” you stumble over yourself as you watch your worst fear become a terrifying reality.
“Why is there a stranger in my house?” He asks, interrupting your attempts at explaining yourself.
“Oh, this is–”
Robin shoots up rather abruptly from beside you, sticking her hand out stiffly– just like she did in the bathroom earlier, “Hi, I’m– my name’s Robin, it’s nice to meet you.”
She clears her throat nervously as she waits for your father to return the gesture as you had, but he doesn’t. He keeps his focus solely on you.
“Why is Robin in my house when your mother and I are not here?”
“Earlier, at school, Robin spilled something on her shirt. We came back here so she could wash it.” You know before you even offer it that your explanation isn’t going to cut it. You’re not getting off the hook this time.
“I see. I want you to take Robin back to her own house, and then I want you coming straight back here. Do you understand?”
“Yes–”
“‘Yes’ what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He waves you away with this hand, signaling you to grab Robin by her wrist to drag her to the washer and dryer unit next to your kitchen. You pluck her outfit from the machine and wordlessly lead her back to your car parked in the driveway.
It’s not until you’re idling in Robin’s driveway with her stark presence still beside you that you’re able to clock how fast you’re breathing.
“Hey,” she grazes your forearm with her slender, ring clad fingers, “are you okay?”
“Yeah!” You reassure her a little too quickly, “Yeah, my dads just– he can be a little strict sometimes, you know?”
“Yeah, believe me, I get it,” she chuckles, but it's mostly humorless, “my moms a lot like that too– I’m honestly still trying to figure out how I’m gonna explain why I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.”
“Maybe just say you got too sweaty during PE?”
That elicits a real laugh from Robin, one where you can see all her teeth as she throws her head back against the passenger seat. You think it’s the first time you’ve seen it but subconsciously hoping it won’t be the last.
“Honestly? Best case scenario is that she’s passed out, wine drunk, on the couch.”
She tries to mask the inherent sadness of her statement with another small giggle, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
“Well– here,” you say, grabbing a pen out of your glovebox and her hand, “just in case she is awake, you can call me, and I'll tell her what happened,” you offer, scribbling your landline’s number on her clammy palm.
“Thanks,” she smiles shyly, looking up at you through her lashes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” You ask, “In band?”
“Yeah, I’ll– I’ll see you then,” she calls back with a two-finger salute as she shuts the door to your passenger seat and walks backwards towards her house.
You’re not sure what compels you to wait, parked in her driveway until you see her cross the threshold of her trailer door, but you do.
...
There is hell to pay when you get home.
Both of your parents sit side by side on the couch you had just sat on with Robin not more than thirty minutes ago.
Had he seriously called your mother home from work for this?
There's nothing polite or welcoming about their demeanor. Their posture is straight and hard, like two stone statues sitting in a stark contrast to the living room that’s all soft cushions and handmade quilts.
“Sit.” Your father commands.
So, you do, in the armchair across the room from them. Palms beginning to sweat.
You try to mirror their posture out of habit but find that you can’t will yourself to be so cold as them. You’re a human girl, after all. Sometimes you think the same can’t be said about your mother and father. You wonder what they talk about when you’re not around.
“I don’t want you hanging around that girl anymore,” your father speaks again. He spits the word ‘girl’ out of his mouth like its poison– like it may physically harm him to house between his teeth for even a second longer, “she’s a bad influence on you.”
“You don’t even know her–” you try to protest, though you saw this coming.
“Perhaps we could’ve gotten the chance to if you hadn’t snuck her into the house!” Your mother butts in, “You’ve never done something like this before! I simply don’t understand it.”
“I–”
“I mean, really, what’s gotten into you?” She asks, though you know the question is rhetorical. She’s not truly expecting an answer.
“I’m sorry,” you say, defeated, “It won’t happen again.”
“Go wash up. Supper is in an hour.” Your father dismisses you.
Upstairs, you can hear their hushed voices arguing about what to do with you as if they found you smoking pot or something. Or maybe even having unprotected, pre-marital sex with your boyfriend and them sleeping in the room next door. What you actually did feels wildly inconsequential in comparison, but then again, you’d never really broken a house rule before.
You poked and prodded at your shepherd's pie for an hour before they finally sent you away from the dining table. You thought about Robin approximately every four and a half minutes. You don’t know what it was about her that made you lose your appetite, but not in the way you do when you’re angry or sad– in the way you do before a big test, or maybe prom night. The moths in your gut too restless, taking up far too much space for any food.
Tossing and turning in your bed, you kept imagining your phone ringing. The phantom sound of it driving you nearly insane. And when it does finally ring, you think you’re not really hearing it.
Picking up the receiver and placing it adjacent to your ear, expecting to hear the distinct but strangely familiar rasp of Robin’s voice on the other line.
“Hey, babe,”
Ben.
You ignore the way your stomach drops slightly in disappointment, “Hey, Ben.”
“Where’d you go earlier? I didn’t see you in sixth period.”
“Yeah, I–” Think of something. Quickly. “I wasn’t feeling well. Went home early.”
“Oh, Okay. A couple people said they saw you leaving with this girl? Thought maybe you’d ditched, but then I thought ‘that’s crazy, she’d never do that.’” He laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. Ben. Your sweet, naive Ben.
Your reciprocated laughter sounds a touch more nervous and less sincere than his, “Gosh, no,”
A feminine giggle breaks the barrier of the call.
“Is someone there?” You ask.
“What?”
“I thought I heard something. A laugh, maybe?”
“TV’s on downstair, baby.”
You don’t think to question it again. Ben may be dull, but he’s not a liar.
When you don’t speak again, he asks, “So, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Yeah, you’ll see me tomorrow.”
“Sweet, love you.”
He hangs up the phone before you get the chance to say it back. You don’t know why, but you’re grateful. You can’t help but notice that he’d never asked you how you were feeling. Obviously, you weren’t really sick, but he had at least thought you were.
You put it out of your mind as you open your journal:
Dear diary,
I met this girl today. She’s lanky. And tall. And has short brown hair. Her clothes are a little beat up, but in that cool way I can never seem to do on purpose. I found her crying in the bathroom, which was a little awkward. Turns out we’re both in the marching band! I know we’re graduating soon and all but, I don’t know maybe we could end up being friends? I feel like Claire’s been totally in her own world lately. She actually said some really harsh things to me at lunch today. I also ditched school. I feel guilty. I prayed about it, repented too, but momma and daddy are still really mad at me. But I was doing it to help someone! That girl, her name is Robin. I don’t know her last name. I’ll remember to ask her tomorrow morning.
I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3
if anyone makes you feel weird for mourning/grieving a celebrity just bc you didn’t know them personally just remember they were a REAL person and deserve to be grieved as such. the grief keeps coming in waves for me and it comes and goes. teen me and adult me are grieving in completely different ways. my heart breaks for the boys, their families, and all the people in liam’s life that he left behind. i know things weren’t easy in the end for him but i hope he knows how loved he is
the sun was already set as the two of you lay in your backyard, the only source of light coming from the moon as you giggled closely together in the grass. another sleepover, another night of stepping around your feelings. ignoring how the moon lights up her face, how you can still see her blue eyes shine in the dark.
'i swear that's the big dipper,' robin giggles, pulling your hand into hers and using hers to guide yours towards the sky. 'see!' she traces the constellation with your hands together to prove her point. your hand begins to sweat in hers, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the touch. a lot of best friends hold hands but this was robin and you've been in love with robin since middle school. she doesn't let go, lets your hands fall effortlessly between the two of you.
it's quiet besides your hearts racing as the two of you lay watching the stars. you've held hands before, brushed hands more times than you could count but you just thought the two of you were just close. closer than your other friends. 'is this okay?' she finally asks.
'yeah,' you whisper, finally turning to face your best friend. you giggle which turns into the two of you laughing and then trying to shush each other because it was far too late and the neighbors would complain. it didn't matter though, you were holding robin's hand and you wanted to remember this moment forever.
