Life Is The Most Beautiful It's Ever Been

happy birthday jaw chokeonher!

love this goober that i do not know

Haha i get tashi sweat and you dont

yeah i think im gonna block you forever now

— Sun Bleached Flies .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!TASHI x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.4k CW: religious guilt, LOTS of internalized homophobia, general angst 

a/n: okay this isn’t 100% accurate to christianity and such… i tried though… i tried so hard… please don’t hate me… i hope you enjoy! <3 (and i'm apologizing now) link to main post!

— Tashi shouldn’t be feeling this. 

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s the Pastor’s daughter. This is wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious. 

The way she feels when she looks at you sitting beside her in the front pew, when she sees you standing with your family at Sunday service, and she feels the need to grasp onto the cross hanging around her neck, like a lifeline in stormy waters, to remind herself that what she feels for you isn’t right. 

You’ve always been a little different than the rest of your family and the church, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not outwardly different, no, you dress and maintain yourself the same, but there’s just something about your behaviour that stands out in an inexplicable way. 

Tashi watches you from her spot next to her father, you laughing with your family, looking around the church when the conversation is about something dull and uninteresting. When your eyes lock on hers, and your face lights up with a small wave, she realizes she’s been caught staring, and her brain short circuits. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way her whole body goes warm, and her hand grabs her necklace with such a force it almost tugs it clean off her neck. 

Only after you chuckle at her reaction does she give a small wave back, her smile forced and tight-lipped as she looks away and stares at one of the various icons of Jesus surrounding the church, begging him to plead with his father for forgiveness. 

When she looks back to where you were standing, you’re already gone.

She lays awake that night, head angled back into her pillow so she can stare at the cross hanging high on the wall above her headboard, her mind racing with the thoughts about you that she wishes she could block out. 

The way you look when you’re sitting on the pew, or kneeling during service when she sneaks glances beside her while her head is bowed and resting on her hands, or walking up to the front for communion. The way your skin looks so soft, and your eyes sparkle, and your body moves. The way you’d look–

No. 

Bad Tashi. 

God loves her, but not enough to save her. Not if she keeps thinking like this. 

So she shuts her eyes, rolling onto her side and curling into herself, almost in fetal position, as though she can find some way to be reborn, reborn without these thoughts fueled by Satan, reborn as a normal girl. Reborn as a normal girl who does as she’s supposed to, as a normal girl who likes boys.

When she does fall asleep, it’s restless, plagued by the thoughts of her abnormality, of her wants, her desires. 

But the sun rises and sets, days passing. Each night just as restless and guilt-filled as the next. 

She thinks that if she doesn’t acknowledge it, if she doesn’t speak it, if she just keeps pushing it down, it won’t be true. It can’t be. 

So Tashi tries to keep her thoughts in check, staying with her father as though he is God Himself, able to grant her forgiveness for Him. She reminds herself of her faith, praying first thing in the morning and just before bed, hand always wrapped around that cross pendant as she toys with it on the chain, begging its holiness to seep into her. 

But the cycle begins again when she gets to church next Sunday, sitting in her pew in the front row as usual while Father Duncan is elsewhere in the church, preparing for service. 

As she hears people begin to trickle in, Tashi looks behind her, and there you are. 

She looks up to the crucifix behind the altar, and has half a mind to kneel and start praying. 

But you take your seat beside her, as usual, as Tashi works on composing herself. 

“Hi, Tashi.” You smile as Tashi looks up at you, and her heart squeezes. 

“Hi.” she croaks. 

“Would you wanna hang out sometime this week? I have a few tickets to see that new movie that just came out.” 

Tashi can’t think straight. You want to hang out with her? Is she dreaming? No, not a dream, a nightmare. Maybe if she hits her head against the pew she’ll remember that this is all fake and not real and wake up from this nightmare, and all will be okay. She won’t have to hide from her father or the Father. 

“Tashi?” You snap her out of her thoughts, and she’s never been so embarrassed. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, her hands clammy and body hot. 

“Uh, yeah—I, um. I might not be able to go to the movie, but we can, um, we can definitely hang out.” 

You nod as service starts, and whisper to her. 

“We can talk after service.” 

She nods in return, swallowing hard as you both stand for the procession. 

The service starts, and it feels like torture. Every time you kneel for prayer, she glances over at you, her mind wandering, imagining, going places it shouldn’t. When communion starts, Tashi almost doesn’t go up. She feels too guilty, like her father will be able see through her, into her secrets and the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.

Service finally finishes and Tashi looks over at you again. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” she manages to get out. 

“Yeah.” You beam. 

“How about a walk and a picnic?” 

“Sounds perfect. Ten? The old trails behind the church?”

“Eleven?”

“Eleven it is. See you there, Tashi.” 

“See you.” She smiles back, waving as her father calls her over. 

You wave back, and she feels both like she’s flying, weightless and giddy, and like she’s being dragged down to the depths of hell. Like if even indulging in this ‘friendly’ outing will make her the biggest sinner her father has ever met. 

She watches you leave again, just like every week before, but this time with a small smile on her face. When she leaves with her own family, she immediately starts planning the picnic, baking and cooking and packing. Tashi doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to make everything perfect. Just for you. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. 

She even thinks about telling you her sins. 

That night, she sleeps a little easier. Still restless, but she’s hopeful there’s a chance you’ll be able to knock some sense into her. 

Until she starts having nightmares of you again. You, kissing her, with those soft, soft lips, the ones she’s stared at countless times. You, with your hands on her, that delicate touch you save for only the most fragile things used on her, like she’s something beautiful that could shatter. Her, on her knees in front of you, worshiping you like you’re taking His place. Like you’re actually her God. Like you’re actually her Jesus. Or the roles reversed, with you on your knees in front of her, staring up at her like she’s your God. 

And sleep becomes restless once more. 

When she wakes up, curled in on herself once more, Tashi’s cheeks are crusty with dried up tears. She doesn’t know when she started crying during the nightmares, but she quickly becomes conscious of the fact she broke one of the Ten Commandments in her nightmares, and they quickly start back up again as she slides off her bed and kneels against the side of it in prayer. 

Today she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you, and you’ll tell her how wrong it is. Shame her into normality. Shame her into conforming. 

Tashi gets ready for the day, mentally too. She’ll need to be strong to have the conversation. 

She meets you by the old trails behind the church, picnic basket in hand. 

“Hi, Tashi!” Your voice is excited, like you’ve been waiting all night for this, and she can’t help but smile in return. 

“Hi.” 

“Morning was good?” 

She can’t exactly tell you about her nightmares, about the fact she went against the rules so clearly set in place for a good Christian, so she lies. “Yeah. great.” 

The walk to the clearing is peaceful. You and Tashi speak about your lives, your plans, what you’re here for, your faith. She almost brings up what she wants to tell you on the way there, but decides against it. It’ll be better if you’re both sitting down. 

When you reach the clearing, you help Tashi set up the picnic, salivating at the food she prepared. 

“These look incredible, Tashi…” 

“Yeah?” Her heart swells, she’s always loved compliments from you. 

“Yeah.” 

You two sit, eating and laughing, falling into easy conversation. If there’s silence, it’s comfortable, as you look around the clearing at the surrounding flora and fauna, Tashi just staring at your face, trying to figure out when to ruin what you two have got going on. 

She decides to do it when you’re both about to pack up, standing up, picnic basket in her hands.  

“Hey, uh—”

“Yeah, Tashi?” 

Tashi’s throat is dry. Her voice is small. Shaky. Unsure. Her eyes gloss over, not quite tearing up yet, but she knows she’s nearing that point. 

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’re different. You’ve always been so good at reading people. 

“Tashi, oh my god—are you okay?” 

“I, um. Oh, yeah—yeah, of course. I, just—I have to confess something to you.” 

“What is it, Tashi? You can tell me anything.”

Anything but this. At least in Tashi’s head. 

“I—um—oh, god. How, how am I supposed to say this? God, I’m going to Hell—” Tashi’s near hyperventilating by this point, the tears finally welling up. 

“Hey—hey, hey, hey, Tashi, look at me.” you speak softly, grabbing her shoulders gently, as her head shoots up to meet yours. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

She follows your instructions, breathing with you. Slightly calming down as she stares into your eyes, looking at the way they soften around the edges as you look at her, the way your lips curve into that small smile as her breathing returns to somewhat normal. 

“What’s up?” 

“I—I’m such a bad person. I have these thoughts. These awful, awfully depraved, sinful thoughts. I have these nightmares where God isn’t my God anymore. But someone else. I—I’m going to go to Hell.” Tashi repeats the last part quietly, like she’s trying to prepare herself for it.

She pauses. Takes a deep breath, composing herself as the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“I have, I have these thoughts about, about—”

You’re silent, giving her the chance to speak. To get it off her chest. 

To make it real, to acknowledge it, to stop pushing it down, by speaking it into the world. 

She doesn’t know how she manages to get the next words out, but she spits them in your face like she thinks they’re venom. She wants them to be. 

“I have them about you.” She tacks your name on at the end, trying to make it fatal, for both of you. 

She waits for you to yell at her. For your face to twist into disgust and tell her she’s plagued by Satan, agree that she’s going to Hell. To push her away, and run back to the church to wash your hands with the holiest water, just to get any trace of her off you. 

But none of that happens. 

Your face softens, eyes welling with your own tears, as you pull her into the softest, yet tightest hug ever, like she’s a delicate flower you’re afraid will wilt if you’re too rough with her. 

Tashi doesn’t know what to do. She’s conflicted. She thought you would hate her, why are you being so kind to her? This isn’t right. 

She drops the basket, letting the leftovers, the laughter, the happiness, the joy between you two spill onto the ground, and pushes you away, her face twisted into something nasty. 

“Why don’t you hate me? This is wrong!” 

Your face twists into one of sadness, no, not sadness. Pity? And she hates it. She hates the way it sends a pang through her heart. She hates that you pity her. 

“Tashi, it’s not wrong. Just because you like a girl doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

“No, it does! This is wrong, it’s a sin! And you’re just as bad as me for accepting me.” she spits out. 

“You know what, Tashi, maybe I am. Maybe I’m even worse because I’m just like you and I accept you. Because I like girls too.” 

She freezes at that, the tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“You—you do?” 

“Yeah, Tashi. I do.” 

It suddenly makes sense, and she stares at the ground to process it all. 

Why you’re different from the others. 

Why she’s been drawn to you from the beginning. 

You’re both the same. 

But you’re not. Because Tashi isn’t like you. Not really. 

She grabs the cross around her neck, and looks back up at you. 

“I’m not actually this way. I’m normal. You’re just corrupting me. You’re here from Satan to corrupt me, to bring me to Hell with you. And it won’t work. It won’t. I won’t let it.” 

She can see your face crack, can see you try to hold back tears. 

It shatters her heart. 

So she delivers one final blow. 

“This was a mistake. I’m not going to Hell with you.”

Tears start flowing as you watch her walk away, walk along that trail you took together. You kick the picnic basket, sending it flying somewhere, and sink to the ground, sobbing into your hands. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Tashi gets back to the church, sobbing, and locks herself in the confessional to grieve you, and confess to God. Tashi knows it’s nothing unless she talks to her father, but she hopes this is enough anyway. She can never tell Father Duncan what she feels. Never. 

If it’s meant to be, then it will be. 

And Tashi Duncan doesn’t think it is, so it won’t. She’d rather let the guilt eat her from the inside out. For the rest of her life. 

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats @artaussi

want to join my tag list? fill out this form! 

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

… how do we feel about an all tashi release. need to show that girl some love (and give those white boys a BREAK)

A Night Over

an: enjoy this cute picture of mike because i literally finished this like 2 hours ago and spent so long worrying about making it aesthetic i stopped caring

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He brushes past you as soon as you open the door, barely even a wide enough space to squeeze a body through. You huff, turn around just in time to get knocked into by his overstuffed messenger bag. It’s the same one you recognize from kindergarten cubbies and middle school lockers. 

“Well, hello to you too, Connor.”

You’ve done this all before. You recognize the sound of his body against the couch cushions before you see it, back turned to him to pull some blankets from the coat closet by the front door. You can feel his eyes, though, the way you always can. Intense in everything, even just in observing you move through your home. The home he’s been to more times than he can count on both his hands. He can’t help but to be fascinated by you, though, no matter how many times he’s been around you, bombarding his senses until the only thing his brain has a concept of is his existence relative to yours. 

He keeps a bag packed for nights like these, nights that are more frequent than they should be, and have just been growing more persistent. There’s a tone to his father’s voice he knows too well. Not necessarily anger, but a growing displeasure at everyone and everything around him, including the son that ruins his Facebook family photos and general public image of being a perfect, upper-middle class suburban family. He wouldn’t mind being in a miserable family if everyone agreed on the best way of doing it, but they still clash in that sense. So disjointed they can’t even find the same ways to hate each other, hate themselves.

You sit on the coffee table across from where he rests, hands clasped in your crossed thighs. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. The argument, the topic it took, isn’t the issue. It’s not what drives him out of his house at odd hours of the night to seek refuge in yours. It’s the feeling that if he stayed, there would be no escaping the idea that maybe, just maybe, his father is right. That he is ruining things. Sure, he’d internalized that feeling since birth, thinking and feeling it before his father could confirm he shared the same opinion, but it still hurt to know that he wasn’t his daddy’s little boy anymore. Now, he was the son that could’ve been better, should’ve been better with the resources provided to him. But he’s not normal in that sense, never has been. He wishes he could hit himself on the head hard enough to knock loose whatever is festering in his skull until it comes out his ears. Whatever neurochemical imbalance, whatever parasitic thought, whatever version of himself nestled its way in. 

You unclasp your hands, find your palms redder than they’d started, grabbing at his ankles to place them in your lap. 

“You can sleep in my bed, you know. Your back will thank you.”

You say absentmindedly, beginning the minutes long task of unlacing those scuffed, softened leather boots he always wears. They’d been a product of saved-up birthday money and weeks of not smoking, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little proud for having done something semi-responsible with himself. And now here they are, in your lap, sprinkling wet dirt onto your skin. It’s the same offer you’ve been extending his way for months, held in your palm like it’s fragile, like it means more than just a bed. He never takes it, curls your fingers back over it, nudges your hand back to your side. He means well. He means not to impose the way he does everywhere else. He knows how few places he’s truly welcome. He knows that the best one is wherever you happen to be. He won’t lose it, or he loses himself. But he can’t impose where he is invited. Welcome at all times. Your home is his home, because he doesn’t have one otherwise. Here he is wanted, and he just won’t let that be. 

You curl the undone laces around your fingers, watching the coils turn your skin just that little bit paler under the strained blood flow. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he tends to do. You can feel his eyes follow the movement, whether it’s yours or the lace’s, you can’t quite make out. You look back up at him through weary eyes, the time of night clear in each fleck of color. It’s fairly late, but not late enough for you to look so worn. You’ve been tired for ages, and no amount of laying beneath woolen blankets has been able to rejuvenate you. Remarkably, there aren’t any real bags beneath your eyes. The one way you could cry out for the help you’d so desperately like without verbal confirmation of being anything less than mundane, and you can’t even supply yourself with it. How pathetic. He recognizes the look in your eyes, the plea for him to help himself so you can live vicariously through it. Feel better for having done something. He doesn’t give in though. 

So fine. He can have it his way. Boots are tucked beneath the couch, left to drip onto the wood beneath them. They can rot the whole house away for all you care. You squeeze yourself into that sliver of space he isn’t taking up, face to face so closely that it feels like this is the first time you’ve seen him at all. His left eye has a little spot of brown in it, stuck in amongst blue. A black sheep. He looks behind your head to the wall. It seems easier. He’s met with a framed photo of the two of you. No such thing as an easy way out. So, he does what he does best. Watches. Watches you move some humidity-frizzed hair from his face as if it won’t fall right back where it was, watches you attempt to get comfortable with the singular foot of room allotted to you, watches you pretend the proximity isn’t what makes your eyes look far away and yet so concentrated. He can’t point that part out, he’s sure he looks the same. He watches you sleep, too, for a while. Features softened, smushed, unfurrowed by stress. You look your age this way. You’ve shed years of forced maturation in a single shallow breath. He doesn’t feel it’s an invasion if it’s something beautiful to look at. Artistic, even. Biblical. He shivers, pretends it’s from the cold, the rain, the dampness of his clothes. You hadn’t actually put any of those blankets you’d grabbed to use. He doesn’t want to move. He can feel your heartbeat if he focuses enough like this, breath mixing with his own on your exhales. He thinks it’s almost kissing. It’s better. It’s nowhere near enough. He looks to the ceiling, then back at you. He smiles. Maybe someday he’ll say the obvious. Maybe someday he can impose. But for now feigned relative indifference will do. You know he cares more than he says. You will wake up rejuvenated.

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

The war has returned again, Gaza is under bombardment and my area is being subjected to heavy shelling. We have lost hope in our rights. We must evacuate this city where there is no security. Donate to my family again, you are our only hope.

Donate here

raised 50$/10000$

Vetted by : 90-ghost

chewing on him like a ravenous wolf

Casual dominance but with dilf!patrick???

the same as art in the sense he wouldn't bat an eye if you went out in a short skirt. he takes pleasure it in it, actually, a hand on your backside to give everyone a peek of your panties. when you send him an affronted look, he just gives an unrepentant smirk. whoops! probably the wind. he DOES like to choose your clothes. prob like the sluttiest thing possible when you're meeting his parents (a huge fuck you to them).

definitely into the whole "bimbo girlfriend thing." makes you make eye contact with him when you're talking... or fucking. "ah-ah-ah, eyes on me." and never lets you get away without verbally asking him for something. "c'mon, use your words if you want something. my baby has good manners."

knows how indecisive you are and calling the shots just comes naturally to him. doesn't even bat an eye when the waiters give you a concerned look after he gives your order for you. just knows you inside out at this point. or if he's grabbing himself something from the kitchen, he doesn't bother asking if you want one, he just grabs two by default (because he knows you'll say no and end up asking for a sip of his water or stealing his chips)

doesn't matter where you are, he's always touchy. a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or around you while you're walking. if he has a pretty thing on his arm, why not show you off? always whispering filthy things to you when you're out and about just to watch you avert your eyes when your cheeks heat up. you never scold him, though—you both know you love it.

also loves manhandling you. guiding you when you're walking, or big hands on your hips to move you out of his way in the kitchen or throw you over his shoulder to carry you off to bed. if you aren't walking side by side, he's always keeping an eye on you. never more than an arm's length away. follows the sidewalk rule religiously.

comes off as a little controlling sometimes, too. patronising as fuck when he wants to be. he bought you a drink? you have to finish it, otherwise you're ungrateful. going out with your friends? either he's coming with you, or you don't go at all. he just loves you too much!! if you’re gonna be ogled, he has to be present for it. he’s just looking out for his pretty girl <3

always zips up your dress for you or helps you put your jewellery on. he doesn't even need to ask; as soon as he sees you getting ready, he's behind you to lend you a helping hand (and probably a playful pinch to the ass for his troubles)

anyways shoutout to oomfs in diya's the queen's gambit watchparty for thirsting over patrick w me for this <3

annie can we kiss under the slide

Snippits from "Endure" [sfw]

A longer piece I'm slowly working on, exploring Patrick's life. It jumps back and forth from the past to the present as he recalls moments from his childhood while also visiting his family properly for the first time in years. If you've stuck around, you've seen me post bits from this before.

I'm taking a mini-break for school right now so I don't have anything new and complete, but I'd like to give you guys a little more from what I've shared before. This is my favorite work in progress right now!

Patrick has a small list of memories he allows himself to think about. He prefers the company of the time he first kissed a girl ('02, Cindie McLoud), or the last time he got a ribeye steak, imagining how the juice pooled down his tongue and throat, the rosemary butter in his nose and the meat in his teeth. They were bittersweet, but they passed the time and dulled the ache in his heart.

His longing heart. How it begged for Patrick to remember more.

There are times he lets himself remember, crystal clear recollections that he calls to only when the cold of winter nips at his bones through the door of his CR-V, the heater cranked too high and Hot-Hands stuffed everywhere he can get them. When the memory of a ribeye does nothing for the groaning rumble of his stomach, as his account mocks him with $27.89, and his tank teasing E. It was a different kind of pain to feel than the freezing bite of cold.

He's biting the end of an unlit cigarette so hard he can taste the filter and even the nicotine, grimacing and spitting it out onto the sidewalk. When he moves to grab another one to light, the pack's empty. Everything Patrick has left is for gas and something to eat tomorrow, so he leaves it, going back to staring at the house before him.

Patrick hasn't been here in almost fifteen years, but it feels like the most familiar place on Earth. He could still map it out, give every corner and every secret and every detail with his eyes closed, tell you the best spots to hide. It almost feels good to be back, like something died in him is giving its last croaking breath and reaching out to that house, and he wants to just shove it back in and turn around.

His father, narrow-browed and imposing at the head of the table, sipping from wine as he fired accusations across to him.

"How's your forehand? It better be improving."

"I've spoken to your coaches, do you think you're doing good? Don't lie to me, boy"

"Your teachers say you've been slacking off. Is this how your mother and I raised you? A slacker. A failure?"

The last one spoken as he loosened his tie, the table quiet and as tense as a pulled bow. Everyone waited for his fingers to slip, for the arrow to shoot. Patrick could feel it strike him right in his heart. His longing heart.

"Your mother and I've decided you're staying during the breaks. It's a waste of time— I'll pay someone to keep coaching you there."

He was bleeding into his lap, sputtering onto the table, pooling across the floor beneath him and soaking into his socks, and nobody cared to ask.

The next Christmas break is spent on the court, hitting targets and biting the inside of his cheeks. Going back to climb into his empty room with his arms screaming exhaustion and legs shaking with every step, Art's side silent and empty, with a small envelope on his bed and $500 inside. Flipping the envelope upside down. Maybe, just maybe... no. No card.

His eyes stayed on the flashing red and green lights out his window, wondering what they're doing back home, listening to Backstreet's Back low on Art's stereo. Imagining the taste of his grandmother's challah and brisket and wishing his father was pulling that bow and pointing it to his chest at the table. Patrick whispered what he thought he'd say, harsh and cutting and accusatory, the words seeping into the wallpaper and holding them for him.

He couldn't look at it, at those walls holding his pain in its pores. Patrick could hear them spoken back like an echo, and covering his ears did nothing to stop them. The words like water seeping through the cracks in his fingers, pouring and absorbing into him until they became everything he is. His whole body the voice of his father across the table. Even now, at thirty-one, he's never been wrung dry.

what is wrong with you

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019