Tashi Duncan X You - Blog Posts

good luck, babe!

and when you think about me, all of those years ago you're standing face to face with "i told you so." - good luck, babe!, chappell roan

part 2 of black beauty

(↑ i recommend reading that one first)

pairing: tashi duncan x reader

in which: it's been twelve years since you kissed tashi on that beach— what are the odds that you'd see her again at the lobby of the ritz-carlton? she's married now. you shouldn't care. but the way she looks at you says maybe she does.

warnings: a few uses of y/n. lesbian hurt, no comfort. sad ending. tashi is married to art.

note: due to popular demand, here it is :) (i don't know if i'll continue this)

twelve years.

it’s been twelve years.

you wish you’d done things differently, you wish you stayed silent, you wish you just listened to her instead of telling her it’d be okay, you wish— you regret a lot of things. you blame yourself.

you miss your best friend.

you watched as she moved out of your shared dorm as you protested and apologized, just to get her to stay. she was petty, in a way. she was impulsive and upset. you don’t blame her.

why would you?

you couldn’t— you can’t blame her for anything.

for months, you tried texting her, sending endless useless messages, messages you weren’t sure she’d ever read. until you gave up, determined to move on.

but no one could ever forget tashi duncan.

especially you.

you could never forget tashi duncan.

you graduate stanford with your journalism degree and you take a job as a sports journalist— specializing in tennis. because of course you would.

you tell yourself, it’s normal. it’s natural. it’s obvious.

tennis is what you know. you always hung around tennis players during college. you know the rules, the players, the way the game worked— you knew tennis.

you tell yourself it was a coincidence when your first assignment is some second-tier tournament in florida. art donaldson is there too. you give him an awkward half-wave at the press conference which he sends back reluctantly.

you’re secretly relieved. she’s not there.

you’d hear her name occasionally at the offices, someone someone’s hitting partner.

then you get your next assignment a few weeks later— not like you asked for more coverage, you were just good— sharp observations, clean writing. your editor kept putting your name on stories.

of course you were good at writing about tennis, you spent almost two years of your life staring at her play every day—

soon you’re watching art absolutely destroy some guy at the australia open from the press office. you scribble down notes furiously and make the mistake of glancing at the crowd—

there she is.

arms crossed, her hair tied behind her back, her hand pushes her sunglasses up— the same pair you’d steal off her face. her eyes constantly follow the ball and art.

everything rushes back, how she used to sit like that on the bench, complaining about professors and girls on her team while you tried not to stare at her lips.

when art wins, art yells in triumph and rushes over to her, you snap out of it. you scribble down another note.

the next article you write is: ‘art donaldson wins australian with guide from new tennis coach, tashi duncan.’

you felt sick.

maybe there was a part of you who craved to stay attached to a part of her in some way.

maybe that’s why you didn’t quit.

so you watched as art grew in success.

you watched as tashi go from art donaldson’s coach to coach tashi donaldson.

it was inevitable that you saw them a lot.

fucking tennis journalist.

invited to opens, flown around the world— writing articles about how art donaldson won yet another open.

you could never get away from them. from her.

so your press conference questions were always directed to him, not her. you wanted to be petty too. you knew she was looking at you while you asked art about before game rituals with a smile. a smile you used to give her.

you don’t look at her. you don’t write about her.

and slowly you get used to it.

you get better. you’re a well-known name. you get invited to tournaments, opens, games— you go to press conferences. you board flights—

you convince yourself that you don’t care anymore. you’re not the same girl you were ten or something years ago. you try to forget about tashi donaldson.

you type your articles in the office and during some random conversation with your colleagues that you half listen to—

“donaldson’s pulling out of the finals this tournament, which’s an advantage to rodriguez, you might want to mention that in your predictions article—“

“wait, why?” you find the words coming out before you can stop them.

you’re just a journalist you shouldn’t care— but tashi would never do something like that. she’d never pull art out of a tournament- not when he’s on a winning streak-

“oh, tashi just had the baby— lily, i think? but their publicists don’t want coverage on it yet-“

lily.

your stomach churns.

and it finally— really does hit you.

she’s moved on.

she has a new life.

she has a family. you have deadlines.

AUGUST 2019

your fingers fly over the keyboard—

‘Art Donaldson: Finalist at Phil’s Tire Town New Rochelle Challenger— Will a Challenger Finally Get Him Out of His Losing Streak?’

you tilt your head— what is tashi’s goal here? a challenger? sure, art’s lost his confidence but a challenger?

you scroll through the matchups as you sip your espresso—

no. fucking. way.

ranking 271st national player— patrick fucking zweig.

you want to laugh. not because it’s funny, but because of course— of course you’re stuck watching the past play out in a goddamn place called phil’s tire town.

the last time you saw patrick—

“you’re, like, into girls.”

you can still smell the smoke that blew into your face as your jaw dropped on stanford campus.

you shake off the memory and continue typing your article- because you have a deadline.

6-time Open Winner and Star Player Art Donaldson seems to be winning games at the New Rochelle Challenger just a week before the US Open. Is this Tashi Donaldson’s grand scheme to help Donaldson gain his confidence before the US Open? A known title he’s been trying to win for a while. And what happens when he loses? Is the inevitable end of the Donaldsons’ reign on tennis finally happening?

you sigh, pausing to take a sip.

there’s a presence behind you.

you feel it before you hear it.

a voice sharp as a blade, one that’s stabbed you before—

“he’s not going to lose.”

you freeze

and the words take a second to register- too long.

tashi donaldson.

in the flesh.

your brain stutters, your heart does something it hasn’t done in years. you shake off the initial shock— but it lingers deep inside your veins.

she looks good, of course she does. she always looked good, even when she was wearing your sweatshirt with a messy bun and ranting about doubles practice. but now— she looks untouchable.

a shoulder-level cut, sleek blonde highlights, layered gold necklaces- she looks every bit like ‘legendary couch donaldson,’ the one you’ve written about for years. the one who turned art donaldson from a rank sixty-eight to a five–

and you almost forget how to speak.

then you remember-

you’re a tennis journalist. a professional.

you flash a media-friendly smile, fuck it- be petty.

“ah, coach donaldson, such a surprise to see you here. i had no idea we were staying at the same hotel— i really do love art’s career and was counting on his steady recovery— he really deserves it.”

tashi’s lips press together, if you weren’t looking hard enough, you’d miss it.

art’s career.

not her’s.

“y/n. seriously—“ but she stops herself.

you see the moment she decides it’s not worth it.

that you’re not worth it.

she simply rolls her eyes. like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing.

and for a second you feel sorry for her.

there’s a pause—

a pause long enough for her to scan your face, searching for something

as if she’s wondering if under this ‘sports journalist,’ there’s a 19-year-old girl that once loved her

“i just wanted to say hello to an old college friend.” she says with a smile so tight it looks painful. her head tilts, trying to make it casual.

it’s not.

“i’ve been keeping track of your career, y’know— i always wondered what my best friend was doing in life.”

of course she kept track. she’s tashi duncan- or donaldson- whatever.

“that’s truly an honor, mrs. donaldson—“ you want your words to sting, to finally pierce through her skin.

she laughs lightly— it almost feeling condescending. “no, don’t be— i’m sure you kept up with mine.”

she says it like it’s obvious. it’s worse because it’s true.

“tashi!”

mrs. duncan calls out from the elevators in the distance, she’s holding the hand of her granddaughter, lily, you assume.

“well, nice chat. i have to go,” tashi smiles thinly. “i’ll see you around.”

and just like that she’s gone.

you take another sip of your coffee

you are fucked.

this prediction article is due in four hours.

and the words started blurring after your last sentence, which you wrote three hours ago. right before you saw her.

fuck it.

it’s not going to work, you need to clear your head— you need—

you need a drink.

and maybe it’s the special ‘new rochelle challenger related guests’ fucking discount but one drink turn to two. then to another. and another—

and you see her.

tashi.

wrapped in some cardigan, asking the receptionist for something that’s a part of her husband’s routine tomorrow before the game—

and your brain no longer controls you legs and you’re in her face.

“heyyyy, tash,” you laugh like she just said the funniest thing in the entire world—

“y/n.” her eyebrow’s raised. you probably reek of alcohol.

“mrs. donaldson- we can escort this… hm.. person away-“ the receptionist starts.

“no, it’s— it’s fine.” tashi sighs. “if you don’t have what i’m looking for, it’s fine— um- we’ll just use a substitute. thank you.” she turns to look at you again.

she scans you, half-exasperated, half-something else. you wobble on your feet with a grin.

“jesus, y/n, how much did you drink?”

“just enough to stop thinking about you.”

her eyebrows furrow and she looks like she might just walk away. but she doesn’t. she just takes one good look at you and—

she grabs your arm. “c’mon,” she mutters. “what’s your room number?”

“why? you wanna hook up with me?” you laugh again.

the receptionist looks between you and her with a concerned expression—

“it’s fine. leave it.” tashi shakes her head as she hoists your arm around her shoulder.

and before you can process, she’s practically carrying you across the lobby. like she knows exactly how to take care of you, whether you like it or not.

she sighs and adjusts her grips when you’re finally in the elevator. “give me your room key.” she squints— “where the fuck is 2755?”

it’s late, she’s tired, you don’t blame her— but your drunk mouth can’t help but giggle, “you’re really bad at this.”

tashi just sighs again, the elevator door slides open. the hallway stretches ahead, but she doesn't leave you down it and pushes you towards the glass door.

"forget it. i need air," she mutters.

you both step onto the hotel terrace, the doors open and the chill winds of the outside air hit your skin—

tashi leans against the balcony and takes a deep breath.

you stare at the soft city glow, the flapping of the tarp hitting against the tennis court in the distance. the alcohol in your system softens into something else.

you open your mouth and let out what's been rotting deep inside you for the last twelve years—

"do you ever think of me?"

the answer comes after a pause.

"no."

liar. tashi donaldson's a fuckin' liar.

you laugh.

clear, bright, bitter.

"pussy. you can't even admit it." you smile widely because it hurts. it really does. you can feel your nails scrape into your palms.

tashi rolls her eyes. “y/n—“ she starts.

then she stops.

"i should go. i need to tuck lily in and..." her eyes shift, "art needs me to give him a review before his match."

you shake your head laughing again. "nevermind. you're never going to admit it."

"what is there to admit?"

"you loved me."

she exhales sharply, "that was literally ten-"

"twelve"

"-twelve years ago." she give you a hard, stony look. "get some sleep, y/n. you probably have a deadline."

and just like that, she's gone. again.

you stare at the glass door that she'll turn back.

but she doesn't.

and night is quiet.

-

tags: @hyuneskkami for the dividers

black beauty

but oh, what can i do? to turn you on or get through to you? oh, what can i do? life is beautiful, but you don't have a clue - black beauty, lana del rey

pairing: stanford post-injury!tashi x roommate!reader

in which: tashi’s world ended the day she wrecked her knee. you remind her that there's more to life than tennis. that it can still be beautiful— but she can't seem to see the color in anything anymore.

warnings: hurt without comfort, just hurt. lesbian yearning. brief mention of patrick x tashi. reader has beef with patrick.

note: and they were roommates…

tashi’s world is tennis.

it always was, and it always would be— until it wasn’t.

you were at the game when it happened. sitting a few rows above art, holding a little ‘duncanator!’ sign with a wide smile. you were at every game. she always won.

you say there, waiting for her to win again—

then her knee twisted at an inhuman angle, a loud, sickening crack echoed through the court. she collapsed to the ground with a scream.

art was on his feet instantly and ran to her side while you stood there. frozen in shock, covering your mouth,

when it finally clicked to you. tashi was already being rolled away on a stretcher.

you spent the night with her and art, rubbing circles into her back when she cried and gave her space, standing in front of the medic’s door with a sinking feeling in your chest.

soon, patrick heads towards the door and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “don’t. she doesn’t want to see you.”

patrick stops, his eyes narrowing. you know that look, it's the same look he gave tashi before the match. the one she ranted about in the locker room as you helped her get ready. "he's just— he pisses me off. like, patrick's the type of guy who wants a fucking cheerleader. he doesn't want to listen to my advice, complains about how all i do is talk about— tennis-" she rambles as she yanks on her wristbands, "-and plays like shit. what am i supposed to do, not give him advice?" “you deserve more than him,” you’d whispered as you tried not to look too hard at her bare collarbones, you never knew why you were like this. roommates usually watch each other change. it’s completely normal. and platonic.

“i know.” she’d shook her head gently, “trust me, i know.”

you always hated him. you never thought he was good enough for her.

you could be better for her.

patrick's voice drags you back to the present— “my girlfriend’s been injured. i don’t get what your problem is with me, you’re like constantly at my neck.” he leans in towards your ear, “i didn’t know you were the gatekeeper of who gets to check on her. maybe you’re being a good friend or maybe... you just miss the way she used to suck on your throat.”

you scoff as patrick shoves past you into the medic room. you let him go, you know tashi won't want to seem him, anyway.

as expected, the shouting starts quickly. you sigh, leaning your head back against the concrete wall. you wince at the particularly harsh— 'get the fuck out, patrick' from art.

patrick passes you, defeated. you bite back your tongue to keep yourself from saying, "i told you so."

before she leaves for the hospital, you press a kiss against tashi’s forehead. “it’ll go well, trust me.” you murmur against her skin. “you’ll be back, and you’ll demolish those fuckers.”

tashi’s in the hospital for a month.

the room is too quiet without her.

no more godforsaken 5 am warmups, no faint traces of beyoncé drifting from the other room as she gets ready, no smell of her morning coffee, no knock on the door, no murmur of her voice telling you to wake up.

it feels empty.

you miss the way she’d slip into your bed at night. it started when you couldn’t sleep— she’d always help you out with that.

tashi helped you a lot.

when your ex-boyfriend couldn’t get you off, she did. but that’s because she was such a good friend.

you visited her in the hospital, and you can tell she was suffering. badly.

“you’ll be able to play tennis again. everything’s going to be fine, tash.” you mumble as you lay your head on her chest, your thumb idly tracing circles on the back of her hand.

“what if— what if i— can’t? what if it goes wrong?” tashi asks, breathing into your hair.

“even if it did go wrong, and i’m sure it won’t,” you tilt your head up to look at her. “there’s more to life than tennis, y’know?”

she stares at you. like you’ve said something confusing. or horrifying.

another day on campus. without her.

you zone out as you scan the places that used to feel like home.

you used to sit there with her after every practice, eating ice cream. she’d laugh as she wiped away at the excess on your chin. you burned after every touch.

then— a disturbance in the peace.

patrick zweig smoking a cigarette against a tree.

you never noticed how big this place was until tashi wasn’t here to fill it. now, even patrick fucking zweig has room to linger.

you roll your eyes as you walk towards him. “what are you doing here? you don’t even go here.” you pause. “and i’m pretty sure that tashi most definitely broke up with you. didn’t she make that clear when told you to get the fuck out?”

he squints his eyes at you. “i’m here to see art.”

“like fuck you are,” you scoff. “i’m like 99% sure he doesn’t want to see you again.”

patrick glares at you, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. he blows towards your face. “didn’t realize you were fuckin’ campus security. gonna call the cops on me now?”

you sigh. “what are you doing here patrick?”

he shrugs, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “just killing time before i go back on tour,” a pause, then he smirks, “y’know— the plan was to sleep with my girlfriend and hang out with my best friend for two weeks. but, yeah, that didn’t go as plan.”

“so— you’re here—“

“—hooking up with stanford girls and partying at the frats,” he shrugs. “i’d ask you to hook up with me too, but…” he gives you a lazy once-over, “you’re not really my type and,” he pauses, “you’re like, into girls.”

your whole face flushes up. “what?”

“i mean, i’m totally chill with that- y’know?” he adds, like it’s barely worth mentioning. “be who you are or whatever.”

“i’m not—“

“well, it’s quite obvious that you are.” patrick exhales smoke, raising his eyebrow. “but i mean… sure, whatever.”

your mouth opens then shuts.

it hits you. staring at tashi, wanting tashi— that isn’t… normal, is it?

“i mean, everyone wanted her, i don’t really judge you for it.” he takes another drag, “and, yeah, she gave you hickies, like, that was kind of… weird, i guess.” he snorts

you don’t say anything— can’t say anything.

patrick exhales another cloud of smoke, watching it disappear into the air. he shrugs, “anyway, see you around.” he flicks his cigarette and crushes it under his shoe before wandering away.

you just stand there… staring at the space where he was. but all you can see is her.

you’ve always just wanted her.

when tashi comes back from the hospital, she pretends everything is fine.

she does her morning stretches and runs as usual, though you notice her small winces of pain that spread on her face. she jokes about having ‘battle scars’ but her hands endlessly fidget with the velcro of her knee sleeve.

“you shouldn’t touch it,” you remind her gently. “the doctor said to leave it be while it finishes recovery. it might get better than it is now—“

she glares at you and the words die in your throat.

“might.” she smiles joylessly.

she rips at the velcro anyway.

you sit on the bleachers as tashi and art do rallies.

“stop being a pussy and actually serve,” tashi yells. “actually hit the ball, donaldson.”

you bite your bottom lip gently, teeth worrying at the skin.

“i don’t- i don’t want—“ art stammers.

“you don’t want to hurt me?” tashi raises her eyebrow. “oh fuck off, i’m not doing this.”

“wait-“ art moves into position to serve. he hits the ball- thwack!

tashi hits back, it goes back and forth a few times, before tashi’s knee gives out under her.

she yelps and falls to the ground. you stand up immediately and art runs towards her. but she puts her hand up- “i’m fine, i’m fine.”

she gets up and screams in frustration, her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. then— bam, bam, bam—her racket slams against the floor of the court, splintering with every hit until it’s demolished. art just watches, his hands half-raised like he wants to stop her but he doesn’t know how.

the racket clatters to the ground.

“tashi, wait—“ art sighs. but she’s already walking away.

you pace down the stairs and out of the practice court.

she sits under a tree, wiping tears.

“you okay?” you whisper.

she doesn’t say anything in response, you sit beside her, close but not touching. you gently press your hand against her back, rubbing small circles

“it’s okay.” it’s not. it’s clearly not, but you hope telling her that will make it better.

she starts to cry, and you let her, pressing her body into your chest. you play with a few strands of her hair, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

“hey, hey— hey.” you pull her face into your hands, wiping her cheeks. “stop. there’s more to life than ten—“

“—stop saying that.” she pulls back, wiping at her eyes with a sharp breath.

you shut your mouth, not knowing what to say to make it better. you want to make it better for her, take away her pain. but you had no idea how.

you sigh again. you hesitate, teeth sinking into your lip again before asking, “want… want to go to the beach?”

she looks at you, eyes unreadable.

you think she’s about to refuse, shut you down again, push you away—

then she sighs.

“sure.”

you glance at tashi every once in a while throughout the car ride. she stares out the window, tapping her finger against her knee sleeve, lost in thought.

the ocean slowly comes into view as the sky begins to darken. a soft, muted blue.

“are you going to park now, or are you going to drive in circles?” tashi laughs gently. “just— pull in there, dumbass.”

you grin with an eye roll, doing as you’re told.

you open the door, the scent of sea salt hitting your nose. the waves crash against the shore. you move to tashi’s door, opening it and pulling her out of the car with your hand.

a few strands of her brown hair sway in the air and you share a small smile.

“it might be a bit cold for the beach, but hey. we’re by ourselves?” you brush a few strands behind her ear.

you start walking, hand in hand, and you find a spot on the sands.

"it's really pretty," tashi whispers gently. she leans her head against your chest and you wrap an arm around her waist.

"mhm," you muse but you can't help but look at her. she's prettier than the waves, you rub your thumb in shapes against the back of her hand.

"it's just, hard." tashi tilts her head. "i've played this my whole life, this is like— probably the only thing i'm good at-"

"-no, it's not, you're good at a lot of things-" you protest.

"then it's the only thing i think i'm good at," she sighs. "i mean, i came to stanford because i wanted— i wanted to figure out what else i could be good at-" she scoffs. "and really— all i am good at is hitting a ball with a racket."

your arm around her waist grows tighter. "that's fine— you'll still- you'll still be great. y'know? like- you're always amazing at whatever you do," you say.

"you think so?" tashi doesn't believe you, but she hearing it makes her feel better.

"yeah— we'll- we'll figure it out."

she laughs bitterly. "and what if we don't?"

the words die in your throat again, something that happens more often recently— you just want to help.

you don't know how to answer her, so you don't. you just—

you pull her into a kiss. messy. desperate. hoping, praying that this will make it better. that this will make her pain go away.

but tashi doesn't quite move at all. she tenses the second your lips touch. a sharp intake of breath—

then she pulls away.

“uh—“ she blinks then lets out a nervous laugh. “ok— wh— wow.” tashi looks away from you.

your stomach drops.

the waves keep rolling in.

“i—“

“no-“ she gets up, “no, just— just- forget it.”

you sit in the sand, heart pounding. she walks off towards to shoreline. the wind feels so much colder than before.

you sit there, frozen. maybe you should let her go, stay here, watching the waves pull in and out and drown in your misery.

but your body moves before you can think—

“tashi— tashi- wait—“

she doesn’t stop.

you run a bit more, and face her. grabbing her shoulders.

“i’m sorry- i didn’t— i shouldn’t have—“

she puts her hands on the hands of your shoulders, taking them off of her. she shakes her head. “no— no- i— said- forget it.”

your eyebrows furrow. “please— i-“

"i think you should go."

"tashi—"

"i think you should go"

you bite your tongue so you don't say anything, but you end up blurting out a— "i can drive you back to campus?"

"i'll figure that out myself."

she turns, walking without looking back.

the waves keep rolling in.

the winds howl.

you sniff, a stray tear rolls down your cheek.

you shove your hands into the pockets of your hoodie, but you’re still freezing.

-

part 2: good luck, babe!

tags: @hyuneskkami for the dividers

camp counselor! tashi duncan hcs

WHO જ⁀➴ .. reluctantly agreed to sign up for a summer camp as camp counselors together, as a getaway (technically, it was, anyway) before she went off to stanford, and you to princeton.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. hated it the second you stepped foot on outside in the heat. she hated dealing with bugs, dirt, and uncomfortable weather. she doesn’t like the uneasiness hanging in the air—she’d heard offhand comments from locals about the camp, rumors about strange happenings in the woods.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. thought the other counselors were annoying. the feeling only grew when at the first night, while telling campfire stories, a counselor told a story about an old camp legend—something about a counselor who went mad and committed a massacre. she bit down her annoyance, her grip on your thigh tightening every time the dimwit spoke.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. tries to ignore the others, and bonds with the kids quickly. she thinks they’re adorable (although she’d never admit it. kids still bother her.. a lot). she helps them with setting up tents, and occasionally will play a campfire game with them to shut them up.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. liked to sneak out with you into the woods at night, and make out. you know a good spot with soft bushes. she’d never admit it, but sometimes the peacefulness of the woods would get to her, especially when the two of you were alone. she felt safer when it was just the two of you, away from the tension of the camp and the rumors swirling around. the quiet of the night, the rustling of leaves—she’d let herself relax for a few moments, even if it was only when she was with you.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. despite all the discomfort, liked the experience—being away from the world. she’d cling to you openly when the creepy stories got too much. it wasn’t just the physical moments in the woods that made it special—it was the sense of solidarity, the unspoken understanding that you two were in this together, whether it was dealing with the weirdness of camp or the impending separation after the summer.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. notices first. at first, it was easy to dismiss—just small, almost forgettable inconveniences. a piece of equipment would go missing, supplies would be misplaced, flashlights would flicker unexpectedly, and it was always just enough to feel like coincidence. but things escalated. campers began whispering about seeing someone standing just beyond the tree line at night. some of them insisted they heard voices after lights-out: strange, fragmented whispers that drifted through the dark. voices that didn’t sound like anyone at camp. she didn’t laugh it off like the others, she believed them. from that night on, she kept a flashlight tucked beneath her pillow—just in case.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. notices immediately when a counselor didn’t come back to their cabin. the director wrote it off as them quitting and sneaking out—but her bunk was still made, her stuff untouched. that’s when she stopped pretending everything was all stupid fun. that night, she clung tighter than usual when you snuck out to the bushes, her kisses frantic, as if she was afraid it’d be the last time.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. used to love the rain. that night, the rain fell in heavy sheets, relentless and loud, drowning out the usual chorus of insects and leaves. then came the scream. sharp, piercing, and far too close. she took off running, the mud clung to her shoes as she scurried through the downpour. she burst into your cabin, soaked and panicked, barely able to get the words out. she didn’t want to go back to the fire circle, her instincts screamed at her not to. but you two went. the scene that waited for you there still haunts her. benches knocked over like someone had fled in a hurry. scattered debris. drops of blood gleaming on the wet stone. and the axe—the one from the equipment shed—was gone. after that, the rain never felt the same again.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. quickly locked the campers in the mess hall. the power went out. and the remaining counselors—those who were alive—huddled together with flashlights. she didn’t speak much, except to grip your hand. her grip would get tighter every time you heard another scream, and the thump of a body. you two scurried off when the masked figure tore their axe through the door, ending up barricaded yourselves in the arts & crafts cabin. she had a pair of scissors gripped in her fist, and you had color pencils (sharpened, obviously. there weren't much weapons, unfortunately).

WHO જ⁀➴ .. barely had time to register the flicker of movement behind you. the figure emerged from the dark as if waiting for this moment. you shoved her behind you instinctively, yelling for her to run. the attack happened fast.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. didn’t run, not at first. she screamed, charging at the figure with her scissors. you were already on the ground, blood in your mouth, telling her to go. she didn’t want to leave you, didn’t want to believe it was happening. eventually, she did—barefoot, bloody, and grieving—until she burst into the main lodge and collapsed.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. regained consciousness with a paramedic shaking her. her vision swam as she blinked against the harsh light, her mind slow to catch up—but the first thing she did was search for you. her eyes darted frantically across the bloodied campsite, heart pounding, until the empty space where you should’ve been made her stomach drop. even as they tried to lift her onto the stretcher, she fought to stay. she insisted you were coming—that maybe you were hurt, sure, but not gone. you’d walk out of the trees any second now, bruised but grinning, like you always did.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. broke down when she learned the final death toll. fourteen lives lost, including yours. once she got home, she shut herself away in her room, swallowed by grief and shock, unable to face the world outside her door. for days, she didn’t eat, didn’t speak. just mourned. at one point, she nearly turned down her stanford scholarship, convinced she couldn’t move forward. but her parents gently pushed her to go, reminding her of everything she’d worked for. and maybe, deep down, she knew that leaving wouldn’t mean forgetting.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. carried your memory like a wound—something that never quite scabbed over. she’d stare out dorm windows at night, wondering what would’ve happened if she’d made you run with her. wondering if you’d still be alive if she’d said the camp was a stupid idea.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. shut down patrick and art immediately, still in the grieving process. she couldn’t even think about dating, when she’d lost you.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. gave up on tennis for a bit, but pushed herself to go back (after all, her scholarship was for tennis). grief clung to her like a second skin, heavy and unrelenting, but she tried to outrun it, tried to drown it out in the rhythm of serves and volleys. every morning, before the sun had fully risen, she was on the courts. and at night, long after the world had gone quiet, she was still there, chasing something she couldn’t quite name.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. let training became her ritual, her escape. with every swing of the racket, she fought to keep her sorrow at bay. when the knee injury came—sharp, sudden, and cruel—she barely flinched. the pain wasn’t as bad as the pain of losing you, in her head.

sweet ; tashi duncan

the duncanator.

that was the nickname you’d heard throughout stanford that people would use to describe tashi duncan. fierce and ambitious, with a sharp competitive streak. but, really, tashi was just your friend. silly, and witty, with a top tier fashion sense, and who knew what places served a mean cappuccino.

you could see how some people would be confused with your friendship. she’d taken you under her wing after a group project assigned to you two and a couple other people. the other students were about to let you do the work, and she was not having that.

now, the two of you were seemingly inseparable. weekly sleepovers, study hangouts, shopping sprees. you name it.

but, eventually, you started seeing a shift in your friendship. and you knew she saw it too.

lingering touches, wisty glances across the room, smiles became more pronounced whenever the other spoke. the hangouts became more frequent, silly texts were sent and responded to in seconds. but why would tashi duncan be interested in you? she would’ve answered that question for you any day. you only had to ask.

but one night.

the two of you were in her dorm for your weekly sleepover (every friday night, at 7:30 pm sharp. she’d questioned you relentlessly the one time you arrived at 7:45. never again), sharing a bowl of popcorn alongside some chocolate bars. tashi had her arm around your shoulders, keeping you tucked in her side. casual, right?

she’s the man was playing, and she would let out a scoff every five seconds. “this movie is so stupid.” she murmured after a moment, her grip on your shoulders tightening for a second before letting it go. “what, you don’t think channing tatum’s cute?” you flashed an amused look.

a slight pause. “he’s.. okay. i guess.” her gaze flickered to the tv in front of you two, seemingly looking for any flaws she could see outright on the man displayed. “too bulky.” she stated bluntly after a moment, her thumb rubbing your shoulder softly. you laughed, shaking your head. “your standards are way too high, tash.” a playfully shove in response.

“i hate you.” she replied, an almost teasing tone lacing her voice as she gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “the feeling’s mutual.” you grinned, taking a candy bar and nibbling on it. “i doubt it.” she retorted, the words followed with a light laugh. she pulled you closer to her, resting her chin on top of your head.

tashi was completely comfortable with you this close to her, your head resting on her shoulder, and her arm around your own. it was as if the two of you were meant to be like this. “she looks nothing like her brother. everyone in this movie is either stupid or blind.” she huffed. “c’mon. this is peak cinema.” you teased, lightly taking hold on her chin and pinching it lightly.

oh.

her heart felt like it had stopped at your touch. her annoyed expression turned into a soft, almost amused one as she leaned into your touch. “i’d hardly call this peak. or even cinema, for that matter.” she murmured in response, lifting her hand to gently take yours from her chin, intertwining your fingers with her own. she brought your interlocked hands to her lap, her gaze still holding yours.

“not a fan of cheesy rom-coms?” you teased, keeping your hands intertwined. her eyes flickered over yours, and she hummed softly. “nah.” she rolled my eyes playfully. another pause. tashi almost looked in awe, as she looked you over. you enchanted her, and she knew you had her heart held securely in the palm of your hand.

“not when they’re as cheesy as this one.” she said, her gaze flicking around your face. a pause at your lips. “i mean..” she trailed off, snapping out of it as she met your gaze once again. “it’s just weird. the plot in itself. why is cps not at her mom’s door?” she scrunched her nose in distaste.

“good point.” you hummed, turning your attention back to the screen. her gaze flickered back to you once you weren’t looking, admiring your profile. “..hey.” she spoke up hesitantly, almost as if the word escaped against her will. you turned back to face her. “yeah, tash?” you tilted your head. her fingers tightened her grip on yours for a moment, and she opened her mouth, then closed it. you felt a smile grace your lips.

god, her heart almost ached.

her expression turned tender as she returned the smile, closing the distance very slightly. it was subtle, but you both noticed it. “i just..” she trailed off, her gaze piercing into yours. she bit her lip, her eyes slowly trailing down to your lips once again. “mhm?” your smile widened, and you inched closer just the slightest bit. she leaned closer, trying to capture your mouth with her own.

she let out a soft sigh at the feeling of your lips against hers. as if she had been waiting for this. yearning, almost. she let go of your hand, taking hold of your waist and tugging you onto her lap. she almost couldn't get enough of you, and her expression was tender as she kissed you, oh so gently.

she broke the kiss, shifting to rest her forehead against yours as she breathed heavily. her hand traced gentle lines on the skin of your thighs, and a small, almost shy, smile tugged at the corners of her lips. she let out a soft laugh, looking down at where you were perched onto her lap, and let her free hand go up to lightly rest under your chin, making you look up at her. her thumb lightly swept across your bottom lip, and her gaze was just as tender as her touch.

tashi said nothing for a moment, her gaze just lingering on you, taking you in. “how long?” you questioned, smiling at her touch. a rare flush filled her cheeks, her expression turning into an almost shy one as she stared down at you. she let out an amused laugh under her breath, her voice quiet and almost embarrassed when she responded, “..a while.”

you laughed along with her, pressing another kiss to her nose. “me too.” you smiled, feeling your heart flutter. “you’re a good kisser.” you admitted, fighting back a giggle. she rolled her eyes playfully, tugging on a strand of your hair lightly. “so are you.” she hummed, and felt herself smile as you pressed a kiss to her nose.

if anyone thought the two of you were inseparable before, now it was way worse. whenever you roamed the hallways, she was right by your side, her hand taking hold of yours. tennis matches? you were there, front row with a stupid t-shirt that said ‘i support the duncanator!’ in bright red lettering. weekly sleepovers were now every two days.

and honestly? she couldn't be happier. she had all that could ever want, with you.