babymikolover

ACT I – COLLEGE 

2035, Paige Bueckers

Minneapolis, Minnesota – Lynx Apartment

Paige Bueckers never thought Azzi Fudd made sense.

I need to stop thinking about her, Paige  said to herself, watching the city lights across her living room window, blurred by the glass.

Now she was thirty-four, in an apartment the Lynx had helped her find (good view, decent kitchen, overpriced rent), and Azzi was asleep in a hotel a few miles away, wearing the same team logo Paige had in her jerseys growing up.

Tomorrow, they’d make their debut as teammates.

Again.

The heater hummed under the window, fighting the Minneapolis cold. The sky outside was winter-black in a way that swallowed everything, but yet left space so downtown could still glow: traffic lights, stadium lights, the faint pulse of a city.

Paige’s body should’ve been exhausted. 

She wasn’t tired, she was wired.

She’d already cleaned the kitchen twice, rearranged the shoes by the door (three pairs of Js, one pair of slides, one pair of beat-up Birkenstocks she’d never admit she loved), and still her brain refused to shut up.

Her phone lay on the coffee table, face up, and the last text in her thread with Azzi sat there:

A: u good? P: just can’t sleep A: shocking A: go to bed grandpa

She could have replied, something stupid, like u miss me?, or come tuck me in. 

She didn’t.

Instead, she was standing barefoot in front of the window, oversized Lynx hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair thrown into a lazy bun, staring at a city she’d left once and then chosen to come back to.

The headline story the league liked to tell about her now:  Paige Bueckers, Minnesota girl, goes back home.

They never mentioned that she’d spent a decade in Dallas first, convincing herself that staying there, in that system, under that front office, meant she was tough. Mentally strong, and unshakeable. 

She left Dallas late, like she did most things that involved walking away.

Azzi wasn’t like that, God, Azzi knew how to leave.

Paige pressed her forehead to the glass, and it was cold enough to make her teeth ache.

Fuck, she should be thinking about the game plan, how the ATO sets were going to run, when she’d need to shift her pace to open the lane.

Instead, all she could think about was Azzi Fucking Fudd. 

Not UConn Azzi, not USC Azzi. Before all of that.

USA camp, 2018.

A small dorm room, lumpy twin bed, and Azzi sat cross-legged on the mattress, curls straightened, face younger but already serious in that way that made Paige want to wreck every line of her composure.

She’d loved her in ways that didn’t make sense even then: too much attention for a friend, too many saved photos, too much protective rage when someone bumped her too hard in a scrimmage.

Paige let out a breath, watching it fog the window.

Now they were thirty-something, with more miles on their bodies than some retired vets, with rings and scars and stat lines and years of messiness between them.

UConn together. USC without her. Dallas together. Lynx without her. USA together, but in spurts.

And, the league loved their story: Teammates to Rivals to Teammates to Rivals  (to Teammates again)

Paige pulled away from the window and shuffled back to the couch.

On the coffee table sat a neat stack of Lynx gear: practice tee, shootaround top, tomorrow’s jersey laid flat. Her “5” in teal, the name BUECKERS on the back.

She picked it up, the fabric was smooth under her fingers, slightly heavier than college jerseys, and when she closed her eyes, she could see Azzi in it, no problem.

Brown skin, hair still curly, still perfect. Strong shoulders, stronger than when they were kids, more defined than freshman year at UConn. Same perfect nose, same dimples, same pretty mouth.

And, damn, same effect on Paige’s heartbeat. 

Still hung up on the girl who left you twice? she muttered to herself, dropping the jersey back onto the table.

She flopped down on the couch, head tipping back.

God, it annoyed her, how much space Azzi still took up in her head. 

Paige closed her eyes.

Sophomore year, the north campus dorm.

She could still feel the press of Azzi’s mouth, the unsure way her hand had found the back of Paige’s neck, the way the world had narrowed to the space between their teeth.

They would never talk about it.

Paige swallowed around the lump in her throat.

She wished she could time-travel back to those nights in Storrs and grab her younger self by the shoulders.

Say something, she’d tell her. 

Say: I like you. Say: this means something. Say it now so we don’t have to keep pretending we only ever cared about basketball.

Instead, at nineteen, she’d said nothing.

At twenty, she’d shouted the wrong things.

At twenty-six, she’d turned their Dallas chaos into a situationship she still didn’t know how to define.

And, hell, at thirty-four, all she could do was breathe and hope their bodies remembered how to move together on court.

Her phone buzzed again, this time it wasn’t Azzi. 

Coach Reeves, sending the usual night-before text: lock in, be ready, proud of you.

She shot back a quick always, tossed the phone aside, and scrubbed her hands over her face. She should sleep, she wouldn’t.

Instead, she let herself lie there, eyes open in the dim, replaying two scenes on a loop:

Azzi in that teal Lynx jersey, tomorrow, running with her, and Azzi at eighteen, in a dim dorm room, laughing against Paige’s mouth.

Azzi Fudd didn’t make sense.

She never had.

2022, Paige Bueckers

UConn Campus – North Residence Halls

The first time Paige kissed Azzi, it was almost an accident.

(Almost)

If you asked her years later, she’d blame it on two things: late night Gampel and the lights in the North dorms making everyone look a little more unreal.

Paige had been on campus for a while, long enough to learn the quickest path from the practice gym to the dining hall.

On the other hand, Azzi hadn’t arrived until that year with a quiet suitcase and a louder injury history. Paige always thought Azzi’s game looked too pretty to belong to someone on minutes restriction.

Officially, they slept at opposite ends of the hall, but half the time Azzi ended up in Paige’s room anyway: knocking at midnight, curling up at the end of the bed with her laptop, falling asleep to highlights .

Tonight was like that.

Paige’s room was a disaster, but she didn’t care. Azzi knocked once and slipped in without waiting for an answer, because that’s how it had been since USA camp.

“You’re not gonna believe what my professor said today,” Azzi started, already toeing off her shoes.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a UConn t-shirt and shorts, raised an eyebrow. “Did they try to make a basketball metaphor again?”

“Worse.” Azzi flopped down beside her, leaning back against the wall. “We were talking about race and media, and this guy in the back goes, ‘I don’t see color.’”

Paige groaned. “No.”

“Yes,” Azzi said. “And then he looked at me when he said it.”

“Of course he did,” Paige muttered. “Did you say something?”

Azzi shrugged, mouth twisting. “Not worth it.”

Paige wanted to argue, to tell her it was worth it, that he was an idiot, that Storrs needed Azzi more than she needed Storrs. 

Instead she nudged her shoulder “Come here,” she said. “I found something to make you feel better.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “If it’s another video of you crossing someone over in high school—”

“It’s not,” Paige lied “Mostly.”

She grabbed the remote and pulled up the TV, scrolling to a saved clip: their own practice footage from that afternoon. It was a fast-break sequence, and Paige pushed the ball up the court, threading the pass to Azzi in the corner. 

Azzi catching, shooting, net barely moving.

Azzi watched herself on the screen, expression sharpening, that locked-in look that meant she’d be replaying every frame in her head later.

“You see that?” Paige said, pointing. “Look how pretty that is. I’ll show you this on loop till your eyes bleed.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but Paige saw the tension in her shoulders ease just a fraction.

“You’re annoying,” Azzi said.

“You love me,” Paige shot back, too fast, too easy.

The words hung there.

Well, they’d tossed it around a lot in late-night texts, and sarcastic “love u” at the end of calls. It meant something and nothing at the same time, which was revoltingly dangerous.

Azzi grabbed the bag of Sour Patch Kids and dug out a red one “I tolerate you,” she said, popping it into her mouth.

“Same difference.”

They watched for a while in comfortable silence. Old USA highlights, occasionally Paige would pause, rewind, point out something.

Azzi liked that version of her, the serious one. 

“Remember when we didn’t know any of this shit?” Paige said suddenly, rewinding again “Just vibes and hooping.”

“You still don’t know defensive schemes,” Azzi said.

“I know enough to drag your ass into the right spot.”

Azzi smirked, “Yeah, yeah.”

The room hummed with the sound of the mini fridge and the faint bass from someone’s music down the hall.

Paige shifted, her knee bumping Azzi’s thigh, and Azzi didn’t move away.

That was the thing about them: always touching. Shoulder to shoulder on bleachers, knees knocking on benches, hands brushing in the huddle. 

Paige’s eyes drifted down to where their legs touched.

Azzi’s skin was warm through the thin fabric of her sweats. Brown, smooth, scar peeking from under the hem. 

Paige looked away quickly.

Don’t be weird, she told herself. You’ve seen her in a thousand versions of UConn gear. You’ve seen her in a USA jersey, in a sports bra in the training room.

Azzi shifted again, closer this time, their shoulders touching now.

“Your room is cold,” Azzi complained, pulling Paige’s blanket over her lap.

“My room is perfect,” Paige countered. “You’re just soft”

“You have the AC on,” Azzi pointed out. “In September. In Connecticut.”

“I run hot”

Azzi snorted, and Paige opened her mouth to come back with something smart, then stopped.

Azzi yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Paige had noticed the way Azzi’s shoulders hunched a little in certain spaces, and the way she shut down in certain conversations. The way she’d laugh along at things that weren’t funny because it was easier than being the one who always made it awkward.

You can’t fix that, Paige reminded herself. 

She still wanted to fix it “You okay?” she heard herself ask.

Azzi blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re making your ‘I’m thinking’ face.”

“I don’t have a face,” Azzi said.

“You have several,” Paige said.

Azzi laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the small room “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just… a lot. People keep asking if my knee is okay. My professor expects me to have something smart to say every time we talk about race. I’m just… tired.”

Paige sat with that for a second.

“You know you don’t have to be anything with me, right?” she said quietly “I’m serious,” Paige added. “If you want to vent about class or practice or whatever, you don’t have to… I can handle it.”

Azzi turned her head, studying her.

Azzi didn’t always say what she was thinking, but it was all there in her eyes if you knew where to look.

“Okay,” Azzi said softly “Same goes for you, by the way. You’re allowed to freak out.”

Paige snorted. “I don’t freak out.”

“Sure,” Azzi said. “Tell that to the girl who watched you cry in the bathroom at USA camp because you missed six shots in a row”

“First of all,” Paige protested, “it was five.We agreed to never speak of that again.”

Azzi smiled, “Too late.”

They looked at each other, the air changing.

It wasn’t dramatic, but Paige’s breath caught.

She didn’t decide to move. Her body did it for her.

One second she was sitting there, watching Azzi’s mouth curve around some sarcastic comment, and the next, she was leaning in, eyes dropping to lips she’d definitely not been thinking about for the last forty-five minutes.

Azzi’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull back.

Their noses bumped, then Paige adjusted, angle corrected by muscle memory from studying Azzi’s face for so many years.

Her mouth landed on Azzi’s.

Azzi made a small sound, and Paige felt her own heart slam against her ribs.

God, she expected Azzi to freeze, to laugh, to push her away and call her an idiot. Instead, Azzi kissed her back.

Her hand came up, fingers sliding to the back of Paige’s neck, palm warm against her skin. It was shy in a way that made Paige’s stomach flip.

Azzi shifted closer.

It wasn’t a dramatic make-out. No one pushed anyone onto the bed, and no one’s shirt hit the floor.

Paige’s brain, usually loud, went quiet. All that existed for a minute was Azzi’s breath, Azzi’s lashes brushing her cheek, the faint taste of Sour Patch Kids lingering between them.

Then it was over.

Azzi pulled back first, lips swollen, eyes wide. They stared at each other, both breathing a little too fast.

Shit, Paige thought, suddenly aware of her own hands, one on Azzi’s knee, one braced on the bed.

Say something.

“Uh,” Paige said.

Azzi blinked, her hand slipped away from Paige’s neck “That was—” she started, then stopped.

“A thing,” Paige finished.

“A thing,” Azzi agreed.

Paige’s mind scrambled.

She could say: I’ve wanted to do that forever.

She could say: I like you.

She said none of those things.

Instead, she huffed a laugh that sounded almost normal and flopped back against the wall “Blame the Sour Patch,” she joked weakly. “Sugar rush.”

Azzi forced a smile, playing along “Yeah,” she said “Sugar.”

They watched TV again, pretending their hearts weren’t pounding out of rhythm, and ten minutes later, Azzi stood up, claiming she was tired. 

Paige walked her to the door like they didn’t do that every night, at the threshold, they hesitated

“Night,” Azzi said.

“Night,” Paige echoed.

Azzi walked down the hall, hoodie pulled up, curls spilling out, and Paige watched her go until she turned the corner.

It didn’t mean anything, Paige told herself. Just two friends. Just a moment. Just—

She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over Azzi’s contact, tempted to text something stupid, like “That was weird, right?”

She put the phone down instead, and they never talked about it.

Two weeks later, it happened again, and this time it was Azzi who moved first, who looked at her too long, who leaned in like gravity.

This time, it was slower and more deliberate. Azzi’s fingers tangled in the hem of Paige’s shirt, Paige’s hand sliding up to the line of Azzi’s jaw.

When they pulled apart, neither of them smiled.

Paige could feel the fork in the road: pretend it never happened, or say something.

“So,” Paige said lightly, choosing the wrong path on purpose “Sugar Rush, again?”

Azzi huffed out a laugh that sounded a lot like surrender “Shut up,” she said, tossing a pillow at her.

They never talked about that night either.

2023, Paige Bueckers (4:10 PM)

Werth Champions Center – UConn Campus

The first time Paige saw the tweet about Azzi and USC, she laughed.

Not because it was funny, more because it was so obviously wrong that it looped back around to being hilarious. Like one of those fake “sources” accounts that said Geno was retiring every other week.

She was lacing up her shoes in the players’ lounge, phone balanced on her knee, when it popped up in a group chat.

Aaliyah: Saw this? Link: @WBBPortalNews: “Hearing rumblings that UConn G Azzi Fudd has been in contact with USC staff about a potential transfer…”

Paige’s first reaction was a snort and a screenshot.

“Bro, they’re so bored,” she muttered, shaking her head as she sent it to Azzi with the caption: they’re making fanfic about u

No answer yet; Azzi was probably still in the weight room, beating her own lifting numbers while claiming she was “weak.”

Aaliyah walked in, hair in a puff, hoodie half-zipped, scrolling her own phone with a frown.

“You see that shit?” she said, dropping onto the couch across from Paige.

Paige didn’t look up from tugging her laces tight. “You mean the fanfic about my shooting guard abandoning me for Cali hoops?”

“I’m serious,” Aaliyah said. “People are talking like it’s real.”

“It’s not,” Paige said automatically.

Aaliyah’s eyebrows inched up. “You asked her?”

“No,” Paige admitted. “Because it’s not real.”

“That’s not an answer,” Aaliyah said.

“That's my answer,” Paige countered.

She finished tying her shoes and leaned back, letting her head rest against the cushion for a second.

The air in the building smelled like it always did, and she’d lived in that smell since she was eighteen. Tore her ACL here, rebuilt herself here, won here, cried here. 

If there was any constant in that whole mess, it was the picture in her head that never changed: Paige and Azzi in UConn blue, side by side, for as long as college would let them.

The idea of Azzi in cardinal and gold was so stupid her brain refused to render it.

But Aaliyah was still looking at her.

“You know how many people have texted me about this?” she asked. “Reporters. Old teammates. Everyone thinks it’s real. They’re asking why she’s unhappy here.”

Paige bristled. “She’s not unhappy.”

“You don’t know that,” Aaliyah said, not unkind, which only made it worse

Paige opened her mouth, then shut it.

Paige knew Azzi Fudd. 

Azzi was the girl that popped into her room at 1 AM with leftover dessert and crashed at the foot of the bed.  Azzi  was the girl who let Paige wrap a hand around her waist in the backseat of an Uber after parties, both of them drunk and laughing, then let her kiss her like it was an inside joke.

The one who always answered her texts, even if it was just a single lazy emoji.

“Look,” Aaliyah said, softer now. “If it’s bullshit, cool. But if it’s not… you don’t want to find out from Twitter.”

Paige swallowed.

She hadn’t noticed anything weird with her best friend that week. Azzi had been sharp, talking more on defense, shooting the hell out of the ball in scrimmage. 

They hadn’t kissed in a while, though, not that that meant anything.

Their pattern was streaky: a couple weeks of nothing, then one party-heavy weekend where they’d end up in Paige’s car, because drunk kissing didn’t count. 

You don’t bring it up sober. You don’t ask what it means. You don’t change anything.

They let themselves be greedy in small ways: a hand on a thigh in the dark, an open-mouthed kiss after too much tequila, a sleepy forehead pressed to her shoulder on the bus. 

Things she could label as “nothing” in the morning.

Azzi never asked for more, and she never asked for less either.

Paige refreshed Twitter again, scrolling the replies under the stupid portal account. Some fans were freaking out, some were laughing it off, some were writing full dissertations about fit and usage and minutes.

Minutes.

If she was being honest — which she tried not to be — she knew Azzi was frustrated. She felt it in the way Azzi’s shoulders tensed when she got subbed out early. 

Paige tried to help, she ran more action to get Azzi open looks in practice. Fought for her in film, glared at Geno when she felt it.

But there were things she couldn’t fix, and the system was bigger than them.

“P?” Aaliyah said again.

“I’ll talk to her,” Paige muttered, dropping her phone on the table. “After practice.”

“Good,” Aaliyah said, pushing herself up. “Before ESPN decides to break it.”

Paige rolled her eyes but her stomach flipped.

Paige did what she always did: led, yelled, organized, hit shots. Azzi did what she always did: moved quietly, cut sharp, shot clean, talked more with her hands than her mouth.

If she was tense, Paige couldn’t tell. 

Azzi stayed behind to shoot and Paige watched her from the doorway: the simple rhythm of catch, dip, rise, release. She walked back in.

“Sup, Steph,” Paige said, grabbing a ball of her own.

Azzi glanced over, lips twitching “You know you’re the light-skinned one, right?”

“Shut up,” Paige said loftily, taking a three and bricking it off the back iron. 

“That wasn’t very Steph,” Azzi muttered

They shot for a few minutes in silence, the squeak of their soles echoing in the empty gym. 

“Ali sent me something earlier,” she said, chasing down a rebound “About you.”

Azzi’s form didn’t break, but the ball she shot rimmed out.

“Yeah?” she said, too casual.

“Portal account,” Paige said. “USC. You see it?”

“Everybody saw it,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” Paige tried for lightness, “I’m not everybody.”

Azzi sighed, eyes closing briefly, and then she looked over, meeting Paige’s gaze straight on.

“You really want to do this in the middle of Gampel?” she asked quietly.

“Why not?” Paige shrugged, even though she already knew the answer “It’s our gym.”

“It’s not just ours,” Azzi said “And this… isn’t about them.”

There was something in her voice that made Paige’s smart-ass reply die on her tongue.

“So it’s real?” she asked, and for the first time there was no joke in it “You’re… talking to them?”

Azzi’s fingers tightened on the ball for a fraction of a second.

“Paige,” she said, voice low “Can we please not do this here?”

Paige’s chest squeezed. “Why does it matter where we do it if the answer’s the same?”

Azzi looked down at the ball, then back up.

“Your room,” she said “After I’m done. Give me an hour.”

Paige wanted to argue, God, she wanted to demand answers on the spot, under the banners and the lights.

Instead, she heard herself say, “Fine.”

She took a step closer, just enough to bump Azzi’s shoulder with her own.

“You know I found you first, right?” she said  “USA camp. Before any of these coaches even knew your name, I was like, ‘Yeah. That one’s mine.’”

Azzi’s mouth twitched.

“You know,” Paige countered. “Don’t let USC pretend they discovered you. They’re late to the party.”

Azzi’s eyes softened, then shuttered.

“Go shower, P,” she said quietly. 

Paige walked off the court, the echo of the ball behind her;

For the first time since she’d seen the tweet, she let herself entertain the possibility that it wasn’t just noise. That maybe, just maybe, Azzi was seriously considering leaving her.

She told herself she’d get answers in an hour.

She did not tell herself what she’d do if she didn’t like them.

2023, Azzi Fudd (9:30 PM)

North Campus – Paige’s Dorm Room

By the time Azzi knocked on Paige’s door, she’d walked the length of campus twice.

Once in actuality, hoodie up, headphones in, sneakers scuffing the familiar sidewalks. And once in her head,  retracing every step that had led her here.

USA camp, D.C., torn ligaments, UConn, two braces, a thousand little moments where she’d swallowed what she felt to keep the peace.

The dorm hallway was unusually quiet, but there was someone down the way playing music low, bass barely audible.

Paige opened the door almost before Azzi’s hands left the wood, as if she’d been standing there waiting.

She probably had.

Her hair was damp from a shower, and she wore an old UConn hoodie and shorts, socks mismatched. The room behind her was its usual chaos: sneakers, a pair of medals half-hanging and a stuffed Husky on the bed with one ear permanently bent.

For a second, it looked exactly like it had her freshman year.

“Hey,” Paige said.

“Hey,” Azzi echoed.

They stood there, the distance between them suddenly feeling like something she could touch.

Paige stepped back, letting her in.

Azzi walked past her and sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded between her knees, and she could feel Paige’s eyes on her.

“So,” Paige said, shutting the door “You gonna tell me I’m an idiot for believing Twitter, or do I have to start packing your bags for Cali myself?”

Azzi swallowed.

God, she’d spent the last hour trying to figure out where to start. 

With basketball? 

With race? 

With geography? 

With the kind of homesickness that wasn’t for a house, but for a version of herself that existed somewhere else.

She ended up starting with the truth that fit inside a yes/no. “I’ve been talking to them,” Azzi said “USC.”

Paige flinched like someone had slapped her “How long?” she asked, voice too calm.

“A while,” Azzi admitted. “Just… conversations. Nothing official. Yet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Paige shot back.

Azzi forced herself to meet her eyes.

“Because I knew you’d react like this,” she said quietly. “And I needed to figure out how I felt without your feelings screaming over mine”

Paige’s jaw clenched “My feelings are not screaming.”

Azzi’s look said really?

Paige exhaled. “Okay, maybe they’re a little loud”

Azzi almost laughed, then she laced and unlaced her fingers, searching for words. 

Her brain wanted to launch into an essay right there: about growing up in D.C, about how Storrs felt like being air-dropped into a snow globe full of whiteness and being asked to perform for the view.

The basketball-player-version of her wanted to talk about usage rates and touches, about feeling like a weapon everyone forgot they had in certain games.

The friend wanted to say: I’m scared that every version of me here exists in your shadow, even the one that loves you, and I don’t know how to separate that from my own name.

What came out was simpler “Do you remember what it felt like the first time you came to D.C. with me?” she asked.

Paige blinked at the left turn. “Uh. Yeah. Your mom fed me like six times in one day”

Azzi huffed. “Besides that.”

Paige frowned, thinking. “It was… loud,” she said finally. “Like everything was turned up. People, colors, cars”

“Right,” Azzi said. “And no one looked at us twice, my dad talking too loud in the grocery store. It was just… life.”

Paige’s face softened at the memory “Yeah.”

Azzi nodded, more to herself than to Paige.

“Storrs isn’t like that,” she said. “You’ve seen it.”

Paige shifted uncomfortably. “I know it’s… different”

“It’s white,” Azzi said plainly. “The way people look at my hair. Fuck, the way I walk into a room and feel myself… shrink”

Paige opened her mouth, closed it again.

“If I’m honest,” Azzi went on, voice steady because if she let it shake, she’d stop, “I’ve been living here as this… bite-sized version of myself. I leave pieces of myself at home every time I fly back from D.C.”

She glanced down at her hands, then back up.

“And sometimes it feels like UConn is… your place,” she said. “Your story. I’m your best friend. Your plus-one. And I love you, and I love that, but I don’t always love who I am when I’m trying to fit into that space”

The words sat heavy between them, and Paige’s face was in conflict. 

“You could have told me,” she said finally, voice small for once. “If you felt like that. I would’ve… I don’t know”

“I know you would’ve tried,” Azzi said softly. “But some of this isn’t fixable by you. What this campus is. What this program is built on.”

She hesitated, then added, “And some of this is me. Needing to feel like more than the girl who followed you here”

When Azzi’s knee betrayed her too, it was like the script ran out of pages.

She’d spent the months after rehab watching games from the bench, living in that liminal space between valuable and replaceable. 

Always ready, not always used.

“You know I don’t see you as my plus-one,” Paige said, rough. “You’re Azzi Fucking Fudd. If anything, I’m your point guard.”

“That’s not how it feels,” Azzi said.

“To who?” Paige demanded. “To you? To fans? To reporters? Because I can handle the last two. I just need you to know I don’t—”

“Paige,” Azzi cut in. “You’re missing it.”

She took a breath, “Some places make it really hard to be whole,” she said. “And some places make you feel like you’re constantly translating yourself”

Paige’s eyes flickered.

“I want to play somewhere I’m allowed to be big,” Azzi continued. “On the court, yeah, but also… off it. I want to be loud and wrong and right and Black and mixed, without wondering if I’m making too much noise in CD’s opinion.”

She let the next words land carefully.

“And USC feels closer to that than Storrs does.”

Paige’s expression hardened.

“That’s a nice speech,” she said, anger finally pushing through the hurt. “But it still sounds a lot like I’m leaving you”

Azzi flinched. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You are,” Paige’s voice cracked. “Call it whatever you want, you’re still choosing somewhere I’m not.”

Azzi’s own frustration flared.

“You’re acting like I owe this place my whole twenties,” she said. 

“It is a betrayal,” Paige snapped before she could stop herself “To me, to us”

The word us hit like a bruise.

Azzi stared at her. “You don’t get to play the ‘us’ card now,” she said quietly. “Not when you’ve spent years pretending we’re just friends”

Color rose in Paige’s cheeks. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Azzi asked. “We only touch when you’re drunk enough to blame it on alcohol, and we never talk about it in the morning”

Her voice shook now, but she kept going.

“Your teammate? Your best friend? Your… what?”

Paige’s mouth opened and closed, like the word she wanted was caught in her throat.

“You’re running away,” she said, deflecting, desperate. “From work. From the hard part. From staying and making this place better.”

“And you’re trying to keep me here for you,” Azzi shot back. “Not for me. For you. Because I make this version of UConn make more sense in your head.”

Paige’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

“I got you first,” she said, voice low and wrecked. “USA camp. I got you for UConn. I fought for you here. And now you’re gonna let some West Coast coach slide into your DMs and convince you to walk away from everything we talked about when we were seventeen?”

Azzi’s eyes stung. “I know you got me first,” she whispered. “That’s part of why this hurts so much.”

“Fuck, then stay,” Paige said, stepping closer, words tumbling. “Stay here. Stay with me. We’ll figure out the rest. I’ll talk to Geno and CD; I’ll burn this whole town down if I have to, just—”

“Paige,” Azzi said, and there was no anger left now, just exhaustion. “This isn’t about how much power you have”

Her hands had started to shake, she clasped them together: “I love you,” she heard herself say.

The room seemed to stop.

She hadn’t planned to say it. Now she did..

Paige’s eyes blew wide “Don’t,” she said weakly. “Don’t say that if you’re about to leave.”

“I have to say it,” Azzi replied, everything breaking loose now. “I’m in love with you and I still have to go.”

“Do you have any idea how fucked up that feels?” Azzi asked. “To choose myself in a way that takes me away from the person I love the most?”

Paige didn’t answer, she moved.

One second she was three feet away, the next she was right there, hands on either side of Azzi’s face, mouth crashing into hers.

Azzi gasped, then kissed her back like her life depended on it, and Paige’s fingers were shaking against her jaw. Azzi grabbed the front of her hoodie, anchoring herself.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss, their teeth knocked once, and Azzi’s nose squished against Paige’s cheek. 

Tears made everything saltier than it should’ve been.

When they broke apart, both of them were breathing hard.

“Please don’t leave,” Paige whispered, forehead pressed to Azzi’s “Stay. We can… I don’t know. I’ll do whatever. Just… stay.”

Azzi closed her eyes.

God, she wanted to say yes. It would be so easy to fold here, to let all of this patch over the parts of her that hurt.

But she thought of CD’s comments and the feeling of making herself shrink. She thought of scrolling through film and seeing herself used like a tool and not a centerpiece. 

She thought of wholeness.

“I love you,” she said again, the words steadier now. “I have to do this for me”

Paige pulled back, eyes glossy. “You can do it here,” she insisted, last-ditch. “We can—”

“We can’t fix Storrs,” Azzi said gently. “We can’t fix the way this place makes me feel”

Azzi wiped at her face, annoyed to find it wet. But Paige didn’t bother; tears streaked down her cheeks.

“I don’t know what it looks like for us after this,” Azzi admitted. “Maybe we don’t talk for a while”

Paige let out a sound that was half a sob “You’re killing me,” she said.

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “It’s killing me too.”

They sat there, and after a long moment, Paige nodded once, like it physically hurt.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely. “Go to USC. Go be… whole. Or whatever.”

Azzi managed a shaky smile. “That’s the plan.”

She stood, legs unsteady, and headed for the door.

Her hand was on the knob when Paige spoke again.

“For the record,” Paige said, voice small but sincere, “I’ve been in love with you too.”

Azzi paused, eyes closing briefly.

“I know,” she said. “That’s part of why I thought you might let me go.”

She opened the door.

Azzi took a step out, then another.

Behind her, in the room, Paige stayed sitting on the bed, hands still trembling, the taste of Azzi’s goodbye still on her tongue.

2025, Paige Bueckers

UConn Campus – Gampel Pavilion

By March, Paige had earned a new unofficial title on campus.

“Menace,” Jana had called her once, watching Paige leave a party with one girl on her arm and another texting her wyd before she’d even hit the sidewalk.

She’d laughed it off, but the word stuck.

It wasn’t that Paige was suddenly running through half the student body, she really wasn’t. She was still too busy and too tired and too obsessed with basketball to fully commit to the menace life.

She flirted with whoever flirted back, kissed strangers in dark corners. Just letting people think what they wanted when they saw a tall blonde in UConn gear with some girl pressed up against her at a bar.

It was easier than thinking about the one girl she hadn’t talked to in almost a year.

“Your hickey game is getting sloppy,” KK observed one afternoon in the training room, eyeing Paige’s neck as the trainer worked on her calf.

Paige tugged her hoodie up “Mind your business.”

“I am literally forced to look at your business” KK said. “Coach is gonna start calling timeouts just to hand you concealer”

The trainer snorted quietly, and Paige glared at both of them “It’s not that bad,” she muttered.

KK raised a brow “Alyssa’s getting bold, that’s all I’m saying.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the little jolt of pleasure at the name.

Alyssa Summer, the outside hitter on the volleyball team. 

Tall, tan, she was a year younger than Paige, goofy as hell, lowkey smart, and highkey confident.

The first time they’d hooked up had been at some joint athletes’ part, and Paige had been leaning against a wall, arguing with a men’s hoops player, when Alyssa had cut in, announced that she was “bored of listening” and then kissed Paige mid-sentence.

Paige had kissed her back.

It wasn’t complicated (and that was the appeal), except, of course, humans are incapable of letting anything be uncomplicated.

“I like her,” KK said now, lying back as her ankle got iced “She’s cool.”

“Wow,” Paige said. “High praise.”

“It sucks, though” KK added, “It sucks, you’re using her like she’s a prop”

Paige’s stomach jolted “I’m not—”

“You drag her everywhere,” KK went on “Postgames, film—why was she in film, by the way?”

“She wanted to learn,” Paige muttered.

“She wanted to stare at you and you said yes,” KK corrected. “And every time someone says she looks like Azzi, you get this little twitch in your eye that makes me think you’re gonna punch something”

“She doesn’t look like Azzi,” Paige snapped.

KK’s mouth twitched.

“She doesn’t,” Paige repeated. “She’s taller, she plays volleyball, she yells a lot. Azzi’s—”

She stopped herself before she could start .

KK said, shrugging: “I just think it’s weird that the only person you’ve let into your world like that since she left is someone who kinda looks like her.”

“Stop saying that,” Paige muttered.

KK held up a hand. “Fine. Alyssa doesn’t look like Azzi. Happy?”

“No,” Paige said, because nothing about any of this made her happy.

She knew, logically, that she was being unfair. Alyssa hadn’t done anything wrong. She was actually… kind of great, she gave Paige shit for her pregame superstitions but still bought the same stupid energy drink every time “for luck”

Paige liked her.

She just didn’t like why she’d grabbed onto her so hard and so fast, and she also didn’t like the way people kept saying “Oh my God, she looks like your best friend.”

Azzi Fudd wasn’t her “best friend” anymore

They’d played USC earlier in the season, and Paige remembered every second.

It had been in December, some big-ticket game the networks had drooled over: UConn vs USC, Bueckers vs Fudd and Juju.

Azzi hadn’t looked at her once in warmups, and, God, Paige had tried not to look either, but it was impossible.

USC had punched them in the mouth. Juju went on a heater, and Azzi hit three straight threes in the second quarter. 

Paige had fought like hell to drag UConn back, but they’d still lost by six.

“Good game,” Paige had said, staring somewhere near Azzi’s shoulder.

“Yeah, Good game” Azzi had answered, eyes on the floor.

And then the season had rolled on.

Now it was March, and they were doing it again, this time in the Sweet 16, with more on the line and less margin for bullshit.

Juju wasn’t playing; an injury had taken her out early in the month, and the bracket had done that cruel, poetic thing brackets do, and here they were.

Winner moves on, and loser goes home.

The game itself felt like an out-of-body experience.

Paige wasn’t perfect, but she was close enough, every read felt simple, every shot clean. 

Azzi looked… human.

Her shot was short, and her cuts were a half-beat late. The ball slipped twice in her hands in ways it never did in practice, and without Juju, USC’s offense leaned heavy on her, and the weight showed. 

UConn won by eight.

“Good game,” Paige said.

Azzi met her eyes this time, just for a second.

“You too,” she said, voice hoarse.

By the time Paige made it out into the back hallway, the adrenaline had started to leave, leaving her with that exhaustion she got after the biggest games.

She wanted— God, she wanted to talk to her, just for five minutes or two.

Instead, Alyssa was there.

She leaned against the wall in a UConn hoodie that wasn’t hers, scrolling her phone. 

When she saw Paige, she lit up “Paige!” she said, pushing off the wall and jogging over. “Jesus, you were insane”

Paige smiled automatically “Thanks”

She reached up, thumb brushing just under Paige’s eye “You still got glitter there from the student section.”

Paige hadn’t realized there was glitter, Alyssa’s touch was familiar now, and Paige let herself lean into it for half a second.

“You okay?” Alyssa asked, eyes searching her face. “You’re weirdly quiet for someone who just punched her ticket to the Elite Eight”

“I’m tired,” Paige said.

“And maybe a little shook about beating your ex?” Alyssa tried lightly.

Paige blinked. “She’s not my ex.”

“You know what I mean,” Alyssa said. “The girl, every story you’ve told since August.”

Paige groaned “Don’t say it like that.”

“Bro, you vent, I listen,” Alyssa said, unapologetic. “You’re the one who told me she always felt like she was in your shadow, that she couldn’t handle it here, that she ran away from the pressure”

Paige winced “I didn’t say—”

“You absolutely did,” Alyssa said. “It’s fine, I’m just saying, maybe she’ll chill after this. She wanted her big girl moment so bad, and she just completely folded. It’s almost cute.”

Paige felt something pull tight in her chest “Lyss,” she said. “Come on.”

“What?” Alyssa said, genuinely puzzled. “She did. She had, like, what, eight points? Maybe now she’ll stop acting like she needed to leave you to shine.”

Paige stared at her.

Alyssa wasn’t being cruel for the sake of it. She was just… repeating things Paige had said in different words, putting a harsher edge on feelings Paige had spilled into late-night conversations.

“Maybe don’t call it choking,” Paige said quietly. “It’s not that simple.”

Alyssa frowned. “You literally told me she can’t handle big moments without you.”

Paige swallowed “I told you I was angry,” she said.

“Okay, well, now I’ve seen her,” Alyssa said, shrugging. “Those portal accounts were hyping her like she was gonna be the West Coast Steph Curry, and she looked a mess”

She meant it like comfort, and Paige knew that: Look at you, you’re the star, you’re the one.

But the words landed wrong, and mean

Before Paige could figure out how to untangle it, a voice cut in from the end of the hallway

“What did you just say?”

Azzi

She stood there in USC warmups, her eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying — Azzi never cried where people could see.

Alyssa’s brows shot up. “Oh,” she said. “Didn’t see you there.”

Azzi didn’t even look at her, her gaze was locked on Paige “You wanna repeat that?” she asked.

Paige’s brain scrambled. “Azzi—”

“You talking about me choking?” Azzi said, voice low  “Or about me being in your shadow?”

Alyssa laughed, a nervous sound. “Relax, it’s not that deep—”

“Don’t tell me to relax,” Azzi snapped, finally turning her attention on her “You don’t fucking know me.”

“Okay, rude,” Alyssa muttered. “I’m literally just saying what she—”

“Alyssa, go, please” Paige cut in, louder than she meant.

Alyssa’s head jerked back “Excuse me?”

“Just— go,” Paige said again, throat tight. “Please. I’ll talk to you later.”

Alyssa pushed off the wall and stalked down the corridor, ponytail swinging, muttering something under her breath that Paige didn’t catch.

For the first time in months, Paige and Azzi were alone. 

Paige swallowed. “Princess—”

“Don’t call me that,” Azzi said

Paige shut her mouth, and Azzi took a few steps closer, arms crossed over her chest.

“So,” she said. “I’m in your shadow, huh?”

Paige’s chest squeezed. “I was mad,” she said. “I said a lot of shit when I was mad. I didn’t—”

“You told her,” Azzi cut in, jabbing a finger in the direction Alyssa had gone, “about the one thing I was actually afraid of. The one thing I only ever said to you.”

Paige flinched.

“I shouldn’t have said that to her,” Paige said now, voice rough. “You’re right”

Azzi laughed once, no humor in it “At least you know.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, and suddenly the hallway felt too narrow.

“Can we not do this here?” she asked, glancing at the stray staffer walking by “Please. Just— come with me for a second.”

Azzi hesitated, and against her better judgment, she nodded.

Paige reached out, fingers brushing her elbow, and guided her toward an empty media room, door shut.

“You wanna yell?” Paige said, leaning back against the table. “Go ahead. I deserve it.”

Azzi stared at her, chest rising and falling.

“You know what the worst part is?” Azzi said, voice shaking. “It’s not that you were talking shit, is that you took something I gave you and used it as a fucking punchline.”

Paige’s throat closed “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.

“How did you mean it?” Azzi shot back. “Like… what? Like, ‘haha, my old friend ran away because she couldn’t handle being near my greatness’? Is that the joke?”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t stop her,” Azzi said. “You just let her say I choked, that I can’t handle being ‘big’ without you there to hold my fucking hand.”

“I was mad,” Paige repeated weakly. “I was hurt. You left and I—”

“And you never called,” Azzi said. “You never texted. So don’t act like you were so devastated you couldn’t function. You functioned just fine”

The words stung because they were not entirely wrong.

“I missed you,” Paige said. “So much I thought my chest was gonna cave in. I didn’t know how to come back from that.”

Azzi’s expression shifted “I didn’t walk out because I didn’t love you,” she said. 

“You looked good out there,” Paige said quietly, “Even on a bad night. You’re still you. You know that, right?”

Azzi huffed out a breath “Didn’t feel like me.”

“You’re allowed one shitty game,” Paige said. “Welcome to being The Guy. Sometimes The Guy goes 2-for-15 and still has to walk into the presser”

Azzi’s lips twitched  “That your postgame quote?”

“Something like that.”

The tension in the room shifted, softened. “I do miss you,” Paige said, and the words rushed out like they’d been waiting. “Not just the basketball stuff. The… everything.The late nights. The way you make fun of my spelling. I hate that the first real conversation we’ve had in months is about some dumb shit”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “I miss you too,” she admitted. “I’ve wanted to call you so many times I had to delete your number once just so I’d stop staring at it.”

“You deleted my number?” Paige blurted, betrayed.

Azzi rolled her eyes. “I memorized it”

Paige laughed, “I’m sorry,” Paige said again, more sincerely this time. “For the shadow stuff. For Alyssa”

Azzi swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said.

Paige stepped closer without fully deciding to, until she was close enough to see the faint smudge of mascara under Azzi’s eye that she’d missed while washing her face.

She lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly at the smear “Still bad at washing your face,” Paige murmured.

“Pretty much,” Azzi murmured back.

Paige’s hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers resting lightly where hair met skin. 

Azzi’s breath hitched “Paige,” she warned.

“What?” Paige said, voice suddenly soft, dangerously soft “I missed you”

She didn’t finish the sentence, she leaned in.

2025, Azzi Fudd

UConn Campus – Gampel Pavilion

For a split second, Azzi almost lets herself lean in.

Her body knows the motion too well, Paige’s breath is warm, her mouth a breath away, her fingers curling, already pulling. 

Azzo turns her head, and Paige’s mouth lands on her cheek instead, hot and clumsy.

“Wait,” Azzi says, hands flying up to Paige’s shoulders, pushing her back “No. I can’t.”

Paige blinks, confused “What—? Princess—”

“Don’t,” Azzi snaps. “Don’t call me that while you’re trying to kiss me.”

Azzi’s heart is pounding so hard she feels it in her throat, and she takes a shaky breath “You have a girl,” she says.

Paige recoils like someone slapped her. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Maybe not on paper,” Azzi says. “But she’s out there in your hoodie thinking she is, and I’m not gonna be the secret side quest you cheat with”

Paige opens her mouth, then shuts it, jaw tightening.

“And,” Azzi adds, pulse racing, “I have someone, too.”

The words feel strange in her mouth, and she watches them hit Paige in real time.

Paige’s eyes narrow “What?”

“I have someone,” Azzi repeats. “Not a girlfriend either, but… someone I actually respect enough not to do this with”

Paige stares at her like she’s speaking another language “Since when?” she asks, the question edged with disbelief “Who?”

Azzi exhales, chest tight, and for a moment the room dissolves, replaced by all the things Paige didn’t know about the new Azzi Fudd.

The USC, Azzi Fudd.

For once, California had felt like someone turned the saturation back up on her life. There were afros and braids and curls of every texture; girls with skin like hers, girls darker than her, voices that sounded like home in a way Connecticut never had.

And  the “New” Azzi loved touching the ball more, loved knowing they wanted her to shoot her way out of slumps instead of looking at the bench at the first sign of hesitation. 

She loved the trust.

But, God, (even the “New” Azzi) missed Paige Bueckers.

She missed the stupid FaceTime calls where Paige showed her Drew’s new haircut or asked what earrings to wear. Damn, she missed sitting on Paige’s bed with her knees touching, doing nothing important.

She missed her so much she’d deleted Paige’s contact once.

Truthfully, the only thing that made a place without Paige feel like a survivable experience at first was Megan. 

And, of course, Megan wasn’t Paige in any way that mattered, but she understood Azzi all the ways that did.

Megan Taylor was a center, a real one — 6’4, wide shoulders, long arms, the kind of frame that made guards throw the ball up too high just because they trusted she’d go get it.

Her skin was a deep warm brown that caught the California sun and held it. She wore her hair in thick twists pulled back with a headband during practice, dropping down her shoulders when she let them loose. 

Megan’s  eyes were big and expressive, soft when she was listening, and sharp when she was reading a defense.

God, everyone loved her. She knew the janitors by name and brought extra food containers to road trips so she could hand leftovers to the bus driver on the way back.

The first time she talked to Azzi was after a lift.

Azzi was pretending she wasn’t dying, sweat soaking through her shirt, legs shaking. She sat on the edge of the training table, and a Gatorade bottle appeared in her line of sight.

She looked up, and Megan smiled, one dimple cutting deep into her left cheek. “You looked tough, Fudd,” she said. “You good?”

Azzi blinked. “I’m fine.”

“She says, lying,” Megan said, but there was no judgement in it “I’m Megan, by the way. I mean, you know that, but I’m saying it anyway.”

Azzi snorted. “Azzi. Also obvious, but—”

“Gotta say it,” Megan said.

She hopped up to sit on the next table over, close enough that their knees almost brushed.

“If you ever need anything,” she added, casually, like it was nothing, “rides, food recs. I got you, Fudd”

Azzi smiled “Thanks.”

She didn’t take her up on it at first, to be fair, Azzi had always been slow to let new people in.

But Megan kept showing up in the quiet, easy ways that were hard to dodge. 

An extra protein bar tossed her way with a “I know you didn’t eat breakfast.” 

A “you wanna shoot after practice?” that was really “do you want to exist in the gym without coaches?”

Azzi found herself seeking her out more and more. Sitting next to her on the bus, stretching next to her before games, or just sharing small things.

She told Megan about Paige in little pieces, testing the waters.

“My best friend plays at UConn,” she said once.

“Blonde one?” Megan asked. 

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Bro, you know Paige”

“She your girl?” Megan had asked, and Azzi had hesitated half a second too long.

“She was… my person,” she said. “And then she didn’t want me to leave, we’re not talking”

Megan hadn’t pushed, she just bumped her knee gently against Azzi’s.

“You get to be a person too,” she’d said, and it was the first time Azzi had heard it put that simply.

The first time they kissed, Azzi almost ruined it by overthinking it. 

They’d watched film, then a movie in Megan' s dorm room,  that neither of them were really following.

Megan had a blanket thrown over both their legs and a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, and at some point, their shoulders had ended up pressed together.

“You’re doing it again,” Megan murmured, eyes still on the screen.

“Doing what?” Azzi asked, even though she already knew.

“Thinking about practice,” Megan said. “What is it? The threes?”

“Maybe,” Azzi muttered.

“You’ve hit a thousand of them in your life,” Megan said “You’ll be fine, Fudd”

Azzi let out a breath, leaning her head back on the cushion.

“Easy for you to say,” she said. “You never look scared”

Megan shrugged. “I just sweat the fear out”

Azzi laughed, “Ew.”

“There she is,” Megan said, eyes finally cutting over to her. “That’s my girl”

The look held.

It wasn’t the way Paige looked at her, it was softer. And Azzi’s heart thudded.

“Can I kiss you?” Megan asked.

The question landed like a warm hand on her spine. She’d kissed girls before, but it had always been quick, chaotic, flustered. 

This wasn’t

Azzi swallowed. “Yeah,” she said, surprising herself  “Okay.”

Megan shifted the popcorn bowl aside, moved in slowly, giving Azzi every chance to bail. And when their mouths finally met, Megan’s lips were soft, but the hand she slid up to cradle the back of Azzi’s neck was sure.

Azzi exhaled into it.

This was different. With Megan, it felt like finally finding the ground after falling for too long, like: Hey, I’ve got you, put your weight here.

Megan’s thumb stroked the line of her jaw, and when Azzi’s mouth opened under hers, Megan deepened the kiss. Her other hand found Azzi’s waist, fingertips sliding under the hem of her shirt, warm against her skin.

Azzi shivered

“You good?” Megan whispered against her lips.

“Yeah,” Azzi breathed. “Just, new.”

“We can go slow” Megan said. “We can stop right now and I’ll still buy you dinner”

Azzi laughed, breath hitching as Megan’s hand flexed at her hip.

“I don’t want to stop,” she admitted. “I just… haven’t…”

“With a girl?” Megan supplied, gently.

Azzi’s face went hot “Not even really hooked up with one,” she confessed. “Paige and I… we never… went there”

Megan kissed her again, softer “Okay,” she said “Then we’re not competing with anyone”

The next time Megan’s mouth moved down to her throat, Azzi let herself sink into it.

Megan was patient and attentive in a way that made Azzi’s chest ache. She checked in with words and hands, never pushed past where Azzi was ready to go. 

Clothes came off slowly, carefully, and for the first time, Azzi’s body felt like it was entirely hers and entirely wanted at the same time.

When it was over, they lay tangled together on the couch, breaths slowing, Megan’s palm flat and warm over Azzi’s stomach.

“You okay?” Megan asked again.

Azzi stared at the ceiling, “Yeah,” she said. “I… really liked that.”

“Good,” Megan said, smiling.

Now, standing in a little media room with Paige’s hand still warm on her neck, she thought about Megan’s smile.

“Her name’s Megan,” Azzi said, watching Paige carefully. “She’s… important to me.”

Paige’s jaw worked “How important?” she asked.

Azzi huffed out a humorless laugh “You really want a report on my love life right now?”

“Love? You really—” Paige swallowed. “Have you and her even—”

“Yes,” Azzi said, cutting her off, and her cheeks flushed but she held Paige’s gaze “We’ve hooked up”

Paige looked like someone just yanked the floor out from under her.

“You’ve slept with her,” she said, voice thin.

Azzi felt the urge to soften it, to walk it back, to cushion the blow like she always has. 

She didn’t.

“Yeah,” she said. “I have.”

Then Paige laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes “Of course,” she said “You fly across the country, reinvent yourself, and suddenly you’re girlfriend of the year.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Azzi snapped

Paige’s eyes flashed “So what, that’s what this was all about? You wanted to go be somebody’s girl?”

Azzi recoiled, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Paige demands. “You left because you felt like you weren’t getting enough shine here, and now you’re out there being the botty support for USC’s star. Congrats, you upgraded from my sidekick to hers.”

Azzi’s hands curled into fists.

“You watched the same game I did,” Azzi said, voice icy. “She played out of her mind and I had a bad night. That doesn’t make me her sidekick. And it definitely doesn’t mean I’m only ever going to be someone’s ‘girl.’”

Paige scoffed, “I’m just saying what it looks like.”

“No, Paige” Azzi said, anger rising  “You’re saying what you need to say to protect your ego.”

Paige stepped closer, “My ego? You’re the one who ran off because a  white kids in Connecticut. You talk all this shit about wholeness and whatever, and at the end of the day you’re still lining up to be defined by another girl.”

Azzi’s breath catched, and she felt the words like they’re aimed straight at every insecurity she ever confessed on late-night calls.

“You don’t get to use my insecurities against me,” she said quietly. “You’re mad I didn’t stay where you could keep an eye on me”

Paige threw her hands up “Bro, this isn’t about keeping an eye on you, Azzi, it’s about the fact that you left and then expect me to be fine with watching you play house with someone who isn’t —”

There it is the center of it.

“You,” she said. “I was crazy for expecting you to be my friend”

“We were never just friends,” Paige fired back.

“We could’ve been,” Azzi said “We should’ve been. And now you’re mad I found someone who actually wants to hold my hand”

Paige flinched like she'd been hit, and before either of them could say anything else, the door opened.

“Might be reading this wrong,” Megan says from the doorway, “but I’m gonna guess this friendly screaming”

Azzi turned, and Megan filled the frame, USC sweats on, duffel slung over one shoulder, twists pulled up in a loose bun. She looked  beautiful and very, very concerned.

“Hey,” she  said softly, eyes on Azzi first. “They told me you were in here. Bus leaves in ten.”

Her gaze flicked over to Paige, taking in the flushed face, the clenched jaw, and there was no jealousy there, just wary protectiveness.

“You good?” she asked Azzi, and the question is real, not rhetorical.

Azzi’s throat tightened, and she looked back at Paige.

Paige looked wrecked, eyes shiny, mouth pressed thin, chest heaving like the game never ended.

For a wild second, Azzi wants to fix it the way she always has — to hug her and tell her they’ll figure it out.

Then she remembers the sound of Alyssa’s voice in the hall, parroting her deepest fear back. God, she remembers the way Paige almost kissed her without hesitating, as if cheating was just another impulsive move she could explain away later.

“No,” she said to Megan “I’m not good.”

Azzi squared her shoulders and looked at Paige properly “You wanna know what pisses me off the most?” she said “It’s not that you slept around. I knew who you were when I met you. It’s not even that you talked shit about me to some random girl, even though that still sucks.”

Paige swallowed hard.

“It’s that you couldn’t stand the idea that I might exist outside of you,” Azzi continued. “That I might be someone that people talk about without putting your name in the sentence. And, fuck, that I might like to kiss someone who is not Paige Bueckers.”

“That’s not—” Paige started.

“It is,” Azzi cut in. “You had to own me”

Her hands were shaking now, but she didn't stop.

“We didn’t hook up,” she said. “We thought not sleeping together would save the friendship”

Azzi laughed “Well, we didn’t need sex to ruin it. We just needed your fucking ego”

Paige’s eyes were glassy now “Azzi, please—”

“No,” Azzi said “You don’t get to cry your way out of this one. You don’t get to act like this is happening to you, Paige. You made choices. You chose to turn me into a story you tell new girls in your bed. You chose not to call. You chose to let ten years go into this.”

Her voice cracked on “ten years”, but she kept going.

“So congratulations,” she said, tears finally spilling hot down her cheeks. “You did it. You ruined our friendship. I mean, we were never gonna work as girlfriends, because you are an egocentric, competitive, selfish piece of shit”

Paige flinched.

“But we could’ve been friends,” Azzi went on, softer now “We could’ve been in each other’s lives in some way that didn’t hurt this much. But, fuck, you had to burn that down too.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“I hope you win the whole thing,” Azzi finished. “I really do. I hope you get your championship and your trophies and your articles and whatever else you think will make this worth it. Maybe then, when you’re holding that net in your hands, you’ll realize there was something you couldn’t keep, no matter how good you were”

She stepped back toward Megan, who hadn't moved, and Megan reached for her hand. 

“Let’s go,” Azzi said, voice small.

Megan squeezed her hand once and nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We’re done here.”

Azzi turned, letting Megan guide her to the door, and she didn't look back this time.

She hears Paige suck in a breath behind her, like she’s about to say something, one last plea. The room stays silent.

Azzi kept walking, each step feeling like it belonged to a person who is finally, painfully, separate.

For the first time, as Megan’s thumb rubbed circles over her knuckles, Azzi let herself believe she could choose herself, too. Even if it means shutting the door on the only version of her she’s ever known.

Behind her, somewhere in a beige room full of folding chairs, Paige was finally left alone with the one thing she can’t blame on an injury, a ref, or a bad shooting night: Herself.

2026, Paige Bueckers

Dallas / and Everywhere in Between

The thing that scared Paige the most wasn’t that Azzi had called her egocentric.

It was that Paige believed her.

The flight home from the Sweet 16 felt like punishment. Paige sat by the window, hoodie up, replaying every word Azzi had thrown at her in that ugly little media room.

You had to own me. 

She could still see Azzi’s face when she said it, voice steady in that terrifying way people get when they’ve finally given up.

The worst part was the tiny, rational part of Paige’s brain that went: Yeah… that tracks.

Because sure, she’d felt abandoned, but at the end of the day, Azzi had been right about one thing: Paige didn’t know how to love anything without trying to control it.

Basketball, her image, her friendships, even her own queerness — she clutched all of it so tightly she crushed a part of it without meaning to.

That was the part she could live with, but hearing that the one person who’d known her since they were kids now saw her as some self-absorbed asshole?

That sucked. If someone loves you and still looks at you and sees a problem… there’s probably a problem.

By the time they landed, Paige had quietly decided two things:

She was done pretending this version of herself was “okay.”

She was not going to be the player people hesitated to draft because she couldn’t keep her personal shit together.

The first casualty of that decision was Alyssa.

And, God, breaking up with someone you were never officially with was confusing as hell.

So they met outside the volleyball facility, and Alyssa came out in leggings and a giant puffer, hair in a bun, smiling before she even saw Paige’s face properly.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in for a kiss.

Paige dodged subtly, going for a hug instead (she wasn’t great at this)

Alyssa pulled back “Okay, weird.”

“We need to talk,” Paige said, then instantly wanted to die because she sounded so fucking corny.

“What’s up?”

Paige shoved her hands into her pockets so Alyssa wouldn’t see how much they were shaking “I’m not… in a place to be anyone’s girlfriend,” she said. “Or whatever this is. I’m going to the league in a few months, and I just… I don’t want you to think this is headed somewhere it’s not.”

Alyssa stared at her for a long beat “You’re doing the thing,” she said finally.

“What thing?”

“The Paige thing,” Alyssa said. “You get all serious like you’re saving me from some future heartbreak”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it.

“I like you,” Paige said “I genuinely like you. But I’m also messy. And I’m still… hung up on someone I have no business being hung up on, and that’s not fair to you.”

Alyssa’s expression softened just enough that it hurt “Is this about the USC girl?” she asked quietly.

Paige’s stomach twisted. “It’s about me,” she said. “She made some points the other night I can’t really un-hear”

“Cool,” Alyssa said, voice flat “I’m character development.”

“That’s not—”

“I know,” Alyssa cut in, exhaling “Look. I knew what this was. I’m not stupid. But if you’re gonna dip, at least own that it’s because you’re into her, not because you’re sacrificing for the greater good of the WNBA.”

That landed.

“I’m sorry,” Paige admitted

Alyssa rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“You really know how to break up with someone who was never your girlfriend,” she said. 

Paige huffed out a laugh “I’m sorry, Lyss.”

“Yeah,” Alyssa said “Me too.”

She stepped in, pressed a quick, firm kiss to Paige’s cheek, and then walked away without looking back.

Paige watched her go, hands still jammed in her pockets, feeling the first clean cut. And, fuck, it hurt. But it felt… right.

The letter, though? Took three tries.

She wrote the first one at 2 A.M. in her dorm: please don’t hate me, I’m still me, I miss you, I’m sorry, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

She ripped that one up.

The second was defensive: you hurt me too, you know, you’re not the only one with wounds here. That one she didn’t even finish, because halfway down the page she heard Azzi’s voice in her head saying she was being self-centered.

She trashed that too.

The third she handed to the team manager, folded small, her name written in a corner in the handwriting only Azzi would recognize.

It said:

Azzi,

You were right about more things than I wanted to admit.

I took your fears and turned them into a bit. I talked when I should’ve listened. I made your leaving about what it meant for me instead of what it meant for you.

I’m not writing this because I want anything from you. You don’t owe me anything. I’m writing it because I don’t want the last version of me you knew to be the girl in that room.

I’m trying to be better than her.

I hope USC gives you everything you went there for. I mean that.

— P

She never got a reply, but months later, when they ended up in the same building again, Azzi mentioned, in passing, that she’d read it.

Paige held onto that like it was a lifeline.

Life didn’t stop.

____________________________________________________________

Paige finished the season, made a run, did the media circuit, smiled through the questions about her leadership. She cared suddenly and viciously, about how she came across.

Not in a fake way, she just didn’t want “selfish” to be the word people reached for when they described her. Not teammates, not coaches, not fans, and definitely not general managers who had to decide if she was worth an entire franchise.

Dallas called her name on draft night, and when she put on the hat and hugged everyone, she looked for Azzi in the crowd, out of habit, before remembering this wasn’t her class yet.

In Dallas, she threw herself into the work like penance.

She watched more film than she ever had in her life. She listened to vets talk about screens and angles and how you couldn’t just be “the girl” in this league, you had to be “a girl” who fit a system.

She went out sometimes, flirted with people in bars, and laughed. But she always went home alone. And her phone was full of names she didn’t text back.

And if people asked if she was seeing anyone, she said no.

It wasn’t entirely true, but it was true enough for the version of Paige she was trying to be.

And then, in the middle of that first pro summer, someone sent her a tweet.

GENO SAID HE’D TAKE HER BACK & HE MEANT IT. AZZI FUDD COMING HOME FOR HER LAST YEAR

Paige stared at the graphic—a photoshopped shot of Azzi in a UConn jersey again—and felt something shift beneath her ribs.

Okay.

Fine.

Sure.

She called KK.

“Did you know?” she demanded, skipping hello.

“Hi, P, I’m great, thanks for asking,” KK said. “And yes. I knew. No, I didn’t tell you. Yes, you would’ve been annoying about it.”

“How long?” Paige pushed.

“Since, like, June,” KK said. 

Paige rolled onto her back in her Dallas apartment, staring at the ceiling.

“She’s still with that center?” she asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Megan?” KKa said. “Yeah, I think so”

Paige pressed her tongue to her teeth “Cool,” she said. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“You’re not allowed to spiral,” KK warned. “You’re in Texas being a professional and she’s here being a college kid again. Do not make this about you.”

“I’m not,” Paige lied, very badly.

“Sure,” KK said. “Anyway, ring night is in October. You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Paige said.

And she didn’t.

____________________________________________________________

She walked into Gampel as a Dallas Wing, not a Husky, and the difference tasted weird in her mouth.

People clapped when she was shown on the screen, but it was a different kind of clap. Not “our point guard” anymore. 

Then she saw Azzi, and seeing her back in UConn blue knocked the breath out of her in a way she hated.

It looked right, that was the annoying part. Like she’d just taken a long, weird detour and finally gotten back on the correct highway.

They didn’t hug, God, they barely touched.

They found each other in the hallway after the ceremony.

“Congrats on Coming Back,” Paige said, gesturing with her chin to the ring.

“You too,” Azzi said “On… everything.”

They stood there in the static for a second, and damn, Paige wanted to say a lot of things— did you like the letter, how’s Megan, do you still think I’m an egocentric piece of shit —but there were people around, and she was very aware of the cameras.

So she settled on, “You look happy.”

Azzi’s smile was small “I’m working on it,” she said.

And that was that.

____________________________________________________________

The thing about trying to be a better person is that the universe doesn’t clap for you.

You just… do it, and hope it sticks.

Paige kept her head down, played her rookie season, and earned respect in Dallas. The Wings were a mess in all the ways expansion franchises loved to be — too many needs, not enough certainty — but she did her job. 

She started to let people think Alice was her girlfriend because it was easier than explaining she didn’t really know what they were.

Alice was a photographer, older by a few years, absurdly cool. Tattoos, rings on every finger, the kind of laugh that made people turn around in restaurants. 

“So first Alyssa, now Alice,” KK said on FaceTime one night, eyebrows halfway to her hairline. “Your type being ‘girls whose names start with A”

“Shut up,” Paige said, grinning

And Alice was nice. She was sharp and made fun of Paige’s Spotify playlists and took good pictures of her on bad hair days. She didn’t know anything about UConn or Hopkins or the history with Azzi. 

Paige liked the version of herself she was around Alice, more present. A little selfish in normal ways, not epic life-ruining ones.

So when people in Dallas whispered “girlfriend,” Paige didn’t correct them.

She also didn’t correct the UConn freshman who told her, wide-eyed after a game she’d flown back for, that Azzi had joked about her in the locker room.

“It wasn’t bad!” the kid rushed to clarify. “She just said you used to be kind of, like… the worst. But you're chill now.”

“Great,” Paige muttered “Love that for me”

Later, when she found Azzi in a quiet corner of Gampel, still vibrating.

“Can you not?” she said, skipping hello, hands shoved in her jacket “Can you maybe not talk about me like I’m the villain in your college story?”

Azzi blinked “What?”

“The freshie,” Paige said. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you said worse things to my face, I can only imagine what you say when I’m not there.”

Azzi’s expression shifted “I was… joking,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve spent a year trying not to be that person,” Paige snapped. “Trying to be better. I apologized, I changed shit. You don’t get to freeze me in that moment, bro.”

Azzi held up her hands, palms out “You’re right,” she said, to Paige’s surprise. “Seriously. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

The directness took some of the fight out of Paige, but not all.

“I’m not asking you to say nice things,” Paige said, softer. 

Azzi nodded  “Okay,” she said. “I won’t, talk about you”

Paige walked away feeling more hollow than vindicated, but she kept the resentment anyway.

____________________________________________________________

When the Wings front office called in the January, she knew what it was about before they even said it.

“Paige,” the GM said on Zoom, all corporate smile and careful eyebrows. “You’ve seen the mock drafts.”

“Some,” she lied. (she’d seen all of them)

“Assuming the lottery plays out how we think,” he said, “we’re in position for the first pick. You know who’s at the top of those boards.”

He didn’t say her name, and he didn’t need to.

Paige’s heart thudded uncomfortably “This is not us asking you to make the decision,” he added quickly. “You earned your spot here, we’re just… taking the temperature of the room.”

Paige stared at the little box of her own face in the corner of the screen. For a second, she saw herself at nineteen: Say, yes, do it, I don’t care, me and Azzi will figure it out.

Older her felt the scar tissue “It’s complicated,” she said.

“We figured,” he replied.

“I think she’s incredible,” Paige said, because that part needed to be on record. “She’d make any team better.”

There was a but coming. 

“But…” the GM prompted.

“But I don’t know if we’re good for each other,” Paige said, choosing each word like it might explode “If you’re asking if I want to play with her, today, right now… my honest answer is no.”

The silence on the other end was polite, “Thank you for your honesty,” the GM said. “We appreciate it.”

She closed the laptop and immediately felt sick.

For days, she walked around with that conversation in her throat. She almost called back, twice, to say: Forget it, I’ll figure my shit out, don’t let my feelings get in the way of her dream.

She didn’t.

Some ugly, petty part of her still stung from being called egocentric, from being told she’d burned down ten years. She let that part win.

When draft night rolled around, Azzi looked… unreal.

Camera-ready, hair done, dress perfect. The kind of gorgeousness that made Paige forget how to act, and of course, Paige told herself she only noticed because the cameras kept cutting to her table.

Everyone assumed Dallas would take Azzi if they had the pick, well everyone except Paige.

“With the first pick in the WNBA Draft,” he said, dragging the syllables, “the Dallas Wings select… Azzi Fudd, University of Connecticut.”

The room erupted, and, holy shit, Paige’s brain short-circuited.

She clapped on autopilot, but somewhere, a camera caught her face—eyes wide, mouth parted, genuine shock.

She barely heard the rest of the speech. Azzi walked across the stage, hugged the commissioner, put on the teal hat Paige had worn first. She thanked God and her family and Geno and USC and UConn and probably Megan somewhere in there.

Paige’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Fuck, they’d drafted her anyway.

Either they didn’t care what Paige wanted, or they’d heard her “I think she’s incredible” louder than her “honest answer is no”.

Or maybe, and this was the most likely scenario, they’d simply done their jobs and picked the best player available.

It was almost laughable she’d thought she had that much power.

____________________________________________________________

The party afterward was on some ridiculous rooftop in New York, and Paige had a glass of something in her hand she didn’t remember ordering. 

“So,” KK said at one point, leaning on the high-top next to her “Universe really said ‘you two haven’t finished being stupid yet.’”

“Shut up,” Paige said.

“I’m just saying,” KK went on. “They drafted her knowing you’re here. You’re both stubborn as hell and weirdly obsessed with each other”

“We are not obsessed with each other,” Paige lied.

KK laughed in her face, and Paige glared into her drink.

Across the room, Azzi was surrounded by people: agents, family, media, Megan on FaceTime held up by her mom maybe, Cara from USC, Geno somewhere in the mix. 

She laughed at something, head thrown back, dimple deep, and Paige wanted another drink.

Alice slid in, looping an arm around her waist.

“You doing okay?” she asked quietly, picking up on the feeling in the air.

“I’m great,” Paige said. “We just got the number one pick in the draft”

“Your voice does that thing when you lie,” Alice said “It gets a little higher.”

“Shut up,” Paige said again, but she leaned into the touch anyway.

At some point, Azzi’s parents made their way over. Katie hugged her like she always had; Tim clapped her on the shoulder, asked about her season, told her Drew looked taller in the last photo.

Azzi still hadn’t told them about the media room, apparently and Paige felt both grateful and weirdly angry about it.

Alice was still laughing with one of the assistant coaches, camera in hand, already mentally storyboarding whatever photo dump she’d post tomorrow. Paige kissed her cheek, said something about needing air, promised she’d be right back.

When she finally found herself alone by the railing, she thought she’d successfully avoided a one-on-one.

The smoking room was tucked off a side hallway, behind an unmarked door that looked more like a storage closet. It was technically for players and staff, but tonight it was just… quiet. 

She slipped inside, shut the door behind her out of habit, and locked it. The click sounded too loud.

Paige didn’t smoke anymore — hadn’t vaped since the knee — but her body still associated rooms like this with relief. 

“So,” a voice said.

Paige’s heart jumped into her throat, and Azzi was already there.

She was sitting on the low leather bench under the window, one leg folded up, the other stretched out, bare toes pressed flat to the floor. Tiny white dress, indecent little scrap of fabric that made her look like she’d wandered out of some perfume commercial. 

Hair straightened, falling around her shoulders; makeup just barely smudged in that way that made her look even prettier.

Her heels were tossed beside her, straps tangled. Her drink rested carelessly on the windowsill.

She looked… wrecked and very, very drunk.

“Of course you’re here,” Paige muttered. 

Azzi smiled, slow and lazy, looking her up and down without shame.

“You came to my party, bro” she said, her voice was tipsy. “Could’ve at least said hi”

“This isn’t your party,” Paige said, pushing off the wall “It’s a franchise event.”

Azzi tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, dimples showing “Everything’s my party tonight,” she said. “I’m the number one pick, remember?”

Paige rolled her eyes, “Wow, fame changed you,” she said. 

Azzi laughed, and pushed herself up, crossing the space between them in a few slow, barefoot steps.

Paige could smell her perfume before she felt her, so damn expensive and so painfully familiar it made her dizzy.

“So,” Azzi said again, stopping close. Too close. “You really weren’t going to say hi?”

“We talked,” Paige said, remembering the polite exchange in the hallway, the careful congratulations, “That counts.”

Azzi hummed like she didn’t agree, and her fingers found the front of Paige’s blazer, pinching the lapel between thumb and forefinger, nails grazing the fabric.

“Oh, this is about the cameras,” she teased. “You don’t want your fans to see you lurking around me in dark corners”

Paige’s pulse jumped “I’m not lurking,” she said. “I’m hiding”

“From what?” Azzi asked, and she leaned closer, the question brushing Paige’s jaw more than her ears “From me?”

She was touching Paige now. A hand on her lapel, then sliding lazily down to the open collar of her shirt, fingertips walking along the edge like they had no idea what boundaries were.

Paige’s skin lit up under the touch in a way that made her furious.

“You’re drunk, bro” Paige said, voice a little hoarse. “You don’t get to start shit when you’re drunk. That’s my job.”

Azzi grinned, satisfied “You are obsessed with me,” she said, like she was stating a proven fact “You can’t even help it”

Paige scoffed.“No, I’m fucking not.”

“Yes, you are,” Azzi sing-songed, finally hooking a finger in the collar of her T-shirt under the blazer, giving it a small, playful tug that brought their bodies closer “You have literally been obsessed with me since we were teenagers. You probably asked them to draft me just so you could be annoying about it.”

Paige’s heart misfired, she felt the words catch in her throat.

She didn’t correct her.The truth was right there: No, I told them I didn’t want you here.

“Wow,” Paige said instead, raising a brow. “Someone’s full of herself tonight.”

Azzi’s eyes sparkled. “I know you, P” she said. “You have a fake account just to stalk my posts and my girlfriend’s posts.”

Paige froze “How the fuck do you know about that?” she demanded, before she could stop herself.

Azzi’s smile got bigger, “I didn’t,” she said sweetly. “But, thanks for confirming.”

Paige dropped her head back against the door with a groan “You’re a lot”

“And you’re predictable,” Azzi countered. 

“And you’re confusing," Paige said, offended now. “You went back to UConn, right? Connecticut wasn’t that oppressive after all, I guess”

Azzi’s fingers slid from her collar to the center of her chest, the heel of her hand flattening over Paige’s sternum.

“Yeah,” she said, eyes narrowing, “I guess the problem was you.”

Paige swallowed, “You left,” she said. 

Her hand slid up, thumb brushing against Paige’s exposed collarbone, lingering there. 

“You’re doing it again, bro” Paige said, forcing her voice steady. “You’re being messy. You made this whole big deal about me being the problem, and now you’re here pulling on my shirt.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull back. If anything, she stepped closer, until Paige could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of that stupid white dress.

“I have a girlfriend,” Azzi said calmly “I’m not doing anything.”

Paige let out a humorless laugh “You’re literally touching me, all over”

“I touch everyone,” Azzi said, which was a lie and they both knew it. “You’re the one with the burner account, your girl doesn't know about.”

“You’re flirting with me,” Paige said, fingers tightening reflexively around Azzi’s wrist now, a warning and an anchor. “Why the fuck are you messing with my head? You know exactly what you’re doing”

Azzi’s eyes flicked down to where Paige was holding her.

“Go softer on my wrists, Buekers,” she murmured “I might like that”

That did something low in Paige’s stomach “You’re drunk,” she said again, even as her thumb slid unconsciously against the inside of Azzi’s wrist, feeling her pulse race under the skin. “You’re just acting on whatever pops into your head. That’s not fucking fair.”

Azzi’s mouth curved. “Okay,” she said. “Since when are you the moral police? You hate it when I’m messy, but you’re the one who told a front office to draft me”

Paige’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t say that.” the grip tightening without meaning to.

“Just admit it,” Azzi insisted, leaning in, her breath fanning across Paige’s lips now. “You asked them to take me because you like having me around”

Paige’s hand moved before her brain did, and she caught Azzi’s face firmly, almost squeezing her cheeks.

She could see everything up close now, the smear of lipstick at the corner of Azzi’s mouth, the tiny freckle near her left eye, the way her pupils were blown wide and stunning.

“I told them I didn’t want you there,” Paige said softly, honestly “I told them having both of us in the same locker room was a bad idea because you are trouble”

Azzi’s breath stuttered against her thumb, and for a second, she just stared at her.

Then she laughed, short and disbelieving.

“You’re an awful fucking person,” she said, voice shaking “You really tried to keep me from going number one because you’re scared.”

“It wasn’t about the number one,” Paige snapped. “I knew they’d be idiots if they passed on you. I just—”

The anger, the guilt, the heat, all of it snapped into a single, stupid decision.

She kissed her.

Azzi made a startled sound into her mouth that could’ve been protest or relief, then she was kissing her back.

Whatever distance years and fights and girlfriends had built collapsed in on itself, and Azzi surged forward, fingers fisting in the front of Paige’s shirt, dragging her down. Paige’s hand slid from her jaw to the curve of her neck, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw like she was afraid Azzi might disappear if she didn’t hold on.

It was nothing like college, nothing like those drunk kisses in cars and stairwells. There was no pretending it “didn’t matter” this time. 

They knew exactly what they were doing and how fucking wrong it was.

Azzi moaned against her mouth when Paige backed her into the wall beside the window, and the sound went straight to Paige’s head, and core..

They broke just enough for air.

“You actually did it,” Azzi said, breathless, eyes blown wide, lips wet and swollen “You actually sat there and told them not to draft me. Because of you.”

Her fingers dug into Paige’s blazer, knuckles brushing Paige’s ribs through the fabric.

“You were actively working so I wouldn’t go number one,” Azzi said, almost laughing, like she couldn’t believe it. “You are awful"

“I told you,” Paige panted. “It wasn’t about the pick.”

Azzi shook her head, hair brushing Paige’s cheek. “You’re an awful person,” she repeated, and then she yanked her back in by the lapel.

This kiss was worse, and worse in that it was better. It was deeper, messier, touching each other in a way they’d never let themselves do it before.

Paige’s free hand found Azzi’s ass, fingers digging into the curve of it, dragging her closer, closing the last space between them. Azzi hooked a hand around the back of Paige’s neck, dragging her down to exactly where she wanted her.

Paige shifted without thinking, thigh sliding between Azzi’s, and Azzi’s moaned again, a sound swallowed by Paige’s mouth.

“Why are you still kissing me?” Paige managed against her lips, voice ragged,  as Azzi’s hands still bunched in her blazer like she was hanging on for balance.

“Because I’m taking what I want for once,” Azzi said, forehead pressed to hers “Because I’m a horrible person too. Because apparently we’re both horrible people.”

Paige laughed, the sound muffled as Azzi kissed her again, slower this time, like she was trying to memorize the shape of her.

It wasn’t poetic, not really, It just got hot.

Paige’s hand was moving before she even gave it permission, slipping under the hem of Azzi’s dress, sliding up against skin that was shocking in how warm and soft it was. She was never allowed to touch her like this,  her hand was there anyway, fully inside palm flat against the bare skin of Azzy's ass, fingers curling into the warmth.

And Azzi was laughing right against Paige’s mouth, pressing in close. Paige could feel the damp heat of Azzi against her thigh, a friction that made her breath hitch. 

God, she wanted this so bad, she wanted to stop thinking, grab Azzi’s ass, pull her in harder, and just fuck her until the spinning stopped, but her hand stayed right where it was, touching skin she was never supposed to have.

Then reality shoved its way back in.

“You really didn’t want me here,” Azzi said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes shining in the low light “You said that. And now we’re going to have to play together, after all this.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, voice rough “We are.”

They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Paige was the one who let go first.

Her hands dropped from Azzi’s body like they’d been burned, and she stepped back, putting inches between them, then a full foot, as if distance could erase what just happened.

“Cool,” Paige said, laughing once, hollow. “So now I’ve cheated on my girlfriend.”

Azzi’s mouth twisted. “Yeah,” she said quietly “Me too.”

The silence that followed was loud as a siren.

“I hate you,” Paige said, because there was nothing else big enough to hold what was happening in her chest.

Azzi’s jaw clenched. “I hate you too,” she shot back.

Paige huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh “You wish you did,” she said “I wish you did.”

Something flickered across Azzi’s face, and she reached up, smoothing a strand of Paige’s hair back from her face with a strange, infuriating tenderness that didn’t match anything else.

“This is going to be awful,” she said, “I’m going to have an awful fucking time playing with you.”

Paige caught her wrist, just for a second, thumb pressing into the rapid pulse there.

“Right back at you,” she said. “See you at training camp, Fudd.”

She let go.

Azzi stared at her for half a heartbeat longer, then bent to pick up her heels. When she straightened, she’d put her party face back on, shoulders rolled back, mouth annoyingly red and glossy.

She unlocked the door, paused with her hand on the knob.

“You’re not going to smoke, right?” she asked without looking back. “You’re too good for that now.”

Paige almost smiled. “I’m too good for a lot of things,” she said “Apparently not you.”

Azzi’s shoulders tensed, and then she pulled the door open and slipped out, back into the thump of bass.

Paige stayed where she was, fingers still tingling, lipstick she didn’t own on her mouth.

Tomorrow, she’d look Azzi in the eye and talk about spacing and pick-and-roll coverage like they hadn’t just detonated every boundary they had left.

Fuck, they’d both chosen this.

Introduction 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When I started writing this, I told myself it was research.

Looking at it now, it isn’t. It’s archaeology.

Every interview, every article, every late-night phone call that turned into a quote — they’ve all been dug up, and held to the light again. This isn’t the story of Sherry Bomb, or of the girl who defined a generation of rock music. 

It’s the story of the woman who lived underneath the noise, and the younger woman who tried, very poorly, to keep her out of the fire.

In 1985 I was twenty-two, a year out of college. I worked in the cultural desk of CBS Features, which sounded impressive until you saw the paychecks. 

I spent most days transcribing other people’s interviews, listening to the professionals talk over me, and trying to remember whether I actually liked journalism or if I just liked proximity to interesting people.

Then they asked me to profile Paige Bueckers.

At the time, Paige was the name on every magazine cover: the lead singer of Sherry Bomb, the band that had turned the Reagan years into a riot.

She was twenty-five, newly platinum, and infamously difficult. 

“You’re doing Paige?” my editor asked, half-smiling, half-worried.  “Apparently,” I said. “You know she doesn’t talk to people.”  “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

That was the bravest thing I’d ever said, and possibly the dumbest.

I was chosen precisely because I had no reputation for asking the wrong questions (mainly because I had no reputation at all).

At that time, what I knew about her could fit on the back of a cigarette pack.

She drank gin straight, smoked like she was paid for it, and she dressed like a man who’d stolen a woman's wardrobe.

She was, depending on who you asked, either the future of rock or its funeral.

Rolling Stone had called her “If David Bowie and Joan Jett had a daughter, she’d look like this.”

She was too pretty to be taken seriously, too bold to be ignored, and too androgynous before the word was fashionable.

I was told she hated interviews.

That she’d walked out of Time, and told MTV to go fuck itself. So when my editor said, “She asked for someone new,” I thought it was another myth.

“Maybe she just wants a clean slate,” Colleen said while I tried on outfits.  “Or a new victim,” I said. “Don’t fall in love with her,” she warned.  “I won’t.”

I did. But that comes later.

Paige spoke in riddles, like she was bored of being understood, and every question I asked, she turned into something else. 

When I asked about her stage presence, she talked about pirates. 

When I asked about fame, she talked about freedom.

I wrote the piece that week, filed it on time, and thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

This book began, I suppose, with that first conversation — a few hours in a hotel suite in Los Angeles, July 1985. 

What follows is not a biography. It’s part recollection, part documentation, and part apology for the things I never printed and the things I did.

There will be pages from interviews, letters, fragments of songs, and pieces of the world that existed around her.

Some of them are mine, some are hers, and some belong to no one anymore.

I am not here to explain Paige Bueckers, this would be impossible.

I’m here to remember her.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features — July 20, 1985, Los Angeles, California

The first thing you notice about Paige Bueckers is that she doesn’t notice you.

At least, not right away. 

She wears black jeans torn at the knees, a sleeveless white shirt with the words Sherry Bomb scribbled across it in red marker — her own handwriting, she tells me later — and a leather jacket that looks older than both of us.

There’s a cigarette behind her ear, a silver ring on every other finger, and a thin gold chain tucked under her shirt. The only makeup she wears is a streak of eyeliner smudged across the corner of one eye.

Her hair is pale and sharp, bleached too many times.

She sits cross-legged on the hotel sofa, sipping a drink that looks like water and smells like gin.

I set my recorder on the table between us, and she grins.

AZ: You don’t usually do interviews. PB: I don’t usually do mornings either. But here we are. AZ: It’s two in the afternoon. PB: Morning is a state of mind.

She laughs at her own joke and gestures toward the window.

PB: See that? It looks hot enough to melt the whole city. AZ: You like it here? PB: Not really. I like the noise, though. You can’t hide much when everything’s loud.

She plays with the edge of her drink, tracing the rim, and watches me like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.

AZ: You’ve been on tour for almost two years straight. Do you ever get tired of being loud? PB: Sometimes. (pauses)  But silence’s worse. 

When she lights a cigarette, she offers me one, even after I tell her I don’t smoke.

PB: You should learn. It makes your hands look interesting.

Paige is impossible to categorize.

She moves between masculine and feminine the way other people switch guitars, instinctively.

AZ: People call you a mystery. PB: People call me all sorts of things. AZ: Does it bother you? PB: Only when they’re right.

We talk about the band — Sherry Bomb — and she mentions the guitarist, KK, with a kind of affectionate exasperation.

The drummer, Nika, she calls “family.” 

For someone who supposedly hates interviews, Paige was generous with words.

About twenty minutes in, I ask the question I’m supposed to ask: 

AZ: What scares you?

She leans back, exhales smoke, and smiles like she’s been waiting for it.

PB: I love sharks. AZ: Sharks? PB: Yeah, they never stop moving or they die. (pauses) Love pirates, too.

There it is, the first derailment. I don’t understand yet that Paige does this when she doesn’t want to answer honestly.

AZ: Pirates? PB: Think about it. No one ever knew what to call them: men, women, thieves, gods (grins) I like that.

This, apparently, is her idea of small talk.

AZ: So you see yourself as a pirate? PB: Something like that.

I ask her about fame, and for the first time, she looks tired.

PB: Fame’s like drinking salt water, darling. You think it’s going to help, but it just makes you thirstier.

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

Later, she asks if I want to hear something new.

From a table covered in cassette tapes, she picks one up, slides it into a tape deck, and presses play.

 The song that fills the room is rough, and she watches me listen.

PB: Be honest. Is it any good? AZ: It hurts a little.

She smiles again and leans forward to stub out her cigarette.

PB: You’re not like the others. AZ: What others? PB: The ones who write about me. AZ: You’ve only just met me. PB: Exactly.

She finishes her drink, stands, and disappears into the next room. I can hear her humming from behind the door, a melody without words.

When she returns, she hands me a folded napkin. Inside it, there’s a single line written in smudged ink:

The sea doesn’t scare me. Drowning does.

“Quote that,” she says. “It’ll make me sound mysterious.”

When Paige comes back from the next room, she’s lost the jacket and the shoes.

Barefoot, tank top hanging loose, a new drink in hand, something neon this time. 

Her hair falls in her face, and she doesn’t bother to fix it. 

She drops onto the couch beside me — closer than before — and points at my tape recorder.

PB: Is that thing still on? AZ: It should be. PB: Good. I like the sound of my own voice.

She laughs at that.

AZ: Your manager said you hated interviews. PB: I do (grinning) But I like you.

I tell her she’s not supposed to flirt with journalists.

PB: Who made that rule? AZ: Common sense. PB: You think I’ve ever had that?

It’s ridiculous how bright she is when she laughs.

AZ: What do you get out of interviews, then? PB: Amusement, sometimes a headline.

She watches me scribble that down.

PB: You’re really writing that? AZ: It’s a good line. PB: I have better ones.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, waiting for me to ask.

I don’t. I just stare until she laughs again, softer this time.

PB: Okay, okay. “I don’t want to be remembered; I want to be replayed.” That one’s free.

I tell her it sounds rehearsed.

PB: So what? Everything worth saying should be.

She takes another sip, then eyes me curiously.

PB: You don’t look like a reporter. AZ: What do I look like, then? PB: A school-teacher, or a nun who lost her faith.

I raise an eyebrow, pretending not to smile.

AZ: You’ve met a lot of nuns, have you? PB: Catholic school dropout. Twelve years of guilt (grinning) Want to compare notes?

I laugh at that.

AZ: What do you actually want people to know about you? PB: Nothing (pauses) Maybe that I’m funnier than they think.

And she is. 

AZ: People say you take yourself too seriously. PB: I’m the least serious person I know  (leans closer)  You’re the serious one. I can tell. AZ: I’m just doing my job. PB: Exactly.

Her knee brushes mine barely. She notices, of course. She notices everything.

PB: Relax, rookie. I’m not gonna corrupt you. 

I’m glad my recorder catches the silence that follows, because I have no idea what to say. 

She laughs again, and reaches over to steal my pen. She spins it between her fingers like a drumstick.

PB: You don’t write like a rookie, though. I read that piece you did on the D.C. punk scene. AZ: You read my article? PB: Yeah. I liked how you made it sound like it mattered (shrugs)  No one writes like that anymore. Everyone’s too busy being clever.

That surprises me more than anything she’s said all day.

AZ: And what are you busy being? PB: Bored (smiles)  Entertain me.

I ask about her music instead, what she’s trying to say with it.

She groans dramatically, sinking into the couch.

PB: Oh, you’re one of those journalists. Always looking for meaning. AZ: I like words. PB: I like noise (grins)

She toasts me with her glass. I don’t clink back.

She asks about me. No one ever does.

PB: So, Washington girl, right? You said D.C.? AZ: Born and raised. PB: You like it? AZ: It’s home. PB: Sounds boring.

I tell her I like boring.

PB: That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

She’s laughing when she says it, but something in her eyes softens.

PB: You know, you look like you belong in the seventies. AZ: Is that a compliment? PB: Depends. Did you like the seventies?

The recorder hums.

PB: Tell me something. Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not curious about me?

I answer before I think.

AZ: Are you always this arrogant? PB: Only when I’m right.

Editor’s note (added 2025) Written by: Azzi Fudd

At this point in the tape, there’s laughter. Then a pause, then the sound of Paige asking me if I want another drink. 

The rest of the tape is static, but I remember how it ended: she walked me to the elevator barefoot, humming something under her breath.

When I asked if I could call her again for follow-up questions, she said, “You won’t have to. I’ll find you.”

She did.

The Headline

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The article came out three weeks later under the headline “Paige Bueckers: a Little Bit of Heaven (and Hell).”

It ran four pages in CBS Features’ August issue, accompanied by a photograph that still makes me wince: me sitting on the hotel sofa, in a godawful outfit notebook in hand, Paige mid-laugh beside me, her arm draped over the back of the couch like we were old friends.

It was the first interview she’d given in nearly a year, and the only one that didn’t end in an argument. 

The piece was passed around newsrooms like gossip: “You got her to talk?” “How the hell did you manage that?”

The editor called it “intimate.” I called it “lucky.”

People liked that she sounded both self-destructive and self-aware, like she was in on the joke. 

I received a bouquet of red carnations from her publicist with a note that only said, “She doesn’t hate you. That’s a first.”

A week later, she called me herself.

“Hey, rookie,” she said. I could hear laughter and clinking glasses in the background. “Read your piece, it was good. I should fire you for that.”

She couldn’t fire me, obviously, but I didn’t know what to say, so I said thank you.

“Also,” she added, “you looked really cute in that picture.”

I didn’t say “thank you” to that, even though I wanted to.

Then she told me she was playing The Forum next Friday, that she’d leave two tickets at will-call.

“Bring a friend,” she said. “Or don’t”

I didn’t go.

I told myself it was because of work, or because Colleen couldn’t make it, or because I’d already spent too much time thinking about her voice.

The truth is simpler.

I was afraid of what might happen if she saw me again.

Excerpt from “PAIGE BUECKERS: WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?”

By R. M. Delaney

Rumor has it the rock world’s golden girl might be rewriting more than just the rulebook on sound.

At twenty-five, Paige Bueckers has already broken every boundary she could find: the charts, the stages, and, some whisper, the bedroom door.

Several sources claim the Sherry Bomb frontwoman has been seen “getting cozy” with both male and female companions after shows. One particularly enthusiastic roadie describes her as “one of the guys, and not in a bad way.”

But in an industry where sex sells and gender bends, Miss Bueckers might be selling confusion.

Last month, she appeared at a charity gala wearing a black tailored suit — tie, pocket square, the works — prompting one columnist to ask if “Paige wants to be Mick Jagger or marry him.”

When asked to clarify, her management declined to comment, stating only that “Miss Bueckers wears what she likes.”

The Suit

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I remember that Delaney article.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by stacks of laundry and half-finished notes for another feature, when I saw her face staring back at me from the cover rack at the corner store.

The photo was grainy, clearly taken mid-laugh at some event, but it didn’t matter. The suit did.

It was black, fitted, a little too big at the shoulders. Her hair slicked back, cigarette between her fingers, grin sharp enough to draw blood.

The kind of picture that makes the world nervous for all the wrong reasons.

I bought three copies. I told myself it was for work.

Colleen was on the couch when I got back, eating cereal straight from the box.

“Another one, Azzi?”  “They’re saying she’s sleeping with women now”  “And?” “That’s breaking news” “Everything’s breaking news with that girl”

I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table. 

“Azzi, you gonna call her?” “I don’t even know if she remembers me” “She called you, didn’t she?” “Once” “Then she remembers”

The thing about Colleen is that she was always right, and she knew it.

I stared at the magazine again. 

The headline made my stomach twist. "WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?"

Like it was an accusation to be one of those things, or all of them.

“Leen, why do people care so much who she’s with?” “Because she’s famous, because she wears suits better than half the men in Hollywood. Take your pick.” “I just think it’s stupid.” “You also think she’s cute.”

That last part shut me up, and Colleen smirked into her cereal bowl.

“Oh, come on, Fudd. You’ve been acting weird since that interview.” “She’s… interesting” “She’s your type” “She’s not —” “You like bad girls”

She said it like it was a fact, not a confession. 

That night, after Colleen fell asleep on the couch, I found the number from the call she’d made — scribbled on the back of one of my reporter’s notebooks. 

Just a number and a first name: Paige.

I stared at it for twenty minutes before I dialed, and she picked up on the second ring.

“Rookie, you’re late.” “I didn’t know there was an appointment.” “There’s always an appointment with me, darling” “You read Sound & Scene?” “God, no. Do I look like someone who reads about herself?” “They’re saying you’re—” “What, gay? Straight? A men?”  (laughs) “Let them. It keeps me interesting” “You don’t care what they say?” “Care? Honey, I write half of it myself.”

She had the kind of charm that disarmed and infuriated you.

“I wanted to ask if you’d do another interview. To, I don’t know, clear the air” “You want to save me, rookie?” “I want to get the story right.” “Then don’t write it yet.”

There was music in the background, possibly someone strumming a guitar, laughter, the kind of noise that made it clear I’d interrupted something.

“I’ll call you when I’m bored.” “That could be never, Paige” “That could be tomorrow.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Colleen, half-awake, mumbled from the couch:

“You’re smiling” “I’m not.”

But I was.

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features in  July 1986, Washington, D.C.

The second time I interviewed Paige Bueckers, she showed up at my apartment without warning.

It was a Tuesday, unseasonably hot even for D.C., the kind of heat that glues your hair to the back of your neck.

 I was barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, sitting on the floor editing copy for a profile that no one would read.

Then the doorbell rang.

I opened it, and there she was, five thousand miles from Los Angeles, leaning against the doorframe like she belonged there.

She had on a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses she didn’t need.

PB: You weren’t kidding about D.C. heat. AZ: You weren’t kidding about calling first. PB: I wanted it to be a surprise.

It was.

She said she’d been in town for a private event, that her hotel was “too quiet,” that she “missed the noise.” I told her I had work. 

She said, “Good, I’ll help you ruin it.”

She made herself at home, kicking off her boots near the door and dropping onto the couch like she’d lived there for years. I fetched the recorder out of habit, mostly to keep my hands busy.

PB: You always record your houseguests? AZ: Only the famous ones.

I pressed play.

AZ: Everyone’s talking about you again. PB: Still? God, I thought they’d moved on to the next tragedy by now.

She grinned, then leaned back, eyes half-lidded.

AZ: You know what they’re talking about. PB: My sparkling personality? AZ: Your sexuality. PB: Ah, yes. 

She said it lightly, but the air shifted. 

I asked if she wanted to clarify any of the rumors. She smirked.

PB: Why would I? AZ: Because people are speculating. PB: That’s what people do when they’re bored. AZ: Do you ever get tired of being misunderstood? PB: No. It’s better than being understood.

She said it with that same careless humor, but her voice caught a little at the end. I wasn’t sure if she noticed.

AZ: You could always just tell them. PB: Tell them what? That I don’t care which bathroom mirror I’m looking in when I put on eyeliner?

She laughed after, self-aware.

PB: No one wants honesty from a rock star. 

I asked if she thought she owed the truth to her fans.

PB: I owe them the music. The rest is none of their business.

She stood, restless, pacing the small space between my couch and the window.

PB: You want to know more about me? Listen to the next album. AZ: I’d rather hear it from you. PB: And ruin the mystery? Never.

I tried a different angle.

AZ: So you don’t deny it — that you’ve been with men and women? PB: Jesus, rookie (laughs) Why are you keeping score? AZ: It’s part of my job. PB: You have a weird job.

She leaned against the window.

PB: You really think that matters? AZ: To some people, yes. PB: Then that’s their problem, not mine.

She looked out toward the street

PB: See, that’s what I mean. Why do you care so much? (turns back to me)  Why does anyone?

I didn’t have an answer.

We moved from talk of gossip to talk of clothes, which, for Paige Bueckers, seemed to amount to the same thing.

AZ: You caused a stir with that suit. PB: Which one? AZ: The black one, the charity gala. PB: Oh, right. That one. (laughs)

She flopped back on the couch.

AZ: Why did you wear it? PB: Because I wanted to. AZ: That’s it?

PB: Yeah. It made me look cool.

I blinked.

AZ: That’s not — that’s not an answer. PB: Sure it is. You just wanted a different one.

Then she tilted her head, studied me for a beat that lasted too long.

PB: Do you think I looked cool?

There was no safe way to answer.

AZ: I — it’s not about— PB: I think you think I looked cool.

She smiled like she’d won something.

PB: People make such a fuss about clothes. I wear what makes me feel good. If it’s a suit, great. Half the men at that party looked like penguins. At least I looked like I knew what I was doing. AZ: So, the rumors about you and your bandmates — PB: Oh, god. Those again.

She rolled her eyes and lit another cigarette.

PB: For the record, I’ve never had anything with K.K. or Nika. Not my style. AZ: What is your style? PB: Complicated (grinning)  And before you ask — no, I’ve never hooked up with the guys from the band either. Artists are the worst people to date.

AZ: You’re an artist. PB: Exactly. I wouldn’t date me either. AZ: Good self-awareness.

Then she leaned forward, grin softening into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

PB: Would you?

Before I could respond, my elbow caught the recorder, sending it clattering off the table. The tape jammed, spinning helplessly.

PB: (laughing) Careful, rookie. You’ll lose all your evidence.

Editor’s Note (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

The tape ends there.

For years, I told myself it was an accident. That I’d hit the recorder by mistake, that it had nothing to do with the heat in the room or the way she was looking at me.

Truth is, Paige never broke eye contact the entire time. And every question I asked, she answered like it was foreplay. 

When the tape died, she asked if I wanted to go out for a drink.

Girls wearing Ties 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I told her no.

When she asked if I wanted a drink, I said I didn’t, that I had work, that it was late.

 She laughed, said, “Suit yourself,” and left me standing in the quiet. I remember thinking that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

A week later, I saw her again — not in person, but on glossy paper, under a headline that said “Bueckers Turns Heads in D.C.”

The photo stopped me cold. 

She was at some party uptown, the kind with champagne towers and people who used “darling” as punctuation, like Paige did. 

She was wearing what might once have been a white dress shirt, though calling it that feels generous. The fabric clung to her skin like humidity, transparent under the camera flash. 

No bra and no apologies. A black tie hung loose around her neck, like she’d stolen it from someone and never planned to give it back.

I remember feeling heat rise through me. Not shame exactly, but something familiar.

I’d grown up in Catholic schools, plaid skirts and confession booths, and of course: black cotton ties.

When I decided to write this book, I didn’t know how to talk about things like that. My sexuality isn’t really the subject here, but it’s part of the story. 

It always was.

In college, at St. John’s, it wasn’t uncommon for girls to test the limits of what “friendship” meant. You kissed in the dark and prayed in the morning. 

We didn’t really call ourselves anything, like the girls know days do, we didn’t have words that felt safe enough to use. 

But we understood what it was, at least I did.

By the time I moved out, I thought I’d grown out of it. 

I told myself that I liked men, or at least the idea of them. 

Colleen, my roommate, had always known better. One hazy afternoon after my twenty-first birthday, somewhere between laughter and the taste of cheap gin, we finally said it out loud:

“I think I’m gay, Azzi.” “You’re not.” “Yes I am. And so are you.” “Fuck,” I said, “you’re probably right. Pass me the gin.”

We never crossed that line — she wasn’t my type, and I wasn’t hers — but we lived in the same quiet code. Two women who never dated men, and never bothered to explain why.

Someone like Paige couldn’t have hidden if she’d tried. 

She was too bright, too unguarded. 

Lord, she didn’t seem afraid of being seen, she didn’t seem afraid of anything. 

There was danger in that, not the kind that warns you away, but the kind that pulls you closer.

That picture haunted me for days. 

The looseness of the tie, the confidence of her posture, the sheer, shameless joy of looking like herself. 

I told myself I was fascinated by her freedom, not by her. 

And maybe that’s when I started wanting her.

Or maybe I just wanted to understand her.

That same week, an envelope arrived at my office. 

My name typed on the front, her handwriting scrawled across the back. 

Inside was a single page:

Hey rookie, Heard you’re still mad at me for not giving you better quotes. I’ll make it up to you. Come to the album launch — 9 p.m.,  The Green Room, Friday. I promise to behave for five minutes, maybe ten if you’re wearing something short. Also, track seven’s about you. Don’t panic. — P

I must have read that note a dozen times.

Then I looked at Colleen and said, “If she asks me for a drink again, I’m going.”

And I did.

Preface to the The Burning Red Album Launch Interview  (added 2025)

Written by: Azzi Fudd

When I wrote this piece, I thought Burning Red would be big.

I didn’t realize it would be immortal.

It went on to sell thirty-five million copies, win every award imaginable, and turn Paige Bueckers from a cult phenomenon into the face of an era. 

I can still recite half the track list from memory.

I remember the sweat-sweet air of that night, the crush of people, the champagne flutes balanced on amplifiers. 

Even then, before the first note played, you could feel history about to happen.

The Burning Red Album Launch

August 1986 — The Green Room, Washington D.C. By Azzi Fudd for CBS Features

There are parties, and then there are coronations disguised as parties.

The Burning Red launch was the latter.

The Green Room was packed shoulder to shoulder with producers, critics, and people who’d managed to convince security that they were insiders. 

And in the center of it all: Paige Bueckers.

White T-shirt, half-tucked, sleeves rolled, the faint smear of eyeliner turning her eyes into something feral. 

AZ: Congratulations. Big night. PB: Feels small in here, doesn’t it?  AZ: You knew this record would be big. PB: I knew it would be mine. Big’s a side effect, darling.

She grinned and took a sip of whatever was in her glass, something crimson that matched the album art.

AZ: The title, Burning Red — what does it mean? PB: Passion, anger, heat. Everything that makes you stupid and alive at the same time. AZ: That’s… broad. PB: So’s life, rookie.

She said it fondly now; the nickname had stuck.

AZ: You’ve talked before about not liking labels. The songs on this album sound like you’re trying to outrun them. PB: That’s close. I wanted to write about feeling, not form. Everyone’s always asking who I love, what I am. I just wanted to talk about the way it feels when you want something.

She gestured toward her hand, wrapped in a bandage speckled with tiny drops of blood, the aftermath of blisters earned from playing too long.

PB: See that? That’s passion. But it’s the only thing that makes art worth doing.

For a moment she looked almost serious, eyes wide and bright.

AZ: Do you think passion always has to hurt? PB: God, I hope so. Otherwise what’s the point?

Someone called her name from across the room, she waved them off.

PB: People think passion is romantic. It’s not. It’s wanting without permission.

She laughed, a quick spark to break the tension.

PB: Don’t quote that. It sounds too honest. AZ: I’m definitely quoting that. PB: Knew you would.

She drained her glass, already half-turned toward the stage where her band was assembling.

The noise around us kept swelling, but Paige stayed where she was, one hand hooked through a belt loop, watching the chaos 

AZ: You’ve seen the critics tonight. PB: They say a lot of things. AZ: You read them?

PB: I tell people I don’t. But I do. (shrugs) There’s this guy from Melody Maker. He called me “a hurricane”. I liked that.

She looked almost shy admitting it, eyes down, thumb tracing the lip of her glass. 

AZ: It must feel good, though. Hearing people get it. PB: Yeah (smiles small) It feels… good.

She finished her drink and reached for a fresh one from a passing tray, holding it out to me.

PB: Come on, rookie. Celebrate a little. AZ: I don’t really drink. PB: You didn’t last time either

I hesitated, then took the glass. 

The liquid was sharp, sweet, the kind that warms too fast. Paige clinked hers against mine.

PB: To bad ideas. AZ: You have a lot of those? PB: Enough to keep life interesting. AZ: Doesn’t that get reckless? PB: Reckless is underrated. You can’t live carefully and expect to make art.

She laughed, but there was a flicker of something tired behind it.

AZ: You’re always drinking something. PB: Vices are fine. Keeps the hands busy. (beat)  Don’t look at me like that, rookie. I’m not a cautionary tale yet.

I didn’t look away.

Editor’s Note — added 2025

Written by: Azzi Fudd

She only played the first five tracks that night. 

The rest of the album, including “Hysteria,” the song she said was about me, was held back until release week. 

After the interview, she pulled me into a quick hug before heading backstage. I remember the heat of the room, the buzz of champagne, the way her hand grazed the hem of my skirt.

“Nice outfit,” she murmured, low enough that only I heard. “Dangerous for a journalist.”

I laughed, nervous, dizzy. 

She didn’t move her hand right away.

“So,” she said, voice close enough that her breath brushed my cheek, “you gonna keep judging my drinking, or are you gonna have another with me after this?”

I said something useless like, “You still owe me the rest of the album.”

She smiled. “Then let me play it for you. Privately.”

She never waited for an answer.

She just slipped back toward the lights, leaving me standing there with a half-empty glass.

Private Listening 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

People always ask when the line blurred.

When I stopped being the journalist who covered Paige Bueckers and became the journalist Paige Bueckers would let cover her.

I usually say it was the Burning Red cover story — the first “real” one, the one that got me a byline big enough to live on its own line of the magazine. 

But the truth? The line blurred that night in the green room.

Because after that night, Paige never gave another interview to anyone else, not once.

From that moment on, every quote, every confession, every word the world read from her came through me. 

She’d call and say, “Rookie, I’ve got something new,” and that was that. 

We were tethered: her voice and my pen, my pen and her name.

That’s how you build a mythology: one voice to sing, one to translate.

That night, I remember tugging the hem of my skirt lower, the fabric sticking to my skin in the humidity. 

I remember thinking that I should leave, that my job was finished, that this woman was dangerous in every way a woman could be.

Then the door opened.

I heard her before I saw her — laughter, the scrape of boots against concrete, then the sharp click of the door closing behind her. 

She didn’t speak right away.

When I turned, she was leaning against the wall, hair damp with sweat, T-shirt clinging to her shoulders. Her lipstick had bled a little at the corner of her mouth.

We stared at each other.

“You stayed,” she said finally. “You asked me to.” She smiled. “You don’t always do what I ask.” “I’m learning.”

She took a few steps forward, unhurried, until the air between us shifted from professional to something else.

There’s no graceful way to describe what happened next.

She didn’t ask. She moved like someone who already knew the answer.

My back hit the wall, and I remember thinking: This is going to ruin me.

I’d been with women before, but Lord, Paige Bueckers was something else entirely.

The taste of her, the sound of her breath between laughs, the smell of gin when she kissed my body.

Afterward, I kept waiting for guilt to arrive, for professionalism to click back into place, for the rational voice in my head to remind me that this was reckless.

 It never did.

Paige sat down on the couch, T-shirt bunched at her ribs, one knee pulled up. 

“You okay, rookie?” “Yeah,” I said, but it didn’t sound like me. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not.”

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaled, and said, almost to herself, “Maybe this is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.”

And somehow, I believed her.

Paige was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair falling into her face, a small bruise already blooming at the edge of her collarbone.

I’d pulled on one of her robes, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. 

My body didn’t feel like mine at that moment

Paige glanced at me and smiled.

“You still nervous?” she asked. “Should I be?” “Probably.”

She leaned over the side of the couch, picked up her guitar, and started tuning it by instinct. 

“I said I’d play you the rest of the album,” she said. “Might as well start with your track.” I laughed, or tried to “You named a song for me?” “It’s about you, not for you.”

Then she started to play, and then she started playing Hysteria.

The melody was quiet at first, the kind that sneaks up on you. But the lyrics were what stopped me:

I want to touch you, but I know that when I do, you’ll be the only thing I want to touch. When I get my hands on you, I know that I will, I’ll never let go, even once.

It was serendipity, and it was surrender.

She looked at me while she sang, not performing, just telling the truth in her own language. 

And I understood, then, that this wasn’t flirtation or even her usual rebellion. In fact, it may be the most honest thing she’d ever done.

When Hysteria was released, critics called it “a generational anthem of chaos and hunger.” They said it captured the ache of the 80s youth, the fire of desire, the urgency of being alive.

They were right about the hunger, but they never knew what it was for.

Hysteria wasn’t about love or fame or self-destruction. It was about Paige Bueckers deciding, for once, to be reckless enough to commit to something.

Because commitment, for her, was the wildest act of all.

After that night, she never sat for another interviewer, and after that song, she never wrote a love track that wasn’t about me.

People have written essays about her lyrics for decades, tracing themes, theories, muses. 

Maybe this book will be their final confirmation.

What I do know is that Hysteria wasn’t written for the world. It was written for me.

Excerpt from “THE GIRL WHO WON’T TALK”

By Megan Carlisle for Rolling Stone, February 1987

It’s been six months since the release of Burning Red, and Paige Bueckers has officially entered that rare stratosphere reserved for artists whose names don’t need last names anymore.

Her single “Hysteria” has gone platinum four times over, her tour sold out before it even began, and her band Sherry Bomb has become a household name from Minneapolis to Madrid.

But for all her omnipresence, Bueckers herself has vanished from public view.

Requests for interviews have been met with polite refusals, or complete silence. A representative from her label confirmed that she’s “focusing on writing.” 

When pressed, the rep quoted Paige herself:

“If you want to know what I have to say, listen to my music, or wait until I have something to tell Azzi.”

It’s not unusual for artists to have preferred outlets, but this is… unprecedented.

Azzi Fudd, a young correspondent for CBS Features, has been the sole journalist granted access since the album’s release. 

Every word the world has heard from Paige Bueckers since 1986 has passed through Fudd’s pen.

Rumors, naturally, have followed.

Some insiders suggest the two share “a friendship that’s become creatively symbiotic.” Others whisper it’s simply business, Bueckers trusting the one writer who doesn’t ask the wrong questions. 

A few, with gossip in their eyes, wonder aloud if there’s something more there.

Whatever the reason, the effect is the same: Paige Bueckers has rewritten the rules of fame, choosing silence and one singular voice to speak for her.

Letter from Paige Bueckers to Azzi Fudd

(undated, circa 2001)

Rookie,

I’ve rewritten this letter about six times already and I still don’t like the opening line.

I was going to start with something poetic like “It’s raining here,” but it’s not. It’s dry as hell.

Then I thought about starting with “I miss you,” but that’s not a sentence that deserves to sit alone at the top of a page, it’s too fucking heavy.

So I guess I’ll just start like this:

Hi.

I’m sorry. (You can underline that one if you want. I mean it.)

I don’t really know how to write apologies without sounding like a Hallmark card written by someone who’s never done anything wrong. The problem is, I did a lot of things wrong. (Some to me, most of it to you).

I’ve been thinking a lot about addiction — which is the kind of sentence only people in recovery ever say — and I’m both embarrassed and a little angry about it. 

It’s strange, you know? Realizing that I built my whole personality around not needing anyone and then turned myself into someone who couldn’t be alone for five minutes without lighting something, snorting something, or drinking something.

You used to tell me I drank to disappear, and I think you were right. (Don’t get used to hearing that from me.)

You were always right about the hard things.

The truth is, I hurt you because you were the closest thing I had. 

When you told me you couldn’t be my other vice, I wanted to scream, because I thought you were abandoning me. 

Now I realize you were trying to save me — and maybe yourself. 

You were the only person who ever told me no without disappearing afterward. 

I was mean to you sometimes, especially when you didn’t deserve it. I said things that I thought sounded clever but were really just sharp. And I mistook cruelty for control.

Azzi, you kept giving me kindness and I kept treating it like it was charity.

I hate that.

I don’t remember everything about the overdose, but I do remember waking up and seeing your hand on the hospital bed, holding mine. 

That felt like a cosmic joke. That the person I’d pushed away the hardest was the one who still came back.

I think you already know this, but addiction is not romantic. It’s just boring destruction.

The weirdest part is, I thought all of that made me interesting. Rookie, now I see it just made me small.

I’ve been learning things here, slow and stupid, like a child learning how to walk. 

You’d laugh if you saw me now. I meditate. I journal. Fuck, I even made a smoothie last week 

My therapist says I should forgive myself, and I said, “I’ll do that when Azzi does.” (So no pressure or anything)

I know you can’t be my girlfriend. I get it now. 

I respect it, and if friendship is all I get, I’ll take it. Happily. 

You don’t have to write back right away. Just know that every sober day I have now has your fingerprints on it.

You were the first person who believed I could live differently, and I’m starting to.

Sometimes, when the nights get quiet and I can’t sleep, I hum your name under my breath. It helps. 

Tell my cats I said hi. Tell my plants I’m jealous. Tell yourself you did the right thing.

Yours, however you’ll have me,  

P.

P.S. I know I made your life harder. I know I scared you. I know I made you think you’d have to write my obituary for real one day. I promise I’m trying to make sure you never have to do that again.

P.P.S. If friendship is the only thing I get, I swear I’ll be the best goddamn friend you ever had.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Rehab

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The hardest part about rehab is that it’s boring.

Rehab is beige walls and coffee that tastes like pennies, and the same meal three times a day because your body still doesn’t trust food. 

Paige spent thirteen months in rehab, at least, that’s the neat number the clinic gave me when I asked for a statement for her file. In truth, it was closer to fifteen if you count the in-between time — the weekend she came home and didn’t call, the relapse.

She relapsed once. And I want to write that, because people like to pretend recovery is a straight line. It’s not. 

I went back to work, because what else do you do?

The world didn’t stop for her, or for me. I wrote about newer artists — the pop prodigies who smiled for every camera, the rising stars who didn’t know what heroin smelled like.

The airwaves shifted, replaced by studio polish.

Rock, as we knew it, was dying. Or maybe it had just evolved into nostalgia — the way people talked about Paige in past tense, like she was a myth instead of a person still breathing. 

Every magazine wanted retrospectives: Where Were You When Burning Red Came Out? 

I hated them all. 

She wasn’t even gone, and they’d already started writing her obituary (To be fair, so had I).

Sometimes, in bars, her voice would come on, and I would excuse myself to the bathroom and sit in a stall until it ended. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to cry in public. The truth? I didn’t know if she would ever sound that alive again.

Months passed, and then, one afternoon, I saw her reflection in the glass door of the CBS building.

I almost didn’t recognize her. 

The hair was shorter, uneven; her cheeks were sharper; She stood there, hands in her jacket pockets, the way she used to before stepping onstage.

She smiled when she saw me. 

 “Hey,” she said.

It had been nearly two years.

I said, “You look different.” “I’m trying something new,” she said. “It’s called not dying.”

We both laughed.

We went to a coffee shop near Dupont Circle. 

She ordered tea, she winced at the taste and told me she missed cigarettes more than music. She said rehab taught her two things: that boringness was worse than pain, and that she could survive almost anything except herself.

She didn’t say much else about it. 

Outside, the early 2000s were already humming with a different rhythm. 

Boy bands, pop princesses, music videos about nothing. The country had moved on from the idea of rock being revolutionary, and Paige’s generation was being packed into box sets.

Every producer I talked to said the same thing: Nobody wants guitars anymore.

But Paige wasn’t thinking about guitars. For the first time, she didn’t talk about her next album, or about writing, or about fame. 

She talked about her cat, and her plants. And she talked about wanting to tell the truth, when I asked her what truth, she smiled and said:

 “The kind that doesn’t sell.”

A few months later, she called me at 3 a.m.

“Let’s talk,” she said. “But this time, I’ll try to tell the truth.”

That was the beginning of everything again.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

CBS Features — September 3, 2001

“The Comeback: Paige Bueckers on The Art of Starting Over” Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd, Washington D.C.

The hotel suite is nothing like the ones she used to stay in.

No champagne, no chaos. Just an open window, a mug of coffee gone cold, and Paige Bueckers sitting cross-legged on the floor, her guitar leaning against the wall like an old friend.

She’s smaller now, though not physically. It's her volume that’s changed, like her armor has worn down to something human.

Her hair is back to its natural shade, shorter at the ends — a haircut that looks like a promise to stay.

AZ: It’s been… what? Two years since you’ve done a formal interview? PB: Two and a half, technically. But who’s counting? AZ: Everyone.

She smiles faintly, her hands still move like a performer’s, even when she’s sitting still  there’s rhythm in the way she fidgets.

PB: I wasn’t ready to talk. You shouldn’t talk when you’re down AZ: And now? PB: I’m up, Rookie.

(There’s a pause long enough to breathe in)

AZ: How are you, Paige? PB: I’m alive. That’s the headline, right?

She says it with a crooked grin.

AZ: That’s a good place to start. PB: It’s not bad. I wake up early now. I eat breakfast. I don’t throw things when I can’t find my lighter — mostly because I don’t have one anymore. AZ: Do you miss it? PB: The lighter? AZ: The smoking PB: (smiling) Sometimes. I miss not caring. But I don’t miss how small I got. AZ: You used to say that silence was worse than pain. Do you still believe that? PB: (thinks) Silence isn’t death. It’s just… quiet. Death it’s Death

For a long time, Paige’s mythology thrived on noise.

The rebel girl from Minnesota who made punk feel holy, who drank like she was allergic to tomorrow. Now, she looks like she’s trying to build a smaller mythology, one where she doesn’t have to burn herself to prove she’s alive.

AZ: What did you learn, in all that time away? PB: That I’m not special. AZ: That’s a surprising answer. PB: It’s the truest one I have. Every musician thinks they’re immortal. Well, turns out I’m just another idiot who almost died on drugs. AZ: Are you lonely now? PB: Less. (pauses) You know, it’s funny. When you’re famous, people want to touch you all the time. They think that’s love. But it’s not.  AZ: You were always writing about connection, about wanting it and running from it at the same time. PB: (smiles) Yeah. I used to think wanting someone meant they had power over you. I disagree with that now. AZ: That’s new. PB: So am I.

Her voice is rougher now — smoke-stained, maybe permanently. 

But when she laughs, it still fills the room.

AZ: People are going to want to know if the new record is about all this. PB: It’s about breathing. That’s as specific as I’ll get. AZ: Come on. Give me something. PB: (grinning) Less “let’s die beautifully,” more “let’s just live.” AZ: That’s a good quote. PB: You always say that when I sound like I’ve been in therapy. AZ: Have you been? PB: Yeah. Turns out, unpacking childhood trauma works better than coke. Who knew?

(A laugh breaks the tension)

AZ: What do you think about pop taking over? PB: I think it’s fine. Pop’s fun. AZ: Some people would say you helped make that possible. PB: Then I hope they’re sending royalties. AZ: So you don’t care that people call rock dead? PB: Rock’s not dead. It just grew up, went to rehab, and started journaling. AZ: That’s an answer only you would give. PB: That’s why you keep interviewing me.

She stands up, stretches, and walks to the window. 

AZ: Do you ever think about everything that’s been written about you? PB: Only when I can’t sleep. Then I read it out loud in funny accents. AZ: You don’t ever want to correct the record? PB: Nah. The truth’s boring. AZ: And yet you said you wanted to tell it. PB: Yeah, but not for them. For me.

She sits back down. The afternoon light cuts across her face, and for the first time in hours, she looks young. 

AZ: What scares you now? PB: The quiet. But I’m learning to listen to it. AZ: Do you think you’ll ever stop making music? PB: Probably. Not because I want to — just because someday I’ll run out of things to say AZ: You’ve always said you hate being analyzed. PB: I do. AZ: Then why keep letting me do it? PB: You’re cute.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Vice Versa (2002–2003)

Editor’s Preface — Azzi Fudd (2025)

You could tell Vice Versa was coming before anyone heard it. 

Paige always telegraphed her resurrections. A snide quote here, a grainy photo there, a rumor that she’d been seen humming to herself in a diner. 

When the magazine piece dropped, it wasn’t an announcement.

It was a warning shot.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Rolling Stone (Op-Ed by Paige Bueckers, March 2002)

“Pop Isn’t the Problem — You Are”

Look, I love guitars as much as the next washed-up rock romantic, but some of you sound like ghosts yelling at the living.

Every decade, we pick a new villain. Once it was disco, then it was synths, now it’s pop. 

The truth is, pop didn’t kill rock — Rock overdose on its arrogance.

People say I’ve gone soft because I like melody now. But maybe that’s just growing up. 

Maybe rebellion looks different when you’ve survived yourself.

Here’s a confession: I like Britney Spears. I think she’s cool as hell. 

Rock used to mean freedom. And somewhere along the way, we decided it meant misery.

So yeah, I’m making a pop record. 

Call it betrayal, call it evolution, call it whatever helps you sleep.

Just remember: Every time you accuse someone of selling out, what you’re really saying is that you’re afraid of changing.

I’ve already changed. You can catch up or stay angry

— Paige Bueckers

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — Paige to Azzi (sent on Sherry Bomb stationery)

Rookie,

The label says I should “control the narrative.” 

I told them I’d rather just write a song.

Everyone’s calling me a sellout. You’d think I joined the CIA instead of the Billboard charts.

You know what’s funny? I like writing about love.

The new record’s called Vice Versa. Because I think It's a clever little name

Don’t worry, it’s not about you. (Okay, maybe a little.)

— P

P.S. Can’t wait for the tabloids trying to guess who “you” is on my songs. 

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Vanity Fair Profile, August 2002

“The Return of Paige Bueckers: Quieter, Cleaner, Still Dangerous”

In person, Bueckers looks younger than 42. Her eyes are clearer now, but the same stubborn spark lives behind them. 

She jokes about her “retirement from chaos,” but the music she’s making suggests anything but retreat.

She plays me an unfinished track from Vice Versa — all honeyed synth and clear vocals. “It’s a song about waking up,” she says. “The literal kind. Mornings fucking suck.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Phone Transcript (August 2002)

(recorded with consent for reference notes)

PB: The thing about getting sober is, I lost my fucking rhythm. AZ: You mean creatively? PB: Everywhere. AZ: You sound happy. PB: Don’t start rumors, Fudd.

(A laugh)

PB: I keep thinking about that letter I wrote you. AZ: The one where you apologized? PB: The one where I said I’d be your best friend. AZ: Yeah? PB: I meant it. 

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Vice Versa (2003)

Released February 17, 2003 — Platinum within three months.

Tracklist (select):

Static

Pop Song for Old Men

No Reason (single)

Dirty Mouth

Vice Versa

Bad Reputation

Halo Drive

Lungs

Midnight Apartment 

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

NME Review (2003)

Vice Versa is Paige Bueckers’ softest record and somehow her most dangerous.

“Pop Song for Old Men” skewers the purists; “Vice Versa” seduces them back.

There’s joy here — not naive, but earned.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

“Vice Versa” — Written by Paige Bueckers (2003)

My sins are smaller, same obsession Write it down, that’s my profession.

Vice versa, it’s give and take, Love’s a gamble, art’s the stake,

You can keep your heaven — I like my scars, Rock never dies —  on my guitar.

Vice versa, honey, that’s my curse, Every punk just writes their worst.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The World Tour (2004–2005)

Editor’s Preface — Azzi Fudd (2025)

The world tour was supposed to be her victory lap.

People thought Vice Versa was about redemption, about Paige learning to play nice.

In all truth? The World Tour was about control, about seeing how close she could get to the edge without falling off.

And the tour was her way of proving she could live on that edge without drinking.

I’d love to say it was easy. It wasn’t.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — Paige to Azzi (January 2004)

Rookie,

I said yes to the world tour. Don’t laugh. I know what you’re thinking 

But I need to know if I can still be me 

You once told me that my addiction wasn’t just the bottle. You were right. (God, I hate writing that sentence.)

So I’m going to test it.

No booze. No drugs. Just me.

Wish me luck

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Rolling Stone, April 2004

“Paige Bueckers: Still Loud, Still Alive”

At 44, Bueckers has nothing left to prove — but that hasn’t stopped her from trying. 

The Vice Versa world tour is her first in nearly a decade, and it already feels like a miracle.

 Her setlist swings between confessions and anthems, her voice sharper, her jokes cleaner, her eyes clearer.

“Rock’s not about dying young anymore,” she tells the crowd in Chicago. “It’s about not dying, period.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Phone Transcript — May 2004 (Stockholm stop)

AZ: You sound exhausted. PB: I’m not immortal. AZ: Are you sleeping? PB: Define sleeping. AZ: Paige— PB: I’m fine. Really. I’m just—trying to remember how to 

(silence)

PB: Do you miss me? AZ: Every day. PB: Good. Then I’m not doing this for nothing.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

People talk about recovery like it’s a straight road. It isn’t.

But she stayed sober.

Every show. Every night.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Tour Memo — London, August 2004

BUECKERS ARRIVAL — 19:30 LOAD-IN — 20:00 PRESS CALL — CANCELLED (“no interviews tonight”)

SECURITY BRIEF — “Crowds expected to double. Maintain distance.”

(handwritten at bottom: “She hates the cameras again.”)

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Tabloid Clipping — September 2004

“BUECKERS SNAPS AT PHOTOGRAPHERS OUTSIDE THE SAVOY — ‘GET A JOB’”

Witness reports companion Azzi Fudd intervened, leading the musician to retreat into her vehicle.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — Azzi to Paige (undelivered draft, 2004)

Paige,

You can’t keep picking fights with ghosts. They’re not after you. They’re after a picture that proves we’re together.

I know you hate being looked at. But if you keep shouting back, you’re just giving them new headlines.

I love you. (You’ll roll your eyes at that. I can feel it already.) I love you anyway.

— A

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I never sent that letter. I just folded it and stuck it in my notebook. She didn’t need more advice, she needed peace.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — NME Review, January 2005

“The Vice Versa Tour: A Quiet Riot”

Halfway through her London encore, Paige stops singing and just listens. 

The crowd sings the chorus of “No Reason” back to her — word for word.

She laughs, puts her hand to her chest, and mouths, Thank you.

It’s not rockstar arrogance anymore. It’s grace.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — Paige to Azzi (July 2005)

Rookie,

I’ve been gardening. (Yes, you can laugh again.) There’s something addictive about watching things grow slowly 

I don’t know what we are.

But when I write, I still start every song with your name in the margins.

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Post-Tour Dressing Room, Minneapolis, February 2006

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The room smelled like sweat and Paige sat in front of the mirror, wiping the last of her stage makeup off with a trembling hand.

I didn’t knock. I never did.

She looked up for a moment, neither of us said anything. 

PB: You came. AZ: You didn’t ask. PB: You always come.

Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and I stepped closer. 

The sight of her hit harder than I expected. Her hands were shaking a little, then steady against my shoulders.

The hug started carefully, then she exhaled, and suddenly it was not a hug anymore.

It was a homecoming. It was frantic. It was kissing.

Her breath smelled like mint and she pulled back just enough to look at me.

PB: I didn’t drink.  AZ: I know, your mouth tastes like mint. PB: I think I can trust myself again. AZ: I think I can trust you again.

We kissed again — soft, slow, and inevitable.

When she whispers, “I’ll earn it every day,”

I believe her.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Vanity Fair Retrospective, 2015

“Looking back, the Vice Versa tour feels like the moment Bueckers transcended myth. It wasn’t her loudest or wildest chapter — but it was the one where she learned how to live without imploding.

Those who were there say you could feel it in her voice: a raw, healed hush, as if she was singing for someone just beyond the spotlight.”

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

That someone was me.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Privacy (2006 - 2010)

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I think there’s a moment in every love story when it stops trying to prove it exists.

When it no longer needs to be loud or legendary, or even understood. When it becomes something small and steady, like a heartbeat. 

That was us, in those years.

After the tour, Paige and I disappeared — not in the romantic way people like to imagine, but in the quiet, domestic sense. 

We stopped showing up to things. 

She still made music; I still wrote. But we both learned how to do it without letting the world consume every piece of us. 

She kept her house in Minnesota, near the water, and I stayed in D.C., in a walk-up apartment where the heat never worked right. 

We saw each other on weekends, sometimes longer, and we called it balance. 

It wasn’t secrecy that kept us apart — it was protection. 

We didn’t want to give anyone the chance to pick at something that finally felt whole. 

Paige once said, “What we have doesn’t belong to anyone else,” and she wasn’t performing. She said it while washing dishes, half-distracted, sleeves rolled up, sunlight cutting across her collarbone.

She didn’t even look at me when she said it. She just meant it.

People speculated, of course. 

They always do. 

The tabloids called her “mysteriously domestic,” which we both found hysterical.

Apparently, being sober and unavailable made her an enigma. 

She’d tell me about new riffs she was working on, about her band learning to rehearse in daylight, about how she’d accidentally adopted another stray cat.

When her label begged her to do a feature about “the comeback of the decade,” she said, “If they want a quote, tell them to use an old one.” 

Eventually, they stopped asking. 

The one exception was that interview. CBS called it “a rare check-in.” 

We sat across from each other, microphones between us. When the interviewer asked about us, she smiled, the kind of half-smile that meant she’d already decided what truth to give “It’s a friendship built on stubbornness," she said. “We just refused to die separately.” 

I remember nodding, that was the official story.

Those were some of the best years of my life. There was laundry, and mornings that smelled like burnt toast, and Paige trying to learn how to make coffee. There were arguments about stupid things — toothpaste caps, schedules, my tendency to leave drafts scattered everywhere. 

Sometimes, on quiet afternoons, she’d sit on the floor with her guitar and play half-songs she never recorded. I’d be editing something on the couch, and she’d call out, “Rookie, does this sound too sad?” And I’d answer, “Only if you stop there.” 

When I look back now, I realize how rare it was.

We lived in the quiet, we earned it. ﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

E-mails

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

By the 2010s, our lives had gotten quiet in a way neither of us ever expected. 

The world had changed — so much noise, so many people shouting their own names into the void. Paige watched the “Internet” with a kind of horrified fascination. 

She didn’t hate it, not really; she just couldn’t understand it.

She’d say things like, “Why does everyone wants to be seen?” And then she’d look at me across the kitchen table, half-smiling, and say, “We got out just in time.”

There were days she’d text me links, and I could feel her oscillating between amusement and unease. “It’s like watching someone else’s ghost,” she said once, referring to a grainy concert clip from 1988 with over two million views.

The internet had made her immortal without her consent, and that frightened her more than death ever had.

She didn’t post, and refused to. “If they want a quote, they can find it,” she said. 

Paige didn’t like the speed of it all, she wanted meaning to last longer than a scroll. “Songs used to be played for years,” she told me once. “Now it just trends for a weekend.”

Still, she wasn’t bitter, just curious. 

She’d watch interviews with younger couples posting on Social Media and say, “They’re brave”  then she’d look at me and smile “We’re pirates, Rookie. We hid our gold.”

Email replaced our letters. I still have the folders — labeled by year, sometimes by mood.

 Even when we lived in the same city, she liked to write. She said typing made her honest.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Email — Paige Bueckers to Azzi (March 2012)

Subject: existential nonsense

Rookie,

I thought I’d die before thirty. That was the plan, the prophecy, whatever you want to call it. 

And now the only thing dying is my Wi-Fi connection (?)

Everyone keeps asking what’s next. 

“A memoir? A comeback? A brand?” (Kill me) I think they want me to invent a new version of myself they can sell nostalgia for.

But what if this is it? What if I already said everything worth saying at twenty-two, and high on stage?

Maybe that’s the point: To outlive the myth and see what’s left.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Email — Azzi Fudd to Paige (Reply)

Subject: Re: existential nonsense

You’re not dying, grandma.

You don’t need to invent yourself again. Just be someone who gets to wake up.

Also, please fix your Wi-Fi.

— Azzi

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Modern (2010 - 2015)

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

By then, our relationship had settled into a rhythm.

Paige had traded cigarettes for herbal tea (she still hated it) and guitars for house projects she never finished.

I was still writing, though less often about other people. 

We never married. 

Not because of principle, not even because of fear — it just didn’t feel necessary. 

Paige liked to say, “Marriage is a legal synonym for ownership, and I’ve never been great with leases.”

Still, the topic came up. Usually late at night, after a bottle of wine (mine, not hers) and a few too many jokes about mortality.

“You know,” she said once, sprawled on the couch, a cat purring on her chest, “I’d marry you if I believed in that stuff.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “And I’d say yes.” She laughed and said, “Perfect. We’re engaged in spirit.”

We started spending more time in Minnesota. It was supposed to be temporary — a summer, maybe two — but I never left since. 

The lake near our house froze solid in winter, and sometimes we’d skate across it at night, wrapped in too many scarves.

We were getting older, and we could feel it. 

Paige’s hair had gone shorter, her skin softer, the sharpness of youth replaced by a kind of weathered light. She called herself “vintage” one night and I told her she was “limited edition.” She liked that better.

We talked a lot about meaning. What it means to grow up, to stay alive, to make art when the world moves on without you. 

Paige struggled with irrelevance more than she admitted. She said she didn’t care about critics, but when her newer records didn’t sell the way the old ones had, she’d pretend not to notice. 

I noticed.

But she also changed. 

She found joy in small things: morning radio, crossword puzzles, feeding stray cats, painting her porch the wrong shade of blue. 

We never had children. We didn’t need to.

Instead, we collected animals, neighbors, and half-finished projects. 

There was jealousy sometimes, still. 

Paige would see my name on bylines with other artists and call me a “traitor.” I’d tell her to shut up and play something new.

When I think of the 2010s now, I think of Paige in the kitchen, humming something unfinished, sunlight catching the grays in her hair, the sound of her saying, “We made it”

And we did.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Diagnosis (2010 - 2015)

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

It started with the kind of cough you laugh about. 

Paige always coughed a lot — from laughter, from smoke, from running late and sprinting. But this one lingered. 

Weeks went by, and the sound became sharper, drier, something I didn’t like. 

She kept brushing me off. “Rookie, I’ve had worse hangovers than this.”

I told her she should get it checked out. 

She told me I was being dramatic.

Then she went.

It was in its early stages. Thank God, it was early. 

The doctor said the word malignant but followed it with contained, small, treatable.

Paige looked at him and said, “So, not the full ending yet?” 

The poor man didn’t know if she was joking. I did, she was half-joking.

Later, in the parking lot. She didn’t cry, didn’t even look scared. 

She said, “Honestly, Rookie, with how much I’ve smoked, I should’ve been a statistic years ago” 

Chemo began that spring. 

She was lucky, responsive to treatment. Her hair was already short by choice, so she didn’t lose much of it. 

She’d run her fingers through the strands like she was testing the odds.

We tried to keep it light. 

We watched old movies and made a running list of all the things she wanted to do when she got out: eat greasy food, dye her hair pink again, go to a concert she wasn’t performing at. 

She hated being treated like a patient, but the nurses adored her anyway — she told them jokes, signed their old vinyls.

The thing about Paige is that she doesn’t do fragility well. Even when she’s pale, sweating, and gripping my hand so hard it goes numb, she still finds something to make me laugh. “If I die,” she whispered one night, “Write something funny. Say I finally quit smoking.”

I said, “You’re not dying.” She said, “Fuck, then you better find a punchline.”

It wasn’t all easy. 

There were nights she’d get quiet, stare at the wall, and mutter things like, “Maybe God is telling me to stop trying to outlive myself.” She didn’t like that her body could betray her. 

But then there were mornings when she’d wake up and say, “You know what’s crazy? I feel better” As if her body healing had somehow made her softer too. 

She started eating better, walking slower, saying no to things that once seemed urgent. 

She wasn’t chasing anything anymore.

The tabloids didn’t know. 

The world didn’t know. 

For the first time in her life, Paige Bueckers had something that belonged entirely to her. Ironically it was fucking cancer

By summer, the scans were clear. 

The doctor said remission like it was a reward, but Paige called it “a technicality.” 

“I’m not dying,” she said, “but I guess I’m not immortal either. Kinda disappointing.”

We celebrated with bad pizza on the porch.

She took one bite, made a face, and said, “Maybe I’m too healthy for this now.”

That night, she leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed

 “I get to keep annoying you.” I told her, “I’ll take it.”

Looking back, I think that was the first time I saw her truly at peace. 

She was right. With how much she’d smoked through the years, she was lucky — outrageously, undeservedly lucky. 

She said that herself, often, like a punchline she couldn’t resist.

“Guess even the universe doesn’t want to deal with me yet.”

I laughed every time. 

Because that’s the thing about Paige: she can find humor in the places where other people find endings. 

When she got the all-clear, Paige swore she wasn’t going to “turn it into a headline.”

“Don’t you dare,” she told me “If I see ‘Rock Legend Battles Cancer’ anywhere with my face on it, I’ll move to the woods.” “You already live in the woods,” I said. “Then I’ll move deeper,” she shot back.

But she was the one who called me a month later and said, “Alright, Rookie. Let’s talk.”

We did it at her kitchen table.

 No lights, no stage, no PR handler hovering with a clipboard. The conversation started casual, then she said,

 “You’re gonna write this anyway, right?” I didn’t answer. She smiled. “Yeah. You always do.”

She didn’t want the word fighter anywhere near it

 “That’s not who I am,” she said. “I didn’t fight anything. I showed up, took the medicine, did what the doctors said, and got lucky.”

I wrote that line down exactly as she said it — and, of course, it became the pull-quote.

When the article came out, the headline was:

PAIGE BUECKERS SURVIVED CANCER — DON’T CALL HER A HERO

It ran in Vanity Fair and got picked up everywhere. 

They called her brave for refusing to be brave. Paige thought that was hysterical.

She didn’t even read the full piece at first. 

One night, I found her sitting in the living room, reading a printout.

When she saw me, she said, “You didn’t make me sound too nice. Thank you.”

That was her version of approval.

The response was overwhelming. 

Letters, flowers, essays. 

A whole wave of fans who said they’d gone to the doctor because of her story. 

She said, “Well, shit, now I can’t die. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

She started writing again, too — not for an album, not for anyone else. 

Just little phrases, half-poems.

 I’d find them tucked under coffee mugs, scrawled on grocery lists. Things like:

“The quiet used to scare me. Now it sounds like home.”

It was the most sober she’d ever been — in every sense of the word.

When people asked if she was making a comeback, she’d laugh. “I don’t think I ever came back from anything. I just didn’t leave.”

Then, when they walked away, she leaned toward me and whispered, “Rookie, that’s gonna be my epitaph. ‘She was stubborn as FUCK.’”

She laughed so hard she coughed.

And this time, I didn’t flinch.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Cat Moms (2019–2020)

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The lake house was never supposed to be permanent. 

Paige bought it in the late 2000s as a kind of joke  “a place to hide when the tabloids get rabid,” she’d said. 

But after the cancer, after everything, the joke became a life.

It’s small and uneven, built like it’s leaning toward the water, with paint that always looks like it needs a second coat. 

By the summer of 2019, we had an army of stray cats. I think the first one just showed up at the door, and Paige said, “We can’t just not feed it,” and that was that. 

The next week there were three. 

A month later, five. 

They came and went like ghosts, and Paige pretended she could tell them apart.

Paige couldn’t play guitar for long stretches anymore. Her fingers were cramped. 

So she picked up painting, at first it was a disaster, then she started getting good, in the way only Paige could: obsessive, curious, and artistic.

She painted the lake. 

The cats. 

Once, while I was asleep. I woke up to find myself on canvas, and her standing there with the brush like she’d caught herself doing something intimate.

When she showed it to me later, she said, “I didn’t get the color right.” “What color?” I asked.  She pointed at my eyes. “That one.”

We’d text each other from different rooms, even when we could’ve just shouted across the hall:

Paige: do you think cats can tell we’re gay Me: they absolutely can Paige: that’s why they keep bringing us dead birds. Me: maybe they’re just bad at affection Paige: same

Another day:

Me: the basil’s dying again Paige: maybe it just wants to reincarnate into something less needy Me: like you? Paige: rude 

And my favorite:

Paige: do you think we got pets because we didn’t have kids Me: probably Paige: we’d make terrible parents Me: yeah. Paige: yeah but they’d have great taste in music

Sometimes I’d catch her sitting by the window with a cat in her lap, humming nothing in particular. I’d ask what she was thinking. 

She’d say, “About you.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Rolling Stone — March 2021

“The Low-Key Couple: Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd” By: C. Denton

It’s a gray morning in Minnesota, and Paige Bueckers is making tea. 

Azzi Fudd, sits across the kitchen table, half-buried under a cat and a stack of books.

They don’t correct me when I call them a couple. They don’t confirm it either. 

Bueckers, now sixty-one, is still effortlessly magnetic — blue eyes sharp, smile wry, a little more lined but no less mischievous. Fudd, 58, has the calm gravity of someone who’s seen fame up close and chosen to walk the other way. 

Together, they radiate something like peace.

When I ask about their life these days, Paige laughs.

“We garden. We argue about music. We feed strays. We’re wild,” she says, voice thick with irony. “I’m boring now. I buy ergonomic furniture.” Azzi adds, “She says that like she doesn’t still rearrange the living room at midnight” 

Paige grins, unbothered.

They’re not on social media — Paige deleted her last account in 2015 (“I prefer mystery,” she says), and Azzi claims she never liked the noise of it. 

“There’s nothing wrong with people sharing their lives,” she says. “It’s just… not for us. We’ve spent so many years being seen, it’s nice to just look at each other.”

I ask if they still work together. 

Azzi shakes her head “Not formally. I wrote about her life for decades. Now, I write about other people.”  Paige interrupts, “She’s lying. She still edits my liner notes when I forget how commas work.”

They both laugh. 

Outside, snow falls softly across the lake. 

They talk about music, age, and legacy. 

Paige says she’s not sure she believes in legacy anymore. “People remember the wrong things. I’d rather be forgotten by the world than misunderstood by it.” When I bring up the word private, she smirks. “It’s not privacy,” she says. “It’s rebellion. You can’t sell what you can’t see.”

Before I leave, Paige points at the article title on my notes — The Low-Key Couple. 

She throws her head back and laughs. “Low-key? Me? God”

She’s still laughing when I walk out the door.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

Paige laughed for three days after that piece ran. “Low-key couple,” she kept saying, like it was the punchline of the century

“They make it sound like we whisper at each other.”

But I think she secretly liked it. 

For someone who’d spent her whole life under bright lights, being described as quiet must’ve felt like a strange, hard-earned compliment.

Public interest in us surged for a week or two — the usual think pieces, the recycled photos, people online trying to calculate how long we’d been “secretly together.” 

Paige read some of them aloud in ridiculous accents until we were both crying with laughter.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The Book Proposal (2022)

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

It started the way most of our biggest moments do. By accident.

We were sitting on the porch, the lake catching the last orange of summer. 

Paige had a cat asleep in her lap and a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to be smoking tucked behind her ear.

The day had been long and easy — gardening, reading, a nap that turned into a full afternoon — and I think the quiet made her restless. 

She hates when things stay still for too long; she starts looking for ways to shake them.

She leaned back in her chair and said, offhand but deliberate, “You know, Rookie, maybe you should just write the damn book.” I laughed. “What book?” She didn’t blink. “The one people think already exists.” When I didn’t answer, she looked over the rim of her glass. “Then people will stop asking if I’m still alive.” “Think about it,” she said, quieter now. “We don’t have kids. We don’t have heirs. Maybe that’s our legacy.”

The word legacy hung in the air like a ghost.

 I knew she’d been thinking about it for months — since the diagnosis, since the recovery, since we both realized that time had started moving faster again.

She wasn’t nostalgic. She never is. 

She just wanted control over the ending.

“You really want me to write it?” I asked. She smirked. “I want you to tell it right. You’ve been narrating my life since I was twenty, you might as well finish the job.”

That was the moment this whole thing began.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Email from Azzi Fudd to Paige Bueckers

Subject: Book Proposal (Or: the thing you started)

Paige,

You’re getting your wish.

I started writing last night. Just a few pages, but it’s happening. 

You should know, though, that it won’t be a biography. I can’t do that. 

It’ll be something else — a mosaic, maybe. 

If this is going to be our legacy, I want it to sound like us — a little reckless, a little romantic, mostly honest.

Also, I’m not calling it The Book. 

That’s terrible branding.

My current shortlist includes:

The Pirate’s Heart

After the Noise

Untitled (Love Song)

Don’t roll your eyes. I can hear it from here.

P.S. If you die before I finish, I’m dedicating it to the cats.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Email from Paige Bueckers to Azzi Fudd (Reply)  

Subject: Re: Book Proposal (Or: the thing you started)

Rookie, no one send e-mails anymore

Also, I’m literally in the garden, but I’m glad you didn’t say this in person. 

I didn’t want to look ate your pretty brown eyes when I said those titles fucking sucked

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

CBS Features — August 12, 2024

“The Last Interview: Paige Bueckers”

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd at Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota

The porch creaks when I open the screen door, the same sound it’s made for thirty years. 

Paige Bueckers is already there, coffee mug in hand, hair freshly dyed the shade of blonde that used to set photographers trembling. 

A few silver strands betray her age, 

The morning light catches her face — same sharp jaw, same impossible blue eyes, but softer now, framed by fine wrinkles that gather when she grins.

AZ: I’m starting this now before you get us cancelled. PB: Cancelled? Rookie, I’ve been retired from sinning since 2003.

She gestures toward the recorder. “This thing on? Better get it right — it’s the last time anyone’s hearing from me.”

I laugh. 

She smirks, the corner of her mouth curving 

AZ: So — this is it. The last one. PB: (mock gasp) Don’t sound so relieved. AZ: I’m just making it official for the record. Paige Bueckers’ final interview. PB: “Final interview.” Sounds like I’m about to get executed. AZ: You said this yourself, not me. PB: Yeah, yeah. But I’ve said a lot of things. I said I was quitting touring in 2006. Guess what happened in 2007? AZ: The world tour. PB: Exactly. I’m a liar by nature. Keeps me interesting.

She leans back in the porch chair, sunlight sliding over her.

AZ: You still look like a rockstar. PB: You still look twenty-five. Which is rude. AZ: Dye helps. PB: Lies. You’re still disgustingly beautiful.

Her tone is playful, affection disguised as teasing, the way it always has been.

AZ: Tell me about the book. PB: Our book. AZ: Your idea. PB: You’re the journalist, darling.  AZ: You said, quote, “Write the damn thing before people forget me.” PB: Doing you a favor, of course.

We laugh for a moment, the air fills with birdsong and the smell of coffee. 

Paige reaches for the recorder and adjusts it slightly, like she can still control the soundboard of her own story.

PB: You know what’s weird? Seeing it all in print. It reads like someone else’s life. Like I was method-acting the whole time. AZ: Maybe you were. PB: Maybe. You were the director.

There’s a small silence 

AZ: People are going to call this your farewell. PB: It is. But not the tragic kind. I’m not dying. 

She grins again, lines deepening around her eyes, not signs of age, but proof of how often she’s laughed at the world.

AZ: If this is the last time the public hears from Paige Bueckers, what do you want them to remember? PB: Oh, that’s easy. Remember that I was funny. AZ: Funny? PB: Yeah. People forget that. They remember the overdoses, the Grammys. But I was hilarious. AZ: You were. Are. PB: You’re just saying that because you’re married to the myth. AZ: To the woman. And we’re not married 

Then, softly:

PB: Married in spirit, but, good answer

I smile, can’t help it

AZ: Do you have a favorite line that never got published?

She frowns, thinking.

 Her hands, still ringed with silver bands, tap against the table in rhythm.

PB: Yeah. It was for a lyric that never made the record. “I hate being admired, I rather be loved.”

AZ: Why didn’t it make it? PB: Too honest. 

She was still performing, just for me this time.

And even then, even after all these years, I kept thinking: she’s still beautiful.The wrinkles just told the story better.

The sun has turned the lake into glass. 

Paige has switched her coffee for lemonade and her chair for the porch railing, balancing there like she’s twenty again.

She’s talking about something unserious — the Grammys, maybe, — when I ask it.

AZ: Why did you choose me?

She blinks. 

AZ: For that first interview. 1985. You didn’t do press, remember? You turned down Spin, Rolling Stone, Billboard. So why me?

Paige leans forward, her expression a perfect imitation of mischief and confusion.

PB: You’ve been wondering that all this time? AZ: I think it’s a fair question. PB: Okay, then smile. AZ: (deadpan) What? PB: Smile for me. AZ: Paige. PB: Come on. You asked a question, I’m giving you an answer.

I groan but do it anyway. A small, self-conscious grin that I immediately regret.

She points at me triumphantly.

PB: See? That. That’s why. AZ: What? PB: (grinning) The most beautiful fucking face I’d ever seen. AZ: Oh my God. PB: I saw your photo in the press kit and told my agent I wanted to talk to you.

I cover my face with my hands. She’s ridiculous, this is probably a lie anyway.

AZ: You cannot possibly be telling me that I got the biggest interview of my career because you thought I was pretty. PB: I can and I am. AZ: I— You said you read my article on the D.C. punk scene! PB: (shrugs) I did. AZ: You wanted me to like you. PB: I wanted everyone to like me (pauses)  Especially you. AZ: You’ve never told me this before. PB: You never asked. AZ: I’ve literally been asking questions for forty years! PB: Yeah, but not that one.

I shake my head, and she looks absurdly pleased with herself.

AZ: So I got the story because of my face. PB: And you stayed because of your brain (beat) And your patience. But the smile definitely got you in the door, darling. AZ: You are absolutely insufferable. PB: (softly) The best thing I ever said yes to.

There’s a pause 

AZ: Do you ever think about that version of us?  PB: All the time. But I don’t miss it. I like that we survived it.

She grins, but her eyes linger on the water, and I can tell she’s thinking about those years.

PB: You know, I used to think the best parts of my career were the albums or the tours. But looking back, it’s the in-betweens. The writing at three a.m., talking to you backstage. That was the work.  AZ: You’ve always been romantic about misery. PB: And you’ve always been romantic about me. AZ: (snorts) Don’t flatter yourself. PB: Oh, I don’t need to. You wrote a whole book about me.

I throw a napkin at her. She dodges it.

AZ: How do you actually feel about your career now? About everything you built?

She leans back, face thoughtful for a moment.

PB: I think I made a lot of noise trying to prove I existed. And it worked. Maybe too well. AZ: Do you think people misunderstood you? PB: (smiles) No, I think they got exactly what I wanted them to.  AZ: And what about the rest of it? The fame, the mythology, the headlines? PB: The headlines were fine. I never fucked with fame

She’s quiet after that, and the silence feels earned. 

The recorder hums, cicadas chatter in the trees, and I think about how rare it is to meet someone who can still surprise you after forty years.

AZ: Anything you wish you’d done differently? PB: I wish I’d bought more land before it got expensive (grins) But no, not really. 

The afternoon light has gone syrupy by the time we get to the last part. 

Paige insists we move inside because “I’m too old to be photogenic.”

She’s lying on the couch now, one arm draped over her eyes, hair sticking up from where she’s been running her hands through it.

I sit across from her, the recorder balanced on the coffee table, blinking its little red light.

AZ: Let’s talk about pirates.

She groans. “You always start with the embarrassing stuff.”

AZ: It’s not embarrassing.  PB: It’s childish. AZ: It’s very you.

She drops her arm, revealing one squinting blue eye. 

PB: Fine. What about them? AZ: You’ve always said you love pirates, you’ve been saying that since the eighties. Do you still like them?

Paige sits up, slow and deliberate, like she’s bracing herself for something serious but doesn’t want to give it away yet.

PB: Of course I do (pauses) You know, people used to think pirates were greedy. But the truth is they just didn’t trust the world with what they treasured. I get that. AZ: So you still think some things should be hidden. PB: Absolutely. Especially now. Everyone’s addicted to exposure. Everyone wants to prove they’re alive by filming it. You sneeze, you post. You fall in love, you livestream.  AZ: Do you think that’s possible anymore? For two people — two famous people, even — to keep something private?

She studies me, as if I’ve asked something dangerous. 

PB: I hope so (pauses) God, I really do.

She looks out the window, where the lake has turned into molten gold. 

PB: Because being loud is easy. But being quiet together—that’s the real thing

She looks at me again, her expression suddenly open, the kind that used to undo me when we were young.

PB: You were always that for me.

I don’t answer right away.

AZ: You think that’s why we lasted? PB: We didn’t last. We outlasted

We both laugh a little, though it sounds more like an exhale than a joke.

AZ: If you could say one thing to those kids like us now — the ones trying to love each other — what would you say? PB: Love doesn’t need an audience. You don’t owe anyone your joy. The best things I ever had were the ones I never shared. AZ: And your treasure? PB: (smiles) You know damn well

She gestures toward me.

PB: Sitting right there asking annoying questions.

When I turn the recorder off, she leans back, satisfied.

 “That’s it?” she asks.  “That’s it,” I say. She tilts her head, thinking. “So this is the last time anyone ever hears from me?” “Yes.” “Good.” She pauses. “You’ll make it sound beautiful, right?” “I always do.”

Final Letter from Paige Bueckers 

(Found sealed, postmarked from Lake Minnetonka, addressed to Azzi Fudd. Read publicly only upon the publication of the book.)

Dear Rookie,

You told me this had to be a letter — that it had to end with my words, not yours.

 I’ve spent my whole life running my mouth into microphones, and still, I’ve never said half the things I meant to. So this one’s for you, and for whoever’s still reading, and maybe for the part of me that still can’t believe I got this far.

You also told me not to be dramatic. (Which is like asking a fish not to swim, so forgive me in advance.)

First things first: I’ve always been terrible at goodbyes. That’s why I never actually said one.

Every time a tour ended, I called it a “pause.”

Every time we broke up, I called it “space.”

Every time life tried to shut me up, I called it an encore.

This — right now, this book, these words — is the closest thing I’ll ever give to a curtain call.

When you asked me to write this, I thought, God, what’s left to say? We’ve already confessed everything. You wrote the truth better than I ever sang it.

So what could I possibly add? Then I realized — you wanted a letter, not a lyric.

And letters, unlike songs, don’t have to rhyme.

So here it goes.

You didn’t make me better, Azzi. You kept me alive.

I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my life — publicly, privately, occasionally on live TV — but I’ve never said this, so I’ll say it now:

 I’m proud of what I made, but what I’m grateful for — that’s you.

You were there when I was a headline, when I was a has-been, when I was a half-person trying to remember what breathing sounded like.

You saw me without eyeliner, without the leather jacket, without the myth.

You saw me sick and shaking and ugly and scared, and you stayed anyway.

You asked me to end this book, here’s my attempt at closure:

When I think about my life, it doesn’t play in order. It flickers.

The first interview — you in that too-serious blazer, pretending not to blush. The years we lost, the years we got back.

You still look exactly the same, by the way. You’ll say that’s a lie, but it’s not. You still have that precious dimple when you smile.

That’s my favorite part of you, the dimples.

 The second favorite part is your brain.

You’ve always been the smarter one. I’ve always been the one who needed reminding.

And since you’re going to be too professional to print this part, I’ll say it anyway for whoever’s reading — what I want my last words in the book to be: Dear reader, Azzi Fudd has the prettiest damn smile I’ve ever seen.

Now go publish your masterpiece. And promise me you won’t fix my grammar.

P.S: Since this is apparently my “legacy,” I’ll do what I never did wel: give advice.

Not to you; you never needed it.

To whoever picks up this book and thinks love and fame are the same thing: they’re not.

One feeds you. The other eats you alive.

To the girls coming up after me — if you’re lucky enough to find an Azzi Fudd of your own, promise me you’ll hide her like a treasure.

Keep her safe. Guard her from the noise, the cameras, the cruelty.

Make sure the world in all its ugliness never touches her.

Your “Azzi Fudd” will be the best thing you’ll ever have.

Keep her safe.

That’s what love is — something quiet, something yours. And if you’re lucky enough to find it, I hope you have the sense to hold on tight, laugh a lot, grow old together, and never, ever let the world make you explain it.

Quiet before the Storm

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

If there was ever a quiet before the storm, it was the months after Burning Red. 

Paige’s name was on every wall, every edgy teenage bedroom door with a poster curling at the corners. 

She wouldn’t give interviews anymore. 

Not to Rolling Stone, not to Spin, not even to NME, who’d been begging for months. 

Only me.

When I met Paige, I was twenty-two, living in a brick-walled apartment off Dupont Circle. Colleen was my roommate, and we were both working entry-level jobs and splitting canned soup at midnight. 

My parents thought I’d wasted my degree by going into “arts journalism.” Paige thought it was the only kind of journalism that mattered.

When Burning Red hit platinum, my editor sent me to shadow her for a weekend piece.

That weekend never ended. 

When I ask what she wants people to know about her, she shrugs:

“That I’m just trying to stay human while everyone’s busy mythologizing me.”

After that profile ran, my phone didn’t stop ringing.

I followed her from city to city, notebook full of her one-liners and contradictions. 

By the time the Burning Red tour ended, I was no longer sure where my career ended and she began. 

Overnight, I became the Paige Bueckers journalist. 

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Spin Magazine, March 1989

“The Bueckers Bible” — by Staff Writer

Music journalists don’t write about Paige Bueckers anymore.

They write through her.

The best of the lot — Washington’s own Azzi Fudd — seems to have been adopted as the singer’s mouthpiece.

Insiders say Bueckers won’t so much as tune a guitar if Fudd’s not in the room.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

She’d started joking that I was her “press secretary,”.

 One night, after too many drinks and too little sleep, she said quietly,

“If you’re the one telling my story, do I still exist when you stop?”

I didn’t know what to say.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Los Angeles Times, July 1989

“BUECKERS ERUPTS AT LABEL PARTY — ‘GET ONE WHILE I’M STILL STANDING’”

Rock sensation Paige Bueckers caused a scene last night outside the CBS summer party when paparazzi swarmed the artist and a female companion identified as Washington journalist Azzi Fudd.

Witnesses claim the star shouted profanities and threw a drink before being escorted inside by security.

Fudd declined comment.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — From Paige Bueckers (hotel stationery, that night, slid under my door)

Rookie,

I hate that they know your name now. I hate that they think they know mine.

I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to bite a camera. I did the wrong one.

Meet me in the service elevator at 1:10. We’ll practice leaving without being seen.

— P

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

I went. 

We kissed between floors, and she laughed into my mouth 

“Fucking hate papparazis” she said.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — People, August 1989

“THE GIRLFRIEND THEORY”

Speculation continues around Paige Bueckers’ relationship with CBS journalist Azzi Fudd.

Sources claim the two have been “spending an unusual amount of time together” following the singer’s explosive Venice incident.

“She’s obsessed with this reporter,” says one studio insider. “Won’t talk to anyone else.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Gossip

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

Every story about Paige started with noise.

But ours kept unfolding in the quiet, in hotel rooms where she took her boots off one at a time and asked, “Do you still like me when I’m sober?”

After Venice, after the flashes, we went underground (Or tried to)

She said she didn’t care about the gossip, but she did — not about being called gay or reckless, but about the idea of being known. 

She hated being definable. 

People like to imagine we were suffocating under the secrecy.

We weren’t.

What suffocated us was the noise — the speculation, the headlines, the whispers at every after-party that always started with “Did you hear...” and ended with our names.

Paige never cared that no one knew. 

She cared that everyone wanted to.

In those early years, privacy wasn’t our prison — it was our country, and we built a life inside it.

There were hotel rooms where the curtains never opened, long drives with no radio, shared cigarettes on fire escapes at 2 a.m. while her band slept two floors below.

I’d watch her tune her guitar, barefoot, and she’d watch me watching her.

She liked that I wasn’t impressed.

She said fame made her feel like glass. Everyone was looking through her, no one was looking at her.

I was the exception.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter —  From Paige Bueckers (torn page from a notebook, postmarked from Dallas, August 1989)

Rookie,

I keep replaying that night. Your little noises. The way you looked at me after. Like I’d just set our lives on fire. Maybe I did.

Every magazine in America is writing about my mouth. No one’s writing about yours, but me.

Call me when you land. Or don’t. I’ll call you anyway.

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Private Notes — Paige’s Journal (1989)

8/19 — “You say I make you nervous. I say you make me real”.

8/21 — “I drink to remember your pulse. I snort to quiet your name. Every habit started holy.”

8/28 — “Your lips are a religious experience, I’m on my knees”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — From Paige Bueckers (handwritten on Sherry Bomb stationery, December, 1989)

Rookie,

They’re running out of new ways to describe me. “Androgynous.” “Rebellious.” “Provocative.” How long until they just say “human?”

I wrote something for you tonight. Not a song yet. 

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Demo Transcript — “Quiet Wars” (Paige Bueckers, 1990)

You kiss like a confession I can’t make twice, my soul burns where your mouth bites.

And I want peace but peace gets bored, so we fight for our love like a quiet war.

(laughter, Paige’s voice off mic)

PAIGE (off mic): You’re gonna say that’s too dramatic in your little Review of the new album, ain’t ya?.

AZZI (off mic): I’m gonna say it’s honest

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Quiet Wars

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

That line gutted me: “We fight for our love like a quiet war.”

It was the first time she’d said love out loud, even if she hid it in a rhyme.

She’d played thousands of shows by then, but that night it felt like she was performing only for me.

She didn’t write “Quiet Wars” for an album.

She wrote it for me. The tape never made it to the label.

She kept it in a shoebox with the words “for Azzi, not for sale” scrawled on top.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The Garden 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

We were in a greenroom that looked like a broom closet — fluorescent light, folding chair, her leather jacket hanging off the mic stand.

She was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, tapping her rings against a water bottle like a metronome.

I said, “You’ve done this a hundred times.” She said, “Not like this.”

She wasn’t nervous about her first show at Madison Square Garden; she was nervous about how she would be seen in her first show at Madison Square Garden .

 “This fucking victory lap,” she said. “What if it’s just my funeral?”

I just took her hand, pressed my thumb against the inside of her wrist, and felt her pulse hammering like Nika’s drums.

When the stage manager knocked, she kissed my palm and said,

 “Wish me luck, Rookie.”

Then she stood up, rolled her shoulders, and walked out to 60,000 people.

That was the show that made her immortal.

I’ve seen the footage a hundred times since. The grainy VHS, the lights gold, her hair plastered to her face.

Every time, I wait for the part no one else sees: her looking just offstage, right where I stood, and exhaling like she’d finally let go.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — Rolling Stone, July 1990

“Bueckers Sets the Garden Ablaze”

Some performances change a career.

Paige Bueckers’ Madison Square Garden show changed a generation.

She walked onstage barefoot, in ripped jeans and a sleeveless white tee, guitar slung low, hair damp like she’d just come from the rain.

Her voice cracked on the first line and no one cared. When she hit the chorus, the crowd sang it back, 60,000 strong.

She smiled, mouthed something no one caught on camera, and walked offstage crying.

(Editor’s note, 2025: What she mouthed was “Rookie”)

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — From Paige Bueckers (hotel stationery, New York Hilton, postmarked the morning after)

Rookie,

I couldn’t sleep. My head’s still buzzing. I keep hearing them, and thinking: that was me.

But I also keep thinking: that was you.

 I walked onstage with your fingerprint still on my wrist.

The world can have my music. I’m yours.

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Aftershock 

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

Every myth has an aftershock, and Madison Square Garden was ours.

The night the world fell in love with Paige Bueckers — and the night I started losing her.

The Garden had turned her into something bigger than a person.

She’d call at 3 a.m. from hotel rooms in Paris or Tokyo, slurring half sentences, saying, “You’d hate it here. Everything smells like perfume.”

 When I didn’t pick up, she’d leave voicemails that sounded like songs.

“Rookie,” she’d say, “the sky looks fake tonight. Tell me something true.”

I’d listen the next morning on my way to work and think, She’s lonely.

I didn’t realize it was withdrawal.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — From Paige Bueckers (handwritten, Los Angeles, February 1990)

Rookie,

I can’t walk outside without seeing my own face. Billboards, magazines, TV, all of it. I thought I wanted this. I think I did.

I saw a photo of us from the Garden, someone caught you in the wings. You were watching me.

When are you coming back to me?

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — People, April 1990

“The Voice of a Generation… or Just a Girl Too Loud for Her Own Good?”

Paige Bueckers’ explosive rise continues to blur the line between brilliance and burnout.

The singer, who recently sold out Madison Square Garden, has been spotted leaving L.A. bars at dawn and reportedly “snapping” at fans.

Bueckers’ representative declined to comment.

(Editor’s note, 2025: That article was the first one that scared me.)

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The Grammys

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The Grammys were supposed to be a celebration.

She won everything: Record of the Year, Album of the Year, and Song of the Year for “Hysteria.”

We hadn’t seen each other in almost three months.

I’d been buried in work at CBS, and she was somewhere between London and Los Angeles, touring, drinking too much, calling me from hotel bathrooms at dawn.

She told me not to come to the ceremony.

“I don’t want to look at you and forget my lines,” she said.

But she still sent a car. 

Still left a hotel key under my name. 

Still texted, “Room 812. Don’t knock.”

When I saw her that night, she looked otherworldly — hair slicked back, suit sharp, a single silver earring shaped like a dagger.

She hugged me so tightly I could smell the champagne on her skin.

“Jesus, Paige,” I said, laughing into her shoulder. “You’re shaking.” “Haven’t seen you in forever,” she said. “Let me remember what you feel like.” “You’re supposed to be getting ready.”  “This is me getting ready.”

That’s what I remember most, how much she missed me.

She was drunk on the room, the music, the power, and somewhere in between all of that, on me.

She won her first award and thanked “the people who listen when I sing instead of when I speak.”

She won her second and forgot the speech entirely.

After the ceremony, we met again at an after-party in West Hollywood.

Every famous person in the world seemed to be in that room, and yet, somehow, she only saw me.

“You’re still wearing that,” she said, tugging at the neckline of my dress. “You told me not to change.” “I tell you a lot of things.”

She kept her hand on the small of my back the entire night, I told her to stop.

She didn’t.

“You missed me,” she whispered. “I did.” “Then let them look.”

And that was the problem, someone did.

The photo ran in the morning.

My hand in hers, our faces turned toward each other, mid-laughter, the flash turning everything into white.

At eight a.m., the phone rang, and her voice was hoarse from smoke and champagne.

“Rookie,” she said, “it’s bad.” “How bad?” “Front-page bad.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt — CBS Newswire, February 1990

STATEMENT FROM AZZI FUDD

“Ms. Bueckers and I have a friendly working relationship built on mutual respect. I’ve been privileged to document her artistry over the years, and I deeply admire her as a musician and friend.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features — April 6, 1990, Los Angeles, California

She shows up to the interview in a white tank top, black slacks, sunglasses inside, and a mood that says don’t ask, don’t tell.

Her publicist hovers by the door like a nervous parent, and Paige waves her off.  

PB: Relax. I promise I’ll behave. AZ: That’s what you said last time. PB: Yeah, but this time I mean it.

She flops into the armchair opposite me, legs slung over one arm of it.

There’s a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table that wasn’t there a second ago.

PB: You look tense. AZ: You look hungover. PB: I won a Grammy. I’m allowed to be both.

AZ: You’ve been quiet lately. PB: Thought I’d give everyone a break from my voice. AZ: You? Giving people a break? PB: (smirks) You say that like I’m loud. AZ: You’re the loudest person I’ve ever met.

She stretches her arms over her head, bones cracking, looking at me through the slant of her sunglasses.

PB: You ever get tired of writing about me? AZ: Constantly. PB: (laughs) Then why do you keep doing it? AZ: Because you won’t talk to anyone else. PB: Exactly. I’m loyal.

She grins, all teeth and mischief.

AZ: So, Paige, congratulations on the sweep. Record, Album, Song — that’s the holy trinity. PB: Don’t forget Best Rock Performance. That one’s my favorite. AZ: Why that one? PB: It’s the only one that actually sounds like me. AZ: How’s that? PB: Uninvited.

There’s a pause. 

AZ: Does it ever feel like too much? The attention? PB: Always. But that’s the job, right? Let them love you until they hate you. AZ: And in between? PB: In between you write about me, and they think they know me.

She pulls off her sunglasses and sets them on the table. 

AZ: There’s been… a lot of speculation about your personal life. PB: (deadpan) Is this the part where you ask if I’m dating you? AZ: I’m asking if the rumors bother you. PB: Only when people get creative.

Her smile is razor sharp.

AZ: So, to clarify— PB: (interrupting) Clarify nothing. It ruins the fun.

She laughs, leaning back in the chair.

PB: Don’t worry, rookie. You can write that I’m single. I am.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Excerpt from CBS Features (April 1990, print edition)

“After the Grammys, Paige Bueckers is learning to live louder than the noise around her.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” she insists, “Just myself, and she’s hard enough to keep up with.”

She pauses, eyes glinting. “People always want to know who I love. They never ask what I love. And that’s easy, it’s the music”

Paige Bueckers will begin the Burning Red World Tour this summer. Tickets sold out in under ten minutes.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — From Paige Bueckers (postmarked the next day)

Rookie,

Thank you. For lying for me. I know you hate it.

I hate it too.

I’ll make it up to you

— P

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

High

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When I met Paige, I already knew what addiction looked like.

My mother was an addict. 

So when I saw Paige drinking too much, I recognized it instantly. But I told myself she was different (She was brilliant, and brilliant people are allowed to be a little unsteady).

What I didn’t see — or didn’t want to see — was how much I’d become her coping mechanism.

The truth is, she needed me to keep her standing, and I needed her to make me feel alive.

 It was a dangerous kind of symbiosis.

The moment I left, she cracked.

When I started spending more time at CBS, working on other stories, she’d spiral, miss sound checks, pick fights with bandmates.

Call me mid-rehearsal, whispering, “Where are you?” like it was a lifeline.

And if I didn’t answer? She’d get drunk enough to make headlines.

Once, Nika called me from backstage, voice shaking:

“Can you talk to her? She’s pacing, she won’t go on.” “What happened?” “Nothing. You’re not here, that’s what happened.”

I put her on speakerphone and said her name once.

 “Paige.”

She stopped pacing.

I heard her laugh, that’s when I realized: I wasn’t her girlfriend, I was her new drug.

When I look back now, it’s so clear how fragile everything was.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Tabloid Clipping — May 1992

“PAIGE SHOVES LENS, SHOUTS EXPLETIVE OUTSIDE SOHO CLUB”

Witnesses say the rock star yelled, “Why the fuck are you in my face?” before being bundled into a black sedan around 2 a.m. 

Sources report that CBS Features journalist Azzi Fudd was also present at the scene. The two were seen exiting the venue separately but entering the same car.

Representatives for both declined to comment on the nature of their relationship.

“She’s unpredictable,” said one onlooker. “She looks like she’s ready to punch the camera.”

— Starline Weekly, May 6, 1992

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Paige Buecker’s Notebook Scraps — used later in “Vice Versa” (’93 draft)

If the pill makes the floor stop moving, why does the ceiling keep learning my name?

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

CBS Features — March 1993

“Sound Before Sense” — Paige Bueckers Pre-Tour Check-In Interview by Azzi Fudd

Los Angeles, March 1993.

Paige Bueckers opens the door barefoot, eyeliner smudged, a cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation.

There’s a gold Grammy on the windowsill being used to hold spare guitar picks.

 PB: I ran out of coffee. Hope gin’s fine.

I decline, and she grins, unbothered.

PB: Still the professional. You haven’t changed. AZ: Neither have you. PB: That’s what everyone’s worried about.

She collapses into a chair and starts rolling the cigarette between her fingers like a metronome. 

AZ: You’re about to start your biggest tour yet. How are you feeling? PB: Tired, which means I’m doing it right. AZ: You’ve been “tired” since 1985. PB: (laughs) Yeah, but I used to fake it better.

She leans forward, elbows on knees.

AZ: People close to you say you’re pushing yourself too hard. PB: That’s what people close to me are for. They worry, I work. AZ: You call it work? PB: I call it survival.

She taps ash into a coffee mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST GUITARIST.

AZ: You’ve said before that you write better when you’re miserable. PB: Everyone does. Happy songs are propaganda. AZ: So you’re miserable now? PB: I’m alive (beat) That’s enough material.

When I ask about Vice Versa, the long-rumored follow-up to Burning Red, her entire posture shifts.

AZ: What’s the new record about? PB: Nothing AZ: That’s not an answer. PB: That’s the only one I’ve got (smiles)

She picks up a guitar that’s missing a string and plucks at it absently.

PB: Everyone keeps asking what it means. The songs don’t mean anything. They just… happen. You bleed a little, record it, sell it, move on. AZ: That sounds cynical. PB: I’m not in the business of healing people. AZ: Do you think that’s what people love about you, the chaos? PB: They love that I live the way they wish they could.

She lights another cigarette with the end of the last one.

AZ: Is that sustainable? PB: Who said I’m trying to sustain it

AZ: People talk about your lifestyle— PB: (interrupting) My lifestyle has better press than I do. AZ: — they say it’s dangerous.

The tape clicks.

AZ: What do you say to people who call you reckless? PB: I say, “Thank you.” AZ: You don’t mind that word? PB: No. 

She finishes her cigarette.

AZ: One last question. What would you tell people who think you’re losing control? PB: You can’t live carefully and expect to make art.

The interview is over.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

This was the interview that started our first real war.

The quote “You can’t live carefully and expect to make art” ran in full-page bold, under a photo of her with a cigarette

 By the time the issue hit stands, that line was already being printed on bootleg T-shirts outside her concerts.

She called me three days later, drunk, and said, “You finally wrote me right.”

I wanted to tell her I hadn’t written her at all.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The Moment I Knew

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

There’s a difference between chaos and addiction. 

Chaos is dramatic, and addiction is repetitive.

Addiction is the same night lived over and over with slightly worse outcomes. 

When people ask what Paige was “like” in those years — as if personality could explain the prognosis — I tell them she was gifted, funny, stubborn, and chronically unwell.

The shows were dazzling, and the days in between were not.

I did not come to addiction as a tourist.

I learned early what dependence looks like from the outside: how it shrinks a life’s options.

I also learned how it shapes the people nearby. 

You become vigilant, you learn to read breath and pupils, speech patterns and skin tone. You become oddly good at logistics (Where the exits are, what time the pharmacy closes, which friend is safe to call at 2:00 a.m)

With Paige, I recognized the pattern long before I wanted to name it. 

Drinking as pre-show courage, then drinking because a day without it felt impossible. 

The justifications were stable: it’s part of the job; it’s temporary; it’s not like your mother; I can stop when the tour ends; I deserve this

From the outside, here is what I noticed.

Small health flags: infections that wouldn’t clear, hoarseness, tremor on waking, that specific grey around the eyes.

Addiction also reorganizes relationships. 

People like to talk about “enablers” as if we are all indifferent or complicit. 

I was neither.

God, I set rules, I said no, I left rooms, I canceled nights. 

But I also picked up the phone, booked the flight, sat on the floor between her and the door while the worst of the night passed.

There is a common lie that artists tell: that recklessness is synonymous with truth. 

That line looks good in print, and I’m guilty of printing it.

What it actually does, in practice, is making addiction sound like bravery.

 “You can’t live carefully and expect to make art” was a sentence I ran as a pull-quote and regretted immediately. 

Paige was not addicted to danger because it made better songs.

Paige was addicted because the combination of her biology, her history, and the machinery around her rewarded anything that kept the show running. 

This is the most honest thing I can say about that period: I understood exactly what was ahead of us and also had no idea. 

The night I finally admitted it to myself, I sat on the floor of my kitchen and said out loud, to no one, You’re fucked.

If you are reading this because you love someone who drinks or uses the way Paige did, here is the only practical sentence I can offer: boundaries are not punishments; they’re seatbelts.

They don’t stop the crash, but they keep you from going through the windshield with them

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Territory — Europe, 1994

Written by: Azzi Fudd (2025)

The Europe leg in ’94 was short, the nights were long, and in the hours between sound check and stage time anything could happen and often did.

Paige was brilliant onstage and awful off it. 

In Paris she burned through a set like she was racing a clock. 

In Berlin she lost her pick, playing with blood on the strings.

In Copenhagen she skipped dinner

By Oslo she had started using the word fine like a period

“I’m fine.” “It’s fine.” “We’re fine.” 

(The band stopped believing her and kept playing anyway)

Nika had always been the counterweight.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Backstage — Stockholm, July 24, 1994

Compiled recollections; transcript reconstructed 2025

Paige came offstage laughing too loudly, pupils wide.

Someone handed her a towel, and someone else handed her water (She took the towel.)

Nika blocked the door with one hand on the frame.

NIKA: I’m not watching you disappear. PAIGE: Then close your eyes. NIKA: I’m serious, Paigey. PAIGE: So am I.

KK took a step toward them and thought better of it.

NIKA: You’re going to end up like your father. PAIGE: Don’t. NIKA: Then stop. PAIGE: Don’t know how.

It went quiet.

NIKA: I need you to try. PAIGE: I try every night. NIKA: Onstage isn’t trying. 

Paige’s laugh cracked.

She reached for the water, put it down, reached for the towel instead.

PAIGE: Do not parent me. NIKA: That’s not parenting. PAIGE: Sounds like control. NIKA: Sounds like love.

There is no right line after that line, and Paige chose the wrong one.

PAIGE: Then love me less.

KK flinched. Nika nodded just once.

NIKA: I can’t.

She set the sticks on the dressing table, not dramatic, just final.

 The door shut behind her without slamming.

That was the last show she played with Sherry Bomb.

I caught up with Nika in the loading bay, “Are you coming back?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else to ask.

She looked past me down the white corridor the crew builds and unbuilds in every city.

“Ask her to,” she said. “If she asks, I will”

Paige came out ten minutes later with her jaw set and her hands empty.

“Where’s Nika?” she asked. “Gone,” I said. “Good,” she said.

That was the whole fight.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Press Brief — AP Wire, July 1994

“Drummer Nika Larsen Exits Sherry Bomb Mid-Tour”

Oslo/Stockholm (AP) — Nika Mühl has departed the Paige Bueckers – led rock outfit Sherry Bomb in the midst of the band’s European tour, citing “creative differences,” according to a statement released by management on Tuesday.

Dates will proceed as scheduled with a touring replacement to be announced. 

Bueckers did not immediately comment.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Madison Square Garden (again), May 1995

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

The band was smaller now. The crowd wasn’t. If anything, it had doubled.

Paige looked thin in a way that wasn’t glamorous anymore. 

But when the lights came up and she opened her mouth, the world rearranged itself, and she was incandescent again. 

That’s the cruelty of addiction — you get glimpses of the person you fell for, just enough to keep waiting for their return.

The crowd screamed for an encore, and Paige gave them three.

Afterward, she came backstage, eyeliner melted.

“See, Rookie?” she said. “Still got it.”

I told her she scared me.

“Good,” she said. “Means you’re paying attention.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

First Overdose — Tour Clinic Report (Confidential, June 2, 1995)

Patient: Bueckers, Paige Location: New Orleans — Post-show medical suite Symptoms: Tremors, tachycardia, emesis, shallow respiration Stabilized: Yes Discharged: Against medical advice Recommendation: Inpatient detox, 30–60 days Notes (staff): Patient coherent but resistant. Repeated: “I can’t miss the next city.”

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

On the First Collapse

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When I got the call, I was asleep on the couch.

They told me she had been “briefly hospitalized, for overconsumption of prescribed medication”.

I remember sitting upright, saying, “She doesn’t even take aspirin.” 

Then I remembered she didn’t take aspirin because it didn’t do enough.

By the time I reached the venue, she was already discharged. 

There were photographers outside, and I knew if I went through the front door, I’d be in the tabloids by morning, too. 

I waited by the back exit until the tour bus rolled out. 

When she saw me, she smiled like we were meeting for coffee. 

“Don’t be mad,” she said, already climbing the steps. “I’m furious,” I told her. “I’m fine.” “Then why did they call me?” She looked away “Because you always answer.”

I did, that was the problem.

The first overdose changed something fundamental in me. 

Before that, I still believed I could manage her.

After that night, I realized I wasn’t holding her together, and I was cushioning her fall. 

Every apology came rehearsed, every promise with an expiration date

“Next month,” she said “Next leg.” “After the next show.” 

I drove behind the tour bus for fifty miles before I pulled over and cried into my notebook. 

Not because she’d scared me, but because I knew I’d still write about her, still follow her to the next city, still believe her when she said she could stop. 

That’s the curse of loving an addict: you can’t tell which side you’re on.

Later, when she called from some nameless hotel to tell me she loved me, I didn’t say it back.

I said, “You’re going to die.” She laughed. “Not before the encore.”

And that wasn’t funny, that was torture.

When I finally wrote The Price of Fire, months later, I told myself I did it to save her. 

The truth is, I did it because I didn’t know what else to do.

 Some people intervene with rehab. I intervened with sentences.

God, I wish I could say it worked.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

“The Price of Fire” — The New Yorker, July 1995

By Azzi Fudd

(Editor’s Note, 2025: I tried to retract this piece two days after it ran. Every journalist has one piece they wish they could unwrite. This is mine.)

Paige Bueckers has always been the kind of artist who refuses to come quietly. 

Last week, I watched her take the stage in New Orleans, the setlist was chaotic, and between each track, she drank from a silver flask and laughed at something no one else could hear. “Don’t look at me like that,” she told the crowd. 

There’s a rhythm to watching someone destroy themselves beautifully. 

The first time, it looks like performance art.

 The second, it looks like endurance. 

The third, you start realizing it’s a pattern.

Addiction, for Paige, has become another form of authorship. She rewrites her own limits nightly: one more show, one more drink, one more miracle. 

When I spoke with her earlier this year, she told me:

“You can’t live carefully and expect to make art.”

Recklessness isn’t art. 

She is, without question, one of the greatest performers of her generation. But somewhere along the way, Paige began to mistake the applause for permission. 

We have learned to mythologize women like her. 

At what point do we stop calling this genius and start calling it what it is? The price of fire is always ash.

And Paige Bueckers will pay that price.

(Editor’s margin, 2025: It wasn’t journalism. It was an elegy I wrote for someone still breathing. I told myself I did it to warn her, instead, I became part of the destruction.)

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Faxed Note — July 18, 1995

Nice essay. — P.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The Crash

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

Paige didn’t speak to me for three months, and she shouldn’t have.

I had done the one thing we promised each other we’d never do — turned the private into performance.

We had built our lives around secrecy, and we thrived in it. To publish that piece was to rip the curtain open on something that had only ever survived because it was hidden.

For a while, she got better. 

She started running again, cutting her drinks in half, showing up to rehearsals early. 

She’d send postcards sometimes, a lyric scribbled on the back.

 “Still here,” she wrote once. 

And then the crash.

It was August of ’97 when Nika’s car spun out on a wet road somewhere outside Copenhagen. 

She survived — barely.

 Paige found out after a show. 

They told her while she was still in stage makeup, a towel around her neck. She asked for me, they said. 

I wasn’t there.

That night, she started drinking again.

I heard the story secondhand — how she disappeared backstage, how they found her an hour later on the floor, whispering my fault over and over. 

How she called my apartment and left a voicemail: Please come. 

How I didn’t pick up, because I didn’t know which version of her I’d find on the other end.

We saw each other a few times after that, always in fragments: in the corners of parties, in apartments, between rehearsals. 

But something essential had shifted, I couldn’t keep watching her come undone again.

That’s what led us to that kitchen in January 1998.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Transcript, Apartment Kitchen (January 4, 1998)

(Partial recording, restored from microcassette found in Fudd’s 1998 notes. Ambient noise)

PB: You’re not gonna drink? AZ: Not tonight. PB: Since when are you allergic to fun? (pause)

PB: You don’t get to moralize AZ: Shut up.

(A chair scrapes. Paige is pacing. You can hear the ice rattle in her glass.)

PB: You’re not my mother. AZ: I know. PB: Then stop sounding like her. AZ: I want to sound like someone who’s terrified. PB: Of what? AZ: Of coming home to a phone call instead of you.

(Long silence. Paige exhales through her nose, sharp.)

PB: You think I like— AZ: I don’t think you know what you like anymore.

(pause)

PB: I like you. AZ: No, you need me. That’s not the same thing. PB: I’m trying. AZ: Try somewhere I can’t watch.

(a crash—glass hitting tile, Paige threw a bottle on the foor next to me)

 AZ: I’m done with this

PB: Fuck, don’t. I’m sorry AZ: No, you’re not PB: Do you love me? AZ: That’s the fucking problem.

(Recorder clicks off. Then on again).

AZ: Love has limits. You crossed all of them.

(Paige laughs once, hoarse, humorless.)

PB: I’m poison, right? Say it. AZ: You’re not poison.

(soft movement—Paige steps closer, voice low)

PB: Then stay. AZ: I can’t. PB: Lie to me. Just say you’ll stay. AZ: I can’t even do that anymore.

(pause. footsteps. the click of a lighter.)

PB: What happens to all the songs now? AZ: You’ll write new ones. PB: Without you, I can’t AZ: Then maybe they’ll finally be honest.

(tape distortion)

PB: You’re cruel when you’re scared. AZ: So are you. (silence) PB: I’ll call you tomorrow. AZ: Don’t. (beat) PB: You’ll answer anyway. AZ: I hate you.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

The End

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

After the kitchen, I left.

I packed a weekend bag I never opened and took a cab to a friend’s place I barely knew.

I did what people tell you to do when you finally draw a boundary: I didn’t answer the first call, or the second, then I turned my phone face down and practiced breathing.

Paige went back to the hotel the label had her in, and somewhere between the front desk, the minibar and her room, she overdose.

The 911 call made when they saw her body, colapsed on the floor, would later assign a time window “Between 22:40 and 01:10.” 

People ask if I think it was an accident, the honest answer is that I don’t know. 

The honest-er answer is that part of me is sure she meant to scare me, and part of me is just as sure she didn’t care what scared me anymore. 

I know she called twice and hung up once, and I know the last clear word I said was “I hate you.” 

It was shorthand for everything I hated — what the drinking made her say, what it made me tolerate, who we were in those rooms.

The overnight staff at the hospital were efficient in that way you don’t appreciate until your life depends on someone else. 

A resident with gentle eyes met me at the doors and said, “We’re doing everything we can.”

That’s a sentence designed to hold people together through an elevator ride. 

They said “multi-substance,” and I nodded like we were discussing the weather.

Someone asked for next of kin and I gave them her mother’s number from memory and wrote my own name under “friend.”

A nurse took me to a family room with a coffee machine.

She said, “You should prepare yourself,” and then she said the softer version: “It may be a long night.” 

Another doctor explained what had already been done and what they were watching for now: respiratory stability, cardiac rhythm, the way a body tells you if it wants to stay. 

There’s a cruelty in hearing your lover reduced to a list of numbers that all mean maybe.

I sat on the floor and I opened my notebook because that’s what I do when I don’t know what to do.

Then I started the obituary because the doctor said “prepare,” and I only know how to prepare in sentences. 

Paige Bueckers, 1970–1998. 

The numbers looked wrong even as they matched the facts. I listed achievements in a column (Grammys. Madison Square Garden. Burning Red).

I tried to write one thing that wasn’t for public consumption, a single sentence that was only for me, and all I could manage was her laugh.

What if I’d answered at 10:43.  What if I’d gone back. What if I’d been gentler, or harsher, or quieter, or louder. 

My mind tried on versions like coats, and none of them change the weather outside. 

So the anger kept me breathing. 

I was furious at her for choosing the floor of a hotel over the bed we made, and I was furious at myself for believing that leaving would save either one of us. 

Every few hours someone came in and told me not very much in a voice that sounded practiced and kind

“Holding.” “No change.” “We’re watching.”

I remember the headline I would never forgive myself for, and the way betrayal takes hold of your body no matter how noble you believed your reasons were.

If you’re looking for closure here, there isn’t any.

If you are reading this looking for absolution, I don’t have any to offer. I did my best; my best was inconsistent; she suffered anyway. 

Those statements can all be true at once.

I thought about how much of our story had already been written in public, and how little that helped me now, when the only story I wanted was the one where she woke up and I got to say something better than what I’d chosen.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

“PAIGE BUECKERS, 1970–1998”

A Memorial by Azzi Fudd 

She taught us that loudness could be vulnerable.

That a woman could burn and not apologize for the smoke.

She was impossible, and she made it impossible not to care about her.

If there is a heaven that accepts girls like us, I hope she is there, finally at peace.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

It ran online for three hours.

Paige didn’t die.

She stayed under for four days, maybe five — it’s all a blur now.

I stayed in that chair the entire time, writing and rewriting her obituary because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.

When she woke up, her first words were, “Stop crying. You look like hell.”.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Transcript: Post-Overdose Conversation (Hospital Room, April 30, 1998)

PB: I didn’t do it because of you. AZ: I know. PB: I did it because I didn’t know how to stop hurting myself. And then I hurt you too. AZ: You did. PB: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to be— AZ: A punishment? PB: Yeah. (quiet) 

AZ: You scared the shit out of me. PB: I scared myself. AZ: I can’t do this again. PB: I know. AZ: I mean it, Paige. The next time, I’m going down with you. PB: That’s why I’m not going to let there be a next time.

PB: I’ll go. AZ: Go where? PB: Rehab. You can even pick it. AZ: Don’t joke. PB: I’m not. AZ: (softly) Okay.

(Paige starts crying then)

PB: I don’t deserve you. AZ: You don’t get to decide that.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

When she hugged me goodbye, she said, “Don’t write about this.”

 And I didn’t — not until now.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Letter — Azzi Fudd to Paige Bueckers (hand-delivered, Rehab, June 1998)

Paige,

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write, and that includes your obituaries.

I can’t be your girlfriend. 

Not because I stopped loving you, but because loving you in that way would kill us both.

And right now, when I look at you, I see myself disappearing too.

So this is the deal: I will be your friend.

I will bring you fresh fruit on Sundays, and magazines you’ll never read, and I’ll sit with you while you complain about the coffee and the nurses and the world. 

I’ll keep loving you in the only way that doesn’t burn us alive.

I will love you until the day you die —  and I hope that’s very, very late.

But if you go before me, I want you to know you were the first person who ever made me understand what love means.

Stay

Not for me, but with me.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

—A.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Reply — Paige Bueckers to Azzi (found folded in Vice Versa lyric notebook, dated July 1998)

Rookie,

I read your letter three times.

Then I cried, then I laughed, then I asked the nurse for paper.

I’ll take whatever you can give me — the Sundays, the fruit, the silence, the distance.

If love can change shape, then let it.

You’ve already given me more versions of it than I deserve.

I’ll love you every way I can, every way you’ll let me, until the day I die.

And if I ever get to live past that — I’ll love you stil

—P.

P.S. Rookie,

I wrote something last night. It’s not finished, but it’s yours.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

“No Reason” — rough draft

I don’t need a reason to love you, No season, no sign, no cue. It’s the quiet between my heartbeats, The sound of the world when it’s you.

I don’t need a promise or pardon, No map for where this goes. I’d still choose the crash and the madness, If it meant I could love you close.

I don’t need a reason to love you— It’s all I’ve ever known. You’re not the fire that burns me out, You’re the place my soul calls home.

I’m calling it “No Reason.”

You’ll hate it, because you hate when I make things too obvious 

 —P.

Editor’s Note

Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)

No Reason was track three on Vice Versa. 

When the album dropped, critics called it “the love song of the century.” 

They said it was the kind of thing people get married to, the kind of thing that makes you believe in something again.

Paige and I never believed in marriage — not really. 

But if we had ever done it, if we had ever stood somewhere and made promises we already knew by heart, this would have been our song.

The critics were right about that one.

Somewhere right now, someone’s proposing it. 

And every single time I hear that opening chord, I still feel the same thing I felt that morning in 1999, standing outside the CBS building when it hit the airwaves for the first time.

The most beautiful love song in the world was about me.

For the first time in years, Paige was writing about love without destroying herself to do it. 

She wasn’t drunk, she wasn’t high, she wasn’t chasing chaos for the sake of the art, she was just “in love”.

And now, I have to confess something to you, reader.

 I am crying as I write this. Because I just realized that No Reason was the first song she ever wrote sober.

And after that, she never wrote a song that she wasn’t sober for. 

Not one.

I am crying because I understand, now, that this isn’t just the most beautiful love song in the world — it’s the most important song of my life.

sarasota was symptomatic of the typical florida feeling: flat palms, white roads, a sky too blue to be trusted backed by the wide rise of dimpled dunes in the distance. this was a state that promised a dream that always threatened to linger for far too long, that began to feel heavy around the mouth and eyes until you were blinking tiredly with the hope you’d wake up somewhere else. everything here felt half-remembered, had the lingering quality of a grip around the wrist that refused to break.

paige glanced down at where azzi was tucked into her body, coiled slightly as if moments from bursting into motion. she always began the night in fetal position, her limbs drawn into her like a secret, the entirety of her body sheltered by someone who loved her. then, like a flower, she opened and opened until she was pressed fully out, nearly knocking the other girl loose from the bed entirely.

but paige always adjusted, always found a way to resettle in a way that allowed them to touch and prioritized azzi’s comfort. this was a language they could utter in the dark, syntax built from years of sleeping in the same bed, an endless communication of need and accommodation.

eventually, summer took the remains of the evening by the teeth and wrung out every bit of darkness, biting and biting until its gold painted itself onto the plump of azzi’s cheek. with a groan, azzi curled into a tighter spiral before stretching out into a full line, her ribs layered for a moment onto paige’s own.

paige smiled softly, lips splitting with slight discomfort provided by the dehydration of sleep. she bent down, nosing at the dark crown of azzi’s head before thumbing back a patch of curls to press a kiss to the temple.

“up, princess. we have a date to keep.”

azzi groaned again, but paige felt her toes curling against her calf underneath the linen duvet as she began to stretch.

the bathroom held them in its small white throat, made smaller by their bodies moving around each other in the steam. paige stood at the sink, toothbrush working mechanically, while through the fogged glass of the shower she could see the ghost of azzi—head tilted back, throat exposed to the water's violence.

she looked away. looked back. looked away again.

she could hear her mother like a choir’s call in her head: girls, there are six bathrooms in this house alone. you don’t have to share one.

but why would she go somewhere where azzi wasn’t?

when paige took her turn under the spray, the water still seemed to hold azzi's warmth, and the air was thick with the scent of her shampoo: coconut and vanilla orchid, a sweetness that landed neatly at the back of paige’s tongue, enough to make her mouth water. she stood there longer than necessary, letting the heat work at the knots in her shoulders, trying to wash away the feeling that had been strengthening since dawn.

by the time she emerged, azzi was at the mirror, bent close as her fingers moved in careful circles as she worked sunscreen into her skin. the cream disappeared in small increments, absorbed into the brown warmth of her face. paige watched the ritual of it, transfixed by the deliberate slowness, by the way azzi's lips parted slightly as she concentrated on the vulnerable skin beneath her eyes.

"you're staring," azzi murmured, the words tempered with affection, never once looking away from her reflection.

"making sure you don't miss anywhere," paige said, moving into the narrow space beside her. their elbows knocked. "your ears. you always forget."

azzi tilted her head in offering, and paige dabbed the cream behind her ear, along the hinge of her jaw. the touch stretched longer than it needed to, her thumb following the curve where azzi's pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. in the mirror, their eyes met, something passing between them as quick as lightning, gone before it could scar.

“thank you, paigey,” azzi teased, eyes crinkling as she smiled. paige knew she was baiting her, and so she rose to it dramatically, rolling her eyes ‘til the blue of them was at the sky and then back to her again.

“what would you do without me?” paige sighed, crossing her arms before breaking into the wide stretch of her smile, the pink tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth.

azzi shoved her lightly as she ducked back into the room to grab her swimsuit, laughing as paige pretended to stumble from the non-existent intensity.

they drove from the rental house with the windows down, hair already sticking to their necks after ten minutes spent sitting in the driveway as they argued over aux, salt freckling on their skin as the breeze burned itself out in the same loop.

azzi was twisted away from paige, face always turned to the water, but she smiled when she heard the beginning riff of “right here” by lil peep spill from the speakers. paige felt the motion rather than saw it, and she dropped one hand from the creamy leather of the land rover’s steering wheel to the console, where she turned it upward so that azzi could slide her palm on top. their fingers entwined, and azzi settled further into the seat, looking forward now, sunglasses taking the brunt of the day’s radiation.

paige knew that her eyes were most likely closed beneath the lenses, those dark lashes lush and eternally romantic against the high bones of her cheeks. she wanted to reach over and lift them, just to check, just to see if she was right, but she kept her hand where it was, thumb stroking absently across azzi's knuckles. the rhythm matched nothing but her own heartbeat.

they drove in silence, their shared playlist doing the work of holding conversation, only breaking when paige squeezed azzi’s hands so that she could see the wild horses disappearing into the vast horizon—coats brindled, feet wild, eyes dark as her own.

the parking lot was half-empty and composed of crushed shell and white dust, gulls wheeling overhead in patterns that could’ve been symbolic to someone more spiritual. paige pulled into a spot near the weathered walkway, and they unloaded the boards from the roof rack. paige did most of the lifting while azzi steadied them, her fingers trailing tentatively on the waxed surfaces.

the boards themselves were perfect illustrations of how well they worked: paige's a cream white with a thin navy stripe running down its center, the fiberglass worn smooth from years of use, scarred in places where rocks had kissed it recklessly; azzi's a pale pink scattered with hand-painted hibiscus, delicate and almost too precious for the water, chosen because she'd gasped delightedly when she saw it leaning against the rental shop wall.

they walked the wooden planks toward the water, past sea oats genuflecting in the wind, past the scattered abandonments of towels and umbrellas. the gulf stretched before them, turquoise bleeding into navy where the sandbar dropped away into nothing.

"ready?" paige asked, board under her arm, eyes always ahead.

azzi looked at the water, then at paige, then back at the water.

"ready," she echoed, but her voice snagged halfway. paige reached to the side, squeezing the side of her stomach before beginning to walk. she waded in first, the cold a bright shock against her sun-spoiled skin, and turned to watch azzi follow more slowly, testing each step as if the bottom might give way. as if the whole world might.

paige bit her bottom lip, that familiar feeling tugging at her belly, that desire to protect azzi from everything, even her own fears.

now they drifted, the boards swaying where the gulf turned from light to dark. azzi sat stiff-backed, a different picture than the version of her in the car and even the holiday house. she was overly cautious, eyes darting between the horizon and the glossy water that hid whatever lived below. paige watched her shoulder blades shift, like an angel searching for the reassurance of their wings, stomach contracting as she tried to keep her rising anxiety at a shallow level.

here it felt strange and wide, for her; far from safe. paige couldn’t help the uptick of the corners of her mouth, her eyes falling to the way azzi’s fingers were clenched along the round edge of her board.

“you okay, princess?”

“i can’t see the bottom,” azzi said, voice thin and high.

it reminded paige of their middle school days, when she would coax azzi into watching a horror film—slasher or creature horror, never “elevated”, whatever that meant—only to relish in the feeling of her best friend practically climbing into her lap, eyes screwed shut tightly, hands over her ears.

“that’s okay. don’t need to.” paige paddled closer, knees brushing azzi’s thigh as the boards bumped. “you got me.”

the world narrowed to this: the hum of cicadas from somewhere offshore, the slide of water against fiberglass, the sun leaning in as if to commit them to memory. paige reached to steady her, fingers at azzi's waist, skin damp and sun-warmed. she slid them down, always keeping contact, fingertips playing with the docile bows of azzi's bikini bottom.

this swimsuit was one of paige’s favorites, a bright cobalt that made azzi's skin look like something poured bronze straight from a tap. the top was a simple triangle cut that tied behind her neck, the bottoms sitting low on her hips with bows at each side like two small promises waiting to be broken. the color reminded paige of the deep end of pools, those spaces where light couldn't reach, of drowning as a choice rather than an accident.

she’d texted azzi a week before, reminding her to bring it.

around her neck, azzi had tied a beaded choker—white and blue ascending wth each breath, glittering proudly in the sunlight—and paige found herself watching every shift, every single thing about how azzi moved, like she was down to seven more minutes living and was trying to never forget.

azzi breathed shallowly, chest rising under the spaghetti straps, eyes blinking warily.

paige tilted her head, touching her chin.

“princess, look at me.”

azzi obeyed, that cervine gaze peering up from underneath her lashes, her cheek momentarily dimpled as she chewed the inside of her cheek to pieces. for a moment, paige didn’t think and leaned forward, loose strands of blonde tumbling from her bun with the movement. she thumbed at the bottom of azzi’s lip with her index finger, slipping it slightly inside when azzi’s teeth parted, and tugged the tissue from between her molars.

“stop it. you know it’s gonna hurt you later.”

“yeah,” azzi said quietly, “thanks.” her breath ghosted warm against paige's finger. neither moved to sever the contact, the moment pulled taut as wire, singing with the tension.

paige looked at her then, and it was as if the sea had vanished. there was only the shimmer of light across azzi’s eyes, the dark bloom of her curls—the volume slightly dampened with saltwater—, and the faint tremor that ran through her body as she tried to keep steady on the waves. paige felt the shake of her own pulse move up through her arms, a tide she couldn’t turn back.

“you’re okay,” paige murmured. “just breathe. just look at me.”

paige knew, even then, that something in her had begun to tip. a shift too subtle to name, but irreversible. the sluice of her blood to a single point of gravity. she felt it in the hush that followed, in the fever snaking beneath her skin and working at her neck. in the way, azzi’s gaze never left its fixed point on her face, muscles relaxing as she gazed deeply at the one thing she had always known how to love.

there was a knowing then that they both were teetering at the edge of a cliff with rocks at the bottom, black and jagged, aching for a fall. whatever it was had already started to pull paige over, and her only thought was to twist so that it was her against the stone, and azzi against only her.

always this. always her body as the barrier between azzi and the breaking.

I. MINNESOTA / STELLATE / SAMIA.

when azzi arrived like the following july, like summer itself—immediate and without warning—paige had been half expecting her in the way you learn to expect a storm by the air’s sudden weight and the ache in the injury that’s spent half your life wounding you. all that dragging and the sudden onslaught.

paige could always feel it when azzi was near, even her entrance past state lines. she’d dubbed it their “twin thing” affectionately in high school, mostly because it was true, but also because every time she said azzi would correct her, so automatic.

paige, she’d protest. we can’t have that. we’re best friends.

can’t we? paige would always murmur, fingers stretching out to thumb at some part of azzi that was within reach. we could be the first.

and azzi would always fold, her smile fleeting but so tender. it felt good to be on that podium, even when azzi was only letting her win.

so, at the tail end of july, when azzi came sailing easily through paige’s front door, words tumbling over themselves in their excitement, landing on the forest green cotton hill of her beloved weekend duffle before sliding to the floor, sentences breaking apart before they could finish forming—paige was not as shocked as someone else might have been.

and by the time paige had fully registered her presence, the familiar cut of that gentle dove-like voice cutting through the once-impenetrable minnesota heat, settling into every inch of the negative space coalescing around her body as she stood frozen in time on her carpeted stairs, azzi had already climbed past her and begun the pilgrimage to her bed.

she turned at the last moment, mouth soft and pink as she beamed, pleased with herself, and said,

“grab me something, will you? or like, make your snack plate twice as big.”

paige usually would balk at sharing her well-earned snacks, but this time she did nothing but grin back, hands bunching at the hem of her oversized sweatshirt bought from the state fair, the same confectionery pink as the cotton candy they always got sick on.

when paige returned to her bedroom, azzi only allowed her a few minutes to set the plate (packed to the brim) on her nightstand before she tugged the other girl down so that she could climb eagerly on top of paige's stomach, straddling her with the unfaltering confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times over.

"i did it," azzi said, breathless, her hands braced on paige's shoulders like she was trying to hold the world—her world in place. "i fucking did it. i committed to uconn."

the pajamas she wore were almost indecent in their brevity, a matching set in striped grey and white, the shorts so short they barely qualified as clothing, riding high enough that the white band at the waistband cut into the soft give of her hips. the tank top was thin enough to be translucent where paige’s lamp light hit it, so flimsy and forgiving, spaghetti-strapped and pulled taut across her chest in a way that made it impossible not to notice the shape of her, the rise of her breasts and how they had always sat so nicely; the way her body had continued its relentless work of becoming hers.

paige felt something lurch in her chest, a fish hooked and thrashing.

"you're fucking with me," paige managed, but she was already grinning, her hands coming up instinctively to rest on azzi's hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of the tank top to press against skin that was exertion-warm, damp from the heat. she felt the joy grow, the spiral dizzying and setting a buzzing off in both rows of teeth. "you actually did it?"

"i actually did it." azzi was bouncing slightly, unable to contain the energy thrumming wildly through her body like an electrical current, and each movement sent a matching voltage through paige's stomach, made her fingers tighten their grip until she could feel the bones of azzi's hips pressing back against her palms. "we're going to play together. can you believe it? we're going to—"

"—be everyone’s worst fucking nightmare," paige finished, and she sat up slightly, engaging her core to bring herself closer, enough to wrap her arms fully around azzi's waist and pull her in. the shift in position brought them chest to chest, azzi's knees bracketing paige's ribs, thighs pressed warm and solid against her sides, and for a moment they just stayed there, pressed together in the pale wash of moonlight that filtered through the window and painted everything the color of pearl, of something delicate enough to perish with a single touch.

paige nearly wept at the feel of it, this closeness.

always this, she thought desperately. always this.

paige could feel azzi's heartbeat slowing to replicate the path of her own, could feel it hammering away like a flock of birds attempting jailbreak from the skin, could smell the faint scent of her lotion, something bright and wane that made paige think of tiare flower and wedding arrangements and white dresses and white suits, mixed with the clean smell of recently washed skin and underneath it all—something earthier, more animal.

azzi’s hair was still damp at the ends, as if she’d climbed into the car drenched and frantic to get to the woman she had beneath her now, curling slightly as it dried, so dark, so beloved. paige found herself staring at the way it stuck to her neck, at the way droplets of water had gathered in the glistening hollow of her throat—brown column gleaming—and sat there glittering like gems cut to the smallest carat.

she wanted to press her mouth there. apply pressure.

she wanted to taste the freshwater, the sweat, the salt.

the thought came unbidden and left her breathless, a hummingbird state of mind. it left her feeling like she'd been running sprints in the heat until her lungs burned and her vision went white at the edges. she forced herself to look away, counting to twenty seconds and cutting five short as she did her best to focus on something else, anything else, but there was nowhere safe to look. everywhere was just more of azzi: pictures of her, chicly faded from many a photobooth, the curve of her shoulder, the demanding jut of her collarbone, the way her stomach flexed with each intake of air, the small gold pandora heart at her throat catching light.

"can’t believe you drove in matching pajamas to come and tell me this," paige said finally, her voice rougher than she intended, scraped raw. her hands had started traveling of their own accord, fingers tracing idle patterns on azzi's sides, feeling the give of her waist, the way her body was all softness layered deceptively over something stronger, the tension of ambitious muscle beneath the yielding.

azzi pulled back enough to look at her, eyebrows raised, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. the movement made her shift in paige's lap, made everything worse.

"do you have an issue with my pajamas, bueckers?"

"mmm, no. promise. not much of anything to have an issue with anyway." paige's eyes dropped again, helpless, tracking the way the shorts had ridden up even higher, the way they revealed the dark expanse of azzi's thighs, smooth and endless. azzi struck her shoulder playfully at the comment. "they're just very, um, coordinated. like always. always matching."

"so?" azzi's cheeks were flushed, though whether from excitement or their mixed body heat or something else entirely, paige couldn't tell. didn't want to guess. "i like to match. it's cute."

"it is cute," paige agreed, and then, because she couldn't help herself, because the proximity to her favorite girl on earth always made her reckless and azzi was sitting on top of her looking like every slick, sweet dream paige had ever tried to forget and failed, she added: "i bet your underwear matches too. let me guess—" she tilted her head, made a show of thinking about it, even as her thumbs pressed more firmly into azzi's hips, even as she felt the hitch in azzi's breathing. "grey? no, wait. white. has to be white to match the waistband."

azzi went very still. the flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her tank top, and paige watched it go, watched the way azzi's skin betrayed her, the way her body could never keep a secret, always spilling its guts if paige showed a hint that she wanted to know. "no. shut up."

paige cracked out a victorious laugh, a flash of pride searing through her.

"i'm right, though, aren't i?" paige was grinning now, wolfish, enjoying the way azzi's composure had cracked, the way she was suddenly the one who didn't know where to look. "lace, too, huh? so predictable, princess. everything matches. your entire life is color-coordinated."

"that's not—" azzi started, then stopped, bit her lip. her hands had moved from paige's shoulders to her own thighs, fingers splayed wide like she was trying her best to hold herself together. "you're being annoying."

“i’m just someone who knows you," paige murmured, voice just shy of revealing, and she couldn't stop staring at where azzi's teeth sank into her bottom lip, at the way the tissue went bloodless under the pressure before flooding that warm, dark rose again. she wanted to reach up and tug it free the way she had in the water in sarasota, wanted to tell her to stop before she hurt herself, but she was afraid that if she moved her hands from azzi's hips, she'd do something stupid instead.

something devastatingly irreversible.

"come on, princess,” she egged, pupils almost fully blown. “just admit it. then i’ll let it go.”

"i am not telling you what color my underwear is, paige,” azzi said, but she was laughing too now, aerial and solar in power, and the sound of it made something shudder open in paige's chest, a pressure point that could send her catatonic if she didn’t ignore it as much as she worked to. "you're such a pervert. should be ashamed of yourself."

"mmm, i'm just observant." paige's fingers had found the hem of the tank top again, had begun playing with it absently, brushing against the skin dipping across azzi’s belly. she could feel the muscles jump underneath the touch, could feel the way her hands were forced up then down as azzi’s breathing went shallow and quick. "it's called paying attention. i notice things about you. it’s what all good best friends do."

"yeah?" azzi's voice had gone low, velveteen and uncertain, and when paige peered up at her face, she found her already looking back at her with an expression that made paige's throat seal shut. "what else do you notice about me, p?"

everything, paige wanted to say. i notice everything about you. you make me notice more about myself. you’re like a tattoo, an eternal mark. i notice it all, i keep staring at it, tracing where you sit inside of me, pretty in script along the soft inner seam of my hip. you are the moment the artist goes over the bone, and i feel every vibration, like a car speeding down the vast highway. i like it, no matter how odd. i try to keep every part of you, because you remind me how much i enjoy being alive.you call me back to myself. with you, even just the thought of you, my veins spark, my blood pumps, my bones buzz and buzz and buzz.

there is a name for this feeling, but it escapes me. you cannot escape me. i dream about you, i let you settle into me like an occupier. i take what i can get.

but she couldn't say any of that. couldn't say anything that indecipherable with its honest desire, that throb for further allowance; adoration in nudity. so instead she shrugged, forced her face into something casual, something safe.

"i dunno. just stuff."

azzi's expression gathered itself, underwent a million transformations in only a minute, before falling into something like disappointment. it flickered across her features before she schooled them back into a smile. paige wanted to scream, loud and unrelenting, at how badly they performed their pretending. but she tucked the sound behind her teeth.

"just stuff. wow. so specific."

paige scrambled, anxious to rescue the moment.

“if you wear studs instead of hoops, you’ll forget to take them off before bed," paige said, reaching up to adjust the small gold chain around azzi's neck, settling the clasp at the proper spot behind the neck. "i know that if you love a book enough, you’ll buy multiple copies so you can have different covers. and i know that you're gonna sleep in my bed tonight because you always do when you're here, even though the guest room’s made up. and that tomorrow morning you're gonna steal my clothes and act like you didn't."

"i do not steal them," azzi protested. "i borrow them."

"you never give them back."

"that's still borrowing just...with an extended return policy."

paige giggled despite herself, and azzi smiled down at her, and for a moment, it was like looking into the heart of the sun. everything felt normal again, felt like it always had: the two of them existing in their own private world, speaking their own private language, burrowing in a space equivalent to the blank territory behind the glass frame held fragile inside a heart-shaped locket.

but then azzi shifted again, altering her weight, and paige's hands tightened on back on her hips reflexively. the air between them went thick and strange. azzi's eyes dropped to paige's mouth, then back up, and paige felt her heart kick up in her throat, felt her whole body burst into flame as her pulse thrummed.

"paige," azzi said quietly, and the way she said it made it sound more like a question than a name belonging to this body begging for more like a prayer.

paige didn't know how to answer.

"hm?"

"are you—" azzi stopped, shook her head slightly, began to power down. "never mind."

"hey, no, what?" paige's thumbs circled again, now drawing those same small shapes along the base of azzi's spine, and she watched the way azzi's breath left her, the way her pupils dilated. "what were you gonna say?"

"nothing. it's stupid."

"you’re never stupid, az. tell me anyway?”

azzi was quiet for a long moment, and paige could see her working through something, weighing options, making calculations. finally, she said, so tentatively that paige almost didn't hear it:

"are you happy? that i'm coming?"

"am i—" paige sat up straighter, bringing them even closer, until there was barely any space between them at all. "azzi, are you serious right now? i'm fucking ecstatic. this is—you have no idea what this means to me. getting to play with you. getting to—" she stopped, swallowed hard. "yeah. fuck, yeah, princess. ‘m happy."

azzi's answering smile was blazing, luminous enough to hint at harm, and she threw her arms around paige's neck and hugged her fiercely, face buried in the curve where paige's shoulder smoothed into her neck. paige wrapped her arms around azzi's waist and held on and on, as if she was trying to memorize the feeling, the pressure, and warmth of her, the way her curls kissed at the skin of paige’s chest.

the way her lips brushed there, too.

they stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time, tangled together until they felt like an undiscovered country, and paige thought about how this was enough. how it had to be enough. how she would make it enough.

but even as thought drifted through her mind, she couldn’t find the strength to pledge allegiance to it. instead, her hands slid further up azzi's back, fingers splaying wide, and azzi made a sound so small and wet against her neck that masqueraded as contentment but most likely was something more, and paige—

paige knew—knew with the same certainty she knew her own name—that it would never be enough. that she would always want more. that wanting azzi was like dragging the tongue along the bladed edge of a slab of ice because you could remember so clearly what the goodness of water tasted like, how it once was that, too.

when azzi finally pulled back, her eyes were shining, two large wet stars.

"we're gonna be so good together," she said, and paige nodded, even though she wasn't sure anymore which game they were talking about.

and paige believed her, because azzi would always be true. she could see it now, without being there. the two of them, a duet of bright young women, at home on a shared court, paige could see it, how she would turn to accept the pass from azzi, would see the sweat beaded on her best friend’s skin, its catch in the wetness of her mouth.

everything azzi gave her, paige let rule over her.

we’re gonna live forever, paige wanted to promise.

paige could feel that nameless emotion rising, the rush dawning like the sky opening in apocalypse, a sun coming out like blood at the tip of the tongue. she could feel it slicing at her mouth, the parts of it, enraged at being repressed.

she could hear it begging for reprieve, for the solace of azzi’s lips crushed against it.

but she had to save it.

so, she said,

“we’re gonna be the best.”

II. CONNECTICUT / DUST BOWL ( DEMO ) / ETHEL CAIN.

azzi usually steered clear of thick florals, especially roses. but in the fall, she forgave herself for her fallacies, including indulging in the smell of it. she only liked it in the end months of the year, and specifically as it came across when dusted over paige. her best friend often leaned vanilla in cologne, but sometimes she’d spritz a bit of a fragrance so old that the label had been worn off the bottle by the repeated love of her fingers against it.

it was so rarely used, and so it aged and aged until it bled out a blend of oud and deep rose—damask, if azzi recalled correctly. it never smelled as good as her memory had saved it, but she loved falling asleep with her nose pressed to paige’s neck, the flower softening nearly to rot but still beautiful. she’d drift, then, mind slurring into a peace she associated with autumnal woods with a path nearly gone, hidden inside, trodden hand-in-hand when paige came to see her in virginia four years ago.

now she could smell it again as she sat on the quad, eyes flickering over the kaleidoscope of the season’s leaves and the dark, brittle skin of the trees in the last throes of life. despite the annual decay, the campus was alive in the way only october at uconn could make it. students were undeterred by the wet earth—a souvenir from a flash pour that occurred just before azzi’s contemporary media activism lecture—and sprawled across both the grass and one another, offerings to the expiring warmth.

the air was sharp with the smell of coffee orders, either overly elaborate or ridiculously minimal, and someone's cigarette smoke drifting from the direction of the library. that had to be a fire hazard in some way. azzi sat, cross-legged on the stone wall near the student center, her body angled toward the watery kiss of the last-minute sun so that her back was settled snugly against the strong line of paige’s shoulder.

she’d chosen comfort today: flared yoga pants in deep grey that hugged her hips, paired with a color-matched ribbed tank top that grew thin at the straps. it was all grounded by an open cardigan in the deepest black that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing the smooth brown skin there, the ridge of her collarbone. her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, curls cascading to the middle of her back, and she had her phone balanced on her knee as she tuned back in just in time to laugh at something kk was saying, her whole face transforming with it, luminous and unguarded.

paige couldn't stop looking at her. she could feel it, like god’s eyes. she’d been looking at her all morning—all week, all month, really—to the point where she’d asked if she looked bad. paige had stammered out a negative, flustered, and azzi had squeezed her hand before walking off to her lecture hall.

ever since azzi had arrived on campus, it had been different. she was almost always in paige's dorm room, determined to make it feel less like the cell it appeared to be and more like a home. here, their habits continued, azzi falling asleep in paige's bed more nights than not, her body curved into paige's like they were two parts of the same equation.

it was making paige insane. the proximity of it all. the way azzi touched her so casually—fingers at her wrist, hand at the small of her back, head on her shoulder—like it meant nothing, like it didn't make paige's blood sing and her hands shake and her mouth press together so hard that she could feel every bit like a death pact come collect.

"yo, p, you listening?" kk was waving a hand in front of her face, dark brows raised in amusement.

"what? yeah. sorry." paige dragged her attention away from where azzi was now scrolling through her ipad with its matching white stylus, her onenote open to painstakingly precise notes, that small line appearing just above the ridge of her nose—that fixed symbol that meant she was concentrating so hard on the task at hand that she’d get a headache later.

paige made a note to give her ibuprofen before they hit the court later.

"we were saying that apparently you've been busy." this time it was ice speaking, grin wicked and knowing. paige felt dread begin to build, latent and hot in her throat. "heard you had alyssa from the soccer team in your room last week. and before that, that girl from your bio class. what's her name—"

"bro, can we not?" paige interrupted, but she could feel her face heating, could feel the way azzi had gone very still beside her, eyes trained militantly on the screen in front of her, laughter gone dead in her throat upon arrival.

"i'm just saying," ice continued, oblivious or maybe just uncaring, "you're like a campus legend at this point. paige bueckers, heartbreaker extraordinaire. there's probably a running list somewhere."

someone—paige thought it might have been aubrey—pulled out her phone and started scrolling through instagram, tilting the screen toward the group. "oh shit, yeah. this other girl—kat, i think?—she posted about you like two days ago. i took a screenshot. 'best night everrrr.’”

aubrey’s voice sang high with the tease, and the table erupted in laughter and shrill catcalls. paige wanted to sink into the ground, wanted to disappear entirely, because she could feel azzi looking at the phone now, could feel the way her body had gone rigid, immovable. could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she blankly studied the girl in the photo.

brunette, hair thick and glossy, and spilling into a question mark of a ponytail. tall and toned in a way that spoke to running, pretty in an effortless way that was perfect under the influence of mango-infused tequila, but currently made paige's stomach hurt.

paige turned fully to look at her best friend, trying and failing to catch her eye, trying and failing to communicate an understanding, but azzi wouldn't look at her. azzi always looked at her, was always ready. but she wasn’t ready anymore.

instead, her jaw was set, teeth gripped as tightly as her fingers were around the sides of her phone. the knuckles had gone pale, and paige could see her doing it—that thing she did where she catalogued all the ways she didn't measure up, where she made an inventory of her own inadequacies and displayed them like evidence of some crime she'd committed just by existing. she watched as azzi subconsciously reached toward the dark ends of her own pulled-back curls, and the action was so small but carried enough pain to fell paige like a demolition site.

"az," paige said quietly, reaching out to touch azzi's knee, but azzi flinched away. paige felt as though she was burning down, bones gone to ash and blood all in her mouth.

azzi blinked at her, face unreadable, and then stretched a smile from ear to ear. it was so unnatural that it nearly appeared to hurt, and paige scrambled inside.

"hey, so i forgot that i have a study session for a group project for my mass communications class," azzi said, standing up so abruptly that she nearly knocked ice’s water bottle from its spot on the wall. her voice was bright, fragile, wrong, the words all stilted. "i gotta go, but i’ll catch you later, okay?"

and then she turned, already walking away before paige could begin to respond, cardigan fluttering around her like a bird’s frantic flapping when pushed from the nest. paige sat there, frozen, watching the shape of her disappear into the sudden surge of students crossing the quad, feeling like she'd just failed some test she hadn't known she was taking.

"is she good?" kk asked.

paige didn't answer. she was already pulling out her phone, dragging open the google calendar they shared, the one they'd set up freshman year of high school, color-coded in pink and purple, every game and study session and family holiday and doctor's appointment meticulously logged because they liked knowing where the other one was, liked being able to look at their phone and see proof that their existence within each other's lives.

she scrolled through azzi's schedule for today until she was dizzy and the white space blurred. nothing. no study session, no group project, nothing except practice later that afternoon.

she took a screenshot, fingers slipping on the first attempt, and sent it to azzi.

me: ????????? i know im not tripping

the three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again.

a 💗💗: forgot to add it in me: yeah bc it’s a lie me: bro nika is in ur class, she said there’s no group project me: azzi what the fuck me: talk to me

but azzi had stopped responding, had probably turned her phone face-down on whatever surface she was near, and paige felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been building pressure for months, maybe years.

she felt like the emoji she’d chosen for azzi’s contact name, pulsing and pulsing, radiating as it searched for signs of life. only to come up short, revealed to be all alone.

she didn't see azzi for the rest of the day. she wasn't at practice, which paige only found out through an irritated geno, who told her azzi claimed she was sick, which paige knew to be another lie but backed up anyway.

it was another fracture in the foundation of everything they were. paige went through the motions, ran the drills, took the shots, but her mind was elsewhere, caught on the image of azzi's face when she'd seen that instagram story, the way her whole body had contracted like she'd taken a hit.

by the time practice ended, paige was vibrating with anxiety, with the need to see azzi and fix whatever she'd transgressed without intention. she showered so quickly that she was teased about it on the way out of the locker room, and headed straight for azzi's dorm, letting herself in with the key azzi had given her during move-in week.

the room was dark and quiet, and for a moment paige thought maybe azzi wasn't there. but then she heard it. a small sound from the bathroom, something between a gasp and a whimper.

"azzi?"

paige crossed the room and pushed open the door. she found her there, standing in front of the mirror, tank top pushed up to just below her breasts, and there was blood—not a lot, but enough—trickling down from her navel where a silver barbell now gleamed, the skin around it flushed and angry.

"jesus, az," paige said, and her voice came out strangled. "what did you do?"

azzi's eyes met hers in the mirror, and they were wet, defiant. "what does it look like, bueckers? let’s use our brains."

paige closed her eyes and prayed momentarily for patience before returning her gaze to the golden plane of azzi’s belly.

"i mean, obviously, it’s a fucking piercing. but i guess ‘m confused because we were supposed to go to your appointment together." paige could hear how childish it sounded even as she said it, but she couldn't help it. they'd talked about this, had planned it as a special moment for just the two of them, had researched shops and argued about gold over silver and silver over gold; paige had promised to hold hands with azzi all the way through it. "we had a plan."

"yeah, well." azzi turned to face her properly, and the movement made her wince, one hand coming up to hover over the metal without quite touching it. "things change. you of all people should know that."

the words landed like a slap, and it felt so unfair that paige took a step back, feeling all air abandon her.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"you know exactly what it means." azzi's voice was trembling now, anger and hurt tangled together until they were indistinguishable. "apparently, you've been having all sorts of adventures that you haven't told me about. so i figured, why not have my own?"

"azzi—"

"were you ever going to tell me?" azzi's eyes were nearly on fire with her pain, tears spilling over, tracking down her cheeks, and breaking off at her chin. "or was i just supposed to find out from our fucking teammates that my best friend—" she stopped, bit her lip so hard paige was afraid she'd draw blood. "that you've been sleeping with half the campus?"

"first off, it’s not—it wasn't like that." paige felt helpless, like she was drowning despite being in shallow waters. "it didn't mean anything. none of them meant anything."

"then why keep it from me?" azzi's voice stuttered halfway through the question, cleaving in two.

because you’d look down on me just like right now, paige wanted to say. because i feel you like a hole in my head, and i needed to staunch the bleed. because i want to be loved and touched and needed without making you suffer me. because i thought maybe if i fucked enough other people, i'd stop thinking about what it would be like to fuck you.

but she couldn't say any of that. couldn't confess to any of it.

"i don't know," she said instead, and because she never knew when to leave well enough alone, she continued. “why do you even care?”

azzi jerked backward, face crumpling like sand under the weight of water. “my whole life is about caring about you. you’ve never kept something from me before. we tell each other everything.”

the truth of it left paige defenseless and therefore silent, so they stood there in the fluorescent bathroom light, the space between them feeling more like a chasm than something simple to close. paige thought about how easy it would be to just reach across it, to pull azzi into her arms and apologize until her voice gave out. but the rigor in azzi's posture, the relentless stand of her spine, told her that the touch wouldn't be welcome right now, that azzi needed distance the way paige needed her, and the asymmetry of it made her want to cup her throat and squeeze until she conquered the scream.

"it's getting infected," paige said finally, gesturing to azzi’s stomach with its little red beads of blood. her voice came out flat, clinical. "you need to clean it."

"i know how to clean it," azzi said, but she made no effort to move. only stood there with her arms wrapped around herself like she was desperately trying to hold her body together.

paige wondered what would fall out if she let go.

"c’mon. let me help you." paige was already walking to the sink, wetting a clean washcloth with warm water. "please. az. just let me help."

let me fix it. fix it. please. please, god, please. i can fix it.

azzi was quiet for a long moment, and then she nodded, just barely, and lowered her arms to her sides. the tank top was still pushed up, exposing the soft give of her stomach and the gentle beginning curve of her hips, and paige tried not to look as she came to her, tried to focus on the task at hand—but it was impossible.

her best friend’s skin was warm beneath her fingers as paige steadied her with one hand on her hip, using the other to gently dab at the blood and clear fluid leaking from around the piercing. azzi hissed at the contact, muscles jumping with the sensitivity, and paige murmured an apology, blowing cool air across the inflamed skin.

"you have to be more careful," she said quietly, blue eyes latched steadfastly on the inner pucker of azzi’s belly button. "you can't just—you can't do something like this and not take care of it properly."

"i didn't think it would hurt this much," azzi admitted, and her voice was small, younger than paige had heard it in years. “everyone said it wouldn’t.”

"everything hurts more than you think it will." paige squeezed antibacterial solution onto a cotton swab and pressed it gently around the piercing site. "but that's kind of the point, right? of getting one?"

azzi didn't answer, but the way she watched paige work with those dark eyes spoke to what she was thinking. she had always had such a heavy gaze, those wide cervine eyes that had always seen too much, that had always been the one to know how to handle it if they were both looking. paige could feel the weight of them like a physical thing, could feel azzi reading her the way she read defenses, finding all the weak spots and cataloguing them for later use.

she would know them in sleep, her dreams colored after them, her every action validated by the presence.

when the piercing was clean and paige had applied a thin layer of healing ointment, she should have stepped back. should have put space between them again and let the moment end. but she didn’t, couldn’t. she needed azzi to know she was sorry, needed permission to call her her princess again.

her hand stayed in place, still on azzi's hip, thumb stroking in absent sweeps, and before she could think better of it, she was slipping to her knees. she leaned in, pressing her lips to the unblemished skin just to the left of the wound.

she had never felt azzi’s body be this halcyon. for a moment, there was nothing, but then her hand came up to tangle in paige's hair as if receiving sacrament, fingers tightening almost painfully at the roots.

paige kissed her again, just below the navel this time, feeling the way the muscles contracted under the pressure of her mouth. and again, to the right, and again, mapping the territory around the metal with her lips, taking liberties to kiss away the pain she'd caused, lips falling open and more open again.

"paige," azzi breathed, and the way she said it made paige's whole body go liquid.

paige looked up at her from where she kneeled, blood stellate, eyes endless from this angle, and found azzi gazing down at her with an expression that made paige's heart practically stop.

there was so much she was swollen with.

wanting.

confusion.

terror, which always arose in the face of something beautiful.

for a moment, they just stayed like that—paige on her knees like a supplicant, azzi trembling above her—and paige thought this is it, this is when everything changes, this is when i finally tell her and she will finally understand.

but then paige messed it up because she looked away, back in front of her, and pressed a kiss to the slip of azzi’s hipbone, her tongue tracing the bone—hot and slick and soft. and it was this that sent azzi stepping back, pulling her tank top down, the wall going up behind her eyes so fast paige could practically hear it slam into place.

“thank you," azzi said, her voice carefully neutral. switzerland. "for helping me."

"yeah," paige said, pushing herself up on legs that felt unsteady. "course."

she knew they wouldn’t talk about it, that she wouldn’t be able to without bursting into tears. she wanted to burst into tears now, bawl like the child she would always feel inside of her. the same one that had watched her parents split.

and maybe azzi could tell—paige knew she could—because she reached out and cupped paige’s cheek, eyes softening until they were as tender as meat. they stood there, face to palm in a bathroom not worth the tuition, overhead light flickering and turning paige’s hair further blonde with every other shine.

they stood there, looking at each other across a distance that felt insurmountable, and pretended that everything was fine. that everything was still the same as it had always been.

that paige’s hands weren’t trembling by her sides, that azzi’s thumb wasn’t near paige’s bottom lip.

this was mutualism.

III. VIRGINIA / SMOTHER / DAUGHTER.

virginia in december burned with a special nature of winter, and in the mountains, it only felt further alien.

in the peaks, the cold felt personal, always on the verge of acting as a threat, an endless searching for the warmest parts of you just to press its thumb there until something gave way. the cabin geno had rented for them sat perched on the side of a hill just moments from erosion, comprised of exposed beams of light wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto nothing but white, the snow so thick it erased the distinction between earth and sky. it was a task to tell what was solid and what was simply the absence of something else.

while their coaches had helped arrange the holiday, they had begged off on joining, something every girl able to attend was grateful for. the intended bonding would’ve fallen short, flickering threads of connection failing to touch and strengthen the weave of their relationship.

azzi had been in the hot tub for the better part of an hour, body submerged up to the collarbone in water that scalded and soothed in turns; it made her skin feel like it was moments from slipping off and belonging to someone else.

she wore a black bikini, simple and minimal, that made her hyperaware of the suggestion of her own silhouette. it gave the feeling of wearing almost nothing—but in a welcome way—with its triangles of fabric barely containing the swell of her breasts, and ties at her hips that pledged a loose vow of security. a shell necklace sat against her throat, the white and cream ovals slick with steam, and she kept touching it absently, a nervous habit she'd developed somewhere between childhood and now.

the air bit mercilessly at her face and shoulders, creating a strange dichotomy of being both sweltering and freezing all at once. her body always so unable to decide what it wanted, what it could tolerate. she'd slipped further into the water to escape the contradiction, letting the heat work at the knots in her shoulders that had been building since they'd arrived two days ago.

since paige had receded, a radio tower gone silent, too devastated to properly pretend she was fine.

azzi looked away from where caroline drifted before her to where paige sat in one of the lounge chairs just outside the hot tub's perimeter, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, swimming in an oversized grey hoodie that made her look smaller than she was, frailer than she’d ever let on. basketball shorts despite the cold, because she was stubborn like that, always had been, her body a testament to refusal.

her knee was wrapped, the black brace visible beneath the hem of her shorts like cain’s mark. she'd been sitting there for what must’ve been forty minutes now, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing, contributing nothing to the conversation happening around her. azzi’s chest squeezed tightly, and she clenched her fingers around her thigh beneath the bubbling water.

she kept glancing over at her. couldn't help it. kept waiting for her best friend to meet her eyes, to give her something—that smile like heaven, that smirk, the lifting of the veil—but paige's gaze stayed fixed on the middle distance, jaw tight, mouth pressed into a line that meant she was barely holding something back, that the dam was one more word away from breaking.

azzi wanted to go to her, to crawl to her, to place her hands along her spine and beg her to spell it out.

"earth to azzi," caroline called, pulling azzi's attention back to the group with the violence of interruption, at odds with the kindness of her tone. "you ready for the bahamas? three weeks, right? i’m so excited. jesus, to play in actual heat for once instead of this frozen hell."

“yeah,” azzi said, smiling half-heartedly.

the conversation around the hot tub shifted like the weather, everyone eager to talk about the tournament: the hotels they'd be staying in, the restaurants they wanted to try, the practices on the beach that would feel more like vacation than work.

“we’ll fucking kill it,” morgan chimed in, face bright with the hope. “we’re gonna bring it home.”

azzi felt her stomach drop, felt the way the air suddenly went thin, identical to the onset of altitude sickness. she had the sudden, horrible feeling that she was watching something tragic happen in slow motion and couldn't move fast enough to stop the loss.

morgan's face changed as soon as she realized what she'd said, crumpling sweetly, eyes going wide with the particular horror of accidental cruelty. "oh my god. paige, i didn't—"

"it's fine," paige said, voice empty and mechanical, the possession of someone who was trying to will a lie into the quality of truth. she didn't look up once from her phone. "y'all have fun. bring me back a seashell or whatever."

"p—" ice started, but paige was already standing, moving with a careful deliberation that communicated that her knee was aching worse than she'd admit. azzi hated this, this voyuerism of a girl carrying pain like a teenage secret, hoodie pulled up over her head as she limped toward the sliding glass door that led back into the cabin's throat.

azzi watched her go, watched the way paige's shoulders were drawn up to her ears like she was trying to shrink in real time, watched the way she was trying so hard to appear as though she didn't care, like this wasn't killing her slowly, and felt something crack open in her chest in a jagged line.

"fuck," morgan said quietly. "i'm such an idiot."

"she knows you didn't mean it," azzi said, but she was already halfway out of the hot tub, water streaming off her body, steam rising from her skin as the winter chill crawled eagerly over her exposed limbs.

she nearly slipped as she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, didn't bother with anything else. not her clothes or her shoes or her usual performance of normalcy. azzi stumbled with a lack of humiliation, anxious to get to paige, dripping water across the deck and then through the cabin, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood like evidence of passage. she took the stairs two at a time, her body still burning with phantom warmth from the hot tub, her skin slightly prickled with glaciation.

the bedroom paige had claimed was at the end of the hall, door closed, no light visible beneath it, a darkness so complete that azzi knew it to be intentional.

her room was next door.

she didn't knock, only turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind her with the soft click of the latch.

the room was devoid of all light, curtains drawn tightly against the world, forcing it back with a hard hand. the only light came from the digital clock on the nightstand that read 9:47 pm in numbers that glowed an accusatory red. paige was in bed already, or at least in the bed, no longer wearing her hoodie and shorts, curled on her side facing away from the door like she was trying to disappear into the wall, trying to merge with something more solid than herself.

"i need a minute, az," paige said, voice muffled by the pillow, by the refusal to be seen.

azzi was unable to help the small smile that brushed across her face, pleasure rising at being known so thoroughly.

"no." azzi dropped her towel, toeing it open before undoing the delicate ties of her bikini, the fabric hitting the wood with a muffled slap—gravity enforced by the water content. she crossed to the bed, droplets still lingering along her skin, and climbed onto the mattress without asking permission.

she knew if she waited, the invitation might never come, and so she pressed herself against paige's back with abandon. one arm slid around paige’s waist, the other tucking beneath the pillow they'd been sharing since arrival, her body an answer to the question paige never had to ask.

paige went rigid, every muscle locking. "bro, you’re getting the bed wet."

"don't care. i’ll just change the sheets when you shower.”

"azzi."

"i'm not leaving." azzi pressed her face against the back of paige's neck, right where her hair was pulled into a messy bun, loose strands escaping to brush against azzi's mouth, and breathed in the familiar scent of her. vanilla lightened with a lavender touch, spiced with vetiver and something that was just paige. something azzi would recognize blindfolded, in a crowd, in another life. "so you can stop trying to get rid of me."

paige was silent for a long moment, and then azzi felt it: the tentative shake of her body that gained quickly in intensity, slight tremors that traveled through her like fault lines and then burst into their full earthquake, the uneven, ragged pull of her breath.

"it's just a little over a month," paige said, the words small and wet enough to clog azzi's own throat. she wanted nothing more than to gather paige up, hide her somewhere safe until it was all over. "six fucking weeks. it's nothing. i don't know why i'm being such a fucking baby about it."

"because it's not nothing, p," azzi corrected quietly, lips shifting tenderly against paige's neck, the words transferring directly into skin. "because basketball is—it's everything to us. to you. it's how you know yourself. it's the language you speak. and someone took it away, changed the build. you can’t even translate.”

"okay, miss communications major,” paige puffed out, and azzi squeezed her stomach softly. then,

“but i took it away, az,” and there was something juvenile in her voice, something savagely self-lacerating. "it was my fault. i went for a steal i shouldn't have, and i landed wrong, and now i'm—" paige stopped, swallowed hard enough that azzi could feel it. "now i'm fucking useless."

"don't." azzi's arm tightened around paige's waist, hand tucking under the hem of her shirt to splay wide across her stomach, feeling the rise and fall, the proof of life. "don't you ever say that."

"it's true, though. who am i when i’m not on court? what am i if i'm not—" paige's voice cracked like ice, and the lake rose. "i don't know how to be anything else. i feel buried alive."

azzi's heart was hammering so viciously she was sure paige could feel the vibrations against each ridge of her spine, a frenetic drumming that was trying to say something her mouth couldn't. she closed her eyes, pressed her lips to the nape of paige's neck over and over, arranging and then re-arranging in the shape something that wasn't quite a kiss but felt like one anyway, and felt the words rising in her throat.

words she'd been holding back for months, maybe years. sentences that felt too big and terrifying for the hold of a diary, too exposing to reveal in daylight, but somehow felt more possible here, in this black, dead air, where neither of them could see each other's faces.

in the dark, it was always easier to be brave. it was never confession, only relief.

"you're more than that," azzi said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended, scraped raw. "you're so much more than this sport. then any team contract or brand deal, or highlight reel. you're—"

she faltered, tried to gather these thoughts that came too quickly, tumbling over one another and onto her feet like water over rock. and she let them, abandoning pretense.

then, almost casually, she said,

“you know, when we were younger, the thing i used to look forward to most was the away games. because of the bus ride after. you always came to the back with me, where no light reached. and we’d end up—god, i don’t even know—half-asleep on each other, limbs everywhere. you and me in that dark corner on one side, sinking into each other like it was the most natural thing. it was, i think. it felt like we were the same person for a while, feeling all the same things without thinking twice.”

paige had gone very still beneath her touch, so still azzi might have thought she'd stopped breathing if not for the steady rise and fall of her back against azzi’s chest.

“sometimes you’d fall asleep on top of me, and i’d stay wide awake, and i wouldn’t move. i couldn’t risk waking you, and i—i liked the weight. your warmth solidified me, especially after a loss. i’d get home smelling like you more than anything else. like i’d been dipped right inside of you. i’d lie on my floor in the dark, curled up like a kid, trying to hold onto it; the sense of you still on my skin. letting it pool around me for as long as i could before i had to wash it off and return to being my own separate body.”

azzi’s voice broke, splintered. she pushed through.

"you make me feel seen. you make me feel safe. like i matter in ways that have nothing to do with what i can do, what i can produce, what i'm worth. and i don't—i don't know how to separate loving you from needing you, and that scares me, because what if something happens and you're not there anymore? what if i lose you? what if this—"

she curled in closer, crushing what little space had been between them, holding on to the memory of their bodies pressed together in the dark.

"what if this ruins everything and i lose the only person who's ever made me feel like i could just be?"

"azzi. baby," paige had rolled over while she was talking, was now facing her in the dark, close enough that azzi could see the tears tracking down her cheeks even in the minimal light, silver trails catching what little illumination bled stubbornly through the curtains. "what are you saying?"

"i'm saying that you're everything," azzi said, and she was crying now too, couldn't help it, the tears coming hot and fast and unstoppable. "i'm saying that watching you hurt—physically, emotionally, any of it—it destroys me, paige. it unmakes me. i'm saying that i don't care if you never touch a basketball again, you'd still be the most important person in my life. you'd still be the person i think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night. you'd still be the person i—"

she stopped, screwed her eyes shut tightly because she couldn't bear to look at paige when she said it, couldn't bear to see whatever expression would cross her face.

"i'm saying that i love you. best friends, yes, but more, too. i love you so deeply, in a way that keeps me awake at night, half-insane and staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out when it happened, trying to remember a time when i didn't feel this way, and coming up empty. you’ve been the constant weather of my life. so when you say you’re just a player, just someone for people to watch—no. you’ve been the person i revolved around since we were little kids, paige. i’ve been in love with you so long it feels like part of my body. i don’t know how to separate it from anything else.

“i want to crawl inside your body and live there, be responsible for your skin and bones and blood. i want to know what it feels like to be you, to see the world the way you see it, to always know what you’re thinking. i love you in a way that probably isn't healthy and definitely isn't normal, and i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but i can't—i don’t know what to do with it. i just—i just want to give it to you. and then some.”

and then some.

the silence that followed felt eternal, stretched lean as a vein waiting for the needle. azzi kept her eyes pressed closed, the pressure so great that bursts of color were flickering in the dark. she couldn't handle whatever horror was surely paige's face, couldn't stand to watch her pull away or shut down or worse—look at her with pity, with the particular cruelty of kindness offered to the pathetic.

but then she felt it. paige's hand came up to cup her cheek, warm and careful, thumb brushing away her tears with a level of affection that nearly wrenched another sob from beneath azzi’s ribs.

“princess, hey. look at me," paige whispered. “baby, can you please look at me?”

azzi forced her eyes open because she’d do anything paige asked, and blinked through the blur of tears. found paige staring at her with an expression so intense it stole her breath, something callow and unguarded that paige would never let just anyone see.

but for the entirety of their lives, one of them had always been something to the other. someone.

"do you know how long i’ve been waiting to hear you say that?" paige said, and her voice was wrecked, destroyed. "or at least some version of it? i—azzi, i don’t know why you didn’t tell me earlier. we tell each other everything.”

azzi thought of that bathroom, the cleaning of her piercing.

“because i didn’t want you to send me away.”

paige scoffed, a brief laugh loosed out, high with disbelief. “there isn’t any version of the world where i don’t want you with me. azzi—i've been losing my fucking mind, dying time and time again, wanting you so fucking badly i could barely breathe around you. i felt like a fucking asthmatic. i used to lie awake at night thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to have you be mine in all the ways that mattered. i do everything to show you that i’ll cater to you. and you thought, you actually thought, that i wouldn’t feel the same way?"

"you—" azzi couldn't find the strength to finish the sentence. she couldn’t process what paige was saying, couldn't make it fit into the reality she'd been living in.

"i sleep with other people because i can't have you," paige said, and her voice was raw, scraped clean of any pretense, any performance. "i’d go out and find girls who looked nothing like you, and i’d pretend it helped. i’d pretend if i just fucked enough of them, i'd stop wanting you, but it didn’t work. nothing works. nothing makes me stop needing you. nothing makes me stop dreaming about having you. you're in my head all the time, you're my first in every instance, and it's killing me, azzi. it was killing me to love you this much and not be able to—"

"roll over," paige said suddenly, cutting herself off.

"what?"

"roll onto your back, baby. please."

azzi obeyed, bewildered, her body moving on instinct, powered by trust, and then paige was moving too, was shifting her weight carefully. she sat up first, tugging her shirt up and over by the neck and then shimmying off her boxers, mindful of her knee. then she shifted until she was on top of azzi, settling her body against the naked line of the other girl’s with a low groan that sounded like coming home, like respite, like the end of something long and painful.

her head came to rest on azzi's chest, right over her heart where it beat wildly, and her arms wrapped around azzi's waist, holding on as though she was the only thing keeping paige tethered to earth, like without this anchor she'd drift away into nothing.

azzi's hands came up automatically, one tangling in paige's hair, the other tracing patterns on her back—circles and figure eights and shapes that had no name. she dipped lower, to the small of her back where the fullness of her hips began to flow. she could feel paige's breath evening out, could feel the way her body was finally, finally relaxing, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders, her spine, her jaw.

"is this okay?" paige mumbled against her chest, lips moving against the line of azzi’s collarbones.

azzi wanted to laugh. wanted to cry. wanted to scream at how much time they'd wasted, how many nights they could have had this.

"yeah," she managed, her voice thick. "this is okay."

it’s so much better now, she wanted to tell her.

they lay there in the dark, breathing together, heartbeats finding their shared rhythm; two organs bestowed by god, meant to synchronize all along. azzi kept running her fingers through paige's hair, kept tracing those idle patterns on her back, and thought about how many times they'd been in this position before: holding each other, seeking comfort, pretending it was just what friends did, just what teammates did, just what people who loved each other platonically did.

but it had never been just that. it had just felt less dangerous to ignore it.

"we should probably talk about this more when we get back," paige said eventually, her voice thick with exhaustion.

"okay," azzi said, "but later. right now, just rest, p. let me hold you."

"yeah," paige whispered against her chest, the vibration pushing through azzi's chestplate like a drill looking for oil. "okay."

and so, that was what azzi did. she held paige through the night, mapping every point of touch like a star chart. hip to thigh to breast to leg. paige shifted to the right slightly, and it made her leg fall between azzi’s, the length of her thigh firm against the heat of azzi’s cunt. it felt good there, felt grounding. it was less about the placement and more about the act of it.

her best friend was past the line, venturing into this private space, and unfraid to stay there.

azzi held paige the way she'd wanted to for years, and paige held her back.

she looked to the floor, where a small bit of moonlight had crept to the edge, and thought of the brightness of morning. how the sunlight would fracture against the snow and blind them, everything so white, everything so blank.

cold and bright and beautiful and blinding. like an afterlife.

this always, she thought. our bodies, bridged together like a banister.

IV. FLORIDA KEYS / SUNSET ( SLOWED ) / LUCKI.

the keys were the best in the shoulder season. from late april to early june, the islands had a distinct quality compared to the rest of the state. they seemed to shudder with a different kind of life, as if they’d decided to let their guard down for a brief, private interval. the light carried a submerged quality, as though it had traveled a great distance underwater before reaching them, arriving pale and shimmering, a little distorted.

this return to florida was different. they kept touching one another in these small, accidental ways, as if to confirm that they were really here, really doing this. not just two girls pretending that every duet of friends needs to sleep with each other to make it through at least half a night.

they had driven in—again, a rover; always a symbol to them—and the water along the road was a flat blue-green, too still, as if watching. birds wheeled overhead in loose, indifferent arcs. and beneath it all, there was an inescapable electric thrum. the land seemed to receive them almost reverently, as if recognizing a returning species.

their rental sat at the end of a private road, where the asphalt gave way to crushed shell, rising like a sleeping creature. white walls glowed faintly in the heat, the stucco a little bleached. the shutters were soft blue, like the underside of a shell. through tall windows, the courtyard appeared like the heart of a drowned palace: palms arching protectively overhead, the pool lit from below with a strange, luminous blue. beyond it, a deck extended in a narrow path toward their private beach, the sand pale as bone as it bled out into nothing but the slow exhale of the gulf.

azzi liked that you had to park and then continue to walk to get to it. it made her feel that they were properly private, instead of barely secured. the ocean seemed to be reaching for her, needy for her, its pulse a magnet to the foundations every time she turned toward it.

she lay on her back on the living room floor, legs stretched long, bare feet flexed toward the ceiling fan that turned its lazy rotations overhead. she wore an old tee she’d stolen from paige: navy with yellow stripes bleeding down the sleeves, ‘montauk’ screaming in capitals across the middle, so oversized it grazed her mid-thigh.

it made her look smaller than she was, younger.

nothing underneath except white cotton panties that rose high in the front and fell entirely into lace at her hips and ass. her hair was still damp from her earlier shower, dark curls spreading easily across the pale pine hardwood like an oil spill. the only thing providing her comfort was the careful placement of a lilac and jejune persian rug, the print softened with age.

wired headphones—white, tangled at her collarbone—snaked from her ears to her phone resting on her stomach, and she had her eyes closed, lips parted silently to reveal the ridges of her two front teeth, mind swayed by a rhythm only she could hear. it was slow, instrumental, a melody that matched the afternoon light pouring through the windows in bars so thick they looked solid enough to hold.

one hand rested on her stomach, fingers drumming absently against her ribs in time with whatever she was listening to. the other lay palm-up beside her hip, open, receptive. she rolled her ankles clockwise, then anti. lifted her hips until only her shoulders pressed into the ground, then settled back down.

paige stood in the doorway, watching. couldn't help it. would never be able to help it, she was learning.

she'd been with the wings for nearly a year now, and the distance had been harder than either of them had anticipated. they'd known it would be difficult. paige in dallas, azzi still at uconn finishing her fifth year, one she'd chosen to buy more stocks of time before the inevitable separation of professional careers pulled them in different directions.

but knowing something would be hard and living through the reality of it were two different diseases entirely.

the bouts of distance had taught her this: to memorize azzi in every variation of light, to catalog every instance of her existence. but this version—peaceful, unguarded, the little line between her eyebrows finally smoothed—this one she wanted to keep.

two weeks until azzi graduated with her master’s. and then there would be the difficult geometry of trying to exist always within the same place, the same timezone, the same bed. but at least, for now, they had this.

five days with no outsiders, no schedules, no pretending they were anything other than what they'd always been and what they had evolved to. five days to exist as nothing but paige and azzi, girlfriend and girlfriend, two people who considered their highest obligation to be to one another.

paige crossed the room without another thought. lowered herself until she was on her knees, then forward onto her hands, then stretching out along the length of azzi's body, settling her weight the way you'd handle something sacred.

azzi's eyes slid open. she pulled one earbud out, let it dangle.

"hey, baby," paige said, the words coming around a bright smile.

“hey yourself, pretty girl,” azzi murmured, and her voice was warm, honeyed with contentment. she laughed lowly, sound lingering in her throat as paige flushed pink at the endearment.

she looked away and lowered her face to azzi's neck, pressing her mouth there just below her jaw where her pulse beat steady. azzi's breath stalled, then changed pattern completely. her hand came up to tangle in paige's hair, fingers finding blonde, then darker roots. they curled, holding her there.

"what are you doing?"

"kissing you," paige said against her skin, and she did it again, slower this time, with teeth. "that okay?"

"mmhm. yeah." azzi's voice had gone high and thin, breathless. "yeah, that's—that's good."

paige grinned against her neck, suddenly aching and restless, and felt the way azzi's pulse jumped under the glide of her tongue. she kissed her way along the middle of her throat, taking her time, tasting salt and sunscreen and something a little earthier—a touch sweet. her hands bracketed azzi's ribs, thumbs pressing into the spaces between bones.

this was the relief of it—being allowed. being able to want her without the practically biblical weight of repression, without having to build a wall and then a moat between touch and meaning. they had a name for it now.

several names.

best friend, girlfriend, soulmate. other half, wife—eventually.

the naming in itself was its own form of liberation. they could just call it what it was.

"paige," azzi said, and there was a hitch in her voice that made paige lift her head, look at her properly.

azzi was gazing up at her with an expression almost painful in its intensity, eyes dark and wet at the corners. her hand trembled slightly where it had latched onto paige's hair.

"i love you," azzi said, tone uncharacteristically fierce. "i love you so much.”

“i know, princess.” paige felt her throat close. "i know. i love you too."

"no, like—" azzi's free hand came up to cup paige's face, tilted it until her own throat was bared, pale and vulnerable. she idly dragged her thumb across paige’s cheekbone, felt the ridge. "i've loved you since we were kids, and i didn't know how to tell you, and now i get to, and it still doesn't feel real."

"it's real," paige said, turning her head to press a kiss to azzi's palm. she shifted and tumbled, curtaining them both in a slew of gold. "we’re here, mama. we're together, and that’s never gonna change."

"promise?"

"pinky swear."

azzi pulled her down into a kiss then, and it was different than any of the others before. less playful and more urgent. her mouth opened with a hungry request for tongue that made everything inside of paige go molten and liquid. her other earbud fell out, forgotten, the tinny sound of music still playing from where her phone had slipped off her stomach onto the tile.

paige kissed her back with everything she had, one hand sliding up under azzi’s shirt to find bare skin, ribs and the soft underside of her breast. she claimed it, groped at the fullness, and it made azzi send a sound through her mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and her hips lifted, pressing up into paige's.

"deck," azzi breathed when they broke apart, a string of spit glistening from between their lips before delicately breaking. “let’s—deck.”

"yeah," paige agreed, already moving, already pulling azzi up with her. "yeah, okay."

the deck was empty and sun-drenched, wooden planks still warm from hours of exposure, the ocean stretching out before them, draining turquoise to teal to midnight blue at the far horizon.

light was fading but still present. the beach was private, theirs, no one around for miles, and the knowledge of that privacy made paige feel reckless, made her feel young and invincible in a way she hadn't since before basketball became a career instead of a game.

there was a lounge chair, positioned to face the water. wide enough for two. paige sat first, bringing azzi with her, guiding her to straddle her lap. azzi came willingly, eagerly, her thighs bracketing paige's hips, shirt riding up to reveal the thin white of her underwear, the smooth brown expanse of her legs.

"hi, baby," azzi said again, smiling down at her with eyes crinkled at the corner, and there was something so tender in it, so fond, that paige felt her chest crack right open.

"hey, princess," paige said back, hands settling on azzi's waist, squeezing the sides of her stomach.

she tugged her in by her belly piercing, the bar new and gold with a pink diamond dangling from the end, and they kissed again, slower this time, but no less intense. paige let her hands wander: up azzi's sides, along her spine, down to cup her ass through her panties. azzi whimpered against her mouth, bleating like a little lamb, lithe fingers working at the buttons of paige's cover-up, pushing it off her shoulders.

and then her hands were on paige's skin, warm and sure, mapping territories they'd explored before but never like this, never in daylight, never without the fear of fucking it up.

the sun beat down on them, the ocean providing its lull, and paige thought about that first morning in sarasota, how she'd watched azzi flex her shoulder blades on the paddleboard and felt that first dangerous pull of want, that recognition of falling.

she'd been right to be scared.

loving azzi was terrifying—the magnitude of it, the way it had rewritten every part of her life—but that just meant that it was what she truly wanted.

but she'd also been wrong. because this—azzi's mouth on hers, azzi's body against hers, azzi's hands in her hair—this wasn't falling. this was a landing instead. this was an arrival home.

"i want more," azzi whispered against her lips, and her hips rolled forward, pressing down, and paige felt the heat of her even through the bottom of her own bikini.

"you can have it, mama," paige said, and she meant it in every possible way. "just take it. you can have whatever you want, always.”

azzi pulled back just far enough to look at her, eyes searching. whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she smiled—bright and unguarded and so beautiful it made paige's teeth ache at the root—and then she was pulling the montauk tee up and over her head, tossing it somewhere behind them onto the deck.

and paige—

paige had seen azzi's body a thousand times before. in locker rooms and hotel rooms, and that every summer morning spent in a heat so deep she felt dizzy, when countless bikinis and mini dresses had revealed nearly everything. but this was different. this was azzi offering herself, bare and unashamed, with the full knowledge of what it meant and what would follow.

"you sure?" paige asked, because she had to.

azzi’s eyes darkened, went low and ravenous.

"i've never been more sure of anything."

paige kissed her again, dragged her closer until distance was no longer an option. her hands found azzi's tits again, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened, until azzi was gasping and grinding down against her, clit throbbing as she climbed sky high.

they moved together like they played together: instinctive, synchronous, each knowing what the other needed without having to ask. paige's mouth traced the path her hands had taken, lips and tongue and teeth working across azzi's collarbones, down to her tits, and azzi's fingers tightened in her hair, taking her captive, encouraging.

"fuck, paige," azzi breathed, and it sounded like the only thing paige wanted her name to ever mean.

the sun moved across the sky, falling and falling, the world flooding red with the last of it as theirs went white.

later, when the sun had fully fled and the moon reigned unclouded, they lay tangled together on the deck floor, a blanket barely enough for both of them draped across their cooling, sticky bodies.

azzi's head was resting mindlessly on paige's chest, their legs intertwined.

"we should probably go inside," azzi said, but she made no move to get up.

"probably," paige agreed, fingers tracing idle patterns on azzi's bare shoulder. “or we could just stay here forever."

“mmm,” azzi hummed. "i'd be okay with that."

paige smiled against the crown of her head. “i have such great ideas.”

azzi lifted her head to look at her then, chin propped on paige's sternum. "yeah, but. you'd get bored."

“with you? never."

“you’re such a fucking liar." but azzi was smiling, soft and private. "you'd miss basketball, your family. dallas, probably."

"maybe," paige admitted. "but when you’re gone, i miss you more than all of that combined."

azzi's expression shifted, turned vulnerable, so utterly revealing as a mix of emotion crossed her face. "i know, p. just two more weeks."

"two more weeks," paige repeated, as if to affirm the truth of it. "then you're done. then you're mine."

"i've always been yours," azzi said quietly.

paige pulled her up into a lazy kiss, slow and deep and thorough. when they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to azzi's, breathing her in.

"yeah," she whispered. "i know, princess. me too."

eventually, azzi untangled herself, stood on legs that looked unsteady. she paused at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach, turning to look over her shoulder at paige still sprawled on the floor, and smiled. the moonlight caught her just right—porcelain and pearlescent, haloing her dark hair like an angel’s kiss, her skin luminous—and for a moment, time stopped entirely.

paige tried to commit it to memory: the divine curve of azzi's neck, the perfect slope of her bare shoulders, the deep pink of her kiss-swollen lips, her hips in the light and the shadows that striped across her legs and stomach, paige’s bite marks left littered along her thighs, ruby and iris.

the world often proved her too unearthly to be real, but she was real nonetheless.

and paige could never believe it.

"let's go swim," azzi said, and her voice carried on the air, taken up with the salt mist of the water just off to the edge.

with the request, the world rushed back in: the mellow surge of the waves, the cry of the birds still loitering along the water, the feel of smoothed wood beneath paige's palms as she pushed herself up.

"let's race," paige called out, scrambling to the stairs eagerly, bare feet hitting every other step.

azzi laughed as she shouted after her—that is so not fair! you got a head start!—and took off running, hair streaming behind her like a meteor’s streak. when she passed paige, the other woman continued to follow, but not too closely, purposefully slowing down.

she held back just enough, let azzi sail ahead like a shooting star across the sand, her body a blur of unbridled joy.

paige could have caught her—probably. but she didn't.

she let azzi win, an inverse of the way azzi always did when it mattered for paige, when the winning meant getting to watch her celebrate. she let her crash into the waves first with a whoop of victory, watched her turn back with that triumphant grin, arms raised to the sky like she'd conquered something more than a footrace.

paige stood still, raised her hands until she fixed them into the shape of a faux camera frame, pretending to take the shot.

azzi posed, mouth pouty, eyes bright because she always got the joke.

here, paige thought. my heaven is here.

then paige dropped her hands and ran, gaining momentum to take azzi down around the waist into the salt and the blue. the moon was bright enough to pierce the water, and paige saw azzi in all its glow.

angel on fire.

eudaemonia.

when she got to her childhood home, there was no one to greet her. it wasn’t shocking, and she didn’t take offense because she knew her father wasn’t a homebody and that he made it a point to eat lunch at the same place every single weekday. she just took her suitcase to her bedroom and taken a shower to wash the plane ride and uber off of her. 

when she got out, she looked in the mirror and decided she’d spend that week trying to bulk up. she wanted to be bigger. she was too thin and she drowned in her basketball uniform. she figured that would be her excuse for being away from home all week. 

she had no intention of making this a spring break to remember. she didn’t enjoy spending copious amounts of time with her father, or walking on eggshells around her mother. the gym would be the perfect safe space. 

by the time she’d showered and braided her hair and gotten dressed and put on deodorant , she’d heard rustling from the front of her house. 

her father was home. 

she took her time on the journey from her bedroom. she eyed the pictures on the walls, tried to remember every moment that each frame encapsulated. 

she paid special attention to her senior pictures. only four years had gone by, but alot changed between seventeen and twenty-one. she’d never wear jeans that tight again, would never be caught dead in a flannel that pink. 

“you were still just a kid, then.” she didn’t hear her father creep beside her, and she didn’t register his presence until his hand was clasped on her shoulder. “you wanted to wear sweats for your photos— fully ready to die on that hill.”

paige had learned to bite the bullet since she’d went to college. her freshman year, she beat the demons of bisexuality and dipped her toe into the men's section of every online shopping site. 

it was covid, she was a baby lesbian. she was stubborn and unwilling to listen to reason. she’d freshly figured out who she was, newly solidified herself within her own identity.

college did that to you, she learned. it had a way of thrusting you into yourself and you had no choice but to deal with it. 

when she came home for christmas, her mom asked what boy broke her heart. because, of course it had to have been heartbreak that spurred such a dramatic change. it was totally unexpected for her six-foot daughter, who was away at a D1 college on a full basketball scholarship, to realize she was a lesbian who preferred to present as masculine. 

she’d overheard her dad telling his girlfriend at the time that this was another one of her things. like when she dyed her hair purple, or took up painting.

she’d heard the you haven’t found the right man speech four times in the last four years. it wasn’t one she was interested in listening to again. 

“yeah, well.” she turned to face him, “did you enjoy your lunch?”

“uh, yeah, sorry i missed you getting here.” he fixed his gaze to the front of the home, “azzi brought you something.”

paige had no idea who ‘azzi’ was, or why she felt inclined to bring her food, so she cut her eyes at her father.

“azzi?” he repeated the name like that would ignite some sort of familiarity. when he realized that it wasn’t clicking, he sighed and gave a you’re so silly smile. “my girlfriend, paige.”

paige had honestly forgotten that she was supposed to be meeting her, but something tightened in her chest at the realization. 

“oh,” she forced herself to seem neutral because neutrality was better than dread. “right.”

she followed her dad down the rest of the hallway and thought about how there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old father still had girlfriends. 

she’d always told herself that she wouldn’t be like that. she wouldn’t have children of divorce or a plethora of exes. she wanted to get it right the first time. she wanted forever— she wanted a wife. 

the second they stepped into the kitchen, she realized that she was wrong. in actuality, there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old dad’s girlfriend was clearly too young. 

her father never brought home ugly women, so she’d expected this woman to be beautiful, but she wasn’t just beautiful, she was attractive.

she was tall, not as tall as paige, but tall. her hair was in a tight half-bun at the top of her head, but paige could tell she had thick curls. she had warm brown skin that flushed when she turned around and saw her boyfriend and his daughter. 

“hello—hi.” she’d stuck her hand out, “i’m azzi.”

azzi had a pretty smile. she had bucked teeth that sunk into her bottom lip while she waited for paige to take her hand.

she took it, and tried not to smile back at her. her hands were warm and soft, like she’d never known discomfort in her whole life. she was the one who moved their hands in a single up and down motion. it was firm and final and when she pulled her hand away, paige never wanted to touch her again.

she turned her attention to the plastic bag on the counter that held her to-go plate. 

“paige.” she didn’t mean to sound like a dick when she introduced herself but there was no point in an enthusiastic meet-and-greet. not when she’d be doing the same thing with someone else on thanksgiving. 

when she sat down at the kitchen table, paige had to force herself to sit with her legs closed. natural instinct told her to spread out and be comfortable, but she didn't want to be told to sit like a lady, so she crossed her ankles under the table, despite the fact that she was in pajama pants and a beater and there was no chance of someone looking up her skirt. 

“your dad’s told me alot about you.” she watched paige pop the styrofoam plate open. “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

paige nodded, never taking her eyes off the chicken and rice. 

something about this felt like uncharted territory. azzi wasn't following the script— her voice wasn't obnoxiously high, she wasn't fidgeting with her nerves. she was calm— too calm. she almost seemed indifferent.

luckily, her father's phone started ringing. it seemed that azzi had learned the everyone be silent until he’s done rule because she didn’t say a word. she just watched paige nibble at the food until—

“i gotta go…” of course he did. 

who would bob bueckers be if he wasn’t leaving his daughter with unfamiliar women? 

“it’s a work thing. they—” 

azzi cut him off with a raise of her palm. “it’s okay,” her smile almost seemed genuine, except her teeth were still in her mouth. “just go. me and paige can talk while i make dinner.”

paige shouldn’t care that her dad was leaving because she was supposed to be going as well. the gym was waiting for her. it didn't matter that her dad was taking the car, because she could uber… except she didn't want to go anymore.

all the more reason for her to get the hell out of there.

her dad leaned over the counter and pressed a kiss to azzi’s cheek, “we’ll go shopping monday, hun,” then, he wrapped his arms around paige. “glad you're here, p.”

paige let herself enjoy the hug, she savored that moment where no one cared what she was wearing, or how she was sitting and let herself melt into her dads arms. “love you, dad.” 

she meant it.

when he walked out the door, paige turned to azzi, who was doing something in the refrigerator.

“you just ate lunch,” azzi didn't turn around. “why you already making dinner?”

still in the fridge, azzi rummaged until she pulled out a concerningly large tub of butter. 

“your father wants duck.” she brought the container to the counter. ‘i don’t know how to cook duck, so i need time for trial and error.”

that was bullshit. her father was the one to cook in all of his relationships. he didn’t trust people to do it right, and he enjoyed listening to everyone tell him how talented he was. even if azzi was a cooker, she wasn’t doing it for paige’s dad.

she wouldn’t air her out. she didn’t care enough to do that, but paige had always been intrigued by liars. perhaps it was her own form of narcissism. 

she got up from the table, the goal not being to be closer, but to know more. the bar stool was near enough for paige to see everything. she didn’t know this woman. she needed proximity to learn her tells. 

“you cook for him alot?”

azzi dug through a drawer, pulling out a rubber spatula. “not really, no.”

paige was used to over-explaining and over-achieving. azzi seemed like she was more worried about ruining a bird than talking to paige. it was weird, the feeling that she was the one trying to hard for something that wouldn’t last. 

she dug her heels into the step of the bar and tried to keep her discomfort under wraps. “why the special occasion?”

azzi shrugged, now armed with a butcher's knife. “dunno.” 

it was kind of scary, the way she was prepping and yet she didn’t even have the duck out. paige knew the knife wouldn’t be necessary until the bird was cooked, and that she shouldn’t apply the butter until the duck was stuffed. 

paige wanted to warn her. the usual willingness to let someone learn the hard way was nowhere to be found. that was scary enough for the conscious decision to let azzi learn the hard way regardless to be be made. 

paige pointed at herself, “for me?”

she thought, for a second, that she sounded like she wanted this. she worried that she sounded like she cared. which, she didn’t. she just felt a little bad. which was a sign of empathy. anyone would feel empathetic when watching a car crash. 

that’s what this was— azzi’s relationship with paige’s dad was a car crash in the making.  it would end the way they all did, except azzi was Different.

azzi shook her head, still not fucking looking at paige. she had no clue why she wanted azzi to look at her, but the disappointment in her chest was hard to ignore. 

“think i just wanted to busy myself. your dad says you’re hardly ever home when you’re home.”

she was doing it so she wouldn’t be bored, it had nothing to with paige or her father. azzi simply did not want to be bored. that was understandable. that was justifiable. paige knew nothing about the woman, but she had the feeling that she should never be bored. 

so what the fuck is she doing dating the most boring human on the planet?

it wasn’t paige’s business. she had no reason to want the answer to that question. so she nodded, once, and left her head hanging.

“yeah.” it was a small acknowledgment, enough to confirm paige’s future absence.

azzi laughed, quiet but not in a self deprecating way. like the situation was pathetic, not her need for entertainment. “so i’m going to butcher a duck.”

this is the end, paige thought. this is the end of whatever was going on here. 

she stood up and headed to the hallway, leaving the food and azzi behind.

“i’m going to the gym.”

by the time she heard, “have fun, p.” it was already too late to turn around and see if azzi looked as unbothered as she sounded

──

easter dinner was bound to be a disaster of drastic proportions. paige’s parents were those weird divorcees who got along well enough to spend the holidays together for the sake of kid. except, for the past few years, it always ended up feeling like they were only in the same room for paige’s detriment. 

not because they didn’t get along. that was never the issue. amy and bob made it a point to never argue in front of paige, as if that would have made her oblivious to their agony towards each other. no, these days, the issue was that they did not approve of paige’s Lifestyle Choices. 

when she came out as bisexual, neither of them seemed to care much. they probably thought it was one of paige’s phases, or that she’d end up with a man anyway. and then christmas 2020 happened, and they suddenly were enthralled with who paige planned to spend the rest of her life with. 

her mother had convinced her to curl her hair for the family photo instead of wearing a slickback bun. her father told her that there would be no suit because she and her mother always wore matching dresses. 

it had been nearly three years of biting her tongue— of wanting to crawl out of her skin for the sake of keeping the peace. paige knew that her parents didn’t like the way she dressed. or the way she talked, sat, and turned down male advances. 

and it wasn’t that she just rolled over and did what they wanted. it was just that trying to get them to understand that this is who she was took more than it was worth. 

paige’s step family, dan and taylor, never really said much during these meetings either. they’d just passively agreed with whatever amy was saying. they never really acknowledged paige, never wanted to know things about her and always declined the game tickets paige provided. 

they didn’t feel like family— none of them did. but then again, only family could make paige feel the way she did.

but this year, easter would be something different. azzi would be there, and paige knew she’d be more focused on the Difference She Could Not Explain than her mother.

her blended family never met up at anyone’s house. they’d always opted for neutral territory— whatever restaurant was open that holiday. 

the steakhouse had been reserved for easter. it wasn’t fine dining like her father loved, and it wasn’t homey the way her mother preferred. it was casual in a way that said we’re trying to get a star without seeming like we’re trying. 

her parents always reserved the same table. it was in the back with six chairs. paige sat beside azzi, who sat beside her father. her mother, step-dad, and step-sister all sat on the other side. 

they’d done their quarterly hello’s. amy smiled when she met azzi, but paige knew her mother’s disapproval when she saw it. azzi didn’t seem bothered by the awkwardness of it all. she shook everyone’s hand and smiled without her teeth. she was quiet and contained when anyone else would have let their nerves scream over the whole building. 

when the waiter asked for their drinks, the whole table asked for ice water. except paige, who requested sweet tea with lemon slices on the side.  she quickly realized her mistake when her father sucked in a harsh breath and her mother began to wave her hand. 

 “that’s okay, she’ll just have water.” she had her usual smile on her face, completely oblivious to the look on paige’s face. 

paige didn’t speak on her annoyance, but when the waiter left, her mom leaned forward and whispered, “i don’t know why you insist on making things so hard for everyone.”

paige didn’t know why she was whispering. there was no one near them, hardly anyone in the restaurant at all. it was a holiday, everyone was at home having a home cooked meal. 

she didn’t answer her mom, hoping that she would be left alone. of course, that was just too much like right, because her father chipped in. 

“yeah paige,” he was still nose deep in the menu, as if he was going to order something different this year. “everyone got water. why would you want the waiter to make a whole different drink?”

paige knew this wasn’t worth a clapback. she also knew it was just the beginning of her parent’s nitpicking, so she put her head down and physically retreated into herself. she should have just stayed in storrs, or went to kk’s house. she didn’t know why she always voluntarily put herself through this shit—

“maybe she just wanted something sweet.”

paige’s head popped up then. it was azzi who'd spoken up, brown eyes dead set ahead of her on amy. 

she’d hardly spoken to paige the entire week she’d been there. they’d been in the same house, yet paige made sure they were worlds apart. azzi had made no effort to know paige, and yet…

amy flushed beet red. she’d never been confrontational, never pushed the line on anything besides paige. azzi didn’t let up, though. she didn’t blink until paige’s mom buried her face in the menu and asked bob how work was going. 

dinner went the way it usually did. paige learned that azzi was an ER nurse, that taylor was set to start nursing school in a few months, and bob didn’t like his new assistant. 

it was all noise to paige.

maybe she just wanted something sweet.

azzi had no reason to pipe up, but she stood up for paige. anyone else would have just minded their business. they’d have probably felt bad, but told themselves that this was between parents and their child. but azzi…

it didn’t make sense. they never talked, and the one time they did, azzi seemed as disinterested as paige was pretending to be.  

but she spoke. and paige would spend the rest of spring break thinking about how azzi’s lips pushed out the word “sweet”.

she’d been playing with her veggies when her mother addressed her again. 

“paige, sweetie,” she tapped the prongs of her fork on the table “sit up. you look like a boy.”

she broke out of her comfortable position and leaned forward so that her ribs were pressed into the table and her feet were under her chair. she didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her mother. she just did what she was told and went back to her plate. 

still her mother continued. 

“and what’s with this outfit?” she waved her fork lazily in paige’s direction “i don’t know why you want to look like…”

paige knew what was coming. it happened every single time, and there was no way to avoid it besides re-becoming something she wasn’t. that wasn’t an option— cosplaying a girly bisexual would never be an option again. so paige just braced for impact. 

she dropped her fork and sat straight up. with her hands folded between her legs, she steeled her eyes on her mother. “like what, mom?”

“like a—” she lowered her voice, “like a lesbian.”

paige’s sighed. 

paige had never outright said i’m actually not bi, i'm a full blown ‘mo, but it didn’t take much to tell. her mother could read between the lines— everyone at that table was able to read between the fucking lines. 

“i’m just saying,” amy stabbed a piece of broccoli onto her fork, “you don’t have to broadcast it for everyone to see.”

“mom.” her monotone pitch wasn’t because she was forcing herself to not be upset, she’d just gotten bored of the same conversation every time she came home. “i’m not broadcasting anything i’m just—”

she was cut off by taylor. “you don’t have to argue all the time, paige.”

“i’m not arguing with her.” paige furrowed her brows, “i barely even said anything.”

“but you were going to,” her father chimed in now. “you know yourself, p.” 

“your mother just wants what’s best for you, paige.” dan didn’t look up from his plate when he decided to add his two cents. “making a scene all the time isn’t good for anyone.”

“how am i making a scene, though?” paige felt exhausted, even though she knew they were just getting started. “by dressing the way i want to— in clothes i feel comfortable in?”

amy sighed, setting her fork down and looking at paige again. “it’s just inconvenient for everyone when your comfort makes everyone else uncomfortable. who do you think you are to just force this on us for all these years?”

paige reared her head back, like she was dodging a punch. and maybe she actually was, because the words found her anyway. they rippled cross her face like the impact of an actual hit, taking over her whole being and making her head fuzzy. 

she should expect shit like this. her mother had wobbled on the line of passive aggressive to flat out homophobic for years, but something about tonight hurt a little worse. it usually felt like a punch to the gut, and paige had built an endurance to that. tonight, felt like a hook to the temple. 

she was dizzy and genuinely unsure of if she had the strength to walk away from this in one piece. 

everyone kept going, kept agreeing with amy and adding their own issues with paige into the mix, but she just sat there in her chair. she didn’t speak, she didn’t defend herself, she didn’t move— she couldn’t do much of anything besides try and keep her eyes from closing. 

if they closed, then paige would be crying.

she heard one voice through all of it. 

azzi. 

she was making an effort, paige assumed, but she was ultimately unsuccessful. even she wasn’t strong enough to cut through all the tension that spread over the table. she’d been saying paige’s dad’s name. over and over— like he was going to listen to her. he didn't listen though, no one ever did. so, azzi huffed out a tight line of air and sat back in her seat. 

paige guessed that this would be her leave— this conversation would be the reason she left. she’d probably say it was because she felt bad for paige, when in reality she was just leaving like everyone else. she’d make paige her scapegoat just like the rest of them. 

she was an idiot for thinking azzi would be anything different.

──

the next day, paige woke up before the sun and drove her dad’s car to the gym. her father was still asleep, as was azzi. she just left. her head was still hurting from the night before, her face still felt hot with embarrassment and tears. 

 she was leaving that night and she planned to stay away from her house until it was time to get her suitcases. she’d uber to the airport. she wasn’t telling anyone bye, or announcing her exit in any way, shape or form. 

somehow, someway, paige had lost her edge. she nearly lost herself at dinner, which was something that she didn’t let happen. she’d forged herself into steel years ago, and every time she prepared to return home, she hardened herself even more.

at dinner, she felt shame force itself into her gut and take her over. she’d known what the difference was, the only thing that had changed from the usual was the fact that she seemingly had someone in her corner. 

azzi. 

she was on paige’s side, which was new. but more than that, azzi had only known the version of paige that was built. she hadn’t known the version that had to be erased to get there. 

her mother had ripped that paige out and left her on the table for the vultures to get, and azzi had seen it. azzi watched as everyone picked paige apart and poked at her skeleton. there was nothing that could be done to come back from that. 

this woman— who wouldn’t even there for another three months— had seen paige. an outsider had seen it all. 

when this ended, she’d walk around with the knowledge that paige wasn’t steel. she’d know forever that there wasn’t a non-chalant bone in her body, and she almost cried when her mom hurt her feelings. 

paige left the gym praying that azzi went with her father to lunch. she couldn’t look at her.

when she got home, no one was there. it was a blessing. truly. she didn't stop in the kitchen, or look at the photos in the hallway. she beelined for her room, determined to be out of the house before azzi and her father got back. 

her bedroom door was closed. she didn’t close it when she left, which meant someone had been in her room. paige thought the cleaning lady probably left it open, even though she always told her dad to remind her that paige could clean her own room.

bob never cared to remember shit like that. he never cared to remember anything. 

only, he might have remembered this time. her room was just as she left it. her desk chair was still facing away from the desk, her duffel bag was still in the middle of the room and her bed was still unmade with the dent of her body molded in the mattress. 

but there was a bag. a single gift bag with no label on it. it was brown— not like a paper bag but something expensive that shined when paige turned the light on. there was no bow attached, no card tied to it’s handles. just a brown gift back placed dead center on the bench before her bed.

paige didn’t open it right away. she just stood there staring at it, like something would climb out of it on its own. she wondered who put it there and what was in it. bob was never one for spontaneous presents— he didn’t pay enough attention for shit like that. her mom wouldn’t be over their spat yet, so it wasn’t her. paige was pretty sure taylor and dan hated her, so not them either. 

there was azzi. over the past week, there had been azzi. but she didn’t know paige. paige didn’t even know if azzi liked her. so why would she get her a gift? but then again, why would azzi defend her?

the possibility jumpstarted paige’s anticipation enough for her to snatch the bag up and rip the ribbons that tied it shut. 

it was clothes, maybe three items. they were folded and stacked in the bag. on top of the top item, though there was a receipt. paige grabbed that first. 

POLO RALPH LAUREN ran across the top of the paper in big, bold letters. it was an expensive gift. too expensive for an ER nurse in minnesota. and there were multiple items, so paige decided it definitely wasn’t azzi. 

but then she looked at the bottom, where the card information and signature would have been and there it was. 

CUSTOMER: Azzi Fudd

************1857

azzi fudd. 

azzi had gotten the gift. for paige. 

paige dropped the receipt and dug the clothes out of the bag. the top item was heavy and thick. it was meant for cold weather. it was a deep red quarter button sweater. cable-knit. it felt expensive and intentional in paige’s hands. it was a men’s sweater, too. a women’s top would have a curve in the waist, and it would have been lighter. 

the second item was a pair of black pants. fancy— slacks or something like that.  the fabric wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t rough either. it was textured and smooth. these were made for men, too. the pockets were big. 

in the bottom of the bag, there was a package of briefs. a five pack of ralph lauren briefs.

there was no note, no explanation for why azzi had purchased men’s winter clothes for paige. the fact that she’d purchased anything for paige was deserved an explanation. but there was nothing. 

just clothes and a gift receipt.

FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND

as expected, paige’s dad wasn’t home when she got there. he was at lunch, same place as usual. paige wasn’t excited to see him, anyway. she wanted a shower and a nap and then to eat so that she wouldn’t have to leave her bedroom until the next day.

but, unexpectedly, someone was sitting on the living room couch with their back to the door. paige didn’t have to see their face to know who it was. she didn’t even have to open the door and enter the house to know. those curls were imprinted on her brain. 

her hair was half up-half down, the top secured to the base of her head with a white claw clip. her hair looked soft, moisturized by something too cultured for paige and her midwestern whiteness to know the name of. 

several deep breaths were needed before paige could open the door, but when the lock finally turned, azzi turned her head slowly, like there was no urgency to know who it was. 

she smiled the same way she did when she and paige first met, with her two front teeth pushing into her bottom lip. she had make-up on, a deep pink lined her lips while a lighter one covered the totality of her mouth. her lashes were longer— long enough to reach just under her brow bone. 

“you’re here.” azzi didn’t sound the way she did during spring break. she sounded relieved, almost. she’d been expecting paige. “your dad is having lunch, but he gave me a list.”

obviously, paige was missing something. she didn’t even have the brainwidth to try and figure it out. she was lost looking at azzi’s mouth as she spoke. her mouth and her perfect fucking teeth.

“uh…  list for—” she blinked out of her trance. “list for what?”

“for the barbecue?” azzi sounded like this was something paige was supposed to know. “amy's barbecue at the park tomorrow?”

paige felt her whole body kind of reset at the mention of her mother. it all came back to her. easter dinner. azzi’s gift. 

she didn't think azzi would even be a topic of conversation anymore, but here she was. 

“oh,” paige dropped her duffel at the entrance. “right.”

azzi stood from the couch and turned so she was facing paige completely. “do you need to do anything before we go or are you ready?”

“uh, nah.” paige looked around like a task would magically appear out of thin air. “we can go.”

azzi said nothing else. she just walked around the couch, grabbed her purse off the hook and opened the front door. on the way to the car, paige trailed behind her, watching the way her body moved with every step. 

she had a silk shirt on with no sleeves and an open back that showcased the muscles on her back like waves rippling under the skin. her jeans weren’t baggy, but they were loose like they were hanging off of the woman’s hips. 

azzi drove without the use of GPS. the drive wasn’t long, maybe 10 minutes. mitski sang about eggshells crumbling, and paige tried not to side-eye azzi. 

she felt an uncomfortable calmness in azzi’s car. she didn’t think twice about pushing the seat back so she could slouch and spread her legs. she wasn’t scared to have her phone laying her lap, or to keep her hair in it’s bun. with azzi, she didn’t have to have blonde waves cascading down her back, or perfect posture.

it was quiet besides the music, but not tense. that was the problem. paige wanted to talk— to converse and bond. she had questions, but something told her that conversation with azzi was dangerous for her.

the grocery store was busy, crawling with last minute shoppers grabbing hot dog buns and beers. paige and azzi were not those people. apparently, paige’s dad had left azzi with a list— written sloppily on what used to be an envelope.

paige was pushing the basket but azzi was leading. with one hand gripping the front of the cart, she guided them around. it was all going rather quickly. there was no pausing for long amounts of time, running her eyes over the shelves trying to decide what was needed. bob and his neuroticism had everything on the list specified down to the brand.

azzi pulled paige throughout the store, turning her head every now and then. she’d look at paige with raised brows and her chin tucked into her collarbone, and paige would nod, silently answering whatever question azzi was trying to ask.

they went like that until every item had been retrieved. it felt routine, like they’d done this every weekend.

unsurprisingly, the lines were filled and checkout would take longer than the actual shopping. that uncomfortable calmness was back.

“can i ask you something?” paige starting talking out of no where, causing azzi’s head to whip around so fast it looked like it hurt.

she was so fucking pretty. too pretty for bob— too pretty for anyone. no one would notice the things that paige noticed, they wouldn’t pay as much attention as she did. maybe that was the problem. maybe it was why azzi had barely spoken to paige that day, despite them having been together for over forty-five minutes.

either way, paige didn’t want silence anymore. she wanted to make the uncomfortable calmness a conversation.

azzi smiled her real smile. “yes.”

“that gift— the clothes,” paige looked for the rest of her question in azzi’s face and found nothing. “why’d you do that?”

“you deserve it.” it came out like it was the obvious answer. like azzi and paige weren't virtual strangers, and they had the kind of relationship where they gave each other random gifts for the simple fact that they deserved it.

it was absurd.

paige blinked. “what?”

azzi just looked at paige not angrily or annoyed, but with a tenderness that paige wasn't familiar with. “you deserve to feel comfortable in whatever you wear. your clothes don’t make me uncomfortable— they shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”

“oh.”

something about hearing those words, while azzi was looking at her like that, had paige at a loss for words.

she stared at azzi, who despite knowing nothing about paige, was capable of saying the one thing paige thought she’d never hear. she was an ocean of beautiful confusion, and suddenly, paige wanted to drown in her.

azzi kept her eyes on paige. she didn't push paige for a response, didn't say anything at all. she just kept fucking looking.

what was paige supposed to say? what could she say that wouldn’t make her seem like she’d been silently begging for this since she was nineteen?

the answer was nothing. this conversation had to end for the sake of paige’s pride.

she shook her head and tried to put some bass in her voice to counteract the softness that was flooding her. she failed miserably.

“why winter clothes?” her voice came out more choked and grovel-ly than prideful and indifferent.

she’d tried to sound like she didn't care, like she still had no skin in the game and nothing to lose. but she knew the look on her face said she had everything to lose. she just hoped that it didn't also say she was considering losing it in azzi.

the difference in azzi was becoming abundantly clear. it was sickening and it made paige’s head spin in the best way.

she watched azzi close her eyes and open them again. it wasn’t a blink. it was something slower and more intentional than that.

“bob told me about the christmas photo situation that happened a few years ago.” that smile stretched across azzi’s face once again. “i want you to like what you wear in the picture this year.”

of course he did. of course he’d told her about one the most embarrassing moments of paige’s life. he’d probably brought it up in casual conversation, too. it probably wasn’t that big of a deal to him. actually, paige knew it wasn’t. nothing was that big of a deal to her father.

azzi had got those clothes because she felt bad for paige. and if it was anyone else, paige would have gotten pissed off. she’d have demanded that azzi take the clothes back, and told her that she didn’t need her sympathy.

but something in paige lit up. something bloomed at the concept of having this woman’s sympathy. she could have just minded her business. she could have been like everyone else and pretended not to see what was going on between paige and her parents. but she didn’t.

she’d wear that outfit for christmas this year. she’d wear it all— down to the fucking briefs. she’d argue with her father and tell her mother to go to fucking hell, because azzi wanted her to like what she wore in the photo this year.

azzi was moving. it took four steps for her to get around the basket but she took another one anyway. she and paige were nearly chest-to-chest. “did they fit?”

paige almost didn’t hear a word she said. she was too busy watching azzi’s mouth as it moved. she thought she could feel the wind when azzi blinked. she was painfully aware of everything about the woman in front of her.

“huh?” paige felt hot, like her whole body was beet red with heat. she shoved her hands in her pockets to hide the way her fingers were practically twitching. “sorry i— what was your question?”