this isn't a love story.

I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT YOU ANYMORE.     independent GUINEVERE BECK from netflix’s YOU. written by bee (24, she/they, est).

             neither  inclined  to  take  the  apology  nor  to  acknowledge  the  gratitude,  travis  simply  gives  a  sniff  in  return,  a  response  that  shows  just  how  much  the  sheriff  prickled  with  irritation.  should  traivs  have  it  his  way,  he’d  blocked  off  any  entrance  coming  into  north  kill,  only  allowing  himself  and  his  family  in  and  out  of  the  small  town  and  up  to  the  quarry.  it’d  be  safer  that  way,  for  the  hackett’s,  and  any  other  person  who  decided  this  was  the  best  route  to  their  desired  destination.  but  even  if  he  had  the  right,  his  brother  wouldn’t  allow  him  it.  and  so  the  best  thing  travis  could  do  was  scare  people  off.

‘ get  in  the  car,  ma’am, ’   the  sheriff  finally  calls,  walking  away  from  her,  man  still  silhouetted  in  the  headlights  as  he  makes  his  way  back  to  the  driver’s  side  door.  left  open,  travis  could  hear  the  low  static  of  a  radio  that  no  other  sound  came  out  of.  his  brother’s  were  quiet  tonight.  that  was  a  good  sign.  it  meant  the  woods  were  quiet  for  a  reason.  even  still,  he  didn’t  want  this  woman  staying  out  here  any  longer  than  she  already  had  been, lest  she  see  something  she  shouldn’t.   ‘ don’t  got  all  night, ’   travis  barks  then,  waiting  impatiently  for  her  to  move.

     OKAY, FUCK HIM? it’s not like you fucked up the car ; some jerk made you pay way too much money and gave you a car that broke down halfway to your destination. mr. cop over there isn’t the one out cash and left stranded in the middle of literal nowhere - he probably lives somewhere around here and has a bed to fall into tonight that isn’t probably laden with bedbugs. he was probably not anticipating having to cart you around out of his way. you can understand that, at least, that you’re an INCONVIENCE. it’s not a new feeling. that doesn’t make it suck any less. still - what option do you have? “i’ve gotta get my stuff out of the car,” you say, rounding the car to open the trunk. it’s a good thing you pack LIGHT, nothing but a backpack and a small duffle which you easily hoist out before checking the bars on your watch again. JUST IN CASE. still nothing, so what other choice do you have?

eyes roll    …    thumb catching journal page’s edge  &&  continuing on to the next as apparition speaks ;  pen clicking obnoxiously .     “ ‘course  …  dirty laundry makes’a big hit . ”      she muses ,  vaguely wondering which shelf the memoir had wound up stashed upon .  inky letters continue their scrawl across the notepad in her lap as nora speaks   …   eyes down .   “ —  congrats on that . ”

         what do you do, when your sister’s boyfriend turns out to be a serial killer? when he kidnaps her and nearly kills her, and she turns all of that pain into a glory of ink and paper that bookstores can’t seem to keep on the shelves? if you’re anya, you don’t read the book at all. you buy as many as you can afford, and you give them away. all but one, which you keep hidden. slipped into a shoebox tucked beneath your bed. and then you help her move. just as anya had done, was doing, now. they haven’t spoken very much, and though that’s not exactly unusual, it’s strange in the intensity of it. as if there are things neither of them want to say, words that fling themselves forward anyway. 

         leaning against the counter, she picks up the wine and smiles, gives a little shrug. sips the wine, as though she knows exactly what she’s looking for in taste and bite and bouquet, whatever the hell else. “for what?” she asks, a brave attempt to break through it all, to lighten the move. “helping you move? i think i’ve lifted a grand total of two boxes since i’ve been here. but, though i hardly think that effort deserves the best wine i’ve ever known you to buy, i’ll accept it.” another sip, and she glances around the unfamiliar space. wonders how empty it’s going to feel, when she leaves. if her sister will ever feel safe behind open windows again. “i got you something, actually,” she says. leaves her wine to find the purse she’d left by the door. pulls out a gift-bag, tufts of tissue paper bursting from the top. “a little housewarming gift.” a montblanc pen, one she’d been saving for, is tucked into a box within the nest of tissue. “well.” a little roll of her eyes, classic anya. “clyde and i got you something.” 

     YOU FILL A GLASS OF YOUR OWN AND PRETEND YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE YOU’RE SUFFOCATING. this place feels better than your old one already - - - high enough that no one can see through your window from the street. the blinds are closed anyways. whatever you do, beck, don’t think about joe sending a rock through your window on accident. don’t think about how many times he must have stood there, watching you. don’t think about it. you smile a little, instead, and raise your glass to your lips and drink deep. “it’s not like it’s a high bar. this one came in a bottle instead of a box, so,” you raise the half-empty bottle as if to emphasize the point before setting it down on the kitchen island. another thing you didn’t think you’d ever have. it feels like it was paid in blood money, your blood and peach and benji and god, maybe candace, too. the police are looking into that one now.

█▐   @blubrds​​​​​​​​​ ,  ᵍᵘᶤᶰᵉᵛᵉʳᵉ ᵇᵉᶜᵏ   …   liked .

“ i’m just sayin’ ,   there’s easier ways to get through life than lettin’ people know all your business. ”

     TODAY ISN’T A GOOD DAY. there’s something doctor nicky used to say about negative thinking, about how deciding a day is bad means you’ll see it as bad no matter what, but you’re doing your best to forget everything he said to you - - - even things you might have found helpful before. especially those ones. you’re pretty sure he lost his license, last you heard, SO. it’s a bad day, and it keeps getting worse by the minute. your phone in shards on the pavement is enough to decide that, even if you had slept the night before instead of pacing and smoking your newfound bad habit of rooftop cigarettes.

     YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO TALK TO HER ANYMORE. well - you never did, but you’re worse at pretending now. the idea of a task being there to make it easier had seemed like a good idea ; who else would you ask to help you move? blythe and annika and lynn are still around, obviously, and would come if you asked, but they would also stare at you with their wide eyes and talk too softly. ethan is too horrified by it all to even look at you these days. at least you can afford MOVERS now, who have carted your things up the elevator ( elevator building money ) and unpacked them and put the things in the rooms you asked.