Lights, Camera, Magic ✨ 🎥 🪄 chapter 55
oh, you're the holiest thing I know...
Sorry for disappearing yet again. Life has been crazy hectic, but I've been itching to finally, finally get this next chapter finished. It's been a labour of love that's taken me months. Good news is that a good chunk of chapter 56 is already written, so I promise I won't keep you waiting half as long for the next one.
Everyone say thank you to @agathaspett for helping put together the visuals for this chapter, and to @grilledcheeseandguavajelly for being the best beta a gal could ask for. 🖤
Please check the new tags, enjoy (yet another) playlist, and I hope this makes up for big bad director's absence.
That’s the first thing you see when your eyes crack open the next morning.
Because Tuesday arrives in soft, tender, merciful blue.
Not the bright white of Malibu, or the colourless nothing of the void, or the grey of every morning you woke up alone.
It’s all blue. Blue glow from somewhere you can’t place yet. Blue eyes that find yours before you’re fully awake.
You stir in the sheets, reaching on instinct for the woman you dreamed of all night. For the woman your body has reached for every morning for 10 days and never once found. For the arm that was draped over your waist when you fell asleep and the heartbeat your ear was pressed to when you begged her to stay.
Instead, you soon realise Agatha is sat up in your bed, propped against your pillows at your headboard, with your Mitski tee still on her body and her oversized reading glasses perched on the end of her perfect nose. She’s bathed in the blue glow of her laptop, busying herself in the dark with whatever directors busy themselves with when the rest of the world is still asleep.
And even in your sleepy stupor, you catch the exact moment her eyes flick from you then back to the screen. Quick enough to be casual. Not quick enough to fool a girl who’s spent months studying every micro-expression on that beautiful face.
“Agatha?” you murmur groggily, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
“Morning you,” she whispers.
But that gorgeous, sleep-rasped morning voice of hers that you adore? It isn’t there, because it sounds like she’s been up for hours.
She has that far-too-awake look you recognise from the last time you spent the night together. When she wouldn’t sleep—couldn’t sleep—because of you, and you’d woken up gasping in her giant four-poster bed and found blues already waiting for you in the dark.
The night she’d watched you sleep because she was terrified you’d sleepwalk into her secrets again, before she showed you the sunrise that’s been living on her home screen ever since.
She’d been afraid of what you knew then.
You wonder what she’s afraid of you knowing now.
