phobo.ss

a/n: hey everyone!! heads up: almost as sad as the sfyf

i really liked the dual pov structure, so in the future parts i intend to keep it. Sadly this time i couldn't find the theme that would echo in the both povs, so they are just mentioned and the part is shorter. really sorry :(

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hey r u ok ian just told us u left wtf please answer your phone say at least smth

***

The next few days felt like torn up hazy memories, diluted by anesthetics and then followed by a stunned sense of loss. Akin to getting a tooth removed and then immediately poking your tongue over and over the empty space. Or chewing on your lips, in some twisted sense fascinated by their numbness.

You sold your bike. That was literally the first checkmark in your list. Another part of your identity erased. Shouldn’t you feel better now? Safer? Somehow, this didn’t bring a sense of completion. Only more hollowness.

You'd arranged it before leaving LA: found a buyer through a forum, exchanged photos and questions, agreed on a price. Clean, no-questions-asked transaction you'd become adept at. But knowing you would sell it and actually doing it were different things entirely.

The buyer was nice. A young woman who'd been saving for months, who ran her hands over the frame with the kind of reverence you recognized. She talked about trips she wanted to take, roads she wanted to see, and you nodded and smiled and felt something fizzle out in your chest.

But the actual parting took longer than the transaction.

You'd sat on the bike that morning, before the buyer arrived. Just sat there in the motel parking lot, the leather cold beneath you, hands resting on the handlebars, helmet in your lap. You weren't sure how long you stayed like that. Maybe minutes, maybe longer. Who’s counting? Your fingers ghosted across the handlebars, tracing the grips you'd replaced yourself, the scratches on the tank and the dent from the time you'd laid it down on a gravel road and walked away with nothing but a bruised hip and a laugh that you'd shared with the friend who'd been following behind.

Every mark was a small story, another little memory, another insignificant part of you. Yeah. Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe denial will make it easier.

It was just metal. Just rubber. Just a machine you'd bought with money from a job you no longer had, to commute to a life you no longer lived.

… It's not that simple though, is it? It's the thing that carried you through highways at sunsets, through the city at sunrises. To various destinations, be those picturesque landscapes or mundane office buildings. Your loyal metal steed. You remember giving rides to your friends. Angela, when she forgot that she was scheduled for the livestream later that day, so you picked her up from the rehearsals and brought her to the Smosh HQ in record time. Ian for a meeting on the other end of LA. You often “rescued” anyone from a bad date – literally all it took was a simple message along the lines of “this is a disaster, save me, here’s location” – and you’d immediately take off. Need to deliver paperwork or yourself through LA traffic? Call Y/N, she’s always ready to slack off help. How many memes were made about you and your bike?

“Ah yes. Me. My girlfriend. And her thousands of dollars worth motorcycle" (c) Y/N’s partner, probably

You remember wheezing like a tea kettle when you saw this on Who Memed It.

When you couldn’t fall asleep, you’d ride around the city, with buildings whooshing past you, with lights reflecting off your helmet. You’d get some random junk food and stay in the parking lot, comfortably lounging on your metal steed as you munched on fries or something else.

So many rides, small or big, short or long, each and every one a memory, a part of you. The only place you could breathe when your lungs were full of other people's expectations. The purring of the engine providing comfort on a bad morning. The wind in your face when you weren’t sure where exactly you were going but knew you'd get there anyway. Literal wind under your wings, not letting you fall to your demise.

It felt absurd, what you did next. But the parking lot was empty and the buyer wasn't due for another twenty minutes and there was no one to see you lean forward, press your forehead against the handlebars, and whisper.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You were good to me. You were the best part of me. I–

You couldn't finish. Your throat closed.

The new owner will take good care of you. I can feel that. She'll take you places. Better places. Much better than meaninglessly driving around the same roads over and over, right? And so much better than collecting dust in the parking lot. 

So be good to her, okay? Be as steady and reliable as you were to me. 

The words felt stupid. The bike didn't care. The bike was a collection of parts that might be taken apart and put back together and ridden by someone else who would never know the routes you'd memorized, the shortcuts you'd found, the way you'd felt the first time you'd sped up on an empty highway or lane-hopped in busy LA traffic and realized you could go anywhere.

You whispered another apology. A promise that you'd remember. That you'd be grateful. That this was a necessary step and not a case of betrayal or abandonment.

You climbed off for the last time. For the last time ran your fingers along the seat.

Transaction took no longer than ten minutes. You signed the title. Cash exchanged hands. You handed the keys along with your helmet to the buyer. And she drove off, and you stood in the parking lot and your eyes followed her rapidly retreating silhouette until it was nothing more than a speck, and then until it was nothing.

You didn't cry. Used up whatever tears were left on the highway.

***

Then was the intercity bus. A Greyhound or maybe a Flix – something of that caliber. No matter what’s the end destination – just gotta put even more distance between yourself and everything you’ve been.

You found a seat near the back, by the window. It was vinyl, cracked at the seams, and the woman beside you smelled like cigarettes and something floral. You pulled your drugstore mask up, tugged the hood down, and pressed your head against the window. 

It was going to be a long road.

The landscape changed slowly at first. Streets gave way to highways, highways to open road. Buildings thinned, then disappeared, replaced by brown hills and stretches of nothing. You watched it all without really seeing it, with your eyes tracking the horizon while your mind stayed somewhere else. 

Everything felt distant. Muffled. Like you were watching yourself from the outside. A version of you sitting on a bus, going somewhere you'd never been, leaving everything you'd ever loved.

The hum of the engine vibrated through your bones. The woman beside you snored. The hours passed in a kind of trance, the world sliding past the window in shades of brown and gray. And you sat very still and felt like none of it was real. You didn't sleep. You thought you might, that the exhaustion would finally catch up with you, but your body had moved past exhaustion into something else. Some kind of trance.

This isn't happening – a distant thought shining through the haze. In the back of your mind you wondered if just like in “Inside Out”, your control console also slowly turned dark and useless. This isn't me. I'm still in LA. I'm still–

The bus hit a bump. Your forehead knocked against the glass. The sting was blunt, grounding.

It was happening. It was you. After everything, was it still you?

You adjusted the mask and kept watching the road.

***

Then you got a car. Maybe a few days after, maybe a week later. So accustomed to the busy schedule of LA, so dependent on it – you were already losing track of days without it. Losing your ties with reality.

You’d lost count of the towns you've passed through, the motels you've stayed in, the diners where you've sat in booths with your back to the wall and eaten food you couldn't taste. 

You'd been methodical. A written and rewritten plan was now etched behind your eyelids, and you followed it like a map.

Find a used car. Pay cash. Something unremarkable, something that wouldn't draw attention.

The car you found was a sedan, ten years old, beige, with a dent in the passenger door and a thin crack in the dashboard that ran from the radio to the glove compartment. It had belonged to someone's grandmother, the seller said. It had been driven to church and the grocery store and nowhere else. It had never been on a highway. It had never been over sixty miles an hour.

Unremarkable. Common. 

Good enough.  

Maybe you’ll show it new places. Maybe you’ll be able to rediscover your driving rituals. Maybe it will be even more comfortable to lounge on.

You drove off, windows down and no radio. 

“'Cause somebody stole my car radio And now I just sit in silence”

***

Oh, who were you kidding?! This sucks.

Not because it was a bad car – by any means it wasn't. It ran smoothly, the AC worked, the seats were worn in comfortable ways.

It was nothing like your bike. (Well, it’s not even yours anymore, stop grieving). Not even close. Sure, that was the intention – but it still felt awfully off.

The bike had been loud and fast and yours. It had been an extension of your body, something you could lean into, something that responded to your weight, your breath, your intention. This car was a box on wheels. It rattled at stop signs. It groaned when you accelerated. It smelled like old upholstery and the pine air freshener you got at a gas station because you needed something that wasn't this smell.

You tried to make it a ritual, like in the good old days. The open road. The changing landscape. The freedom of going anywhere, being anyone.

It wasn't the same. Never could be. Never would. 

***

Following the winds, the tides, sometimes a simple coin flip, you were making your way. Randomise it, don’t listen for the calling of places your subconscious was luring you to. 

Your compass was a flimsy thing, forged of planning, knowing and hoping. The plan was the casing: fool-proof, made during sleepless nights, along with maps and spreadsheets. Just in case. (GPS might not work everywhere and you should never rely entirely on it). Knowing was the arrow: magnetised by your certainty that your poisonous presence was ruining them, it pointed to the only direction that promised safety for everyone. Away. Calibrated so precisely, it no longer knew how to swing any other way. And, finally, hoping – it was the glass face. Clear, delicate. The first thing to shatter if the compass was ever dropped. 

***

The motel rooms blurred together after a while. Each and every one the same: same scratchy sheets, same humming AC, same smell of cleaner and stale air. The same silence. The same loneliness.

You had a plan. A pinch of hope, fueling you. I’m not ruining anything now. That was the thought you held onto, the one that got you through the first few days, the one that let you pack up everything and flee, sell the bike and board the bus and buy the car. You were doing this for them. (Were you? Or was running just the only strategy in your arsenal of problem-solving?) 

I am saving them. That is worth any price.

But no amount of planning could’ve prepared you for this. This hollow ache that was lodged in your chest now, constant and familiar. Similar to a loose tooth you couldn't stop worrying with your tongue.

“Sometimes quiet is violent”

The silence was worse than you'd expected. So much worse. It filled your ears and your chest and your head, and whenever you closed your eyes it got even worse. It felt heavy and oppressive and pressed against your ears until you could hear your own heartbeat.

Who could’ve known? Were you ever able to foresee this? 

There was always someone to talk to, something to do, somewhere to be. Would you believe – after spending years in your social circle, surrounded by people you loved, by people you cherished. With years on the job you really liked... Could you predict that you wouldn't be able to stand yourself alone in the room? 

Shouldn't you be used to this? The question surfaced on the fourth night, or the fifth, or somewhere in between.

How many weeks did you spend isolating in your flat or just driving around LA, ditching social gatherings? Weeks of canceled plans, ignored messages, excuses you'd stopped bothering to make. Shouldn’t that have desensitized you enough?

Shouldn't you be familiar with this loneliness? – but at least then you had a lot of other things to keep you sane.

Now you didn't.

No more music to fill the silence. (Your favourite artist or from the playlist you shared with Arasha). No more YouTube to distract you from the scary place that your headspace had become. Do you really miss the busy hum of the editing bay in the late evening?

Now you didn't have Courtney’s links to obscure shows you wouldn’t usually watch, sent with the note you'd hate this and the unspoken understanding that you'd watch it anyway.

Once, a lifetime ago, you had Spencer's three AM texts. You awake? nvm, I know you are. Check this out.

A lifetime ago, you had a lot of things. (Should’ve cherished them more.) 

Angela's laugh in the kitchen or the hallway, with Chanse trying to nap on the sofa and continuously begging her to shut up. Courtney's (exclusive for people they love) coffee runs, always with an order for you. Olivia’s quiet munching on some fruit snack, listening intently to your rant about LA traffic. Amanda's misunderstanding of some obscure reference, (and you explaining it, shushing Shayne’s snickering in the background). Damien’s gushing about his cats. Arasha’s complaining about the cold weather, while clinging to you because she totally forgot her heating pad. Trevor’s pretending that he’s not a sports nerd while raving to you about basketball. Shayne's laugh, loud and bright, filling whatever room he was in. Spencer and Alex’s rants about another game, asking or rejecting for your input. The way Ian or Anthony would lean in the doorway of the room and just watch for a minute, almost like taking inventory, making sure everyone was okay.

You had all of it, and now–

No more of that.

No more 3 am texts to Spencer or Tommy or Courtney, half-coherent, confessional, met with responses that always made you feel less alone. 

I’m going insane. Well wait for me, I too am going there

Or a little more straightforward:

 I can't sleep, my thoughts are too loud.  What kind of loud?

Sometimes it was just simple “can i call you?” and the rest of the night became so much more easier, so much more bearable. 

Sometimes you would talk. Sometimes you’d stay quiet for the first half and listen to the voice on the other end going off about different shows, talking about nothing, talking about everything. Talking until your thoughts became quieter, until you could fall into the arms of Morpheus.

Tommy's barking-wheezing signature laugh when you’d say something close to a late night-early morning epiphany about…something. Be those infamous “everything is either a salad, soup or a sandwich” (and him immediately yes-and-ing this shit, like “No, everything is actually just salad. Think about it.”) or something pretentiously philosophical, like “you’d never truly know how many times someone almost called or almost texted… Almost said something but at the very last second decided not to.”

And he’d hum, appreciating your genius, and he’d tell you to let go of your phone and try to go to sleep.

Sometimes it was Spencer hooking up Discord and streaming to you the latest game he found interesting, narrating in his usual deadpan, making you snort at his commentary. Sometimes you’d even join the playthrough, even going as far as roping Alex into it. How many games have you completed together? How many will be completed without you?

This train of thought slowly brought you to gamenights. More often than not they were spontaneous: you just stayed behind in the building, lounged on the couch while they were working, throwing snacks or ideas at them. And then something would happen – and it would be past midnight, and you would be on the floor, snatching the rules from each other’s hands and arguing, arguing, arguing. Someone would order pizza – or send you to get one because “this would be so much faster, c’mon”. 

When was the last one? Did you know, then, that it was the last? You'd probably been planning the escape even then, with boxes slowly accumulating in the storage unit, with the email being drafted and deleted and drafted again. Have you looked around the room and thought “I'm leaving this”? Or have you just been there, present, pretending you weren't already gone?

You’re not sure you know. Can’t remember. The memories are there, but they feel like they belong to someone else.

You can’t help but wonder if there are enough games in the SG vault to last your departure.

***

What was the last text message you’ve sent? 

Why is it so hard to remember? It was something mundane, probably. A response to a group chat. An emoji. A joke. Some obscure meme. Nothing that would make anyone look back and think this is goodbye.

How many text messages would disappear in the digital void, forever unanswered?

The silence of the room grew teeth.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You felt like vomiting, so suddenly filled with grief and loss and fear and missing them and everything everything everything else.

You need to hear a voice. You need to, or you will go insane.

Blood pulsated in your ears, the pounding of your own heart has long surpassed the normal BPM and was now thundering in your eardrums. Your body moved before you could decide. You swung off the bed, hit your knee on the nightstand, and lunged for the backpack. Your fingers flexed as you erratically digged in for your phone. The zipper jammed as you yanked it, a sharp sound in the quiet room. Junk spilled out: a tampon, loose change, a chapstick lid. And you clawed past them, with fingers scraping against the nylon bottom.

“Come on, come on,” frantic, whispering chant. Your mind is already dialing, the numbers lighting up behind your eyes. The whole stupid, terrifying story will just tumble out and the voice on the other end will say stay put, I’m coming, and it will be like a rope pulling you back to the real world, and it would be like being found.

Your fingers close around a hard, rectangular shape. A surge of relief so potent it’s almost dizzying.

You wrench it out.

It’s not your phone. It’s the burner. The cheap, matte-black plastic is alien in your palm. A dead weight. The screen is dark. It isn’t yours. You don’t have yours. You left it in the unit, thinking it could easily be tracked. (Or were you already aware, even then, that your judgement would slip and you would try something like this?) The thought hits you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

The frantic energy dies. Your hands go still, resting on the pile of discarded belongings. You just stare at the burner. You can’t call. You can’t call anyone you know. That was the whole point. Your shoulders slump, a slow, heavy collapse under the weight of the world that you solely imposed upon yourself.

You force yourself to lay back on the bed. The backpack stayed on the floor, ravaged and wrecked. Looking at you condemnatory. You turn away from it. 

The ceiling was still white. Unmarked. There was nothing to look at, nothing to distract you, nothing between you and the tightest and noisiest coil of thoughts.

You closed your eyes.

You knew this would be hard, you told yourself. You knew. You planned for this. You prepared.

But knowing didn't make the silence quieter. It didn't fill the space where your friends used to be. It didn't give you back the sound of Spencer's keyboard at 3 AM, or Alex's laugh, or the way Tommy said your name, calm and grounding.

You turned over in the bed. The sheets were rough against your skin. The window faced a parking lot. The clock on the nightstand blinked 3:47 AM, then 3:48, then 3:49.

You watched it. Watched the numbers change. Waited for something that wouldn't come, wouldn’t get through.

You didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

You just laid in the dark, watching the clock, letting the silence devour you.

Staring at the printed photo.

***

What's going on? Are you okay??

Everyone is agreed that you wouldn’t leave so easily. Not like that, not without explaining at least something But Shayne remembers how you were in the olden days. He said you often tended to run from your problems instead of dealing with them head on. I hope we weren’t the problem. That you didn’t run from us. But sometimes, late at night, I can't help but analyze everything. You bailed on a lot of social gatherings. I don’t think I ever realized this… Did you get sick from us? Was it something we did? I checked the calendar - what if we forgot your birthday or something. silly, I know. You'd laugh We didn’t though.

I hope you’re alright, wherever you are. Come back soon.

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a/n: today on a shorter side, yeah.. sorry :( ( . ‸ .)

Was formatting okay?

What did you think? What small moments would you like to see in the future?

Thank you everyone for reading and your comments and likes and support and literally everything! This means the world to me <3

Also, um sidenote, would anyone perhaps be interested in little fluffy interlude ficlets that could be read as standalones? Just expanding random aforementioned moments? Tell me your thoughts!

p.s.: i know that the compass thing might’ve felt out of place, but i liked this image so very much that i decided to include it anyway :p

p.p.s.: sorry if that was too sad

Once again my apologies for any grammar/spelling/punctuation mistakes – (English is not my first language) and for any inconsistencies with weather/roads/etc – zero idea how things work in LA or US as a whole.

a/n: Hi everyone!! Here's the "day zero" part while I’m figuring out the pacing of the “off-grid” arc, so I can both portray R’s feelings but also not make it too long. Bc is it even a smosh x reader without smosh??

But every chapter will have some flashbacks or cast pov so you're not too bored! :] (you can just read them as you wait for the “Reunion” lol)

Also for now the “catalyst” of all this angst is just heavily hinted at, but do tell me if you’d prefer to piece it by yourself and then be fully revealed when R has to talk to her friends. Or if you'd liked it sooner, somewhere along the “off-grid” chapters

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This day felt almost like a bad fever dream. 

It was the end of the quarter. The shoot week wrapped yesterday. Most of the cast and crew were taking a well-earned breather. Only the editors and the people scheduled for a livestream later that afternoon were in the building. And, of course, Ian. Anthony would come in a little later, as today was promised to be more of a chill day.

That was until Ian got the email.

The art department sorted props for upcoming shoots. A few producers clustered around a monitor, reviewing footage. Somewhere in the cafeteria, Angela was still fuming about Shayne cheating during Moose Master, her voice carrying down the hallway as she cornered Amanda for a rehash.

“I still can’t believe he did that. How is that even–”

“Angela, you literally changed the rules mid-round.”

“That was strategically right decision! And, my brilliant plan was following the actual rules!”

Same old story. Regular chaos, neatly contained in the scheduled breaks.

The door of Ian’s office slammed, interrupting the chatter. A rather rare occurrence, as now almost nothing could faze the people working here. But this sharp and unfamiliar crack of the door against its frame registered across the hall. Ian didn't slam doors, even when playing douchebags. He was the calm one. Nonchalant. Steady and reliable. Sure, maybe it rarely registered during filming, but he was the one who carried this company through the collapse of Defy, the chaos of acquisition, and a dozen other crises that should have broken him. Could’ve broken them. 

The man who emerged from the office now had none of that steadiness. His face was pale. His phone was pressed to his ear. He didn't look at anyone as he fast-walked across the halls, his strides too quick, his shoulders too tight.

Angela's complaint died mid-sentence. She exchanged a glance with Amanda. “What's up with him?”

Amanda didn't even have time for an answer, as their rather worried looking “boss” fast-walked past them and hurried down the corridor. They exchanged confused glances, their eyes following his rapidly retreating silhouette. 

Ian looked down, fumbling with his phone to call you. (Not the first time. He called you the second he read the subject line but was met with your answering machine.) The phone rang. Once. Twice. Notified him of your phone being turned off.

He hung up. Dialed again. Should he keep doing that? It’s clear he won’t be able to reach you. But something like intuition or "spider senses” or whatever the hell was this sense of impending doom was waving red alert flags in the back of his mind. The same gut feeling that urged him to get out of the office and check up on you in the first place. Sure, maybe this was a little unconventional to check up on a coworker without a notice – but you were are a good friend, a close confidant. So how can he leave it at that?

He was so focused on the screen, on the call connecting, disconnecting, connecting again, that he almost didn't see the person coming through the door from the parking lot. His shoulder connected with Anthony's chest before either of them could react.

“Whoa.” Anthony caught his balance, an amused smile starting and then faltering as he took in his friend's face. “You okay?”

“Gotta check on something.” Ian was already moving past him, already reaching for his keys. “I'll text you.”

“Are you sure? Should I come with you?”

Ian shook his head, frantically reaching for his car keys. Didn't stop walking. The door to the parking lot swung shut behind him, leaving Anthony standing in the corridor, the smile gone, something uneasy settling into its place.

The heat hit Ian like a wall. Los Angeles sun already brutal at what… nine? ten? He'd lost track. His car keys were slick in his hand. He yanked the door open, dropped into the driver's seat, and dialed her number again before his seatbelt was buckled.

“Hi! You've reached Y/N. I'm not available right now–”

He ended the call. Gripped the steering wheel so tight its leather casing creaked plaintively under his fingers. The email was still open on his phone. He read it again, words starting to slowly etch themselves under his eyelids.

He should forward this. To Ale. To Nate. To someone who would know what to do, someone who would see something he was missing. His thumb hovered over the forward button. Then stopped.

If he did it, it would become real. Acknowledged. Documented. And some part of him, (some desperate, irrational part), wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Maybe it’s just a cruel joke? Some prank, following Arasha’s footsteps to shock everyone once again. Sure, you weren’t the type, but still. Anything was possible in this workplace.

He saved a draft. Lit the ignition and started the car. 

***

The city was its usual self. Construction on every other street. Hot LA sun kept shining, glinting off windshields, blinding him at intersections. Drivers kept being assholes and his calls were still being sent straight to voicemail. 

He called you again at a red light. Voicemail. Called again while merging onto the freeway. Voicemail.

“Hi! You've reached–”

He hung up before the beep. Then, at the next light, he called back and listened to the whole message, waiting for the tone.

“Hi! You’ve reached Y/N. I'm not available right now. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you shortly.”

“Hey, Y/N.” His voice came out hoarser than he expected. He cleared his throat. “I… what's going on? Please call back. I'm very worried.”

He ended the call. The light turned green. 

He didn't remember the rest of the drive or how long it took. Later, he would try to piece it together: the exits he'd taken, the turns he'd made – and come up blank. Buildings flashed past. Highways merged and split. His brain was caught in a loop: email, voicemail, empty desk in the corner of his eye, email.

He pulled up to your building without consciously deciding to park. There was no designated spot, so he stopped at the curb, half on the sidewalk, and didn't care. His seatbelt caught as he tried to stand – he'd forgotten to unbuckle it. A stupid, clumsy fumble that made his heart hammer faster.

He sprang out of the car. Dialed your number again, more of an automatic rather than a thought out action. Ran.

The building was a maze of identical hallways, identical doors, identical potted plants that no one watered. He'd been here once or twice, months ago, for a cast party, and even then he'd gotten lost. But his feet somehow found the way now, as if they'd been waiting. Up the staircase, down the corridor, each step making the pit in his stomach grow with unease and worry.

Your door was at the end of the hall. Unmarked, like all the others, except for a small wreath you'd hung last winter and never taken down. He pressed the doorbell. Waited. Listened.

Silence.

He knocked. Three sharp raps that echoed down the corridor. Waited. Nothing.

He pressed his forehead against the doorframe. The wood was warm from the morning sun. Somewhere in the building, a dog barked. A door opened and closed. Normal sounds. A normal day.

His hand fell limply to his side. He was about to knock again, (because what else could he do?), when something caught his eye.

A small lump under the doormat.

He stared at it for a long moment. Then bent down, lifted the mat, and found a set of keys. Almost like they were waiting to be discovered.

“Are you fucking kidding me..?” The words came out half a laugh, half something entirely else. “Bro, what the hell..? This is so unsafe.” 

He held the keys up, the metal ring warm from the concrete, recognizing the keychain immediately. A small acrylic charm, your favorite character from some show he'd never watched. You'd shown it to him once, laughing at yourself for still buying keychains. “It's stupid, I know.” He'd said it was cool. He, for the love of god, can't remember the name now. Can't remember anything but the way you'd smiled, embarrassed and pleased at the same time.

He knocks for the last time before inserting the key and turning it. At least you locked the door. At least there was that.

Ian gently turns the handle, slowly pushes the door open and steps in, announcing that he comes in. Softly calling out your name. The last ditch effort in hope of hearing your annoyed voice

Irrationally expecting that you are just asleep, or in the shower, or somewhere else in the apartment, that at any second now you'd emerge from a room, rubbing your ever-tired eyes and say something like “Jesus, Ian, you don't have to storm the building. I just overslept.” Please. Anything. He'd take anything.

Still, your voice never came back. And the silence at the end of a question mark deafened him. The apartment was dark. And quiet. Eerily so. Curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the daylight. He fumbled for a switch, found nothing, and stepped further in.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as he took in the small combined living-dining area, searching for whatever was instilling the deep sense of unease in his bones. 

“Hello?” His voice sounded so loud in the quiet. “Y/N? Please tell me this is some awful prank. I promise I won't fire you. I won't tell HR. You can even boast later about how you scared me shitless.”

C’mon, say something. Emerge from the shadows. Laugh at the palpable distress in my voice. 

His eyes anxiously scanned the room, erratically jumping from surface to surface. The furniture was still there: soft carpet that muffled his steps, the couch with carefully arranged pillows, the coffee table, the bookshelf. But it felt fake, had a staged-like quality to it. Something similar to a showroom or an Instagram “minimalist-style interior design ideas” photo. Which was so not your style. Nothing personal. No clutter, no stray mugs, no stacks of scripts you'd been meaning to read. The bookshelf, he realized, felt strangely empty. No figurines or little knick-knacks that were so inherently you. Not a shiny rock or dried flower in sight. Your prized dice collection nowhere to be seen. Only a couple of books were still there, looking rather lonely in the absence of other things.

He finally noticed a lightswitch and as the room flooded with illumination, the details in his mind finally clicked into place.

Your shoes were gone, so was your signature helmet that was usually residing on top of the shelf next to the door. The rack by the door was empty. He scanned the entryway again – no jacket, no bag, no keys. Just the bare surfaces of a life that had been packed away.

Sharp and sudden noise shakes Ian, jolting him away from the evergrowing pit in his stomach. His own ringtone scared the hell out of him. Ian flinched so hard he nearly dropped the phone, his heart slamming against his ribs before he even registered the caller ID.

Anthony.

He answered, his voice coming out so much steadier than he felt. “Hey.”

“Hey. What's going on?” Anthony's tone was carefully light, but there was an edge underneath. “Are you okay?”

“Uh.. Yeah, I…” Ian moved toward the bedroom, his eyes still scanning. “Have you checked the, uhm, emails?”

“Emails? What, is something going on with the channel? Nothing in the company inbox or my own.”

“I take it I was the only one punched in the solar plexus this morning.” Ian reached the bedroom doorway. Paused. “Um.. I’ll send it to you right now, don't hang up.”

“Okay..?” The line was quiet for a moment. “What's happening? Your tone is really worrying.”

“Oh, don't you worry.” Ian's laugh was hollow. “You'll be joining the worried club in a second.”

He forwarded the email. Stood in the doorway, taking in the dark bedroom. The bed was made. The closet door was open, revealing mostly empty hangers. A single suitcase sat in the corner – he squinted his eyes: no, not a suitcase. A bag of things you'd meant to donate, maybe. Things that hadn't made the cut.

On the other end of the line, Anthony read. The silence stretched.

“What the–” A sharp intake of breath. “What the fuck?!”

“Uh huh.” Ian stepped into the bedroom. “Same.”

“Where is she? Have you called her? What does this even–”

Ian exhaled, taking tentative steps further and further, checking the room. “So I got to her place and she's…not here. As, like, half of her stuff, but I'm not sure.” 

“Maybe… some family emergency? Something happened and she had to leave fast?”

“With that wording?” Ian opened a drawer in the nightstand. Empty. “I wish. The key was under the doormat.”

The silence on the other side of the call was heavy. Then came a soft thud of Anthony’s head coming in contact with the wooden surface of the desk. 

“I'm going to check for a note,” Ian said, already moving back toward the living room. “Then I'll come back. Try reaching her. Maybe you'll have better luck.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Anthony's voice was muffled. “Okay, yeah. I’ll tell Ale and then we’ll wait for you.”

The line went dead. Ian kept the phone in his hand – something to fumble with, to keep his hands busy.

He checked the bathroom. Empty. The counter wiped clean, no toothbrush, no toothpaste.

He took the living room in full: empty shelves, blank walls, coffee table bare except for a single coaster. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.

He checked the kitchen. Counters clear. Dishwasher empty. A single mug in the drying rack, left behind by accident or intention. Cupboards lined with simple white dishes and bowls. Wait. Didn’t you have a collection of mismatched plates? Those, with different designs and patterns? He distinctly remembers you showing off photos of a new ceramic with poppies imagery that you picked up while thrifting with Angela.

Where are those?

He checked the small desk in the corner, the one you usually used for your laptop. Nothing. Not even a stray sticky note.

Please tell me you had the decency to leave something more than an ominously worded email. A letter. Folded neatly on the table. Or tucked into an envelope. Something cliche. Something that would make this feel less like–

He opened the desk drawer.

Empty.

Ian stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty drawer, the empty room, the empty space where a person should have been. With a flick of a switch darkness flooded the barren apartment. Settled right between the dust bunnies and the empty spaces you left.

Bone-tired, Ian walked back to the entryway and picked up the keys from the hook. The stupid keychain dangled from his fingers, catching the single ray of sunshine that got through the curtains.

He looked at it once again, racking his brains for the character’s name. Or the media it was from. Maybe he could watch it some time. Ian gently unhooked the keychain from the main ring and pocketed it.

He didn't know why he took it. Maybe because leaving it felt wrong. Maybe because it was another little proof – proof you'd been here, proof you'd left, proof this was real and not a bad dream. Oh, how he wanted to hear his alarm’s beeping and suddenly wake up.

He closed the door behind him. Locked it with the keys. Placed them back under the doormat, silently shaking his head at how stupid it was to leave them there. (Was he talking about the keys or the people?) 

Straightened up and paused. Stood in the hallway, realizing he had no idea what to do next.

The sun was higher now. The hallway was bright. Somewhere, a door opened and a voice called out, asking someone if they wanted coffee. A normal day. A normal building. A normal world that had no idea that someone had just vanished from it.

Ian trudged back to his car, suddenly exhausted. Didn't call you again, (this weight now residing on Anthony’s shoulders). Didn't forward the email. Just sat in the driver's seat, her keys in his palm, and tried to remember how to breathe. For the first time in so long he didn’t have a even the smallest clue of what could be or should be done next.

The silence was still deafening.

—✮⋆✮⋆✮—

This apartment had stopped being yours weeks ago.

Not in any legal sense. The lease still had your name on it. Your mail still arrived – or would have, if you'd be expecting anything. But somewhere between the first box of books you'd carried to the storage unit and the last bag of clothes you'd loaded onto the bike, the walls had stopped feeling like walls. The rooms had become just…containers. Something temporary. A place you were passing through rather than a place you lived in.

The apartment was so empty you felt like every breath you took reverberated across the walls. So strange how the sound echoed when there was nothing to absorb it.

You were sitting crosslegged on the floor, back against the wall, and looked at what remained. Not much, honestly. Just your backpack. And the laptop you'd been staring at for the better part of an hour. Outside, the sky had already shifted from gold to deep blue to something darker, the city settling into that strange hour that wasn't quite night but was no longer evening. The kind of hour where time seemed to hold its breath.

The packing had taken weeks. Not all at once – you'd been careful about that. A bag here. A box there. Small trips to a storage unit you'd rented under a name you'd rehearsed until it felt almost natural. The bike could only carry so much, so you'd learned to prioritize. First have been the books. The ones with cracked spines and handwritten notes in the margins. The ones that had gotten you through hard nights. The ones you'd read so many times they felt like old friends. Then the trinkets. Stupid or sentimental little things that had accumulated over the years: a keychain from a road trip, different figurines and acrylic stands, a small ceramic fox that someone had given her for no reason at all. And framed photos you'd packed face-down so you wouldn't have to look at them. Then the kitchen things. Your favourite ceramic plates you'd picked out while thrifting with Angela, the mug that Courtney had made for you at some pottery class, lopsided and glazed in messy blues and violets, with bright yellow and golden stars. The cast-iron skillet that had cost too much but was worth every penny.

Then clothes, but not all of them – just the favorites, the ones that felt the most like you. It became a little ritual: you’d take them to shoots, a different outfit for each one, a way of saying goodbye to yourself. Then you'd wash them, dry them and pack them up. Stacked and carried out in the dark.

Every little thing that had made this place lived in. Every piece of evidence that you had built something here. All of it, slowly, carefully, transported to a storage unit on the other side of the city. Paid for in cash, months in advance.

Each trip had been methodical. Quiet. You'd learned to move in the small hours, when the storage facility was empty and the streets were mostly asleep. Learned to pack in a way that didn't disturb the silence of your apartment, that left no evidence of what you were doing.

The process was almost invisible. You'd perfected invisible, first at the Smoffice and now here. You'd made sure no one saw. No watchful eyes. No cars that lingered too long. No feeling of being followed that you'd learned to trust even when it made you feel crazy.

Now, only the essentials remained. The laptop. A backpack. The clothes on your body. 

Balanced on your knees, your laptop was open in front of you. The email draft stared back, the cursor blinking at the end of the last sentence.

Out of everything you’ve done, the writing had taken the longest.

You’d rewritten the email so many times over the past few weeks that the words had lost all meaning. The first drafts had been pages long. Too emotional. You'd explained things, tried to make them understand, tried to find the right combination of words that would make this okay. Those drafts had ended with your hands shaking, face wet, chest so tight you couldn't breathe.

You'd deleted draft after draft, each one a version of goodbye that you couldn't quite send.

Now you sat on the floor of your empty apartment and was rewriting it again.

This version was short. Clinical and cynical. You'd stripped out everything except the facts. The resignation. The instructions. Cold, clean language of a business transaction.

Your fingers moved steadily across the keyboard. No hesitation. No second-guessing. The cursor blinked, patient and indifferent.

You typed in another line. Read it back. Didn't let yourself think about what it meant.

“Make a statement later if something happens and put all the blame on me.”

The attached file was different. You'd written it on a better day – or maybe a worse one, you couldn't tell anymore. It was polite. Grateful. A statement of love for the company, for the people, for the fans. An apology for stepping away. So many words, and yet, arranged in that particular order, they explained nothing at all.

You'd signed it with a flourish, handwriting looping across the bottom of the digital document. The signature looked almost cheerful on the page.

And then, on a whim you didn't fully understand, you'd tucked an inside joke into the final paragraph. Something small. Something only the cast would recognize. It felt out of place in the clinical text, a piece of warmth in a document that was supposed to be a goodbye. You almost deleted it. But, however long your fingers hovered over the small line, you still couldn't bring yourself to take out the only part that was so inherently you.

The file sat in the attachments folder. Waiting.

The cursor hovered over the send button.

In the back of your mind, somewhere distant and quiet, a voice suggested you call someone. Shayne. Courtney. Ian. Spencer. Alex. Anyone. Just to hear a voice. Just to explain. Just to–

You didn't let the voice finish that thought.

Your eyes fell to the photo on the floor beside you. It had been in a frame once – fallen out when you accidentally knocked it off the shelf while packing, startled by a sharp sound from the hall. (The dog that your neighbours adopted wasn’t exactly suited for those small flats.) 

Glass shattered across the hardwood. You'd spent twenty minutes on your knees, picking up every shard, running your fingers over the floor until you were certain no piece remained. A thin cut on your palm had been a punishment for such carelessness. You’d cleaned it, wrapped it carefully, methodically, the same way you'd done everything else. The cut had stopped bleeding hours ago. You don’t think you’ve ever felt it. Never registered the pain, only a small trickle of blood that smeared the last glass shard. That should be worrying, shouldn’t it?

Now the photo lay on the floor next to you, unprotected. You picked it up, bandaged hand holding the edge gently, careful not to crease it. The whole cast and some crew at some random summer outing. Everyone mid-laugh, mid-motion, captured in a moment that had felt blissful at the time. Shayne, mid-sentence, his hands already gesturing toward something off-camera. Courtney, head thrown back, her laugh frozen in time. Angela, leaning into the frame, something mischievous in her expression. Spencer, half-turned, probably arguing about something no one else remembered. Ian, at the edge, quietly smiling the way he did when he wasn't performing. Tommy's arm around your shoulders. Your own face tilted toward the camera, with the kind of smile you usually tried to hide. Hadn't been able to hide it that day.

Your tears were gone now. That was the strange thing. Weeks or months ago, you'd cry at anything: a memory, a text, a song that came on in the grocery store. But not now. Your tears have been gone for a long time now. You never marked the point when they'd stopped. When they were replaced by the hollow calm that had settled into your chest, something heavy and still, like the air before a storm.

You tucked the photo into the front pocket of your backpack. Zipped it closed. It fit right next to your wallet, charger, the few things you couldn't leave behind.

Then you looked at the email one more time. The send button, waiting.

You didn't press it. Instead, you scheduled it to be sent in the morning. Set the time between nine and ten AM. Seven hours from now. Long after you'd be gone.

It was a small thing. A technicality. But it felt important. The idea that the email would go out when you’d no longer be in the city. When you’d already become a ghost.

You turned off and closed the laptop, the click of the screen meeting the body sounding final in the empty room.

You unfolded yourself from the floor, joints protesting after sitting for so long. You stretched your arms over her head, rolled your shoulders, felt the tension crack down the spine. The empty apartment echoed around you, every sound magnified in the absence of furniture, of clutter, of life.

There was one more thing to do.

***

The storage unit was a ten-minute ride from the apartment. You'd made the trip so many times now that your body knew the way without conscious thought. This time you simply walked there, the last cargo too light to be deserving of a biketrip. The metal door creaked open as you stood in the narrow space, surrounded by everything you owned.

Boxes stacked neatly. Labeled in your handwriting, the categories mundane and precise. Clothing. Books. Kitchen. Important shit.

You opened your backpack. Took out the laptop. You'd already wiped it as much as you could – photos and files transferred to an external drive, hidden somewhere in your pockets; accounts and autofill passwords deleted. Almost pristine condition. 

You put it in the nearest box, somewhere among the old scripts. A clean break. You'd bought it three years ago, to treat yourself after the first big project at Smosh. It had stickers on the lid: a rainbow, a cartoon cat, a small decal of the Smosh logo that Alex had given you. For the last time you ran your fingers over the logo. Then turned away.

The phone was harder. It felt heavy in your hands, laden with things you couldn't bring yourself to delete. You had it for years – the screen was cracked in the corner from the time you'd dropped it on the sidewalk. The case was worn soft, the edges rubbed smooth. Inside were years of photos. Videos of the cast messing around between takes. Screenshots of inside jokes you'd never delete. Chatlogs. A voice memo from Angela, recorded when she'd forgotten how to pronounce a word and wanted proof. A video of Spencer and Alex arguing about a game's rules for twenty minutes straight, the argument ending only when one of them threw a stress ball at the camera, urging you to share your thoughts instead of laughing at them.

You couldn't possibly take it with you. It was traceable. Trackable. A beacon that would lead anyone who knew how to look straight to you. 

So you deleted all apps, logged off and signed out from everywhere. And then removed the SIM card. You held it between your fingers, a tiny rectangle of plastic and metal that contained everything. Contacts. Call history. The evidence that you once existed in this world, that you had been loved by these people, that you loved them back. Slid it into the small pocket of the laptop case, next to the external drive.

Now your phone was just a brick with no connection or signal. Placed in a ziplock bag (you’d seen this in a movie once, something about preventing signals, about making things untraceable), and tucked into a box next to the laptop.

All of its sentimental value was now held in a little SD card that you put in your locket – the only piece of accessory you kept on yourself, its metal surface resting against your chest, a cooling sensation to the skin. Sure, cliche. Sure, sentimental. But how could you leave yourself without at least something? (You didn’t grant your friends the same mercy.)

Couldn’t you keep the smallest piece of your own heart? The rest of it still would be buried here, for who knows how long. 

You sighed and walked out. Closed the storage unit and didn't look back.

***

Back at the apartment, you once again checked everything, from taken out trash, to the bags of the now not-needed small things. Everything in place – or out of it, depending on the angle. 

For the last time you made yourself some tea – the last teabag that you left on the counter specifically for this. 

Methodically, moving in the rhythm known only to you right now, you turn on the kettle. Put the teabag in a clean, simple mug. Fill it up with hot water. Wait for leaves to brew. No sugar, no milk, no nothing – everything already gone. 

You sit on the counter, your legs dangling above the hardwood floor. Hold the mug with both of your hands, warming them. And drink it. Slowly, savoring every sip. After all, that was your favourite brand and flavour – Arasha’s gift for some random holiday. Warmness of it feels like a hug. A parting gift or a farewell. You’re not sure

Calmness, almost the same one as before, the stillness of air before the storm, envelops you. 

The wood creaks under you as you hop off the counter. Wash the mug, set it on the drying rack.

Time to go?

You were already dressed. Picked out the clothes long ago – practical, forgettable. The kind of outfit that could disappear in any crowd. Simple cargo pants with loads of pockets (you know they will come in handy), and a plain hoodie, with a T-shirt underneath.  "The NPC outfit," as Tommy once put it during one of the Funeral Roasts, deciding that time to attack everyone’s fashion. You'd laughed then. You weren't laughing now.

The only not soulless part of your armor were the boots. Your favourite pair. A gift from Kiana, two birthdays ago, after you'd complained for the hundredth time that it’s impossible to find shoes that didn't hurt your feet. Kiana had found these online, ordered them without asking, presented them like a challenge: Try these and tell me they're not perfect. They were. Could handle anything: rain, mud, miles of walking. Comfortable both for running and driving. The kind of boots you could probably fall asleep in and wake up without a single ache.

You laced them tight. Double-knotted. The way you now always did. 

The hallway was empty. It was always empty at this hour – whatever hour it was. You'd lost track somewhere between the last box and the final draft. Late, you thought. Or early. The distinction felt devoid of importance.

Your boots echoed across the empty flat as you walked to the door. Each step another handful of dirt thrown on top of your coffin.

You take your helmet off the shelf, not putting it on for now. Someone might say that you need not only the brain bucket, but also the gear, so your limbs don’t turn into a gory, bloody mess if something goes wrong. But this is a one-way trip – you'll sell the bike when you’re out of the state. Get something nondescript. A car that wouldn't draw attention and would provide you a place to sleep through the night. So the gear stayed at the storage unit, lovingly buried next to other core pieces of your identity. 

You step out of the flat, keys in hand. Lock the door. The keyring is cold against your fingers as you think where to place it. The keychain dangling from it catches your eye – a stupid acrylic thing you'd bought on a whim, your favorite character from a show no one else remembered. You thought about taking it with you. Still left it on the keyring. Not sure why – it’s doubtful that your landlord appreciates or even knows the character.

Anyway. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? He’ll pick the keys tomorrow or the day after – so you can just leave them here, under the doormat.

Ian's voice suddenly reverberates in your head, unbidden: "This is so unsafe. You're basically inviting someone to rob you." He'd said it months ago, when you'd mentioned that sometimes you leave a spare key under the mat. A casual comment, forgotten as soon as it was spoken.

You smiled. It was bitter, thin, nothing like the smile in the photo.

Sorry, Ian. You were right.

But this flat had stopped being safe long ago. Maybe even before the break-in.

You still weren't sure if you'd imagined that. The police had found no signs of forced entry. The lock hadn't been tampered with. The window was intact. They'd looked at you with patient, professional faces and asked if you were sure you hadn't just left the door unlocked or misplaced those things yourself.

You'd said yes. You'd been sure. But now, standing in the hallway with the keys under the mat, you couldn't remember which certainty was real and which was the product of months of looking over her shoulder. Maybe it had been safe, once, and the safety had been stripped away slowly, piece by piece, until you were standing here in the dark, sliding keys under doormats and pretending this was normal. What is the norm? The sense of normality in the force had long since abandoned you.

It didn't matter now. The lease was ending anyway. You'd timed it carefully, the end of the business quarter, the natural break in the content schedule, the long weekend no one would question. The stars aligning, or luck, or something you didn't have a name for.

***

The building's front door opened onto a quiet street. No cars, no sirens, no distant bass from someone's speakers. Just the hum of streetlights and the faint whisper of wind through palm fronds. LA was never truly quiet, but at this hour – late, early, (no matter, you'd stopped keeping track anyways), it was close enough.

You stopped on the sidewalk on the way to your parking spot. Looked up.

Once yours, the apartment window was dark, the curtains drawn tight. It looked like someone was asleep inside. Or maybe it looked like no one had ever been there at all. Doesn’t matter anymore. You keep walking.

A gust of wind gently ruffled your hair, loose around your shoulders. You let it, closing your eyes for a moment. One last breath of this city. One last moment of standing still.

Finally, you put on the helmet.

The weight of it was familiar. The padding pressed against your cheeks, grounding. Something solid in the chaos, something you could hold onto. The last and only anchor in this oncoming storm. You'd worn this helmet for years, through cross-state trips and late-night rides and mornings when you just needed to feel the wind. It had scratches on the visor from a fall you'd taken on a mountain road. It had a sticker on the back—a cartoon ghost, someone's joke that had stuck. It smelled like the road and like her and like home, wherever that was now.

You swung your leg over the bike. Settled into the seat. The leather was cold through your pants, but the engine would warm it soon. The backpack pressed against your back, another weight, another anchoring sensation.

You turn the key, starting the engine. 

It’s loud – louder than you remember, or maybe you'd just gotten used to silence. For months, you'd flinched at the loudness, at the attention it drew, at the way it announced your presence to anyone who might be listening. But now, sitting in the dark, the city quiet around you, the bike's engine was a comfort. The purr vibrated through your hands, your legs, your chest. A heartbeat that wasn't yours, but the one you'd borrowed for this journey. A promise that you were still here, still moving, still alive.

For the first time in months, you aren't scared of the noise.

You pulled out of the parking spot. Drove to the end of the street. Didn't pause at the corner. The rearview mirror showed your building shrinking behind. Your window, dark. The street, empty. You watched it for a moment – one moment, no more. And then you looked forward and didn't look back again. Didn't let yourself think about which way you were going.

You told yourself that it was strength. A decision made. A door closed. The last thing you had to do to keep them safe. The only thing you could do.

But deep down, somewhere beneath the hollow calm, beneath the steady hands and the practiced breathing, you didn't believe it. Strength, you suspected, was something else entirely. Something that stayed. Something that fought. Something that didn't run from a threat that might be real or might be imagined, that might be still following now or might have lost interest months ago.

But you were running anyway. And telling yourself that it was strength was the only way to keep your hands steady on the handlebars.

The city blurred behind you.

Lights, streets, buildings you'd walked past a hundred times. The coffee shop where you'd spent too much money on lattes. Smosh HQ, where you'd learned to be funny, to be brave, to be someone other than whoever you'd been before. The place where you'd found a family you didn't know you were looking for.

All of it slipped past you, shrinking in the mirrors until it was just a glow on the horizon, and then nothing at all.

The highway opened up in front of you. Dark. Empty. Endless.

You sped up. The engine roared, louder now, a sound that drowned out everything else. The wind pressed against you, cold through the softness of the hoodie, and you leaned into it and let the road take you.

You didn't know when you started crying. Somewhere past the city limits, maybe. Or maybe it had been happening for miles, the tears coming without your permission, without your notice. You didn’t expect them, haven’t cried in a long while. 

Your breathing was even. There was no sob, no shake, no break in the steady line of your shoulders. Just tears, suddenly spilling from your eyes and running down your cheeks, caught by the helmet before they could fall. You didn't wipe them away. Couldn't, with your hands on the handlebars, with the road demanding all the attention. So you let them fall. Let them pool at the edge of your jaw. Let the wind dry them, only for new ones to take their place. The helmet hid everything, the visor down, the wind whipping past. No one could see. No one would know.

The highway stretched on. The horizon was slowly changing, an unbroken line you would never reach. The bike kept moving. Towards the unknown. Towards the horizon.

The bittersweet smile tugged on the corner of your mouth. The last ride, you thought, the last time I'd feel this bike beneath me, this engine humming and purring. You'll sell it when you get where you are going. Buy something anonymous. Become someone else.

But for now, for this moment, you are still you. Still riding. 

Please understand, you thought. At everyone. At no one. At the city rapidly shrinking behind you, at the people you were leaving, at the life you were casting aside. 

And sure, maybe Los Angeles wasn’t exactly your home. But the people there were.

Please forgive me.

⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆

a/n: and so, the road begins, looping and stretching till the horizon. What did you think? Was that too much? Can you believe that I planned this chapter much smaller, yet once again got carried away? Sorry for any repeating of the details.

Also side note if any writers are reading this… Please tell me how to character study. It takes me super long to just.. Plan a scene and literally play out in my head different little variants of how a character acts before I go “Yeah, that's the vibe, I think I got it, write it down write it down” 

a/n: HEAVILY based on my desire to be missed and noticed, and also this art trend on tiktok. This thing was in my drafts for quite some time, and a day or two ago I saw a rendition of this tiktok “irl”, so that gave me a lil more inspiration to finish this uhh oneshot? Sorry for so many words

My apologies for any mistakes, grammar, spelling or punctuation – English is not my first language.

Also sorry for any inconsistency with the roles: Alex is still there and editing, Spencer is sometimes editing because i liked the imagined dynamic

⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆

⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆

Please come back.

The Smosh Pit set felt almost as usual: controlled chaotic energy, fed by coffee and a long day of shoots before this one. Another “Smosh reacts to fan compilations” video today. They rarely film them, so it should be a nice change of pace, right? Just to sit in front of the laptop with a group, rewatch old moments, riff or cringe for a bit, maybe offer a few interesting behind-the-scenes facts. Reminisce about past videos, be confused by the time moving both so fast and oh so slow. Nice and easy. And it was going just like that. Angela and Tommy were locked in a heated pseudo-argumentative discussion about a clip from ‘Flip 7’, their voices a familiar, comfortable static. Trevor watched them like a tennis match, half-smiling, ready to chime in with perfectly timed observation. 

End credits played on the monitor before the gang, and while everyone praised the editing of clips, Shayne queued up the next obscuredly titled compilation. They watched a few clips and immediately dived into the discussion of the bit, the behind-the-screen logistics, how funny it was during filming.

Shayne leaned back in his seat, a comfortable smile playing on his lips as Angela, perched on the edge of her chair, slammed the spacebar and immediately turned to Tommy, lost in her point. 

“Wait, wait, wait! Okay, no, we have to talk about this!” she insisted, her voice a familiar energetic crescendo. “You guys remember this shoot, right?”

Shayne stared at the screen.

Gods. She managed to hit the button exactly at the… 

His thought trailed off. The conversation between Angela and Tommy continued, rapid-fire of accusations and laughter filling the room, but Shayne had gone quiet. His eyes were fixed on the freeze-frame Angela managed to pause on. It was a candid shot of the audience on the sidelines of that very shoot. And in the center of it, mid-laugh and unguarded joy on the face, were you. Head thrown back, dramatic Games set lighting catching the highlights in your hair, smile so wide it crinkled the corners of your eyes. The face of someone who had no idea the ground was about to give way beneath. Carefree. Present.

For a beat, the world narrowed down to that single image. The hum of the lights, the distant murmur of the Games Stage behind a wall, Trevor’s indignant sputtering – all the sounds of the set faded into background. The face on the screen is so familiar it’s almost painful to look at. Did anyone even watch the whole thing they subjected them to react to or what.

Your face keeps staring at him. Or maybe he stares at it. It's hard not to when you're so happy and chill and not M.I.A. His chest constricted. A punch to the sternum that stole the air from his lungs. Tommy’s eyes found Shayne, pleading him to take his side. And then trailed to the screen, snagging on the image on it.

“Right, Shayne? Shayne!”

Angela’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with the insistence of someone who’s been countlessly repeating themselves, yet not winning the argument. With great effort he dragged his gaze from the screen. Angela was half-turned in her chair, mouth open mid-sentence. As their eyes met, she almost immediately sensed the change of energy, and followed his line of sight back to the monitor. The moment her eyes landed on the freeze-frame… The change was instant. Like a lightswitch turning off. The animation drained from her face, replaced by a dawning, hollow recognition. Her mouth, still open, closed slowly.

Like a spell cast in real time. Everyone turned to stone the second they looked Medusa in the eye. 

The playful argument with Angela now was a universe away. Trevor, mid-reach for a water bottle, froze, his eyes darting from the screen to Angela’s stricken face to Shayne’s unreadable expression. The silence that descended wasn't empty or light. More like a weighted blanket, with all the force of it concentrated directly on their chests, heavy and suffocating. For a few very long seconds, the loudest people in the room were the quietest.

Shayne had realized it a few days ago, a random psych degree factoid surfacing in his exhausted brain: they were grieving. The stages were all here, playing out in different ways. Angela’s frantic, loud energy was pure denial, a refusal to let the silence settle. Tommy had thrown himself into writing bits, a workaholic’s bargaining. Courtney kept checking her phone, hoping for a text that would never come, a state of perpetual, anxious seeking.

People forgot, sometimes, that they weren't just funny people. They were actors. Good ones. The show, as they say, must go on. So for the past few weeks, they had been performing one of the greatest roles of their careers: Smosh Cast Member in a Video Where Everything Is Totally Fine. They laughed, they improvised, they played off each other's energy with practiced ease. But the fabric of their dynamic had a hole in it now, a very suspiciously person-shaped rip that no amount of quick wit or goofy antics could sew up. Every bit that would have been funnier with your input, every inside joke you would have understood with a single glance, every silence you could have filled with a quiet, supportive comment – all of it now served to highlight your absence.

Shayne wasn't in the mood for a playful crash-out. None of them were. ‘Upstairs’, in Ian and Anthony’s office, the higher-ups were still locked in meetings, debating the wording of a statement. The memory of the Defy collapse was now a long healed scar on Ian’s face, but Shayne really hoped to never see him this stressed again. So, for now, the mandate was a horrible, echoing silence. Ignore the elephant in the room. Pretend the empty chair is just a chair. They were all adrift, unsure of the script for a scene like this. 

The show must go on. Both a mantra and a curse.

The silence in the studio stretched, becoming unbearable. Shayne looked back at his friends. Angela was blinking rapidly, her jaw tight. Tommy hadn't moved. Trevor was now staring at his own hands.

He couldn't stand the silence anymore. He couldn't stand the look in their eyes, a mirror of his own hollow dread. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't find her. He couldn't even talk about her. Couldn’t throw in a “Where’s Anthony?”-adjacent joke. But he could do this. He could give them a way out of this moment.

Slowly, without a word, he reached out and pressed the spacebar.

The video sprang up back to life, you on the screen finishing laughing, turning to someone off-camera. And all four of them just stared, watching, because it was the closest they could get to having you there at all. The werewolf crashout reaction dissolved into a new clip: a rapid-fire montage of them all falling over during a particularly funny TNTL bit. Laughter, bright and joyous, filled the silence, a jarring contrast to the weight in the room.

But no one was watching the new clip. All four of them kept their eyes locked on the screen, on the ghost of the woman they’d just lost, until the editor’s cut mercifully moved on to another shot, leaving only the echo of your smile behind.

The compilation ran its course. Then the next one started automatically. A Smosh Summer Games moment. There you were again, on the periphery of a shot, cheering someone on. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it appearance. A ghost, haunting the narrative.

Shayne's hand hovered near the keyboard, ready to cue the next segment, but it didn't fall. The studio clock ticked loudly in the sudden absence of their banter. Behind the cameras, the crew exchanged glances. Brennan, manning camera one, gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head to the floor director. Don't rush them. Just let them have this.

The weight of the unspoken pressed down on all of them. This part would be cut. Of course it would. Until a statement was made – until Ian emerged from that office with words that could somehow contain this – the show would go on. They'd film something else for this slot. A buffer. A Band-Aid. Everyone in this room understood the assignment: pretend everything is fine.

The silence stretched, elastic and uncomfortable. Then Angela's voice, when it came, was so small it barely qualified as a sound.

"I think I almost forgot her face."

It was a confession pulled from somewhere deep, raw and unvarnished. She wasn't looking at any of them. Her eyes were fixed on her hands, twisted together in her lap.

"I was trying so hard to replay the last time we talked. Just... normal stuff, you know? What she was wearing, how she laughed at something stupid I said. And I kept thinking, focus, just hold onto it. But everything kept..." She made a vague, crumbling gesture with her fingers. "Slipping."

"Yeah." Shayne's voice was rough. It was the only word he could manage, but it was enough. Held everything. Yeah, me too. Yeah, it's terrifying. Yeah, I hate this.

Trevor was the last one any of them expected to speak. He'd been so quiet, so still, that he'd almost faded into the background. But when he did, his voice had a distant, puzzled quality, like he was trying to solve a riddle he already knew the answer to.

"I saw her in my dream a few days ago."

Angela looked up. Shayne turned. Tommy leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Trevor's gaze was fixed somewhere between the monitor and the middle distance, seeing something none of the rest of them could. "Everything felt normal. Comforting, even. We were just... hanging out. At a coffee shop, I think. Talking about nothing."

He paused. Swallowed.

"And then I heard my alarm. And suddenly I remembered."

"Remembered what?" Angela whispered, her voice barely a breath.

"That she's gone." His brow furrowed. "And then I tried to look at her. Really look at her, you know? To... I don't know, memorize her face, I guess. Before I woke up all the way."

He shook his head slowly, still searching for the words.

"But it was… it was like trying to look at something through a fogged-up window. I could see… pieces. I could see parts of her. Her eyes. That little crease she gets between her eyebrows when she's concentrating on a story. The corner of her mouth when she's about to smile but trying not to. But separately. Like puzzle pieces that wouldn't fit. Whenever I tried to take in her whole face, it just..." He made a soft, hissing sound with his mouth. "Turned to static. Like when you're a kid and you get too close to the screen and the picture dissolves into TV snow. And the harder I tried to focus, the worse it got."

Words hung in the air.

The memory played behind his eyes, fuzzy and insistent. He let himself sink into it, hoping that if he went back there, he might catch her this time.

The coffee shop materializes around him, warm and familiar. The smell of roasted beans, the hiss of the steamer, the low murmur of other conversations. You sit across from him, mid-laugh, head tilted back. He can see the corner of your mouth, curved up, the flash of teeth…

But your hand shoots up to cover your smile. What an awful habit. They miss your smile.

You lean forward to say something, share a funny observation about this morning’s clients. However, your hair falls across your face, obscuring everything else. You tuck it behind your ear, the motion is so, so achingly familiar. 

But just as your face almost comes into view, a waiter appears between both of you, placing mugs on the table. The man's hand blocks everything. By the time he moves, you have already turned away, reaching for something in your bag.

Your face is still hidden, now by a pocket mirror, that you hold up, touching up your makeup.

The coffee shop walls begin to melt, running like watercolors in rain. The warm light shifts. The table in front of him changes—suddenly it's not a coffee shop table anymore. It's the conference table in the Smosh office. The lighting is totally different. Fluorescent. Harsh.

Everything changes seamlessly. Except for the obstacles, that is.

A hefty stack of papers sits directly in front of where you should be. Your name is on a sticky note stuck to the top page.

Another sticky note with some dumb message scribbled on top, jokingly attached to your forehead by someone from the cast during a brainstorming session. Spencer, probably.

Angela's painting from the charity livestream, the one she'd done from memory in twenty minutes. You hold it in front of your face – but it's bad, it's impressionistic at best, the features blurred and soft and your eyes of a wrong colour. Wait, what colour were they originally?

The overhead light catches the rim, creating a glare that bleaches out everything beyond it. Your hand appears at the edge of the table, fingers splayed, but the rest is hidden.

The last image hiding you is a simple plant with small blue flowers. It still sits in a tiny pot on your desk. A plant you'd brought in months ago, now being watered by friends and strangers alike.

A forget-me-not. The name hits him like a punch. What a cruel joke. A cosmic one. Was it planned? Has the universe, or your absence, or his own faulty brain, been preparing this all along? How long until even the pieces were gone?

He turns in circles, searching. The studio is full of you, saturated even – your laugh echoing in old videos, your ideas and silly drawings still scribbled on whiteboards, your presence still warm in the spaces between people. But you aren't there. You aren’t anywhere.

Please, he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud, in the dream where sound doesn't work right. Please come back.

Nothing.

Just the glare. The stack of papers. A coffee cup. The hand at the edge of the frame, reaching for something none of them can see.

Will we see you again? Please come back and smile. At least once more. Let us see your face again.

Trevor blinked and the fog in his head cleared slightly. He looked at his friends. Angela's eyes were wet. Shayne's jaw was tight, working. Tommy was staring somewhere in the distance.

No one had moved. No one had spoken. The silence was still there, heavy as ever, but something had shifted. They'd said your name. They'd talked about you. They'd admitted, out loud, that they were losing you in slow motion, frame by frame.

Shayne looked back at the screen.

"Is it okay," he said, his voice rough, "if we just... sit here for a while?"

"Yeah," came the soft reply from behind the cameras. "Take all the time you need."

They sat.

The next video never played.

***

Shayne knows that Ian is on a lookout for anything with your name on it. Hell, even Courtney is checking your socials at least once every two days.

It had become an unspoken ritual. A quiet tic that everyone pretended not to notice in others because acknowledging it would mean acknowledging the reason behind it.

Lunch breaks used to be loud. They still kind of were – but now there was always a beat of silence as everyone settled in, and then, like clockwork, between bites of food and Angela’s latest chaotic story, someone would pull out their phone. Not to scroll mindlessly, but to search. To check. To hope.

Courtney was the most obvious about it, but only because they cared so deeply about everything. Shayne had caught them multiple times, thumb frozen over their phone screen, refreshing your Instagram profile. The one that hadn't updated in weeks. The one where your last post was a stupid behind-the-scenes shot of someone's wig with the caption "deeply important content."

Spencer sat at the far end, laptop open despite the remnants of his sandwich growing stale beside it. His face was the focused mask of someone cross-referencing data. Twitter mentions. The Smosh subreddit. Discord servers. Searching for any whisper of your name. He never said anything when he found nothing. He'd just close the tabs and take another bite of his sandwich.

Arasha was quieter than usual, pushing food around her plate. Shayne knew she'd been checking your Spotify. Wondering if any playlists had been updated. If the music you were listening to could tell them something about where you were, what you were feeling. Nothing had changed there either.

And Shayne? Shayne had become an expert in reading Ian's face.

It was a skill he'd never wanted to make use of again. But every day, once the lunch rush settled, Shayne found himself drifting toward the hallway outside Ian and Anthony's office. Just close enough. Just casual enough. Like he happened to be passing by.

Today was no different.

He caught Ian mid-stride, the office door cracked open, Anthony visible at his desk with headphones on. Ian looked up, and their eyes met. Shayne didn't have to ask. He just raised his eyebrows. A question they'd both memorized.

Any news?

Ian's response was the same as yesterday. The same as the day before. A slow shake of the head. Lips pressing together like he was physically holding something in. Then his gaze dropped to the computer screen, and his hand moved to close the browser tab.

Police reports. State databases. Missing persons filings across California, Nevada, Arizona. Your name had been run through every public records system Ian could legally access. Nothing. No hospital admissions. No traffic stops. No unidentified person reports matching your description. Your license plate hadn't been scanned by a single automated camera in weeks. Not in California. Not in any neighboring state. Not in your home state, where Ian had quietly extended the search after the first week of silence.

(Sure, he told you countless times to get rid of your bike and get a normal car. But this is not what he meant! Not like that.)

No trace of a woman who had, for years, been a constant presence in their lives, now erased from every public system designed to track people. 

Shayne nodded, just once, and stepped back from the doorway. The conversation was over. It had lasted three seconds, yet said everything.

***

Ian stays late now. Later than he used to, back before. Back when "late" meant answering emails, planning the next quarter. Now "late" means sitting in the dim glow of his monitor, the building empty around him, clicking through the same databases he checked three hours ago. Just in case. Just in case something updated. Just in case you appeared.

Ian knew this feeling. He'd known it when Anthony left. He'd known it during the Defy collapse, when every midnight brought new emails about unpaid invoices and expiring contracts, when the future of everything he'd built hung in the balance of legal jargon and signature lines. But this was different. This was so much quieter.

His office chair creaked as he leaned forward, the glow of the monitor painting his tired face in pale blue. He'd sent Anthony home hours ago. Told him to get rest. Promised he'd do the same.

He lied.

The browser was open to the same pages he'd checked at noon. At 6 PM. At 10. The name on the screen – your full government name, the one that was on contracts and payroll forms. It stops looking like a name after a while. He's typed it into so many search fields, stared at it for so many hours, that it's started to dissolve. The letters separate. They become meaningless shapes. A string of syllables that could belong to anyone. Could belong to no one.

He knew what this was. Semantic satiation, god damn it. It's a known phenomenon. Repeat a word enough times and it loses meaning, becomes abstract sound, just shapes on a screen. But knowing the term didn't stop the feeling. Didn't stop the cold dread that crept up his spine as your name started to sound like something he'd imagined.

First name. Second name. Last name.

He's scared to say it out loud. But in these late hours, when the name on the screen looks like something he imagined, a terrible thought creeps in. What if you weren't real? What if the past few years, all of the laughter, the shoots, the inside jokes, the quiet moments of genuine friendship, the way you'd quietly handle the new cast members' nerves before their first shoot… Was any of it real if there was no trace of you now? 

The thought tightens his chest like a vise. His heart thuds once, hard, and then his hand moves before his brain caught up, scrambling for proof. He opens his inbox. He scrolls. Past the sponsorship deals, past the shoot schedules, past the endless cc'd threads, until…

There. Your name. Your email address. A real, tangible thing.

He clicks it open and the air leaves his lungs all over again.

Subject: Regarding my employment

He'd read it so many times the words were now etched behind his eyelids. But he will read it again and again, because reading it means you existed. Reading it meant you were real, sitting beside a laptop and typing these words with whatever was going through your head.

Ian,

I'm sorry for this abruptness. Terminate me, effective immediately. I’m aware this breaches my notice period.

Really sorry for disrupting the shoot schedule. Withhold my final pay to cover for it. If I calculated correctly, that should be enough.

Short. Cold. Hopeless. That was the feeling that stuck. Not angry, not scared, not even sad. Just... hollow. Like you'd already left before you even finished typing. And in a way, you did. Waited till the end of the quarter, prepared all the legal documents, did the math correctly.

It's hard to figure out the video release dates, but I know that there is some amount of time before someone notices or something happens. Make a statement later if something happens and put all the blame on me. I do hope that everything will go alright and neither the public nor you will hear about this. In that case, a statement of termination should be enough.

I attached a file with a few words and my signature. It's almost the same as this letter, but with a more polite wording. Release it to the public when needed, so it's clear that it was my decision.

Take care.

So unlike you that it feels like a ransom note written by a stranger. There's no warmth, no inside joke, no sign-off that sounds like you. Just... words. Arranged to cut ties as cleanly as possible.

Ian's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

What or who were you running from?

He reads the line again. I do hope that everything will go alright and neither the public nor you will hear about this.

There is another interpretation to that sentence. One he refuses to let fully form. One where "everything goes right" doesn't mean you left cleanly. One where "neither you nor the public will hear of it" means there is nothing left to hear. No body. No story. No closure.

He can't finish the thought. He physically can't. His brain slams a door on it, locks it, throws away the key. He buries it. Deep. In the same place he'd buried the Defy collapse, the acquisition anxiety, every other fear he'd had to swallow to keep this ship running. But this one is different. This one has claws and scratches its way back up no matter how many times he pushes it down.

Ian closes his eyes. Rubs them with the heels of his hands until he sees stars.

Please come back. It's not the same without you.

It's the little things, he realized. That's what undoes him. Not the big moments, not the on-screen chemistry or the memorable bits. Small stuff: the way you’d bring anyone coffee or snack when they seemed low, the way you'd catch his eye across a crowded room during a chaotic shoot and give him a tiny, conspiratorial smile that said this is insane and I love it. The specific laugh you had for genuinely stupid puns in the background of a shoot.

Little things. And now their absence is a speck of dust in his eye. Constant and irritating. Impossible to remove. No amount of tears, (and there have been some, in this office, alone, in the dark), can wash it out. No liquid will help. It just sits there, a permanent grain of discomfort, a reminder that something is wrong, something is missing, something that might never quite be right again.

It was the cruelest irony, Ian thought as he finally shut down his computer. Everyone worried about their digital footprint. A lot of people panicked about being permanently visible, permanently searchable, permanently there, in the public lens.

You'd managed to do the opposite. Burrowed so deep, vanished and left no trace, that people were starting to question if you'd ever been there at all. Not aloud, of course. But the memories become mushy. The proof becomes harder to hold onto.

People forget faces. People misremember details. If you never come back, if no statement is ever made, if the world moves on and the videos keep posting and new faces fill the frame... How long until you become a rumor? A myth?

The attached file sits in his inbox, untouched. A statement. A termination. A clean break, if that's what this becomes.

Ian stood up. Grabbed his keys. Paused at the door and looked back at the empty office, at the chair where you'd sat for pitch meetings, at the corner of the whiteboard where your handwriting still lingered in the corner of a cancelled brainstorm.

"Please come back," he said out loud. Just to the empty room. Just to himself.

The office didn't answer.

***

The Games couch had never been comfortable. That was part of its charm: the sagging middle cushion, the mysterious stain no one could identify, the way you had to sit at exactly the right angle or risk your back complaining about it the rest of the day.

That long, beat-up sofa where cast members crashed between takes, where someone was almost always curled up with a stolen blanket. It was never truly empty during the day or the night. Except now it was. Spencer noticed it every single time now, even when he tried not to.

The first time he noticed it was at the ungodly hour on a Wednesday night. He and Alex were deep in the editing trenches, wrestling with a timeline that refused to cooperate, and he'd gotten up to stretch. Walked past the couch. Stopped.

You used to crash there the most during breaks. Not every day, but often enough that it became a thing. You'd curl up in the corner, knees to chest, hoodie pulled over her head like a turtle retreating into its shell, and just... vanish for twenty minutes. Sometimes Angela joined you when she felt like she had to “lie down for a bit”. Everyone learned to step around. Someone, probably Damien, had even taped a little sign to the wall above the couch: "Shh. Cryptid Napping."

The sign was still there. The cryptid wasn't.

Even Angela stopped crashing there.

He stood there longer than he meant to, staring at the empty cushions. The office hummed around him—servers, AC, the distant click of Alex's keyboard—but it felt hollow. Echoey. Like the building itself was holding its breath.

Please come back, he thought. No one naps on the Games couch anymore.

Back at his desk, the silence stretched. Alex was two monitors over, headphones on, focused on audio levels. Normally, this was Spencer's favorite kind of night: just him and Alex, deep in the work, the rest of the world muted. They'd bounce ideas back and forth, argue about game selections, debate which bits would land and which would crash and burn. You were often part of those debates. Not physically – you weren’t even close to an editor – but as a reference point. A compass.

He and Alex had always been the night shift crew. The editors, the troubleshooters, the ones who kept the lights on while everyone else went home. You had never been officially part of that – schedule too packed with on-camera work. But you were frequently around. Again and again showing up at midnight with snacks you'd "accidentally" bought too much of, pulling up a chair, providing commentary on whatever they were editing until they kicked you out for being too distracting.

Now it was just him and Alex. And the silence. And the empty chair beside.

Alex wouldn't say it. Spencer wouldn't either. That wasn't how they worked. But sometimes, in the long hours between renders, Spencer would catch Alex looking at the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to notice.

It was past midnight. The office was down to its usual night creatures: him and Alex. Three weeks ago, you would have been here too. Not really working. Just... present. Keeping them company during the graveyard shift. Stealing Spencer's dice when he wasn't looking. Reading on your phone, occasionally looking up to debate some ridiculous Game idea Alex had floated.

Spencer will never admit it, Alex thought, a small, sad smile tugging at his mouth, but sometimes I catch him staring at nothing. And I know. I know he's talking to you in his head. … I do the same.

He'd seen it happen. Spencer, mid-edit, paused with his hand on the mouse, his eyes unfocused. Probably debating game mechanics with a ghost. Probably imagining your voice arguing back. Probably missing the way you'd get excited about the weirdest, most obscure board games and insist they needed to be on the show.

There's a new shop, Alex said now, in the silence of his own head. Opened two weeks ago. A few buildings over from your favorite coffee shop. The one where you'd drag anyone who needed a break, the one with the good pastries.

He'd walked past it yesterday. Stared in the window at the shelves of boxes, the promise of new games, new mechanics, new bits waiting to be born.

Please come back and check it out. With me and Spencer. We need to stock up. The Games stage is looking bare, and your input would be... He swallowed. Your input would be so appreciated right now.

He could picture it. The three of them, wandering the aisles after hours, grabbing anything that looked remotely ridiculous. You, holding up a box with some absurd premise, that look on your face – the one that said this is either genius or a disaster, let's find out. Spencer pretending to be annoyed but secretly making a list. Alex egging both on.

I'll buy every stupid game you suggest, he promised the empty air. Every single one. And we'll test them. Just us three, right here in the office, after everyone's gone. Pizza and bad game mechanics and you laughing at us for taking it too seriously.

Just please come back.

Please come back with another ridiculous idea in tow.

***

It may sound silly, but Courtney feels that it was the coffee that did it for them. That she truly realised what happened only a few days after the news hit the office.

Courtney had been fine.

That was the thing she kept coming back to. In the first few days after the news, she'd been fine. Shocked, sure. Worried, obviously. But fine. She'd made calls, sent texts, checked socials, done all the things you do when someone disappears. Fine. Functional. Handling it.

And then came the coffee run.

Thursday. Normal Thursday. She stood up from her desk, stretched, announced she was getting coffee, took the usual orders from Amanda, Shayne, Angela.

Courtney ordered five drinks. Said it out loud to the barista. Waited. Paid. Carried the tray back to the office, cups balanced carefully, the familiar weight of the cardboard carrier digging into her fingers. She walked through the bullpen. Past Angela – gave her coffee. Past Amanda's desk – dropped hers off there. Past Shayne's – dropped off his. And then she was at your desk. Set the cup down on an empty desk.

It was only when she straightened up, when her hands were empty, when she looked at the paper cup sitting next to the plant and nothing else, that it hit her. Not when she'd ordered. Not when she'd carried it. Not when she'd walked through the bullpen, mentally checking off names.

Now. Here. Staring at an iced latte with your favourite syrup and an extra shot that no one was here to drink.

She didn't know how long she stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough for the condensation to bead on the cup. Long enough for the ice to slowly start melting. Long enough for Shayne to find them.

"Courtney?"

They didn't turn. Couldn't. Just kept staring at the cup on an empty desk.

"I..." Her voice came out wrong. Thin. "I forgot. I just– I forgot she wasn't– "

Shayne didn't say anything. Just came up beside them, stood there, a wall of quiet presence. Didn't touch her, didn't rush her, didn't offer empty comfort. Just stayed.

"I carried it all the way here," they whispered. "The whole way. And I didn't realize until–"

"I know."

"I know she’s gone. I've known for days. But my hands didn't. My hands just…they just kept doing the thing. The habit. And I didn't notice until I was already…"

"I know."

She finally looked at him. His face was soft and sad. Contorted into complicated emotion. He'd been there. He'd done the same thing, probably, in his own way. They all had. That was the cruelty of habit – it didn't care about news or grief or absence. It just kept going, kept reaching, kept expecting.

"What do I do with it?" They looked back at the cup. "I can't just throw it away. That feels wrong."

Shayne considered. Then: "Alex's order is pretty similar."

Courtney nodded. Picked up the cup. Walked it to Alex's desk.

He was editing, headphones on, focused. Looked up when she approached. Saw the cup. Saw her face. Understood immediately – she could see it in his eyes, the moment of recognition, the piece clicking into place.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached and took the weight off her hand 

"Thanks, Court."

She nodded. Smiled. Not a real smile – just a robotic facial expression, not an emotion. Walked away.

Alex looked at the cup.

Iced latte. Some syrup. Extra shot.

He took a sip.

It was good. Perfectly made, exactly right, the kind of coffee he'd have ordered for himself if he'd had the brainspace to think about it. But it wasn't his. And every sip carried that knowledge, that weight, that absence.

The coffee left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He drank it anyway. Drank all of it. Because throwing it away felt worse, and because some part of him, (some illogical, grieving, human part), thought that maybe drinking it was a way of keeping you here. Of absorbing some small piece of you into himself.

It didn't work. The cup ran empty. You were still gone.

But for a few minutes, with the warmth in his hands and the taste on his tongue, you felt closer. And that was something. Even with a bitter aftertaste.

Please come back, Courtney thought that night, alone in the room, staring at her phone. At your contact. At the messages that were delivered but not read.

Please come back so my hands remember you right. So they stop reaching for you in coffee shops and crowded rooms and quiet moments when I'm not paying attention. So the habits stop hurting.

Please come back so this bitter taste fades.

***

The bullpen was never truly empty. Even at midnight, even on a Friday evening, there was always the hum of servers, the blink of standby lights, the ghostly presence of half-finished edits waiting on hard drives. Spencer had learned to work alongside these ghosts. They were comfortable. Familiar.

This new one was not.

He'd stayed late to troubleshoot a rendering issue. Boring and technical, exactly the kind of problem he could lose himself in. But somewhere between one caffeine crash and the next, his feet had carried him here. To your desk. Or what used to be your desk.

Negative space in the office landscape, a papercut that wouldn’t heal and kept stinging.

He'd gotten good at not looking at it. At taking the long way around to his station. At training his peripheral vision to blur that particular spot into insignificance. 

But today, something made him stop. Maybe it was the stupid little plant still sitting there, somehow alive despite weeks of neglect. Maybe it was a little nightlight on the edge, luring him closer, like a moth to a flame. Probably it was just that his brain, traitor that it was, had finally run out of ways to avoid the question that had been nagging at him since week one.

When did you smuggle out half of this stuff?

He stood there, arms crossed, head tilted, doing the math. You didn't drive a car. Never had, not in all the time he'd known you. Just that motorcycle, the one you'd park at the very edge of the lot, the one with the helmet that always had a fresh sticker on it. The one a lot of people jokingly told you to get rid of and get a car. (Not him though, he always thought it had its charm.) So when, how, did you transport a fucking box? A box big enough for books, for trinkets, for the accumulated debris of years at a desk?

You couldn't transport a box of books and trinkets on a bike. Not in one trip. Not without someone noticing, without someone offering help, without someone seeing you strap a box to the back.

Which meant you'd done it in pieces. Small loads. A few things a day, tucked into a backpack, ferried out like a prisoner slowly tunneling under the wall. How long have you been planning, methodically erasing yourself while they all laughed and filmed and had no idea? How many trips had it taken? Had anyone held the door for you on the way out, smiling, completely unaware they were helping you disappear?

His eyes drifted to the one thing you hadn't taken.

A forget-me-not. It was still there. 

… How symbolic.

Sitting on the corner of the desk, barely clinging to life. Someone had watered it recently, probably Olivia or maybe Courtney. They'd been doing that. Keeping it alive. But the plant was already damaged with days of neglect. Wilted around the edges, leaves and flowers that once were vibrant and lush now were faded, limp and drooping. Only the center stem, holding a cluster of small flowers, seemed to be almost alright. It was a little uneven and pale but it kept growing, kept reaching towards the lights above.

Why didn’t you take it with you?

A few options, each painful in its own way. 

Is it a little memoria of you? The only one besides the videos or memories? Maybe the only thing you were willing to leave. In spite of your “clean break” and no note, at least a little something to hold onto and remember? A little subconscious sprout of wanting to be remembered breaking through your conscious silence.

Or did you go somewhere where you won't be able to care for something as mundane as a plant? Somewhere with no windows. No sunlight. No future that included watering schedules and new leaves and the quiet satisfaction of keeping something green. 

He pushed the thought away. It came back. It always came back.

Could it be a promise of return? A tiny green anchor, a string tied to your desk. Ariadne's thread that could help you find your way back from the awful labyrinth.

Spencer remembers a conversation you had ages ago. You, him and a small group of your friends ventured out of the state for some obscure festival – he couldn’t exactly remember now. He sorta remembered the town. Quaint buildings, a main street with one traffic light. But the details were soft, blurred at the edges, the way memories get when they're years old and not quite important enough to preserve.What he remembered clearly was the fountain.

He'd wandered off from the group. Needing a minute, needing quiet, the usual reasons – and found himself in a small square. Cobblestone. Old lampposts. And in the center, a fountain. Not a big one, not fancy, just stone, ivy, water and the soft sound of it falling. 

You were already there – sitting on the edge, legs crossed, watching the water catch the light. You didn't turn when he approached, only shifted slightly to make some room. You sat together in comfortable silence until someone called out in the distance. Time to go. He immediately got up, but you stayed, reaching into your pocket. Pulled out a coin – a quarter, he thought, or maybe a dime, something small and silver. You held it up to the light for a second, then tossed it into the fountain. A small splash, a glint of metal sinking, and then nothing.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you do that?"

"Don't you know?" You tilted your head toward the water. "You're supposed to leave something so you can return. It's the rule."

Spencer prays that it’s the latter. A little token that will help you magically return. Find your way back.

He looks at the desk once again, still not sure what exactly made him come here. After all, he kinda hates it with his whole soul now.

The empty desk had been awful at first. When the news hit, when Ian's terse and tense all-hands email landed in their inboxes, when the confusion gave way to disbelief gave way to the hollow realization that she was just gone. Everyone had avoided this corner like it was haunted. It was obvious how people were taking the long way around an empty space where a real person used to be. Steering clear of a void, cold, hopeless and hollow.

But now, after a few months? Now it was almost worse.

Now it was touching. Too much like something Spencer refused to name.

His eyes moved across the surface, cataloging like it was his first time seeing it. And in a way, it was. 

A small stack of books of your favorite genre, Shayne's handwriting on the sticky note attached to the top one. For when you need to escape somewhere cooler than here. God.

A few blind box figurines, still sealed in plastic; a dozen postcards from different places. Some from sites you’d talked about wanting to see, others holding special memories from locations you’ve been to with others. 

Different keychains: from your favourite characters on acrylic to plastic ones, (probably referencing some inside jokes). And a metal one, with the engraving of an eight-point star. Oh. A guiding star.

An aromacandle, the scent labeled "French Balsam", an offering from the “candle bracket” shoot. Arasha's doing, probably, or Chanse's. A small battery powered nightlight, shaped like a mushroom, glowing faintly even now. Polaroids beside ceramic cats. Hairclips next to pressed flowers.

A pack of your favourite gummies and some little wrapped candies someone had left in the pencil holder, (Amanda probably, she always had those), were slowly going soft. Going bad. They sat there, untouched, because of course you weren't here to eat them. 

Please come back before the sweets on this table go bad.

The thought was stupid. Childish. It wasn't about the candy. It was about time, about the fact that the world kept moving, kept decaying, kept proving that you'd been gone long enough for perishable things to perish.

Gifts and sacrifices in a summoning for their favorite cryptid.

The thought was almost dark humor, the kind Spencer usually excelled at. But it didn't feel funny. It was too close to the truth he didn’t want to name.

It's a memorial, his brain supplied anyway. It's a fucking memorial.

The word made his insides churn.

Memorials were for dead people. For the gone-for-good, the never-coming-back. Memorials were where you left flowers and cried and said goodbye. And you couldn't be dead. Simply couldn't. You were just... somewhere else. Hiding. Running. Doing whatever the hell you did to make yourself disappear so completely that they couldn’t find even a single trace.

But the desk sat there, accumulating tributes like offerings at a shrine. And Spencer hated it with every fiber of his being.

His hand moved before he decided. Into his pocket, past the usual debris of his life: receipts, a charging cable, the remnants of a granola bar, his keys. Past until his fingers closed around cool plastic. A D20.

His favorite. The purple one with gold numbering, the one that rolled crits more often than any dice had a right to. The one you always, always stole for any shoot that needed dice. Fantasy-themed video? Gone. D&D bit? Vanished. You'd swipe it off his desk with this little smirk, and you'd bicker (playfully, always playfully, sometimes heightening the drama for the cameras), about ownership and theft and whether you needed to ask permission for the hundredth time.

You never asked. And secretly, Spencer never really minded.

He looked at it now, sitting in his palm. Then at the desk. Then back at the dice.

This was stupid. Sentimental. Exactly the kind of thing he made fun of in movies.

He set it down next to the plant.

For a second he just looked at it there, purple and gold against the ceramic pot, both standing out and getting lost amongst the other trinkets. And something in his chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.

Please come back, he thought, the words haywire and angry and desperate. Please come back so this isn't a fucking memorial anymore. So I can steal this back from you and pretend to be mad about it. So we can go back to being annoyed by each other in the ways that matter.

He turned away. Walked back through the bullpen. Sat at his station and stared at his monitors without seeing any of them. In his head, memories were still replaying, mixing with thoughts of his friends and how they were holding up. All the little details and habits that he, just like others, pretended not to notice.

What is grief if not love persisting?

***

The building was quiet. Holding its breath.

In the bullpen, a plant waited for water it would receive tomorrow.

In the office, a screen saver cycled through photos of shoots and sketches and moments frozen in time. A face laughed on repeat, soundless and bright.

In a bedroom across town, someone woke up from a dream they couldn't quite remember, reaching for a shape that dissolved the moment their eyes opened.

And in all of the different minds, a hundred different memories and echoes flickered and faded and fought to stay alive.

What is a person if not the space they leave behind?

What is a person if not memories?

⋆✮──────⊹₊. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ✦ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.₊⊹──────✮⋆

upd: a lil part 2 that reveals a little bit of how it got to that point

a/n: oof. i went a little overboard with it, didn't I? anyway, thank you for reading!! Hope it wasn't too much lol. Please tell me what did you think! :]