evie!

victor’s village, district 12

the house is wrong.

haymitch knows it the moment the peacekeeper opens the door and gestures him inside like he’s delivering a package instead of a boy who bled for their entertainment.

it’s too big, too clean, too untouched. the air smells like polish and new wood and something sweet he can’t place. capitol perfume lingering in the walls. nothing creaks when he steps inside. nothing groans. the floors don’t complain beneath his boots like the ones back home did.

this place doesn’t know him, he doesn’t know the place, like two strangers stuck together by force rather than choice.

the door closes behind him with a sound that feels permanent.

for a moment, he just stands there. still wearing the suit they made him put on. still sticky with the echo of applause that followed him onto the train, the hands that touched him without asking, the voices that called his name like it meant something good.

victor.

the word tastes bitter.

he thinks of the arena, sun beating down on blood soaked ground, the way the cannon fire echoed even after he stopped counting. he thinks of the look in her eyes when-

he stops himself.

he can’t do this.

haymitch shrugs out of the jacket and lets it hit the floor . it lands in a heap, expensive and ruined. he doesn’t bother hanging it up. doesn’t bother looking around anymore.

that’s when he sees you.

you’re sitting on the couch like you don’t belong here either, knees drawn up, hands knotted in the fabric of your dress. not capitol made. not polished, no bedazzled sequins, feathers, bold colors. it was something simple, something like home. your hair hangs loose around your shoulders like you didn’t know what else to do with it.

you look small in the massive room, quiet and still with nothing to do but wait.

for a beat, neither of you move.

then your eyes meet his.

they widen, not in surprise, but in relief so sharp it hurts to see. like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks and only just remembered how to breathe again.

“haymitch..” you whisper.

that’s all it takes.

he doesn’t remember crossing the room. he doesn’t remember dropping to his knees. one second he’s standing there, hollow and numb, and the next he’s in front of you, clutching at your dress like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.

his body folds in on itself.

the sob tears out of him like it’s been waiting to be released for far too long.

“i didn’t..” his voice cracks, useless. “i didn’t know if..”

you’re already holding him. “shh” you soothe his broken sobs.

your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers digging into his hair, pressing his head against your chest like you’ve done it a hundred times before. like it’s muscle memory. like you remember the boy he was before they turned him into what he is now.

he cries like it’s killing him.

ugly, wrecked sobs that shake his entire body. the kind he swallowed in the capitol, the kind he swallowed on the train, the kind he swallowed when they crowned him with a smile and called it mercy.

“i tried,” he gasps. “i really tried so hard, i swear i did. i kept thinking that if i..if i could just-“

“i know,” you murmur, voice breaking. “i know.”

his hands twist in your clothes. he presses his face harder into you, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear too.

“they’re dead,” he says, raw. “they’re all dead and i’m here- and they keep telling me i won like that means something.”

you sniffle, cradling his face like he was made out of the most precious of gems. “haymitch..” you try to plea.

“you didn’t win,” you whisper fiercely. “you survived. you had to do what you had to do. it’s not same.”

you don’t leave his side. you never did.

not when the escort knocks and you tell them to go away. not when the house settles into an eerie nighttime silence that feels louder than the crowd ever was. not when he finally lets you guide him upstairs because his legs don’t seem to work right anymore.

the bedroom is just as wrong as the rest of the house. huge bed, silk sheets, and curtains thick enough to block out the world.

haymitch sits on the edge of the mattress like he’s afraid it’ll bite him.

you kneel in front of him, hands careful as you unbutton him out of the capitol suit. your fingers linger, not lingering for the sake of desire, but familiarity. care.

you’ve touched him like this before, close enough that the memory aches.

he flinches when you peel the shirt off his shoulders.

“sorry,” you mutter, studying his face. “i didn’t mean to..”

haymitch shakes his head, “no, no it..it’s fine.”

you see the scars before he can stop you.

fresh. angry. some still bandaged. some already starting to fade into something permanent. your breath catches, and he watches your face carefully, like he’s bracing for revulsion.

Instead, your hands shake. your touch ghosting over his skin. watching goosebumps rise.

“oh, haymitch…” your voice breaks.

he looks away. “they kept saying it’d heal” he mutters.

you press your forehead to his knee “d’you remember that summer?” you asked. “i used to watch you fall asleep on the porch”

he swallows.

“you’d pretend you weren’t tired. that you didn’t work so hard with hattie.” you continue. “just to see me before nightfall.”

“and you’d just lay there. the birds singing..”

his jaw tightens.

“that feels like someone else,” he says. “like a kid i watched die.”

you don’t argue, you look up at him with those eyes. god, he missed those eyes. almost a month away and he didn’t know if he’d ever see you again.

you help him lie down instead.

“rest, haymitch.” you press a kiss to his temple. “y’must be exhausted.”

the nightmares don’t wait long. they never do.

you wake to the sound of him choking on air, body jerking violently against the sheets. his hands claw at the mattress, fingers flexing like he’s gripping a weapon that isn’t there.

“no n-nono..don’t..please!”

his voice is hoarse, terrified, gone.

“haymitch,” you whisper urgently, sitting up. “haymitch, it’s me. you’re safe.”

he doesn’t hear you, his eyes are open but empty, staring at something only he can see. his breathing comes in sharp, broken gasps like his lungs forgot how to work properly.

you move like you’re on autopilot. gathering him into your arms, cradling his head against your chest, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other threading through his curls. you rock him slowly, grounding, steady.

“it’s over,” you murmur. “you’re here. you’re with me. i’ve got you.”

his body fights you for a moment. panic, memory, and instinct before it finally gives.

he collapses into you with a sound that is pitiful. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to let them die.”

“i know..” your throat tightens. rocking him. trying to soothe him to the best of your ability.

his hands fist your clothes, trying to pull you impossibly close. he trembles, breath slowly evening out as he clings to the sound of your heartbeat. long enough for his body to finally understand that the danger has passed. long enough for exhaustion to drag him back under. not into sleep, but something close enough.

when his eyes flutter open again, they're wet and glassy, unfocused.

"i thought i lost you” he reaches up, running a few fingers through your hair. as if he’s trying to ground himself.

he searches your face, vulnerability bare and unguarded.

you shake your head, “nah. nothin’ll take me from you”

a pause.

he stares into your eyes. his own burning with salty tears, trying to find his purpose.

"they'll ruin me," he says quietly. "snow.”

“the capitol. They won't stop.. it’ll just be a constant..”

"i know" you don’t let him finish. “but you don't have to face it alone."

“don’t worry about that now, just focus on sleeping..kay?”

haymitch stares at you some more, his hand coming to caress the side of your face. the pad of his thumb outlining your features. you were there, you were real.

he says nothing, just studies you before nodding. “you’ll stay?” he asks. he needed the reassurance. a piece of his soul telling him this could all be a capitol illusion.

you smile sadly, pushing some curls from his eyes. “i’m staying, hay” you say softly. “promise.”

and for the first time since the reaping, haymitch abernathy lets himself close his eyes. not because he's exhausted, not because he's numb, but because someone is holding the pieces he can't carry alone.

promise.

he lays against the silk sheets, his hand still holding out for yours.

The morning light is bright, too bright, catching the white fabric of your gown and making it glow in a way that feels almost cruel. You didn’t go home. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t even get the chance to wash your face. The hem of the dress is wrinkled, faintly damp from the ocean air, and you can still feel the waxy smear of mascara under your eyes.

Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. Part of you wants to run again, part of you still feels like you’re floating on open water with Johnny, the lantern light swaying, his sweater warm around your shoulders, his eyes on you, the dawn painting the horizon with soft gold, his lips... You shake your head, push the thoughts of him out of your mind and push the door open.

The house is quiet in a way that’s wrong for the Fisher house, as if something is holding the air still.

Your steps are soundless on the wood floors as you make your way toward the living room. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the wall clock, those are the only sounds that greet you…You cross the threshold into the living room and freeze.

They’re right there.

Your mother sits curled into one corner of the couch, both hands cradling a mug of coffee and Conrad beside her, hunched forward, still wearing the tux from the night before, the jacket wrinkled and the bow tie missing.

A flash of heat spikes in your chest, anger but before the words can even gather on your tongue, your mother looks up and her gaze catches on you instantly.

The white dress, your tangled hair, Johnny’s sweater wrapped tight around your shoulders. Her expression softens and breaks all at once, surprise flickering into something pained, something unbearably tender.

“Baby girl…” she breathes, voice gentle and worn, the kind of tone that carries a thousand things she can’t seem to say yet.

“Hi,” you manage, the word barely more than a whisper as it slips out of you.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyperaware that their eyes are on you, both of them, but you can only meet one.

You keep your gaze fixed on your mother, the way her fingers tighten around the mug, the way her shoulders soften in relief the moment she sees you. You don’t look at Conrad. You can feel him there, the weight of his stare, the tension radiating off him in thick, quiet waves, but you don’t give him your eyes.

You stand in the doorway like an intruder in your own home, awkward and exposed beneath the heaviness of the room. Your mother’s face trembles with something she’s trying to hold still: worry, exhaustion, love, relief. All of it aimed at you.

You swallow hard.

“Hi,” you say again, quieter, your voice thinning out at the edges because there’s nothing else you can give her right now. Your fingers twist in the cuff of Johnny’s sweater, grounding yourself, and you clear your throat before you force the rest out. “Can we talk… alone?”

Your mother nods immediately, almost before you finish the sentence. “Of course, sweetheart.”

With that, Conrad pushes himself up from the couch, a bit stiff and steps toward you, hesitation in every line of him. He doesn’t need to speak for you to feel it, the guilt pooling behind his eyes, the weight of last night sitting heavy between you.

He opens his mouth, voice rough. “Y/N, I just—”

You spare him a glance and shake your head. The sight of him in that same wrinkled tux, hair flattened on one side, dark circles under his eyes… it almost breaks something in you, but not enough.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Conrad.”

The words land between you with the force of a slammed door. His mouth closes around whatever apology he was about to give, shoulders pulling in ever so slightly, like he’s absorbing the hit. He nods once, then steps back, clearing the doorway for you without another word.

“You shouldn’t hold it against him…” your mom says gently, her voice soft but carrying that steady, knowing weight only she ever managed. “He was trying to protect you in the only way he knew how.”

And you know she’s right. Of course she’s right.

Conrad would never hurt you on purpose. Not intentionally. Not him. He’s always carried the world on his back, always shouldered things long before anyone asked him to. You know how he gets, quiet, closed off, convinced that protecting people means shutting them out.

You also know you’ve been keeping your own secrets from them, so you don’t have much of a leg to stand on... but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

A breath shudders through you, unsteady, and you force yourself to lift your eyes from the floor. “I know, Mom. I know he didn’t mean to. But I’m still allowed to be a little mad, right? He knew… since God knows when… that you’re—” The word catches in your throat, sharp and metallic. You swallow, try again, softer. “—that you’re sick again. Aren’t you?”

Your mother’s expression shifts, something warm and sad blooming across her face. She sets her mug aside with careful hands, as if it suddenly feels too heavy to hold. When she looks at you, it’s with that same look she had when you were little and asked questions she didn’t want to answer.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, reaching for your hand. Her fingers wrap around yours, warm despite the tremble in them. “Come sit with me.”

You hesitate, just long enough to feel the silence stretch between you then you move slowly.

You sink onto the couch beside her, she doesn’t speak right away. She just holds your hand, thumb tracing soft circles on your skin, grounding you.

And when she finally answers, her voice is so gentle it almost breaks you. “Yes, I’m sick again.”

Your eyes fall shut the moment the word leaves her mouth. Yes. You knew it, but knowing and hearing it are two different things entirely. The truth lands like a stone in your chest knocking the breath out of you.

A shaky breath spills out of you as you open your eyes again, blinking against the burn behind them. One tear slips free, hot against your cheek, and you swipe it away before another can fall. Your voice trembles when you finally speak.

“Then why didn’t you say anything, Mom?” You swallow hard, your throat tight, the words almost tripping over themselves as they climb out. “Why?”

She flinches, not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you see it. A soft recoil, like the question lands precisely where she hoped it wouldn’t. Her hand tightens around yours instinctively, thumb brushing slow, comforting shapes across your skin.

“I just… I just wanted one last normal summer,” she murmurs.

The words hang there, fragile and unbearably heavy.

One last summer.

Your heart drops straight through you. The word last echoes, stretches, twists. It doesn’t feel hypothetical, it feels present, imminent, like a countdown you didn’t know had already started.

Your breath catches again, tighter this time, something hot and desperate blooming in your chest. Because she isn’t just talking about normalcy, or family, or seasons passing. She’s talking about time. About endings. About everything you’re not ready to lose.

“Mom… you’re not—” The words tangle in your throat, they fall out of you small, thin, afraid of the answer even as you brace for it. “Are you going through chemo again?”

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Her lips press together the way they always do when she’s choosing her truth carefully. Her fingers squeeze yours, gentle but steady, and finally she nods.

Relief floods you, almost dizzying, because chemo means fighting. It means she’s not giving up. It means there’s a plan, a chance, a path forward... but it doesn’t last because the heaviness sitting in her eyes doesn’t go away. The weight in her voice doesn’t lift, and you know why.

You remember the way she looked the first time, wrapped in blankets because the chill never left her bones. You remember the nights she couldn’t keep anything down. You remember holding her hair back. You remember Jeremiah crying in the hallway, thinking no one could hear him. You remember Conrad going silent for months, carrying it all like punishment. You remember the fear. The helplessness. The way it hollowed all of you out.

Your fingers curl around her hand without thinking, holding on just a little too tightly. “You’re… you’re really doing it again?”

“For you, for your brothers. For our family. For every bit of time I can get.” She gives your hand another gentle squeeze, her thumb tracing over your knuckles.

The words make your chest ache, because you know that even if she is doing chemo again, it doesn’t mean she’s safe. It doesn’t mean she’s getting better, it doesn’t promise more summers, and it doesn’t promise you won’t lose her anyway.

That fear sits there, a familiar shadow creeping up your spine, but you don’t say it, you won’t say it.

Your mind flickers back to last night on the water, Johnny’s steady voice in the dark, his eyes soft in the lantern glow as he told you, “Don’t bury her before it’s time.”

You felt those words carve themselves into you and you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

You push past the fear and lean forward, wrapping your arms around her. She pulls you in without hesitation, holding you tight, with a grip that is warm, strong, full of a kind of love that feels like it could hold back the tide itself. You bury your face against her shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of her lotion, the one she’s always used, the one that smells like home.

“Thank you, Mom,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you cling to her like she’s the only solid thing left in the world.

And she holds you just as fiercely, her hand sliding up to the back of your head, her voice trembling against your hair. “Always, sweetheart. Always.”

You stay wrapped around each other for a long, quiet moment, long enough for the knot in your throat to loosen, for your breathing to steady, for the trembling in your hands to fade just a little. When you finally ease back, you don’t go far. You shift, curling sideways along the couch, gently lowering your head into her lap the way you used to when you were younger.

She exhales softly, almost like she’s been waiting for you to do exactly that. One of her hands settles on your shoulder, while the other drifts into your hair. Her fingers comb through the strands slowly, in that comforting pattern she always fell into when she knew you were on the verge of giving out.

The fatigue creeps in fast.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that sinks straight into your bones, the aftermath of a sleepless night, too much crying, too much fear, too much everything. Your eyes grow heavier, the room softening around the edges. You feel safe, just for a moment. Safe enough to let the weight pull at your eyelids.

After a while, her voice breaks the quiet. “Where did you go last night?”

“Johnny,” you answer without even thinking, half-asleep. “He picked me up at the docks and we… we just spent the night on the boat…”

Her hand pauses in your hair (just for a second) before continuing its soft strokes. "That's nice of him"

You hum low in your throat, settling deeper into her lap as her fingers move through your hair in slow, familiar strokes. Johnny’s sweater is soft beneath your cheek, warm in a way that makes your bones loosen, but the gown (god, the gown) is stiff and itchy and tight in all the wrong places. The zipper digs into your ribs every time you breathe. The fabric clings like wet paper. No matter how heavy your eyelids feel, there’s no way you’re sleeping in this thing.

You shift, uncomfortable, trying to curl up again, but the tulle scratches against your skin and the bodice pinches, reminding you with every second that last night is still clinging to your body.

Eventually you force yourself upright, moving slowly, reluctantly, as if peeling yourself away from the only bit of peace you’ve had in hours. Your mother’s hand slips from your hair, resting lightly on your shoulder as you sit up.

“I think…” you murmur, rubbing at your eyes as the exhaustion crashes back into you, “I think I’m going to change. Maybe take a shower.” You stretch your neck, the muscles aching. “And then I’ll go to bed.”

Your mom nods, a soft little smile tugging at her mouth, her eyes tracing your face with that quiet mix of worry and love she never quite masks around you. “Alright, sweetheart. Go on.”

You push yourself off the couch, legs a little shaky, head foggy with sleeplessness, salt air, and everything you’ve held in since last night.

When you reach the top landing, lifting a hand to your bedroom door, already imagining peeling off the dress, stepping under hot water, letting yourself breathe, you hear raised voices spill out from down the hall.

Jeremiah’s room.

You pause, your brows pinching together, and before you can make out the words, the door flies open, and Belly steps out. She freezes the moment she sees you standing there. Her eyes widen, and something flickers across her face, guilt, discomfort, maybe? something she tries and fails to hide.

She shifts her weight, wringing her hands, her mouth opening and closing like she can’t decide what to say.

You frown. “Belly, what—”

“I— I just…” She cuts you off, "Can we talk later? Please?”

She doesn’t wait for your answer. Doesn’t even give you time to respond. She ducks her head and slips past you, retreating quickly into her room and shutting the door behind her, leaving you standing in the hallway with your confusion buzzing hot under your skin.

You stare at her door for a moment, trying to make sense of it, then exhale a long, tired sigh and turn toward Jeremiah’s room.

The door is still cracked from Belly’s exit, and you don’t bother knocking. You push it open with your shoulder and step inside.

“Hey,” you say, voice soft but steady despite the exhaustion dragging you down. “What’s going on?”

“Did you know?” Jeremiah snaps before you’ve even stepped fully into the room. His voice is sharp, scratchy with anger, with hurt, and it startles you enough that you straighten where you stand.

“About what?” you ask, brows knitting.

“About Belly and Conrad?” he fires back, eyes bright with something more than just irritation.

You blink. Once. Twice. “What? Belly and Con—what about them?”

Jeremiah lets out a harsh huff, running a hand through his curls like he’s trying to pull the frustration straight out of his skull. “They kissed,” he spits. “This morning. And now they’re together.”

That yanks the remaining sleep straight out of your system. Your exhaustion evaporates.

“Hold on-- what do you mean kissed and together?” you demand, stepping further into the room. “Weren't you two...?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Jeremiah’s jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Turns out I was wrong. I was just the placeholder until she got what she actually wanted. Which was Conrad.”

Shock flashes through you first, then something hotter surges up behind it. Frustration and exhaustion. A headache already forming behind your eyes, making you close them for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers and inhaling slowly through your teeth.

“Goddammit,” you mutter, the word dragged out of you like you’re already tired of all of this and you haven’t even begun untangling it yet.

This is about to become a mess, a mess you distinctly asked Belly not to make. But here we are.

....

The late afternoon sun hangs low over the beach, warm and hazy, turning the shoreline into gold. The tide is gentle, rolling in soft waves that lap at the sand where Will is crouched, laser-focused, hands buried elbow-deep in a crooked sandcastle.

A competition, naturally, one he started, one Bonnie and Liberty immediately took up. Each working on their own castle and every so often Will shouted your name across the water:

“LOOK! IT HAS A MOAT NOW!”

You’d shouted back supportively: “Captain Waffle, you’re unstoppable!”

And then he’d return to sculpting with the intensity of a medieval mason.

But you’re not on the sand, no, you’re floating on a bright blue inflatable ring drifting lazily a few feet off shore, toes skimming the water, the sun warming your legs. Johnny is beside you, half-floating, half-treading water with effortless ease, arms hooked casually over the edge of your floatie.

He looks maddeningly at home like this, wet curls pushed off his forehead, shoulders half-submerged, sun catching in the lines of his face. It should be illegal for someone to look this good while just… floating.

You’re trying not to think about any of that. You’re too busy ranting.

“So—let me get this straight.” Johnny dipped his chin, brows raised, water beading on his eyelashes. “Belly kissed Conrad.”

You nodded while groaning dramatically, letting your head fall back against the floatie’s plastic rim.

“And now she and Conrad are… together?”

You groaned, dragging both palms dramatically down your face. “No… yes… I don’t know, actually.”

Johnny let out a long, low whistle, his mouth tugging into a crooked half-smile that mirrors both sympathy and disbelief. “Damn. That’s—”

“A disaster?”

“I was gonna say ‘classic summer drama meltdown,’” he amends, snorting, “but yeah. Disaster definitely works too.”

You gently kicked your legs, sending your float drifting in another slow circle. Johnny swam alongside you without even trying, water rolling over his shoulders, sunlight glinting off his hair, pretty blue eyes shinning...

“Johnny, I swear,” you said, pointing your toe at him accusingly, “the second I walked into the house I could smell the tension. Jeremiah looked like someone stabbed him with a pool noodle, Belly keeps bolting like she is fleeing a crime scene, and Conrad—God.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “For his part, he didn’t know about Belly and Jeremiah, or so he told me.”

Johnny raised a brow, treading water lazily beside your float. “So… you’ve talked to him?”

You nodded, turning your face toward the shore where Will wad shouting triumphantly about his sandcastle’s new ‘defense tower.’ The twins bickered in the background.

“After my two hours of measly sleep, I all but barged into his room. He looked like a kicked dog, so we… had a heart-to-heart.” You shrugged, trying not to think too hard about how tired and guilty he looked. “He apologized. Said no more secrets, no more shutting me out, none of that.”

Johnny hummed softly, watching you instead of the water. “That’s good, right?”

You blew out a breath. “Yeah. I mean… yeah. But then I asked him about Belly and—ugh.” You press your hands to your forehead again. “Apparently they decided not to get together. Decided it was messy. Decided to wait.”

Johnny tilted his head. “But…?”

“They kissed!" You exclaimed, "They have entire Shakespeare-level tension! They’re like two seconds from combusting in the hallway. Saying ‘we’re not together’ is basically just saying ‘we’re in denial.’”

Johnny scoffs out a laugh, pushing a hand through the water, sending ripples across both of your floaties. His mouth quirks into that half-smile you’re way too aware of. Under his breath, almost too quiet to catch, he mutters, “You’re not wrong… wouldn’t I know.”

But you’re in full rant mode, barely processing anything except your own disbelief.

“Thank you,” you groan dramatically, throwing an arm over your eyes. “Someone sees the vision.”

A wave rolls under you, lifting the float and sending you drifting closer to Johnny. He reaches out automatically, steadying the ring with one hand on the rim, gentle, careful, like he’s done this a million times. It keeps you from spinning, but it also pulls you directly into his orbit.

He then bumps your float with his shoulder playfully, spinning you in a slow, lazy half-circle. The water rocks you like a cradle, the sun catching along the surface in shimmering stripes and you can’t help it, you let out a small giggle.

Johnny watches the sound leave your mouth like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day.

“You good?” he asks, voice dropping into something quieter. All the joking slips away like a wave pulling back from the sand.

You exhale, long and slow, letting one arm trail through the water. Your fingers drag lazily through the warmth, creating ripples that stretch out and fade.

“I mean… yeah,” you say, though it comes out more like a weary confession. “Just tired. And frustrated. And… worried, I guess. For all of them.”

The breeze brushes your cheek. Will screams something unintelligible about “FORTIFICATION!” from the shore. But all you feel is Johnny.

“And for yourself,” he adds gently.

You lift your eyes to him, and there’s no hiding it anymore, there’s something warm and steady in his gaze, something grounding, something that makes your breath hitch. It’s the kind of look you could lean into without meaning to. The kind of look that feels like a place to land.

“Maybe,” you admit softly.

Another wave rolls under you, the float rising and dipping with the movement. It nudges you closer, so close your knees brush his ribs beneath the water. So close you can feel the heat of him even with the ocean between you.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he.

His hand tightens slightly on your float, anchoring you there, almost unconsciously. You watch his throat move as he swallows, eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back, like he’s steadying himself before saying or doing something he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

Then Johnny’s eyes flicker downward, to your mouth, your lips, just for a heartbeat, before his eyes climb back to meet yours. The air between you tightens, stretching thin like something might break if either of you breathes too deeply.

There’s a softness there, yes, but also something charged, something familiar, something that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your mind rushes back (uninvited) to that moment on the boat. The moment you've been trying to forget. The taste of salt on his mouth. The way his hands had curled around your waist like he didn’t want to let you go. The warmth of his breath against your cheek. The way his lips touched yours, soft at first, then certain, then hungry in a way that left you dizzy.

You can almost feel it again now, ghostlike and warm.

The float rocks gently under you, and the ocean seems to still for a moment, like it’s holding its breath with you. Johnny is close enough that you can count the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes, close enough that you can see the way the sunlight reflects off the tiny freckles on his nose you’ve never noticed before.

For a moment, you think he might say something. You think you might, too.

“JUDGES! WE REQUIRE JUDGES!”

Will’s declaration detonates across the bay like a cannon blast, shattering whatever soft haze had wrapped around the two of you. The twins immediately launch into a heated debate about “structural integrity” and “illegal expansions.” A gull swoops overhead, screeching its unsolicited verdict.

The moment breaks, and reality rushes back in on a tide.

You let out a breathy, awkward little chuckle (half amused, half flustered) and you shift back in your float, creating just enough distance that you’re not pressed against him anymore.

Johnny drags a wet hand over his face, muttering something that might be a very quiet you’ve got to be kidding me, before looking at you again with a crooked, resigned smile.

You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Duty calls,”

“Yeah,” he replies, pushing off the water with a small splash as he steadies your float again. “Wouldn’t want to get fired on our first day as official Castle Inspectors.”

You snort, cheeks warm, and let him tow you gently toward the shore. The ocean rocks beneath you, while the warmth along your skin still hums with the almost-moment you’d shared.

By the time your toes skim the sandy bottom, he’s right there with you, close enough that the brush of the tide against your ankles blends with the awareness of him lingering at your side.

You push your float toward shore and raise your voice, slipping into a playful tone you barely have to force.

“Okay!” you call toward the kids. “Let’s see who’s winning the cookie prize!”

Will gasps excitedly. The twins spin toward you at the exact same time, each pointing at the other.

“He cheated!”

“No I didn’t—you cheated!”

“It collapsed because she poked it—”

“I was reinforcing the structure!”

Johnny laughs under his breath beside you, the soft, warm kind that curls around your ribs. You glance at him, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes, and he murmurs, “Judge Fisher, this is a high-stakes operation. Proceed with caution.”

You snort. “Please. Not to sound cheesy, but I was born ready, Johnny boy.”

You wade fully out of the water, the sun hitting your shoulders, Will running toward you with sand-coated hands and pure hope in his eyes. Johnny follows a half step behind, close enough that when you slow, he slows too. Close enough that even with the chaos of kids screaming “NO, LOOK AT MINE FIRST!” you can still feel the ghost of the moment that almost happened, floating between you like a held breath.

But for now, there are sandcastles to judge and cookies to promise and Johnny Sinclair walking beside you, steady as the tide.

That night felt heavier than you expected.

You’d known the Sinclairs for weeks now, long enough to feel familiar, not long enough for the goodbye to feel fair.

Funny how quickly people can become part of your ribs without you noticing until the moment you’re asked to let go.

Miss Sinclair hugged you like she meant every inch of it. Her perfume, lavender and turpentine and something expensive, wrapped around you as tightly as her arms did. She didn’t say much, didn’t need to. Just pressed her cheek to your hair and whispered a soft, trembling:

“Thank you. For bringing life back into my boys.”

It cracked something in you.

Will was worse. He sniffled before you even crouched to his level, eyes red, trying so hard to be brave even though he was vibrating like a shaken soda can. You cupped his small face in your hands, thumbs brushing away tears he didn’t want to spill.

“Hey, hey,” you murmured. “You can call me whenever you want. Promise. I’ll pick up even if you ring me at 3 a.m. to tell me your Roblox mansion has a new wing.”

That earned a watery smile.

And then he threw himself at you, arms tight around your middle. You held him just as tightly.

But Johnny…

Johnny stayed quiet during the whole goodbye, watching you with something soft in his eyes, something he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

When you finally turned toward the dock, he was already stepping forward.

“I’ll walk you,” he said simply

It wasn’t a question or an offer, but was something closer to need, spoken calmly.

You hesitated only a second before nodding.

The dock stretched out under the moonlight, boards glowing pale silver as the water lapped quietly beneath. Crickets sang in the grass. The sky opened above you, stars sharp, bright, infinite.

Johnny walked beside you in easy silence, hands in his pockets, shoulders brushing yours every few steps. The air between you hummed with something unspoken, from how close you’d been without touching, from how his eyes kept drifting toward you in the golden hour like he couldn’t help it.

When you reached the end of the dock, Ebon’s boat lights flickering softly in the distance, you finally turned to him.

“Thanks,” you said, though it felt too small for what this moment was.

Johnny shook his head. “No, thank you.”

You blinked. “For what?”

He laughed quietly, breath puffing warm into the night. He wasn’t looking at the water. He wasn’t looking at the sky.

He was looking at you.

“For being… you,” he said. “For being good to my family. For being here when—” He stops, searching for words that feel big enough. “—when it felt too much.”

The night wrapped around the two of you like a held breath. The moon shimmered in the water. And something in your chest fluttered in a way that scared you a little.

You open your mouth, ready to break the tension with something stupid, something safe like;

Don’t go soft on me now,

or

You’re really piling it on thick, Sinclair,

maybe even

Careful, I might start thinking you like me or something.

But before anything can leave your lips, Johnny steps closer.

Close enough that you felt the warmth of him even in the night breeze, close enough that the world seemed to narrow to just this dock, this moment, this boy who looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to let slip away.

Up close, you could see the damp curl of his hair at the nape of his neck, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks when he looked down at you. His hoodie, which he insisted you keep, still smelled like the ocean and sunscreen and whatever cologne he always wore so lightly you only ever caught it when you were right here.

Like this.

His hands stayed shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders wound tight, not in anger, not in nerves, but like he was holding himself back by sheer force. Like if he moved even a fraction closer, he wouldn’t stop himself.

“I meant it,” he said softly, almost like he was afraid you’d deflect, joke, slip away from the sincerity he just laid at your feet.

Your mouth went dry. The witty line you’d been reaching for evaporated. All you could manage was a small, breathless, “I know.”

Something flickered across his face, relief, maybe, or something warmer, but he didn’t move. His restraint hung between you like a trembling wire.

Then the soft hum of an engine broke the silence.

You both turned as a boat nosed up to the dock, white lights low and warm, the familiar figure stepping up to tie the rope.

Ebon.

“Evening” he called cheerfully. “Ready when you are.”

The moment shivered apart, not gone, not lost, just… paused. You let out a slow breath and forced yourself to turn back to Johnny.

“Well,” you murmured, lifting one shoulder in a weak attempt at casual. “That’s my ride.”

Something in his expression tightened, just a little.

You tried to lighten it with a crooked half-smile. “You’ve got my number.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking away for half a second before returning to yours. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“And I know for a fact,” you continued, stepping backward toward the boat, “you’re gonna be in Boston this fall.”

Johnny’s brows lifted. “You know that for a fact, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, for the first time sounding almost shy. “Harvard. Big deal. Crimson everything. Kind of my dream school.”

He laughed, quiet and warm and unmistakably flustered.

You swallowed, courage rising like a tide, you added, “So… y’know.”

Another small step back.

“If you’re not too busy on weekends…”

His head tilted, the corner of his mouth lifting slow. “Yeah?”

“Maybe we could…” Your voice trailed, suddenly unsure. “See each other? Grab coffee? Or—I don’t know. Hang out.”

Johnny stepped closer enough that you felt it in your chest.

“I’d like that,” he said, soft, certain. “A lot, actually.”

Your breath caught.

Ebon cleared his throat politely behind you, interrupting nothing and everything at once.

You give Johnny one last look, full of possibilities you hadn’t dared imagine when the summer started while his eyes search your face, like he’s trying to memorize it in this light, at this distance, with the dock under your feet and the water breathing in the dark.

“Boston, then,” he says, voice low.

“Boston,” you echo.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing a dozen options in a split second, hug, cheek kiss, nothing, everything. In the end, he leans in just enough to press his forehead lightly against yours. It’s barely a touch, barely pressure, but, even though you know you should back away, you don’t, because the action sends your heart crashing against your ribs.

“Call me,” he murmurs.

“You call me,” you whisper back. “I know you’ll get lost without a local guide.”

He smiles against your skin, a breath of a laugh, then pulls back slow, like he’s unhooking himself in stages. His hands stay in his pockets. He doesn’t reach for more. You’re weirdly grateful and a little desperate for it at the same time.

You step away first, because if you don’t, you’re not sure you will. The dock creaks under your feet as you move toward the boat. Ebon offers you a steadying hand, and you take it, stepping down into the familiar curve of the hull.

When you turn back, Johnny is still there at the edge of the dock, shoulders outlined against the moonlit water. He lifts a hand in a small, almost shy wave. You mirror it, your chest tight, your throat thicker than you want to admit.

Ebon starts the engine again. The boat pulls away, slow at first, the distance between you stretching foot by foot. Johnny doesn’t move. He stays there, watching, one hand shoved back into his pocket, the other lifted in a loose half-salute until you’re far enough that you can’t quite make out his expression anymore, only the outline, the shape of him against the night.

You wrap your arms around yourself, Johnny’s sweater cocooning you in warmth and salt and something that feels dangerously like hope.

Boston, you think, eyes fixed on the shrinking line of the dock.

Boston and weekends and calls at stupid hours.

Boston and maybe.

The wind tugs gently at your hair. The shoreline shifts. Beachwood, the Sinclairs, Johnny on the dock, they all slide slowly out of sight.

You let yourself hold onto one thing:

This isn’t an ending, it’s just the part where the story changes locations.

A/N:

Hiiiii!!!! Reader is down bad. Like DOWN BAD but pretends she’s not lol. And Johnny, my poor lovely boy, just wants to love you.

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!!! 🩷🩷🩷 thank you all so much for the reblogs and hearts and asks and comments and all the support and patience.

Like love you all FR. 🩷😗

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There’s one thing about life that you don’t quite understand; how fast you can go from loving someone to hating them.

Those two things are a phenomenon that have coexisted together since the start of humankind, though it’s a hard thing for most people to accept. They’re arguably the two strongest feelings, there’s no choice in experiencing them, they come when they’re least wanted. What are you supposed to do when they occur at the same time?

When you first read that text message, the one that kept you up at night and has done for two weeks, it was as if you were the rope in an endless game of tug-of-war, being pulled back and forth relentlessly by an angel and a devil, by the resentment and longing that fought it out in your mind, each pulling with an equally unbearable amount of force. It prevented you from deciphering your true feelings, only making the whole situation a hundred times worse. 

You hated her, with every fibre of your being, yet you couldn’t shake that godforsaken, overwhelming, self-sacrificial pit of love that refused to leave your heart. Your own organs, both your heart and your mind, were entranced by her, betraying your own common sense to despise her and forget her. 

We can’t tell the team yet. I will pick you up tomorrow morning and we will carry on as normal.

That was it. No other explanation, no clarification, no mercy. 

It came mere minutes after she walked out of your apartment when she had broken up with you. Apparently she had the guts to end your year-long relationship in a heartbeat, but was too much of a coward to give you any say in person about telling your friends. 

And you followed her instructions wordlessly.

How could you ignore her, forget her, hate her, love her, when even after she had broken up with you, she forced herself into your life with no care in the world? 

Part of you thought something was wrong with her, because for a while now, you hadn’t recognised her as the woman you loved. Her breaking up with you just solidified that – she was completely unrecognisable. The sympathetic, caring side of you which she once adored, it craved to wrap her up in your arms, lead her back to bed, and talk for hours as the sun set and subsequently rose until you figured out what was going on inside her mind. Before you got together, you spent far too long trying to unlock that side of her. Maybe you never truly saw it in the first place.

You refused to leave the club, even though staying would mean seeing her almost everyday. Alexia might be Barça, but it was your club too. Your family too. Whether you were overstaying your welcome or not, you weren’t about to let a failed attempt to build a life with someone else stop you from keeping a life for yourself. Barcelona was home. Alexia had been too, you weren’t about to lose two at once.

If you told people, you would be alone. It was Alexia’s club before you joined. Your friends were her friends before she introduced you. Barcelona was Alexia’s home before it was yours. There wasn’t a part of you that doubted she’d turn the whole of Catalunya on you if everybody knew the true state of your relationship.

So the morning after that text, you clambered into her car, a suffocating, thick silence seated in the car with you both, and that was that. Weeks passed before you without even realising it. The hate wore off and the love only got stronger.

Every morning for training, she picked you up, you walked in together, feigned smiles on your faces that physically hurt deep in your chest. With Alexia, you had given her thousands, if not millions, of genuine, joy-filled smiles. All you were left with was tear-filled eyes instead, drowning in the love lingering, blinking them away near enough every second you spent with her. 

It took far too much force to withhold the smile, though it soon became second nature. You got a routine down with her, and you were so focused on keeping up the act, you trained on auto-pilot. The scaffolding it required to pin the smile to your face was heavy, and it was like one strong gust of wind, one act of affection that brought back a whirl of memories, whether that be an arm around your shoulders or a kiss to your cheek, was all it would take to knock the bars out and let it all come crumbling down. Perhaps that would be for the best.

Just a shame you were in too deep to realise that.

“You guys want to come over for dinner tonight?” Irene asked from Alexia’s left. You were on the captain’s right, hands swinging between you. It was the image of happiness, of how soft your love had once been, though that was merely a figment of the past. A piece of your heart you’ll never get back, a piece Alexia held onto and flaunted in your face with how she held onto your hand, and you simply let her.

“We have plans already, no?” Alexia turned to you, a look in her eyes that had you agreeing easily. You didn’t have the strength to verbalise your willingness to fall at Alexia’s feet once more, so you settled for a nod.

“Ah, a shame. Another time.” Irene smiled, a genuine one that you envied. 

God, how pathetic. To envy someone over a smile.

“Por supuesto.” Alexia confirmed, waving at her friend as she made her way to her own car. 

Like always, you put your bag in the trunk of her car, and climbed into the passenger side. As you did everyday, with no complaints. Why didn’t you complain? Is that really how weak you are?

“What are you doing on Saturday?” Alexia asked you this time, her lips in a thin line as she reversed out of the parking space. Her voice was cold, stern, distant, completely devoid of the gentleness she once addressed you with. She almost didn’t sound like Alexia. 

“Um, nothing I think, I don’t h-”

“Good. You will come to dinner with me and my family.” 

It was a demand, not a question, not an invite. The shy, heart-warming excitement she spoke with when she asked you to join her family for dinner for the first time didn’t even feel like something that had once happened anymore. It was such a contrast from that treasured memory, you had to cover your mouth to stop the sob that wanted to suddenly escape.

However, that heartbreak of a reminder wasn't even the main thing on the forefront of your mind at that moment. Instead, all you could focus on was the fact she hadn’t told her family yet. This wasn't part of this fucked up ordeal.

There was no way, in good conscience, that you could look her mother in the eye and lie to her. 

“You haven’t told your family about us?” You said in an insecure voice, chancing it and looking over at her. There was no need; she wore the same expression she had adorned since the breakup, one of stoicism and carelessness. One that exuded control, one which relished in that fact.

“Do not start. Do not pick a fight right now.” Was all she replied, and if there were ever two statements to sum up the state of your relationship, it was those. 

Her hands clutched the steering wheel tighter, her nostrils flared in frustration with her lips pursed into a thin line, meanwhile you cowered into your seat like a scolded child. Throughout this whole situation, each day Alexia had slowly beaten down your confidence, a piece of your self-esteem cracking and falling away with every word that she spoke. You were losing yourself in the process, and having already lost the other half of your soul in your break-up, you didn’t know if you would survive any longer. 

There had been one fight so far, but Alexia refused to let it happen again. Any time you showed the slightest bit of disagreement, she’d say something that would silence you in an instant. You knew it was unfair, and toxic. You didn’t do anything about it though. Of course you didn't.

“I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s at my Mami’s house. You will not say a word about us, you understand?” She pressed sternly, glancing away from the road for a second to give you a piercing glare. It only provoked that pit of nausea that cruelly reminded you of your current position every time it made an appearance. 

“I understand.” You whispered in a voice that Alexia knew too well; there was a lump in your throat that you had to fight past to speak.

This time, when she turned to look at you, you swore you saw a hint of regret in her eyes. Before you could get your hopes up though, she was focused on the road in front of her again, brows furrowed and her usual frown on her face. 

You got a physical break from her the next day, but not a mental one. A two day respite had been given to the team, the Friday and the Saturday, and you loathed them. You cursed yourself for that, because why could you find issue with time off but not the vicious cycle you found yourself in? 

Every second of that Friday was spent in bed, submerged by a blanket that faintly smelled like her, in your bedroom that was still decorated as if someone loved you, with pictures all around and traces of small details which only existed as a result of being wholly adored, like you once had been. They were glimpses of the past, evidence of the affection you had a taste of, yet had been pulled away just as the disbelief began to wear off.

Even a year down the line, you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. From the moment you met her, the moment she asked you out on a date with her voice trembling and her hands fidgeting, you were in a near constant state of disbelief. Never in your life did you picture yourself in such an idyllic relationship, with a woman not even your wildest dreams could have imagined. Maybe you were right to cling onto your insecurities, because in the end it did turn out to be too good to be true.

As a matter of fact, it had been your heart that was dropped, shattering into fragments too small to be fixed back together. Instead, you were shoved to the side and thrown to the floor like a child that lost interest in a toy. Even still, Alexia didn’t have the same emotional maturity that a child had to give you your space to grieve, choosing to parade you around on her arm like the pain she’d caused was the greatest achievement of her life. 

You didn’t move, get up, talk to anyone, nothing. Those tasks felt too big to approach, you felt too small, too undeserving. So you subjected yourself to thirty-six hours of nothing but overthinking. What else was there for you to do? You had nothing else going for you except your broken relationship, there wasn’t exactly a lot of options. 

Any memory that came to mind, you thought about it, hashed over every moment of it, looked at every viewpoint you could think of from Alexia’s perspective, until you rinsed it dry and tears soaked your pillow. All these times where her disdain towards you was glaringly obvious, yet you still didn’t have the strength to break apart the love you stored in your bones. You found yourself defending her, coming up with excuses for the way she acted, and no part of you stopped yourself. 

Eventually though, the tears dried out, just in time for you to start getting ready for dinner with her family. 

Her family, who were none the wiser to the despicable actions of their daughter, sister, niece, cousin. They thought the world of her, the star of the family, heart of the city, the best athlete of her sport that could do no wrong, personally and professionally.

Was it wrong to end a relationship out of convenience, yet still pretend to be in love to avoid the dull task of sharing the embarrassment that it hadn’t worked out as planned? They probably wouldn’t think so. They would take her side, paint you as the villain, and shower the Ballon d’Or winner with the support and care they believed you never gave her. You did, Alexia knew that, yet you couldn’t imagine a world where she’d stick up for you anymore.

That was just another example of how lonely you’d be if anyone found out what had happened. You decided, in the end, you had no choice but to continue this act. The realisation that the greatest loss in all this wasn’t the love you had to fake, but the person you became to keep the lie alive, was so soul-crushing. What hurt more was that there wasn’t a thing you could do to fight it.

You had to redo your makeup twice before Alexia texted saying she was waiting for you, not because you were crying, but because your hands trembled with adrenaline, the only saving grace for this dinner. You couldn’t get through it on your own, maybe this was the one time your anxiety would come in handy.

Her mother greeted you warmly, rambling about how long it had been since she last saw you, and how exhausted you looked. Alexia, of course, wasn’t far behind nor out of earshot – you could bet your house on the fact she wouldn’t leave your side for a second throughout this torture, desperate for another glimpse of the wounds she was leaving – with a flash of a warning in her eyes for you to keep your mouth shut, before the warmth came flooding back and she greeted her family with a smile she once gave to you.

Food was passed up and down the table in heirloom dishes, recipes that had been family tradition for longer than any of them could remember filling Eli’s home with a concoction of scents, all of which were heavenly and not an ounce overwhelming. Though, despite the sweetness in the air and the deliciousness on show, you couldn’t quite find your appetite. Alexia noticed and turned her head, her lips by your ear, murmuring about ‘growing up’ and ‘not coming across as rude’ and ‘not making a scene in front of her family’ before pulling away with a kiss to your cheek. Some of her family caught on, grinning and winking and teasing her for such a deliberate display of affection, and she brushed it off with some gently-uttered Catalan, which had them all cooing and smiling brightly at you.

Then, the questions came. Wine, sangria, beer, they’d all loosened the Putellas’ tongues. 

When are you popping the question, Ale?

How many children do you plan to have?

It’s about time you bought a house together, no?

How many carats in your ring, hija?

For reasons you didn’t care to delve into, it was them that snapped you out of the daze you were in. The numbness faded. The emotions came barrelling in. The hate outgrew the love, brewing and simmering, rising, until it bubbled over and erupted.

Though, you still had some decency, where the same couldn’t be said for Alexia.

The questions stopped when you slowly stood from your chair, your adrenaline urging you to move quicker but your sense overshadowing it, as you pulled your hand from Alexia’s grasp. It tightened for a moment, trying to keep you in place and under her control, where she was able to contort and twist your view of yourself, your view of the world and what you believed was acceptable for yourself. But for the first time, you slipped away before she could do anything to stop you. 

Silently, like you should have done weeks ago, you walked away from her and out the front door. As soon as you were out of sight, the door closing softly behind, you ran. 

You ran because you could, because now was finally time for you to relish in the strength that had been out of reach for longer than you could remember. You ran because your adrenaline was shouting for you to, needing an outlet for all that had built up and led to this moment. There were emotions coursing through you again, compared to the numbness that had consumed you, and you didn’t know what to do with the rush that came other than run. It was a madly cathartic feeling, unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

Until you crashed. And everything crumbled down on top of you. 

You stopped running. You looked around. 

You were in a neighbourhood just outside of Barcelona that you didn’t recognise enough to be able to navigate how to get home. The reason for that? It was your girlfrie- no, your ex-girlfriend’s mother’s neighbourhood, Alexia’s hometown, where everyone there knew the Putellas-Segura family not just because of the height of the captain’s success but because of how close-knit the community was. They didn’t know you, but they surely would when word would spread like a wildfire about the events you had caused. Yet more people that would be against you.

Your phone was buzzing wildly in your pocket, and that numbness, the anxiety, the mental paralysis that struck whenever Alexia reached out to you tried desperately to take over. But you had made it this far, you weren’t about to ruin all your progress. So, you declined her call, and despite the fear that had your hands shaking and mind racing, you blocked her contact.

The calls stopped immediately, as did the messages. And where you stood then, there were no physical traces of her in your life. No toxicity bleeding through your phone and making a place for itself in your mind. It was the first time she couldn’t contact you, couldn’t force herself into your head, couldn’t control you.

Every decision you made then was entirely your choice.

You called a taxi. You waited on the side of a road, having to stumble through the pronunciation of the street you were on to the poor driver on the other side of the phone, and waited. Your eyes didn’t stop scanning the area around you, worried that Alexia would somehow be right behind you, desperate to verbally lay into you for the rest of the evening.

However, the cab arrived before that could happen, so you clambered into the back of it and slammed the door shut behind you with a little too much haste. The driver glanced back at you in the rearview mirror, and you smiled apologetically, before relaying the address of your apartment. 

It wasn't relief or gratitude that filled you during that car journey. That would be too good to be true. No, instead it was a deep, burdening feeling of... unknown. These weeks of unsettlement and unfamiliarity hadn’t prepared you for not being the puppet that Alexia controlled with the strings at her fingertips. Your heart beated wildly in your chest, thumping away with the rhythm of your thoughts which were far too convoluted for you to make a clear plan of action.

What were you going to do once you got home? Just... go to bed? Then wake up in the morning and head to training like nothing had happened? As if your life hadn't just burst at the seams, flipped upside down, imploded, for the second time in only a few weeks?

And as it had done for so long now, your mind began to betray you. One could class it as second nature at this point. Because, how could you do this to her? You did cause a scene in front of her family, and in the process, probably burnt every remaining bridge you had in Barcelona.

This wasn’t something to celebrate. That feeling of catharsis earlier? Merely a distant memory. All you felt was regret. A few friends had warned you in the first place about everything to do with your move to the Spanish city. Why move so far from home? Why uproot everything you ever knew? And many more along those lines.

Yet, the ones that stood out the most were all to do with her.

How could you fall in love with your captain? Wouldn't a breakup between you both ruin the team? She's the best footballer in the world, what are you doing with her? Out of everyone she could have, why you? She could have anyone in Barcelona, what is it about you that she could surely find in anyone else?

Maybe all their doubts were right. It really was doomed from the start.

And as you unlocked one door to your flat after arriving, you looked around at the space that once brought comfort, the only thing it gave now was... cold, but deserved loneliness.

All you could do was stare and reflect on how the dull, desolate, dark and dismal space only represented the punishment of your actions. You did this to yourself; there was nobody coming to save you, nor did anyone even want to.

Except one, but help was the furthest thing on her mind.

“Open this door right now!”

You could recognise that angry, demanding voice anywhere.

“Do you know what you have done!?”

Of course you knew. That's what killed you the most. There was no coming back from this, not when she was outside your door with more fury in her words than you had ever heard before.

“Will… will you just let me in? So we can talk?”

When she spoke then, there was an ounce of sympathy in her tone, which you grasped onto as if your life depended on it. She had you wrapped around her finger, and she knew it. You were pretty certain she revelled in it.

A second passed between her plea and you rushing to let her in. Perhaps even that was generous.

Her shoulder shoved into yours as she rushed in, immediately beginning to rant a tad aggressively in rushed Catalan. For a moment, you feared her, afraid of the capability she had with her words. One of the many things you had learnt about her in the weeks that had passed was that her need for control and her willingness to express that had no boundaries at all.

On the other hand, your earlier discovery that you did indeed have a backbone sparked something inside of you. If you didn't act upon it now, didn't take advantage of the rare situation where you had some faith in yourself, you'd never make it out with your self-worth in tact. You didn't want to build your future on a foundation of lies and deceit. You didn't want to trade in your potential for a lifetime with someone that did nothing but wear you down to the point that you didn't recognise the person in the mirror.

You knew who you could be if you just took your life into your own hands, you saw that earlier, and the figure that looked back at you when you did your hair in the morning and brushed your teeth at night was a brave woman that deserved more than what she had put up with these last weeks. You had a life before Alexia, one full of actual joy and unbridled excitement which had led you to this city in the first place – that same person deserved a life free from the restraints of a shameful, dishonourable relationship that hadn't been real for months, nevermind the weeks of theatrical, Oscar-winning performances that came from a place of hatred, not love. It was never love on Alexia's behalf, not for a single fleeting moment.

“No, Alexia, you do not get to come here and do this. I refuse to sit back and be the punching bag you use for your own fucked up ego!”

Her scathing rambling in her mother tongue came to a halt. The silence that followed was oppressive to Alexia, a feeling she'd inflicted upon you countless times yet never been on the receiving end of. For you, the silence was nothing but an opportunity to finally take back the reins of your life.

“YOU broke up with ME!” You shouted, and instantly felt a rush of adrenaline surge through, just like it had done earlier. “But you won't let me leave your life! You won't let me grieve our relationship! I wa-”

“I told you it was better if we c-”

“No, it is my turn to speak. You have spoken more than enough recently.” The glare you sent her way physically hurt her. She knew she deserved it but it made her sick. This had been a long time coming. “I have spent every second these past few weeks trying to be good enough for you and if anybody asked me why, I don't think I could come up with a truthful answer. Maybe it's because I hoped you would see just how much I loved you, that you would change your mind and say you regret breaking up with me. But now... I just have to thank you.”

Her face pinched together in confusion, and all she wished for in that moment was a chance to explain herself.

When she sent that text, however long ago it was, she never planned for it to end like this. She wasn't in her right mind as she typed it out and hit send. Tears burnt her eyes and dropped onto the seat of her car whilst the regret that tried to save her from drowning was out-strengthed by the shame that pulled her under. If she could take back the break-up, she would in a heartbeat. That was something she realised the moment she saw your first tear drop, when she heard the first poorly disguised sniffle from the person she still loved, whilst she wrecked the beautiful relationship you both had built, in less time than it took to say the alphabet.

That was no excuse, she knew that. It was just far too little, and far too late.

“Wh-what? Thank me?” She repeated. The defeated look on her face would have wrecked you once. On this occasion, you had to stifle a grin that would border on being a little too psychotic. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

“Yes. You showed me your true colours, Ale. I planned on spending the rest of my life with you, so thank you for showing me who you truly are before we were in too deep. You hurt me more than I could ever express these last weeks. You ruined me. But I know I am ten times the person you'll ever be, and I know that I can pick myself up and put myself back together. I don't want you around to see that, you don't deserve it.”

There it was, the statement Alexia had feared for weeks: you didn't want her around anymore.

Those words were the reason why she had barely let you out of her sight, why she always cut you off at the first sign of conflict. If she kept you under her watchful eye and within arms reach, she could pretend, even for just half a second, that the pair of you were still wrapped up in each other's love, like Alexia hadn't broken up with you. ‘Selfish’ hardly scratched the surface in reference to her actions and this one-sided deal. But if it all ended, the two of you would just be teammates again, which somehow hurt worse than being strangers. And should you ever leave the club, she wouldn't even have an excuse to talk to you everyday. Maybe that would be better than playing football together whilst having to pretend there wasn't a year's worth of history, of adoration, of pure and whole-hearted love between you.

You clasped your hands in front of you as you waited for her to process your words, just another grace you gave her that she never did you. Everytime in the past that she had said something that felt like a blow to the stomach, she swiftly moved on before you could compute what she said. She seemed speechless, which was a first.

“I… no, you have the wrong impression, mi amor, I didn't-”

“You don't get to call me that anymore. You lost that right the second you started pulling away before you even ended our relationship. But please, go ahead and try to dig yourself out of this mess.” Every time you spoke and returned the harshness she previously addressed you with, the pained expression to her face only intensified.

“The person you saw since we broke up, that's not me, I swear!" You couldn't help but scoff. “I mean that honestly. I... I don't recognise that person. You must know that, no?”

Her lips could lie, but her eyes couldn't hide her true thoughts. She was clutching at straws and coming up empty for reasons about her arrogant, toxic behaviour. Choosing to stay silent despite the pleading look on her face, you sighed exasperatedly.

“I am sorry, and I will make sure that you know that. I have regretted breaking up with you from the moment the words left my mouth. Even more when I asked you to do this deal. It's not right, or fair, and I don't know why I thought it was acceptable to ask you to do it. All I know is that I did it because I love you. And I couldn't bear to let you go.” She spoke slowly but with desperation clear on her face and in the way she moved. 

Whilst she was talking, her hands never stopped moving in front of her, though she ended her point with the palm of her left hand, the one that always held yours no matter what, landing on her heart. Under her soft skin there, with the lines there you were sure you had memorised, she felt the rapid beat of the organ that was slowly, at a tortuous pace, being torn in two. And it was entirely because of her own doing.

“That isn't how you love someone, Ale.” You said simply, ensuring she felt the full effect of those words.

The first tear of the confrontation fell at that precise moment. It didn't come from you.

“I know.” Alexia whispered, her voice cracking as the dam she’d worked so hard to build for the last however long finally burst. 

Even after all that had happened, all the pain she'd handcrafted for you and the irrevocable damage she'd caused, you would be lying if you said the sight of her crying didn't make you feel guilty. You weren't the type of person that made people cry. It took all the will-power you had to remind yourself that the blonde in front of you had dug her own grave and it was time for her lay in it.

“I’m not going to sit around and be the outlet for whatever identity or moral crisis you're going through. I deserve better.”

“And I know that, I promise that I do." She sobbed. “You do deserve better and I'm sorry I couldn't be that for you.”

“There you are.”

Your words shocked you just as much as they did Alexia, they came out before you had even registered them as a thought. Apparently the adrenaline was doing more work than you assumed. It wasn't ideal, but you weren't sure how you would cope without it. Acting like this was so out of the norm for you, if it wasn't for the addictive rush throughout your veins, you dread to think of what you would have done when the midfielder initially arrived. The most likely outcome was… you breaking down into tears, falling to your knees, and apologising in such a pathetic manner that Alexia had no choice but to take you back into her arms with an awkward, pitiful grimace on her face.

Thankfully, nothing remotely close had happened. If anything, it was the opposite. The tables had turned to an extreme degree. You had every bit of control in this scenario, and though you didn't doubt that Alexia could flip it around whenever she felt like it, it was your opportunity to recover your sanity and make the most of this one time where the cards were in your hands.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Alexia questioned.

“The woman I fell in love with, who has a heart and actual feelings." It was a comment that almost crossed an invisible line by your standards. Not like you could take it back though, so you had to settle for pursuing vengeance and continue by explaining yourself to the clueless woman before you. “Who thinks of the person she’s talking to as an equal rather than someone she towers over. Who reali-”

“I have never thought of you as below me, why would you say that?” She interrupted you in a panic, but you ignored her.

“Who realises that her actions actually do have consequences, and that people won’t stick around when she doesn’t show she appreciates their company. Where have you been all this time?” You laughed in spite of her, to which her eyes widened and she took a step closer. She tried to reach out for your hand, but you moved it out of her way.

“I have been right here, I haven’t gone anywhere!” Alexia argued. It was funny really, just how quick her entire façade had subsided and gave way for such a ridiculously victimised mindset.

“You and I both know that’s not true at all. For the last quarter of our relationship, you’ve been a completely different person. So distant and… unbothered. Unbothered about me, you didn’t show for a second that you cared for me and loved me. And instead of a seamless split where we both can grieve in whatever way works best for us individually, you drag me around on your arm, flaunting how detached you are!” You were shouting, you recognised that, but you didn’t care. The neighbours can have their fun and get a front row seat to it all. “I thought you, at the very least, had the common human decency to not be selfish and let me work through my feelings, where I was completely heartbroken may I add, with no distractions and no games. But no, you forced me into this excruciatingly difficult and painful experience that h-has wrecked me!”

Tears hit the wooden slats beneath the pair of you, both looking through blurry vision and barely being able to stomach the sight of the other in such states. Never, in the time you’ve known each other, did either of you think it would ever end like this. 

“I’m sorry.” It was all Alexia could think to say. And it wasn’t good enough, she never had been.

Pulling your sleeves over your hands, you turned away from her for a moment and dried your face from the endless stream of emotion that overwhelmed you. As you did so, you took a few quiet deep breaths in, an attempt to gain back some composure. 

“The last thing you will do for me is telling people the truth.” You began when you turned back to her. “You won’t leave out a single bit of detail. You will tell everybody we had in our life together what you did to me, what you made me do.”

“I already told my family. After you left.”

That caught you off guard. You didn’t expect her to have the guts. 

There was a brief period of time between you getting home and Alexia arriving that you don’t really remember. It was a blur, mostly, not that you were surprised considering the anxious cycle of spiralling you found yourself in. 

You found enough satisfaction from the way she murmured that admission that she felt a deep amount of shame, and possibly a hint of embarrassment, meaning her family had hopefully lay into her about her actions. Maybe they were on your side after all.

“There are still many people to tell. You’re not getting away with this, Ale. I will make sure you never do this to anyone else, ever.” 

For Alexia, who foolishly had a speckle of hope remaining, had all her dreams about the future shattered with that last sentence.

“I cannot get you back? Ever?” 

Even if it did frustrate you, you couldn’t just forget a year-long relationship in a flash.

“I don’t think so.” You told her, because you couldn’t give her a straight no.

She nodded on instinct, until she stopped, because a fresh wave of sobs consumed her, and she had to cover her mouth to muffle the sounds of them. She only allowed a couple to escape, before she forced down all that emotion and glanced back at you.

“I know I deserve that. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.” This time, you nodded, because you agreed with her. 

The Barcelona captain had hurt you immeasurably, yes, but after all, love always went in hand with hate. And despite the fact the latter was a much stronger feeling now than it had been since that day in your apartment with a stoic, indifferent blonde in front of you, you couldn’t ignore the feelings you still held for her. They had taken a backseat throughout this, though as the argument gradually came to a natural end, the events of the day depleting both your emotional staminas, those same feelings came creeping back. In all honesty, you didn’t think they would ever fully leave. That was an issue to tackle another day.

“I understand. But you have to learn how to deal with that because I don’t think it will ever change.” You told her, a little less sternness in your voice now that the fight was beginning to leave you.

“I will. I will do everything you have said, I promise.” Her last promise to you.

There wasn’t much else to say after that, apart from…

“I think… I think you should go now.”

So, with a single nod of her head, Alexia slowly made her way to the door and you trailed after her. You saw the tremor to her hand when she reached for the handle, and heard the shake of her breath when she breathed out. Then she opened the door, and with one last look back at you with glossy eyes that held far too many emotions within them to be unpacked right now, she stepped out into the corridor and closed it behind her.

The sole company you were left with was the silence that cloaked your apartment. It was deafening, and the only thing it did was heighten the emotions you were left with. 

For Lucy, football wasn't just a pastime; it was her escape, her freedom, and the one thing in her chaotic life that she had complete control over. On the field, she could be anyone she wanted – strong, fast, unstoppable. The thought of losing that terrified her. It wasn't just about the sport itself; it was about the future she had envisioned. Scouts had already begun to take notice of her, murmurs of potential scholarships floated in the air, and dreams of playing professionally, of leaving this small, suffocating town behind, had started to take shape.

But now, with a new baby on the way, everything seemed uncertain. The baby meant more bills, more attention diverted away from her, and likely, more sacrifices to be made. The prospect gnawed at her, a constant weight in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be angry at you – after all, it wasn’t your fault – but the resentment was there, simmering beneath the surface. Every time she laced up her boots, the fear that it could be for the last time haunted her.

The pressure at home only seemed to increase. Her parents were stretched thin, their arguments about money becoming more frequent and more intense. The once-occasional requests for her and Jorge to contribute had now turned into expectations. It was no longer about just helping out; it was about survival. Lucy found herself picking up extra shifts at the local café, babysitting for the neighbours, and doing whatever odd jobs she could find, all while trying to keep up with her schoolwork and football practice. She was exhausted, but she refused to let it show.

At night, when the house was quiet and the weight of the day settled heavily on her shoulders, she would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn't stop thinking about what might happen if she was forced to give up football. It wasn’t just a game to her – it was her way out, her shot at something better. Without it, she feared she would be stuck in this life forever, trapped by the same financial struggles that had plagued her parents.

As your arrival grew closer, the tension in the house became palpable. Her parents tried to reassure her that things would be okay, that they would find a way to make it work, but their words felt hollow. Lucy could see the worry in their eyes, the strain in their voices. They were trying their best, but their best might not be enough. And that terrified her.

Lucy made a silent vow to herself: no matter what happened, she would find a way to keep playing. Even if it meant waking up before dawn to practice on her own, even if it meant working twice as hard to make up for the lost time, she wouldn't let go of her dream. Football was more than just a sport to her; it was her lifeline, her hope for a future that didn’t involve the same struggles her parents faced.

She knew it would be a battle, but Lucy had never been one to back down from a fight. If keeping her dream alive meant fighting harder than she ever had before, then so be it. She was ready for whatever came her way, even if that meant taking on the world with the weight of her family’s struggles on her shoulders.

There were complications. Mum had felt something was wrong. You were born too early. That’s what her dad had said one Thursday afternoon when they got home from school. Lucy could see the strain on her parents' faces as they tried to stay positive, but the cracks were beginning to show. The early birth meant more than just an unexpected arrival – it meant weeks, maybe even months, of additional stress. There would be doctors' appointments, hospital visits, and possibly medical bills that they wouldn't be able to afford. Mum and Dad would need to take more time off work, and that meant even less money coming into the house. They were already stretched thin, barely making ends meet, and this was another blow they couldn’t afford.

For Lucy, it felt like the family was being pulled even further apart. She knew what more time off work for her mum meant – less money for groceries, fewer new things, and more unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table. The thought of how this would affect them all was overwhelming. Dad’s tired eyes and Mum’s forced smiles told her everything she needed to know – they were worried, really worried.

And as much as Lucy tried to focus on her own life – school, football, friends – she couldn’t shake the growing sense of responsibility she felt. She saw how hard her parents were working, how much they were sacrificing, and it made her want to do more, to somehow lessen the burden that had fallen on their shoulders. She picked up extra shifts at her part-time job and offered to help more around the house, even though she was already stretched thin. She stopped asking for new things, for trips, for anything that might add to the growing financial strain.

But no matter how much she tried to help, the reality was inescapable. The early birth meant more than just financial strain – it meant that your health would be a constant concern, at least for a while. The house became quieter, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a tension that Lucy couldn’t ignore. Conversations were hushed, and there was a heaviness in the air, a kind of unspoken worry that everyone carried with them.

She remembered how, before all this, her parents would talk about the future with cautious optimism – how they would make it work, how they would find a way to manage. But now, the future seemed uncertain, clouded by the reality of hospital visits and medical expenses. The joy that had once been associated with your arrival was overshadowed by the fear of what might come next.

You had turned out fine. You were discharged from the NICU six weeks later. You were a little small, a little underdeveloped, but you were fine. The doctors’ visits still happened regularly until you were about three years old, but then you were declared fit as a fiddle. A perfectly normal, healthy child.

Except you weren’t, or at least you didn’t feel like it. From an early age, you could sense that something was off. You couldn’t quite understand it back then, but you felt it in the way Lucy would close her bedroom door just as you toddled over, eager to join in whatever she was doing. You felt it in the way she would snatch things out of your hands, things you just wanted to look at, things she was showing Sophie and Jorge without a second thought. The sting of rejection was something you became all too familiar with, even before you could fully comprehend what it meant to be unwanted.

You didn’t understand why Lucy seemed to dislike you so much. You were just a child, desperate for her attention, for her approval. But no matter how hard you tried, you could never seem to break through the wall she had built between you. You remember watching her from a distance, her laughter and excitement as she talked about football with Sophie and Jorge. You wished you could be a part of that world, but it always felt like there was an invisible barrier keeping you out.

Your parents, older than those of your friends, were tired. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they moved through the day with a sort of weary determination. They did their best, you knew that. But their best often wasn’t enough. They were stretched thin – between work, bills, and keeping up with the demands of raising four children, there wasn’t much left over for you. The attention you craved, the affection you needed, was often redirected elsewhere – toward Lucy’s burgeoning football career, Jorge’s new hobbies, Sophie’s interests.

You lived in hand-me-downs – clothes that didn’t quite fit right, toys that had lost their newness long before they reached you. You quickly learned to ask for little, to keep your wants and needs to yourself. Birthdays became a delicate dance of low expectations. You remember the time you asked for that big Barbie dollhouse when you were five. You had seen it in a catalog and had imagined how much fun it would be, but when you shyly mentioned it, the reaction was swift and harsh. Lucy shouted at you, her voice filled with anger and frustration. “Are you kidding? We can’t afford that! Stop being so selfish!” The words hit you like a slap, and you learned that day to make your wishes smaller, quieter, more manageable.

It wasn’t just the material things, though. It was the sense that you were always in the way, that your presence was more of a burden than a joy. The more you tried to blend in, the more you felt invisible. Your parents were simply too tired, too overwhelmed to notice the small things – like the way your face lit up when you finally mastered riding your bike, or how proud you were when you brought home a picture you had drawn at school. There was no one to share those victories with, no one to tell you that you were doing well.

Lucy’s disdain only seemed to grow as you got older. She was focused, driven, her eyes set on her future in football. Every spare penny went toward her training, her gear, her travel expenses for matches. And you, you were just there, existing in the shadow of her ambition. It wasn’t that she went out of her way to be cruel; it was more that she simply didn’t have the space in her life for you. You were the uninvited guest, the afterthought.

You remember the looks – the ones she would give you when you tried to talk to her, or when you reached out for some connection. They were cold, distant, as if you were a stranger in your own home. It made you feel small, insignificant, like you didn’t belong. You tried to be helpful, to stay out of her way, but nothing you did seemed to change how she felt about you.

It was confusing, the way you were treated differently. Sophie and Jorge seemed to get along just fine with Lucy. They had their own interests, their own ways of bonding with her, and you were always the odd one out. It hurt, more than you could put into words. You wanted to be close to them, to be part of the sibling camaraderie you saw in other families, but it always felt just out of reach.

As the years went by, you withdrew into yourself. You learned to entertain yourself, to find comfort in solitude, because trying to fit into their world was too painful. The isolation was lonely, but it was safer than risking the rejection that had become all too familiar. You built your own little world, where you didn’t have to worry about whether or not you were wanted, where you could be yourself without fear of being turned away.

You were thirteen when you were gifted something that changed your life. It came at a time when the house had finally quieted down, the once chaotic energy of your siblings replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. All three of them – Lucy, Sophie, and Jorge – had moved out, each one carving out their own path, their own life away from the confines of your childhood home. Lucy was about to move to Lyon, Sophie had landed her dream job in a bustling city, and Jorge was travelling, always chasing the next big adventure. They were all living their best lives, while you were left behind, navigating the echoes of their absence.

With them gone, the purse strings had loosened a little. The financial pressures that had always weighed so heavily on your parents seemed to ease with each sibling's departure. There were fewer mouths to feed, fewer expenses to cover. For the first time, there was a little breathing room – a bit of space for something more than just the basics. And in that space, something unexpected happened.

On your thirteenth birthday, your parents handed you a small, neatly wrapped box. The excitement you had long suppressed bubbled up cautiously, a mix of anticipation and doubt. You had learned to keep your expectations low, to shield yourself from disappointment, but this time, something felt different. As you carefully peeled away the wrapping paper, your heart skipped a beat. Inside was a camera – an old, second-hand one, but to you, it was a treasure beyond measure.

Your parents had saved up for it, they explained, seeing how much time you spent doodling and drawing, how your eyes would light up whenever you saw something beautiful. They wanted to give you something that was just yours, something that could help you express yourself, to capture the world as you saw it.

The camera became your constant companion. You took it everywhere, eager to capture the beauty you saw in even the smallest things – the way the light filtered through the leaves of the trees in your backyard, the subtle smile on your mother’s face when she thought no one was looking, the old, weathered buildings in town that seemed to whisper stories of a time long past. Through the lens, you began to see the world differently, noticing details and moments that had always slipped by unnoticed.

But more than that, the camera gave you a voice. It allowed you to tell your own stories, to frame your own experiences in a way that was meaningful to you. It was your way of processing the complicated emotions that had built up over the years – the loneliness, the longing, the sense of not quite fitting in. With each click of the shutter, you were able to capture a piece of yourself, to express feelings that had always been too difficult to put into words.

And as you delved deeper into photography, something else began to happen. You started to see yourself differently. The shy, withdrawn girl who had always felt like an outsider was slowly transforming into someone with a purpose, with a passion. The camera gave you confidence, a sense of control over your own narrative that you had never felt before. It didn’t matter that you had grown up in the shadow of your siblings, or that you had often felt neglected and overlooked. With your camera, you were finally able to step out of that shadow and into your own light.

Your parents noticed the change in you. They saw how the camera brought you out of your shell, how it gave you something to look forward to, something to be proud of. They encouraged you, in their own quiet way, to keep going, to explore this new passion. For the first time, they seemed to truly see you – not just as their youngest child, but as an individual with your own dreams, your own talents.

At fifteen, you were asked to participate in the local exhibition. You had won a competition for the local paper, and this was the prize. ‘Alnwick by the Locals’ – it was to be put on display up at the castle. You had asked Lucy if she could make the trip over from France.

Lucy had been away for so long that you weren't sure if she'd even come. Her life in France was a whirlwind of training and matches, and the little requests you made felt insignificant against the backdrop of her bustling career. Still, you hoped – hoped that this time, she might see things differently.

When the day of the exhibition arrived, you could hardly contain your excitement. The castle was adorned with your photographs, each framed image capturing slices of life in your small town. You stood by your display, anxiously scanning the crowd for any sign of Lucy. Your heart raced with a blend of nerves and anticipation.

As the afternoon wore on, there was still no sign of her. You tried to push the disappointment aside, focusing instead on the visitors who stopped by to admire your work. They complimented your eye for detail and the way you had managed to capture the essence of Alnwick. Each positive comment felt like a small victory, a validation of the passion and effort you had poured into your photography.

You were losing hope fast. She wasn’t coming. Of course she wouldn’t come. She hadn’t responded to your text message asking her to come and giving her a date. She hadn’t responded to the email you had sent with her ticket attached. All she had to do was book the flights. It had been luck that it landed on a free weekend for her. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise.

As the afternoon stretched on, your excitement began to wane, replaced by a creeping sense of disappointment. Each passing minute seemed to amplify the absence of the one person you had hoped would be there to witness your moment of triumph. You forced yourself to stay positive, engaging with the visitors who complimented your work, but the empty space where Lucy should have been felt like a physical ache.

You wandered through the exhibition, making small talk with guests and answering their questions about your photographs. The praise for your work was a small comfort, but it couldn’t fully compensate for the gap left by Lucy’s absence. The castle, once a place of eager anticipation, now felt like a grand but empty stage, highlighting the solitude you felt.

By the time the exhibition was winding down, the weight of Lucy’s no-show had settled heavily on your shoulders. You packed up your things with a mix of resignation and sadness, feeling the sting of what could have been. Your parents, who had come to support you, tried to lift your spirits with kind words and encouragement, but their efforts fell short of erasing the feeling of emptiness. Your other siblings had turned up. Your sister-in-law had appeared, holding a bunch of flowers and looking around the space in wonder. Why couldn’t she have been your actual sister?

In the quiet of the car ride home, you tried to focus on the positive aspects of the day – the success of the exhibition, the connections you had made with people who appreciated your work. But it was hard not to remember that Lucy hadn’t turned up.

Back at home, you retreated to your room, muttering something about being tired and disappearing upstairs before anyone could stop you. Your room was covered in photographs. You didn’t have many of you as a child – a downside of being the youngest of four to very tired parents you supposed. There was one that you kept pinned above your bed. It was the day you were brought home from the hospital. You were in Jorge’s arms as Lucy and Sophie stood either side of him, all of them beaming brightly. You were fairly sure it was the only photo you had of Lucy smiling at you. The rest of the photographs were taken by you. Jorge and your father. Sophie and your mother. Your parents in the stands waiting for Lucy to play. Narla chasing a ball. Your grandparents looking out to sea.

You knew opening social media wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the third picture you saw. Lucy, sitting next to Keira and Georgia – wide smiles and happy faces. She was in Manchester. She had made the trip over to England after all. Just not to see you. The image was a punch to the gut. Lucy, in a casual outfit, her hair pulled back, was surrounded by her friends, their joy on full display. You could almost hear their laughter through the screen, see the ease and comfort of their togetherness. The pain in your chest grew even more.

You hadn’t been told she was moving back to Manchester. Mum had mentioned it in passing, commenting that she was so excited to finally be able to see her daughter play with comparative ease. You had lied when she asked you why you looked confused – making up something about homework you had remembered you needed to complete. The pain was something you were so used to by now, that you were surprised it still hurt. The last time you saw her at home was Christmas. She had missed your birthday completely – again. But that was fine. You could play happy families for a few weeks whilst she was back. You had been to a few football matches for hers – only the big ones. The Champions League finals mainly. The rest of the time you made up excuses. Homework was a reliable one. You were just too busy. Exams were around the corner, you couldn’t afford to take the time off, even for just one weekend.

You had become adept at masking your feelings, but the truth was, each time you saw Lucy’s life in the media, each time you heard about her successes and adventures, it reinforced the distance between you. It was as if she existed in a different world, a world where you didn’t quite belong. Even when she was physically present, her mind seemed to be elsewhere, her focus entirely on her career and her own life.

You hadn’t been told that Lucy would be moving to Barcelona either. Another thing she failed to mention. You knew that Lucy and your parents met up in Manchester regularly – it was easier for them to make the trip to watch her games that it was for her to travel to you. But you would have thought she would’ve mentioned it at the Euros. The night after they won was the longest you had spent in her presence since you were about twelve. She had willingly drawn you into a side hug as your parents snapped a photo of all their children. Looking back, it was clearly the alcohol in her system, and the adrenaline high she was still running on.

You had been dragged over to Australia too. Not that you let your parents know about your distaste in going. You couldn’t do that to them. They knew that Lucy and you had a strained relationship, but not how deep the cuts ran. You would not be the one to tell them that either.  It would break their hearts to find out that their favourite daughter, and their youngest child barely co-existed together. No, you were more than happy to put up a front for them. They had given you everything, it was the least you could do.

“Hi, I’m Ona, it’s nice to meet you.” She smiled amicably, a bit nervous perhaps, but she seemed nice enough.

“Hola, Soy la hermana de Lucy … o la llamas Lucía?” She blinked, startled by your Spanish.

“Tú hablas español?” she asked impressed.

“Un poco, hice español A-level en la escuela. Pensé que sería una buena manera-” You joked, ignoring the strange looks from Lucy.

“Ona, c’mon, I think your parents want you.” Lucy’s voice cut through yours, effectively cutting you off.

You had been so hopeful, so eager to make a connection, but the moment had been abruptly cut short by Lucy’s interference. At the time, you had shrugged it off, thinking it was just Lucy’s usual impatience. Now, however, it seemed like yet another piece in the puzzle of Lucy’s world that you never fully understood.

The news of not-quite-breakup with Keira, and her new relationship with Ona reached you indirectly, through snippets of social media posts and the occasional mention by your parents. They were often caught up in their own busy lives, struggling to balance the constant demands of work and home. Conversations about Lucy's new life was interspersed with discussions about their own challenges, leaving little room for deeper insights or personal connection.

Ona, who you had briefly met in the whirlwind of the World Cup, was now a fixture in Lucy’s life. The contrast between their lives and yours felt even starker. While Lucy was jet-setting across Europe and building a new chapter in Barcelona, you were back in your small town, navigating the complexities of your own world through the lens of your camera.

It was the biggest day of your young life. You had been asked to put up ten photographs on display in London. Your photographs were going to be seen in London. By paying members of the public. The significance of the event was almost overwhelming. You had worked tirelessly to curate the best of your collection, selecting pieces that told a story, captured emotions, and showcased your unique perspective.

The morning of the exhibition, you arrived at the gallery with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The building was impressive – an elegant space with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light, perfect for showcasing art. You were greeted by the curator, who showed you to your designated space and helped you set up your work. It was surreal to see your photographs hanging on the walls, each one carefully framed and lit to perfection.

You had only met Ona a few times, when she had been brought to England to meet your family. She was kind and sweet. Maybe it was because you were relatively close in age, but you couldn’t shift the familiar sting. Why couldn’t she have been your sister instead? It was the summer, the Olympics in full swing, so you knew it was too much to ask for her to be there. But you couldn’t help the small bubble of hope that Lucy would turn up.

You had it on good authority from Keira, Leah and Georgia that she had agreed to go. Ona’s game was due to finish at 4 pm the day before opening night. The journey would probably be tiring for Lucy, but she had promised her friends she would be their. If not for you then to see them before pre-season started up again.

The day of the exhibition arrived, and you were enveloped in the excitement of seeing your work displayed in such a prestigious venue. The gallery buzzed with activity as people streamed in, their voices a mix of appreciation and curiosity. The atmosphere was electric, and you tried to focus on enjoying the moment, even though the small, nagging hope that Lucy would show up lingered at the back of your mind.

Hours passed, and as the evening drew closer, you began to accept that she might not make it. The crowd was engaged and appreciative, and the positive feedback was reassuring, but the absence of your sister was a constant ache. You tried to push it away, concentrating instead on the connections you were making and the compliments you were receiving.

Your parents had come, and their pride was evident in their smiles and the way they spoke about your work. They marvelled at how far you had come and how talented you were. Their support and encouragement were the best comfort you could have asked for, and you felt a sense of accomplishment in sharing this achievement with them.

Just as the event was winding down, you were approached by Keira, Leah, and Georgia, who were all beaming with excitement. They had come to show their support and to catch up with you after the event. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same thing? Did she really hate you so much that she couldn’t even fake it for a few hours for the sake of her sister?

“We told Lucy about the exhibition,” Leah said, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she looked around the space.

“She said she would come back for it.” Keira added, her tone warm but carrying a hint of concern.

Keira had always been the one who was more in tune with the undercurrents of relationships, and she knew how complicated things were between you and Lucy. She was the only one who truly understood the depth of the tension that simmered beneath the surface. She had offered to take you and Lucy out for lunch – letting your parents rest after the long day of travel.

During that lunch, Lucy’s walls were visibly up, and her responses were curt and distant. The conversation often felt forced, with long pauses and polite but empty exchanges. It was strange Keira had watched with a mix of frustration and disbelief as Lucy struggled to engage, offering only grunts and monosyllabic words in response. She had never seen Lucy like that. She was usually great with kids. She usually revelled in making them laugh and enjoy their time with her. She had watched you sink further and further into yourself, until she was the only one speaking, a far cry from how dinners with Lucy’s family normally looked.

When the subject of family came up in conversation, Keira’s knowledge of the strained dynamics between you and your sister was never far from her mind. Keira’s attempt to mend the gaps had been a sincere effort, but it usually just ended in a fight between Lucy and her girlfriend. You often wondered why you couldn’t have had Keira as a sister instead.

“But … we haven’t heard anything from her today.” Georgia confessed; her voice tinged with concern.

Keira, ever the perceptive one, gave Georgia a sharp nudge, a silent reminder to tread carefully. She glanced over at you, who had been trying to mask your disappointment with a forced smile, though the tightness around your eyes betrayed your emotions.

“I’m sure she’s just caught up with something,” Keira said, trying to sound reassuring. “She’ll be here soon, I promise.” Her words were meant to comfort, but Keira couldn’t shake the worry that Lucy’s absence might be more than just an oversight. You knew otherwise, Lucy wouldn’t be coming.

Leah, sensing the shift in mood, quickly changed the subject. “Your photos are absolutely stunning,” she said, her enthusiasm genuine.

“Thanks, Le,” you smiled back at her. “Did you see the one of you guys?”

“What? I’m … we’re in here?” She clearly hadn’t made her way to the back of the room yet.

“Yeh, it was after the Euros.”

Leah and Keira were standing together on the makeshift dancefloor, a vibrant space that had been hastily set up for the occasion. Their laughter and the rhythm of the music filled the air as they danced with uninhibited joy. Wrapped around their shoulders were colourful flags, their bright hues fluttering with every movement. The flags added an extra splash of festivity to their energetic performance.

Amidst the swirl of movement, Georgia bounded up to them with infectious enthusiasm. She launched herself into the scene, her head playfully peeking out from between Leah and Keira. Her excitement was palpable, adding a new dimension of liveliness to the group. The trio's shared joy and friendship were evident in their spontaneous and carefree expressions.

“Wow,” Leah breathed. She was in genuine awe. She remembered that day like it was yesterday, she remembered the moment she saw the camera being aimed at her, a quiet but smiling you behind it.

Keira joined her, leaning in to get a closer look. “You really captured the energy of that moment. It’s like I can hear the music just looking at it.”

You smiled at their reactions, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over you. “I’m glad you like it. That was one of those moments where everything just felt perfect, you know? The music, the people, the atmosphere. It was one of those nights that you just want to hold on to forever.”

Georgia nodded, her smile widening. “And you’ve done just that. It’s not just a photograph; it’s a piece of that night.”

Keira looked around at the rest of the exhibition. “Seriously, all of your work is amazing. You’ve got such a unique perspective. It’s like each photo has its own story.”

“Thank you, Kei. Coming from you … that means a lot.” Keira was the closest thing you had to a sister that cared. Not that Sophie didn’t care, but she had a similar indifference that Lucy had. It wasn’t as bad, but you only really saw her on the holidays and if she ever came home for a weekend.  

As the night came to an end, you couldn’t shake off the lingering disappointment. The exhibition had been a success, but the empty space left by Lucy’s absence felt like a heavy shadow. Another milestone in your life had come and gone, and once again, you hadn’t been important enough for her to show up. You couldn’t fathom why she hated you so much. She showed up to Sophie’s things, and Jorge’s. Why not yours?

The weight of this realisation grew heavier with each passing moment. As you the taxi took you back to your hotel, the quiet of the car only seemed to amplify your sadness. By the time you arrived, you were in no mood to face the evening alone with your thoughts. Maybe ordering a bottle of the strongest thing they had from the hotel bar wasn’t your best idea. But you were alone and sad after what should’ve been the best day of your life.

The hotel room was big and expensive – your one treat to yourself in congratulations. A luxury suite in a five-star hotel in London. The alcohol burned your throat, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to sit with your emotions any longer. You wanted to stop feeling. Anything to numb the pain that had been a constant your whole life.

You weren’t sure when the idea came to you. One minute you were on the hotel balcony, wallowing in your sadness with the bottle in your hands, the next you were pulling out your phone. You weren’t expecting her to answer. You weren’t even sure she had your number saved.

When her voicemail finally picked up, the sound of her voice – a cheerful and upbeat recording informing you she couldn’t make it to the phone and to leave a message for her – felt like a final slap in the face.

“Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” you giggled, the alcohol making you feel oddly detached from the situation. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

You took a deep breath, struggling to keep your words coherent. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”

Your voice wavered, and you wiped a stray tear from your cheek. “Remember that time you said you’d come to my year 6 school play? You didn’t make it. And the Alnwick Castle exhibition thingy? And my GCSE results meal? And my A-level party? And my uni send-off? I know you didn’t want another sister. I don’t think I even appear on your Wikipedia page. I know ‘cos I use it to keep updated on your life. You never tell me anything so.” You took another shuddering breath and a swig from the bottle.

“What was it this time? Did Ona need you? I know you’re at the Olympics for her. I like Ona. She’s really nice. And funny. And pretty. I wish she was my sister instead of you. Or Keira… Keira was good… is good. She actually cares about me. She showed up today.” A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, and you shook your head, trying to push away the tears.

“I don’t know what I ever did to you, Lucy.” You stared at the dark hotel room around you. “I don’t know why I even bother sometimes. Maybe I should just stop pretending that you’re ever going to be there for me. Maybe I should just stop hoping for something that’s never going to happen.”

Your voice softened, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I’ve tried to be understanding, to see things from your side. I know you’re busy, and I get that life doesn’t always align. But it’s like I’m always on the outside of your world, never really part of it. It’s exhausting, waiting for something that never comes.”

A long silence followed as you struggled to gather your thoughts. “Anyway, I don’t expect you to call back. I don’t expect you to make any grand gestures or anything like that. I really need to stop expecting anything from you. I just needed to say it. I needed to get it off my chest, even if it’s to your voicemail.”

You let out a long sigh, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Take care, Lucy. I hope things are going well with you, even if I’m not a part of it and you hate me for the rest of your life. I really do.”

It was another hot day in France. The sun beat down on Lyon, the heatwaves fogging the horizon. The cobblestone streets shimmered in the intense light, and the usually bustling markets were quieter than usual, with vendors seeking refuge in the shade of their awnings. The air was thick with the scent of fresh baguettes and ripe fruit, but even these familiar aromas seemed to waver in the oppressive heat.

Outside, the rhythmic clatter of a bicycle's wheels on the pavement was one of the few sounds cutting through the heat. The cyclist, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat, pedalled slowly, her face glistening with perspiration. She was on a mission to find a place where the heat was more bearable, perhaps a hidden garden or a cool courtyard where she could rest and escape the relentless sun.

Ona looked back towards Lucy, who was still in bed, her dark hair splayed out over the pillow like a cascade of midnight. The room was filled with a soft morning light that filtered through the thin curtains, casting a warm glow on the walls. Ona smiled, feeling a sense of contentment that she hadn’t experienced in weeks.

Last night had been exactly what they needed. The weight of the Olympics had finally lifted, if only temporarily. She had underestimated how exhausting the Games could be – Lucy had been right when she described it as a marathon. The endless competition and pressure to perform had taken their toll, and last night’s reprieve from it all felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air.

She leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from Lucy’s face. Lucy stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She gave Ona a sleepy, contented smile, her hand reaching out to rest on Ona’s.

“Morning,” Lucy murmured, her voice thick with sleep but warm with affection.

“Bon dia,” Ona replied softly, her heart swelling with the simple joy of being beside Lucy.

Ona let her fingers dance across Lucy's face, across her brow and down her nose before delicately tracing the outline of her lips. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains painted a serene glow across the room. Everything felt calm and intimate, a stark contrast to the intensity of the past weeks.

Just as Ona leaned in to place a tender kiss on Lucy’s forehead, the piercing ring of her phone shattered the quiet. Ona’s eyes fluttered open, and she sighed, glancing at the screen with a frown. The phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table.

“Mmmm, who, who is it?” Lucy grumbled sleepily.

“No n'estic segur,” Ona muttered back.

“Too early for Catalan,” the Brit groaned, twisting away to pick up the phone

“Oh,” her demeanour changed abruptly.

“Who is it?” Ona asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern as she reached over to peek at the phone.

“Just a voicemail,” Lucy said, her voice distant and troubled. She rolled over in bed, clearly unsettled by the message.

“From who?” Ona persisted, her brow furrowing. She was trying to understand the sudden shift in Lucy’s mood.

“My sister,” Lucy replied, her voice flat and weary. The mention of her sister’s name seemed to weigh heavily on her.

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would Sophie be phoning you now? It’s only 6 am in England.”

“It’s not Sophie,” Lucy clarified, her tone tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as if trying to wake herself from a troubling dream. “It’s Y/N.”

Ona’s expression softened with empathy. She was aware of the strained relationship between you, though the reasons behind it had always eluded her. She had heard bits and pieces about their complicated dynamic but had never been given a full explanation. She wasn’t even sure Lucy had a definite answer for her.

“Maybe you should listen to it?” Ona suggested gently, her voice filled with concern. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder.

“No,” Lucy’s answer was abrupt and to the point. She seemed almost angry with herself for letting the voicemail disturb her morning. She threw the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements sharp and restless.

The movement managed to throw Lucy’s phone off the bed as well. She must not have locked it properly. Before they could react, your voice filled the room.

The voicemail had begun to play on speakerphone, and Lucy’s heart sank as your words echoed around them. “Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” your voice slurred slightly, you were clearly drunk. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at Lucy, whose face had gone pale. The voicemail continued, your words growing more emotional and raw. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no, that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”