pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader
summary: long distance isnāt for the weak, especially when you visit your girlfriend in new york city - just to see her all over somebody else.
warnings: mentions of ghostface & blood
authorās note: that viral video of the girl surprising her boyfriend while another girl is sitting on top of him and all his friends are like āyoo holy shit wtfffā and laughing at the girlfriend haunts me to this day.
You were the smart girl. The golden girl. The one with annotated poetry books and hair that always looked a little too perfect in the wind. Your teachers loved you ā that kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for prodigies and people who already had TED Talks queued up in their futures. You wore Harvard on your chest before you even applied. Because of course you'd get in. Of course you did.
But none of it ever made you feel like Tara did.
Tara Carpenter ā with her bite and her bruises, her too-dark eye circles and the way she rolled joints like it was an art form. She used to call you "Valedictorian Barbie," but only when she was feeling flirty. Which was often. She made you feel like being brilliant was hot. Like being soft and sharp at the same time was something to be worshipped, not tolerated. You loved that she didn't treat you like you were breakable.
And she loved that you saw her.
Not Sam's little sister. Not Ghostface bait. Not the girl who almost didn't survive.
You knew her before all that.
Before Amber's house. Before the hospital.
You were the one holding her hair back while she cried on the bathroom floor the week after her stitches came out. You were the one who wiped blood off her collarbone and kissed her anyway. You were the one who told her she was more than what happened to her. That she was still here. Still worth everything.
You spent your last year in Woodsboro fused. That was the only way to describe it. Two people who knew they wouldn't survive the year unless they clung to each other. It was desperate. Beautiful. And when you got your Harvard acceptance letter, she screamed louder than your mom did.
"I told you," she said that night, sprawled across your bed, a bowl of grapes between you. "You're gonna be running the whole world by 30."
"And you're gonna be directing horror films in a basement somewhere," you teased.
"With Chad holding the boom mic," she grinned. "And Mindy threatening producers."
You looked at her and said it without thinking:
"I wish you were coming with me."
She had blinked at that. Quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet.
Then: "We'll be fine. I'll be in New York. You'll be in Boston. It's likeāwhat? A four-hour train ride?"
Harvard was cruel in a subtle way. It didn't punch you in the face so much as bleed you dry by a thousand little paper cuts. It didn't feel like success at first.
You sat in lecture halls the size of churches and felt like a fraud. You got A-minuses and wanted to scream. You called your mom crying twice in the same week because your roommate played club lacrosse and thought Nietzsche was "just okay." You started eating dinner at 9 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night. You excelled, of course ā you always did ā but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like surviving.
Like a fever dream made of fluorescent lights, frigid air, and classrooms that smelled faintly of erasers and old money. You walked through campus in your thrifted wool coat like a ghost wearing someone else's skin ā the only person in the lecture hall taking notes by hand because you couldn't afford a new laptop after your financial aid went toward books in the first month of school.
Gwen. Samira. Alex. Cassie.
The weird girls. The brilliant ones. The ones who built forts out of unread textbooks and spoke about grief and girlhood like it was a second language. You found them on the floor of a dorm hallway during a fire drill. Someone quoted Adrienne Rich. Someone else cried. You stayed until 3 a.m.
They didn't just like your mind. They saw it.
You weren't too intense or too emotional or too ambitious here ā you were exactly enough. And when you spoke, people leaned in. You started to laugh again. You started to write again. You stopped apologizing for taking up space.
But the thing is, when you start becoming more of yourself... Sometimes the people who loved the earlier version of you start to disappear.
You were halfway through a half-eaten pack of seaweed snacks, balancing a laptop on your knees while everyone around you argued about which sad girl singer deserved the "haunting voice of the decade" crown - it was clearly Mitski - when your phone lit up.
Tara Carpenter ā¤ļø calling.
"Shhāguys, shut upāTara's calling."
They all fell dramatically silent.
You answered on the second ring, suddenly too aware of the chaotic mess behind you.
Her face filled the screen. Sleepy, soft. She looked like she had just climbed into bed, hair half-damp and hoodie swallowing her frame.
"Hey," she murmured. "Did I call too late?"
Your chest ached. Her voice still did that to you.
From behind you, Samira waved dramatically. "Is that the famous girlfriend?!"
You laughed, startled, and turned the phone slightly so Tara could see the room: Gwen wearing Alex's hoodie like a cape, Samira eating instant oatmeal with chopsticks, Cassie in your bed pretending to meditate.
Tara blinked at the screen, clearly caught off guard.
"Oh... wow. You have a cult now."
"They worship me," you deadpanned.
Tara laughed. Kind of. But there was something off in her voice.
"They're cool," she said. "Different from Woodsboro."
"They're insane," you grinned. "But in the best way."
Tara nodded slowly. But didn't say anything right away.
You glanced down. That kind of compliment ā simple, sincere ā shouldn't hurt. But it did. It made you think about how long it had been since she'd said anything like it.
"I am, I think," you replied. "It's hard, but... yeah. They make it easier."
Tara's thumb brushed the edge of her screen. Her eyes flicked somewhere just out of frame.
Then: "You're still coming here next month, right?"
"Yeah. I booked the train. Didn't I tell you?"
"You didn't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm glad."
And for a second, it almost felt normal. Easy. Like you were still the girl who patched up her stab wounds in a bathroom and whispered "I'm not scared when I'm with you."
But then Gwen asked if you wanted to stay up for tarot readings and Samira announced she was making "grief popcorn" ā and Tara suddenly looked very far away again. "I should let you go," she said. "Looks like you've got a whole... thing going on."
You frowned. "No, wait, stay on. I'll kick them out."
"It's fine. I'm just tired."
Just a gray screen and a slow, sinking ache in your chest.
"I'm just tired, babe," she'd say, voice raspy. "Long day. I'll call you tomorrow."
Tomorrow turned into the weekend. The weekend turned into "shit, sorry, I forgot."
You told yourself it was okay. She had her own life. You couldn't expect everything to stay the same. You were both adjusting. But something shifted in the silence. Something you couldn't name.
You started overanalyzing her texts.
Started noticing how often Chad's name came up. Started wondering why she laughed in his stories but never in your calls.
You visited her once in early October. Took the Amtrak with an overstuffed bag and nerves like static in your chest. It was a surprise. You brought her favorite cold brew, wore her favorite sweater. You imagined the way her face would light up when she saw you.
She answered the door in someone else's hoodie.
The apartment was buzzing with noise ā Mindy was yelling about a horror remake, Chad was tossing popcorn into his mouth like a Labrador, and Tara... Tara was tired. You could see it in her eyes, the way she hugged you like she was checking off a box.
She kissed you once. She slept facing the wall.
By November, you'd memorized what it felt like to fall asleep without her voice in your ear. You'd stopped telling her about your day unless she asked. (She didn't.) You'd stopped sending cute videos you saw on Instagram because she rarely watched them anymore. Your late-night-post-essay-due-date drunken pictures of you just in the Harvard sweatshirt and the pair of black lace panties she loved on you stopped.
You caught yourself wondering what the point of it all was. Of you. Of her. Of trying.
You called her on the anniversary of the attack.
She said she didn't want to "dwell on it." Which, obviously, you understood. She was the one to get stabbed while you were just the one who found her bloody on her kitchen floor.
She said Chad took her to Coney Island to cheer her up.
She said she'd call you later.
It became a kind of masochism ā loving her. You started to feel embarrassed when you mentioned her in conversations with new friends. Like it was obvious you were the only one still in it.
You remembered what she was like in Woodsboro, when she'd press her forehead to yours and whisper things like "I didn't know I could feel this much without falling apart."
You thought maybe ā maybe if you just showed up again, you could remind her of that version of yourselves.
Of the "us" she used to cry over.
The train into Manhattan rattled like a pulse beneath you. Loud and relentless.
You sat pressed against the window with your cheek resting on the glass, watching the East River blur past like a half-forgotten memory. Your duffel bag was jammed under your legs, your phone was dead, and your head ached in that particular way it always did when you hadn't eaten properly in two days. The cold from the window crept through your coat and up your spine, but you didn't move. You didn't want to miss the skyline.
You hadn't seen her in 62 days.
You told yourself you weren't counting, but of course you were. That's what people do when they miss someone. They count days. Silences. Excuses. And lately, you'd had too many of all three.
Stillāthis wasn't some dramatic last-ditch attempt. This was love. A surprise. A grand, spontaneous thing you used to dream about when you were fifteen and scribbling your future into the margins of your AP Lit notebook.
You imagined her opening the door, eyes going wide, smiling so hard she forgot how to speak. You imagined her pulling you in by the collar, kissing you like the wait was unbearable.
You imagined it so clearly it started to feel like a memory.
You got off at Penn Station just before sunset. The city buzzed around you in that way only New York could ā like it didn't care who you were, what you were carrying, or why your hands were shaking slightly as you pulled up her address from memory. The air was sharp with early winter. You could taste metal on your tongue.
Brooklyn wasn't far. You'd made this trip before ā once, back in September, when things still felt like they were holding together. When she met you at the subway stop in that green jacket you loved, kissed you like she needed you to breathe, and made you pancakes at 1 a.m. even though she didn't know how.
But tonight, you went alone.
No warning. No texts. No "I'm outside :)"
Just your bag, your college sweatshirt, and that familiar pressure in your chest that always showed up when you were about to do something brave or stupid.
Her building looked the same. Beige brick and flaking paint, a crooked buzzer panel and the smell of someone cooking aggressively seasoned lentils on the first floor. The hallway was dim, light flickering above the stairs, the sound of a muffled bass line bleeding through someone's door.
You climbed the steps slowly. Your legs felt heavier than usual. Each floor seemed longer than the last.
You reached her apartment and stood there for a full ten seconds.
You adjusted your hair. Wiped your hands on your jeans. Told yourself to relax.
Muffled, but unmistakable. That slightly raspy, breathy little sound she made when something actually got to her. When she wasn't faking it.
Waited for the sound of her footsteps.
Waited for her to fling the door open, throw her arms around you, gasp "oh my god, you're here."
Another laugh ā and a second voice. Deep. Familiar.
You knocked again. A little louder.
Then the doorknob turned.
Her face was flushed from laughing. Hair pulled back into a loose bun, a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she'd rubbed it in the middle of a joke. She was wearing a hoodie. Too big to be hers. You recognized it instantly.
She froze when she saw you.
And something flickered behind her eyes ā not joy. Not even shock.
Her voice cracked on your name. Like she wasn't sure it was really you.
"Hi," you said, heart thudding. "Surprise."
There was a pause. Too long. Like she had to recalibrate her entire brain to process what she was looking at.
You smiled, nervous. "I couldn't stay away anymore. Midterms ended yesterday. I took the train."
Her mouth opened. Then closed again.
You watched the confusion settle into something else ā a practiced calm. Controlled. Neutral.
And that's when the noise behind her hit you fully.
Voices. Laughter. The rustle of blankets. The glow of a paused TV.
You stepped through the doorway and into the warmth.
Chad was on the couch, controller in his lap, half-turned toward the door like he'd already seen you coming. Mindy was curled up in the bean bag, legs tucked under her, phone glowing in her hand. Anika waved weakly from the kitchen. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Two mugs of something warm.
She hadn't said, I'm busy tonight.
She said she was tired. Ready for an early night.
Because she hadn't expected you to come.
Because maybe she hadn't wanted you to.
And yet, here you were ā still smiling like an idiot. Still holding your bag like you didn't already know.
Still pretending you didn't notice the way she didn't hug you.
"Hey," Chad said, nodding like you were a regular delivery guy, not the girlfriend who hadn't been here in weeks. "Didn't know you were visiting."
You swallowed. "Yeah. I wanted to surprise her."
Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Well... you certainly did."
Tara cleared her throat and sat down ā not beside Chad, not exactly, but close enough to make your stomach churn. Her arms folded tightly over her chest.
"We were just watching something," she said quickly, gesturing to the screen. "You can sit if you want."
In the far corner of the couch. Bag still in your lap. Sweatshirt still on. Like a guest.
You told yourself it was fine.
Because you'd made it this far.
Because if you let yourself really feel what this was turning into ā you might not be able to crawl back out of it.
Because what else could you do?
You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, half-perched like a piece of misplaced furniture, still clutching your bag like it was armor. No one told you to relax. No one offered to take your sweatshirt that was obviously overdressed for the warmth of the living room. You waited for her to shift closer. She didn't.
The movie started again. Something loud and gory, the kind of film she used to tease you for squinting through. She used to tuck herself under your arm during the bad parts, fingers curled into your hoodie, whispering things like "okay that part was kinda hot actually" when someone got their arm chopped off.
But tonight she sat three feet away, laughing too loud at Chad's dumb commentary, chewing her nails like nothing was wrong.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Once. Twice. Then a steady stream.
You didn't have to look to know who it was.
HARVARD GAYS š ā the groupchat.
what's happening is she like sobbing in your arms rn or what
don't make us go all poetically unhinged for you
if she didn't jump into your arms like a war widow I'm gonna be sick
You let the screen fade to black.
Your chest buzzed with something sticky and slow, like syrup over a wound. You could almost hear your own heartbeat in your throat ā that tight, pulsing ache that came whenever you forced yourself to stay in situations that didn't love you back.
It didnāt get any better. The feeling in your gut, your mind, your heart, your soul. It didn't help that she didnāt touch you once.
Not even a hand on your knee. Not a passing brush of fingers. You watched her laugh at Chad's jokes and lean her chin into her hand and mouth the words to some stupid commercial on Hulu and all you could think wasā
This isn't the girl who used to fall asleep on your chest.
The girl who cried when you left for college.
The girl who wrote you a letter the night before you moved into your dorm. A real one ā with her messy handwriting and a pressed flower between the pages.
The girl who was obsessed with you - always wanting you underneath her in her bed. In her clothes. In her hands.
The girl who said you're my safe place.
But this girl sitting beside you?
This one wouldn't even meet your eyes.
By the time the movie ended, your bones ached from how still you'd been.
Tara stood up and stretched, then mumbled something about getting ready for bed. She didn't look at you when she said it. Didn't invite you to come with her.
But you followed her down the hallway, past the peeling paint and the poster of Jennifer's Body Mindy taped to the wall and the echo of Chad's voice yelling something behind you. You tried not to think about how different this walk was from the last time ā how you used to race each other down the hallway, out of breath and laughing and already half-undressed before the bedroom door even closed.
Now it was just footsteps.
She clicked on the lamp and stepped out of her hoodie. You tried not to notice how she didn't offer it to you. How she folded it and set it neatly on the chair instead, like it meant something.
You sat on the edge of the bed.
She rummaged in a drawer. Pulled out pajamas. A pair of soft shorts and a worn t-shirt. Not yours. Not anything you recognized. She changed with her back to you, and you stared at the cracks in the ceiling to give her privacy.
She climbed into bed without a word.
Didn't ask if you were coming.
You stood for a second too long, waiting for her to say something. Anything. A glance. An invitation.
So you slipped off your jeans, peeled off your socks, and eased in beside her.
She didn't reach for you.
She didn't turn toward you.
Like sleep was something she owed to someone else.
Throughout the night, you stayed very still.
So still your back started to cramp. So still your throat felt like it might close.
You thought about texting Samira. About typing something's wrong, and waiting for her to send a voice note, one of those soothing ones with sleepy affirmations and stupid jokes and a promise to egg your ex's dorm if things went south.
Because that would mean admitting it.
Admitting that this trip ā this grand romantic gesture ā wasn't going the way it was supposed to.
That you were losing her.
That maybe, somehow, without you even realizing itā¦ You already had.
Like always, you didn't sleep.
Your eyes stayed closed, your breathing even. But your body never softened the way it used to in her bed. You laid perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside ā the occasional honk, the distant thrum of a train, the rhythmic creak of the radiator. You used to find it soothing. Now, it just felt like a countdown.
You felt her shift beside you. Not dramatically. Not the exaggerated toss of someone trying to fall asleep ā more like the quiet, guilty stir of someone who never planned to.
Her breath caught. Just for a second. You could feel it.
She thought you were asleep.
And maybe that was the only reason she whispered, "Shit," under her breath. Like the night was closing in on her too.
The lamp was still off, but a thin strip of light from the hallway cracked through the door and cast a sharp outline of her back. She was sitting up now, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid.
"Tara?" you said, voice hoarse, small.
She didn't answer right away. Just tilted her chin toward you, not all the way.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
You sat up slowly, the comforter falling from your shoulders. The bed was still warm beneath you, but your skin was starting to go cold.
"Tara," you said again. This time with more weight. "Talk to me."
Her eyes closed like the sentence physically hurt.
"There's nothing to talk about."
You said it gently. Not like an accusation ā more like a confession.
She inhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Like she was bracing herself.
You stared at her, really stared, and realized how small she looked in that moment. Not physically ā emotionally. Like she was pulling every piece of herself inward, trying to disappear inside her own silence.
"I feel like I don't know you anymore," you said. Quiet. Not a threat. Just a truth you'd been trying to avoid for weeks.
Tara didn't flinch. But she didn't deny it either.
"You've barely looked at me since I got here."
You reached for her hand ā tentative, slow ā and she let you hold it. But it was limp. Heavy. Not how it used to be. Not the way she used to need you.
"I'm not mad," you whispered. "I just... I need you to be honest with me. Please."
Her thumb twitched against your palm.
And finally, finally, she turned toward you.
Her voice was so soft it nearly disappeared.
"I didn't think you'd actually come."
That shattered something in you.
You tried to keep your voice steady. "Why wouldn't I?"
She looked at you like the answer should've been obvious. "You're at Harvard. You're... happy. You have this whole new world."
"No, I have this," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "I have late-night movies and dumb jokes and group projects with people I barely know. I have Chad."
The name hit like a slap. Not because she said it with affection. But because she said it instead of you.
"You could've told me you were struggling," you said. "You could've called."
"I didn't want to ruin it."
Her voice cracked: "You. Everything you're building."
You wanted to scream. Shake her. Tell her that she was never a distraction. That she was part of the dream. That every hard night at Harvard still ended with you whispering her name into your pillow like a prayer.
Instead, you said: "Tara, you don't have to protect me from your sadness.ā
"I wasn't protecting you," she said. "I was hiding."
You stared at her. Your Tara. Or the girl who used to be.
"I'm still here," you said. "Even now."
And for a second ā just a flicker ā she looked like she might believe you.
But then her gaze dropped to your hands, still loosely clasped.
And she said: "I don't know if that's enough anymore."
The kind of cold that doesn't make sense at first ā the kind that feels like it came from inside you. Like it had been building overnight, slow and secretive, seeping through your bones while you pretended everything was okay.
The bed beside you was empty.
Her side: cold. Sheets slightly wrinkled. Pillow still shaped like her head had been there hours ago. She didn't just get up. She'd been up. Long enough for the impression to start fading.
You sat up slowly. Blinked against the light filtering through the cheap blinds. The room looked almost exactly the same as it had last night. Except now, it was unbearable.
Your throat was dry. Your heart felt like it was bruising itself against your ribs.
Still, you gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe she ran out for coffee. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe sheā
āmaybe she didn't want to be there when you woke up.
You tried not to think that.
You tried not to think anything at all.
You got dressed without turning the light on. Pulled your jeans on quietly. Tugged your sweater over your head like you didn't want to disturb ghosts. You didn't brush your hair. Didn't fix your face.
You didn't want to see yourself.
When you stepped out into the kitchen, the apartment was alive in that half-awake kind of way ā music playing low from someone's phone, the scent of cheap coffee burning slightly in the pot, a pan on the stove with something scrambled and overcooked inside it.
Chad was at the counter. Shirtless. Making eggs.
Mindy sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, thumbing through something with a blank expression.
Anika leaned against the wall, sipping from a chipped mug, eyes flicking up when you entered.
No one said anything at first.
The quiet kind of discomfort that stretches across a room like a spiderweb. No one wants to touch it. No one wants to be the first to speak.
"Morning," you offered, voice raw from not talking.
"Hey," Anika replied, like someone cautiously approaching a dog they don't trust not to bite.
Chad gave a small nod. "Tara ran out. Said she had class."
"I thought she had Fridays off."
Chad shrugged. "Maybe she picked up a makeup lab?"
Not all at once ā not like a gunshot or a scream.
More like drowning. Like realizing, slowly and too late, that you're already underwater.
Not everything, maybe. Not the details.
And none of them would meet your eyes.
You sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Didn't ask. Just sat. Folded your hands together and stared at the chipped tile on the counter, willing yourself not to cry.
This wasn't your place. This wasn't your girl. Not the way she used to be. Not the way you still were.
You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket.
Probably picturing you wrapped up in Tara's arms, happy and safe and home.
And you couldn't bear to tell them the truth.
That she left before you could ask her to.
That maybe this entire time ā while you were holding your breath in Massachusetts, counting the days, promising yourself this would all be worth it ā
She was already letting you go.
She came back around three.
Sunlight was bleeding through the blinds in that slanted, golden way that made everything feel too soft for how sharp the ache in your chest was becoming. You'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since noon, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bag zipped tight and ready by your feet. It had started to feel like you weren't even waiting anymore ā just sitting with the loss.
When you heard the key turn, your body stiffened.
The door creaked open. You listened to her boots hit the floor, the scuff of her tote bag against the wall. She was humming. Humming.
She walked into her room half-distracted, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn't see you until she was already inside.
"Oh," she said, nearly dropping her coffee. "You're still here."
You blinked up at her slowly. "Of course I am."
The way she stood there ā surprised but not sorry ā made something nauseating bloom behind your ribs.
"I thought..." she trailed off. "I figured you'd be gone by now."
"Yeah," you said flatly. "So did everyone else."
Tara's expression faltered. She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. Defensive. Tired. Distant in a way you were starting to recognize as permanent.
She nodded at your bag. "You're leaving?"
You stood. Slowly. Shoulders heavy, breath uneven.
"I don't think I ever really arrived."
That's when she looked at you. Really looked.
There were bags under her eyes, purpled and sunken from sleepless nights. Her lips were chapped. Her posture curled inward like she was trying to become smaller ā less real. She looked like a person unraveling quietly. Like someone who'd long since forgotten how to ask for help.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.
And god, you wished she had. You wished it had been intentional. Because at least then you could be angry instead of just... broken.
You shook your head, voice tight. "But you did, you stopped choosing me.ā
It came out quiet, but it landed like a bomb. Not because of how loud it was, but because of how true it was. The kind of truth that makes people flinch. And she did. Not dramatically ā not like someone slapped her ā just a blink, a recoil. A subtle, almost imperceptible jerk of her chin like her body had finally caught up with the thing she'd been pretending wasn't real.
"You say you love me," you continued, voice rising now, shaking in that way that meant you were either going to cry or break something. "You say you didn't mean to hurt me. But you didn't fight for me either. You didn't reach. You didn't try. You let me show up here with hope in my chest like an idiot while you've been slipping further away every single day and letting him fill in the blanks."
Tara's arms crossed tighter over her chest, like she was trying to contain herself ā or maybe cage something in. Her eyes were glassy but hard, like she was tired of being accused of something she didn't mean to do. But meaning didn't matter anymore. Intentions didn't keep people warm at night.
"I told you," she snapped. "It's not about Chad. It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" you shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you replaced me with convenience."
Her expression cracked, sharp and sudden. "Fuck you."
You blinked, stunned for just a second.
"Yes, you," she said, stepping forward, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak tangled together. "You come here and act like I'm the villain for needing someone when you're not around. You say I stopped trying, but when was the last time you asked if I was okay? When was the last time you noticed I was falling apart and didn't just tell me I'd be fine?"
You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off.
"You send pictures of your weird little study group and talk about how seen you feel and how you've finally found your people. And that's good. I'm happy for you. But you talk about it like I'm not one of them anymore. Like the version of you that loved me is someone you already buried back in Woodsboro."
"That's not true," you breathed. But it was weak. Paper thin.
"Isn't it?" she said, voice cracking now. "You say I stopped calling, but half the time when I tried, you were too busy or too tired or in some deep, intellectual spiral with Gwen or Alex or whatever the fuck. You outgrew me. I just didn't realize it until I was watching you shine from across a screen like I didn't even belong in your orbit anymore."
The room felt too small. Too hot. You wanted to scream or run or throw something just to make the pressure in your chest stop.
You stepped closer, teeth clenched.
"You think I outgrew you? I built everything around you, Tara. I made space for you everywhere. I wrote you into every story, every plan, every thought about my future. You were the constant I was holding onto, even while everything else felt like it was swallowing me whole."
"I was drowning too," you whispered. "But I kept calling out for you."
Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back fast, stubborn.
"You weren't supposed to need me," she said, voice suddenly small. "You were supposed to be the one who made it out."
"And you were supposed to be the one I came home to."
Your voice wasn't quiet when you said it this time. It wasn't trembling. It was full. Solid. Final. It echoed through the small bedroom like a bell toll ā sharp and sickening and absolutely true. And Tara didn't move. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She just stared at you with that same hollow, stunned expression ā the kind people make when they realize the building is already on fire, and it's far too late to save anything inside.
And that was what pushed you over the edge.
"Oh my God," you snapped, stepping back, your hand running down your face like you could wipe the pain off your skin. "You're not even gonna try, are you? I came here, Tara. I showed up. I left everything I had going for me to be here with you, and you're just gonna stand there and let me fall apart in front of you like it doesn't fucking matter?"
Her jaw tightened. "You think it's that simple?"
You laughed ā sharp, bitter, like broken glass under bare feet. "It was simple. Until you made it complicated."
"I never asked you to come," she said, and there was venom in it now, like she was trying to hurt you first. "You showed up without warning, expecting me toāwhat? Drop everything and wrap my arms around you like it's still high school?"
"I showed up," you hissed, "because I missed you. Because you wouldn't answer my calls and I started to wonder if maybe something was wrongāand guess what? I was right."
Tara's voice rose, suddenly sharp. "You think I don't miss you?"
"You have a hell of a way of showing it."
"You think I'm not trying?" she yelled. "Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to sit in this apartment every night, surrounded by people who only know the broken pieces of me and pretend that's all there ever was? You think Chad knows me? You think I want him?"
"Then why does it look like you do?" you screamed back. "Why did I walk into your space and feel like a guest in my own relationship?!"
Tara shook her head but didnāt respond, her mouth opening and closing while she tried to find a word, a phrase, a sentence - anything, to say back to you.
You felt the tears slide down your cheeks, you never cried. āI miss my caring girlfriend, Tara. The one who used to send me letters every two weeks with flowers and small drawings between the words. The girlfriend I made plans to have a future, a family, a life with!ā
"I don't think that version of me exists anymore," she said.
And for a moment ā a single, frozen heartbeat ā the entire room went quiet. Like even the walls were waiting to see if you'd break.
You didn't. Not right away.
You just stood there, blinking at her like you couldn't quite comprehend the weight of what she'd just said. Like you were waiting for the punchline.
Just her. Just that look on her face ā exhausted, hollow, wrecked in all the wrong ways. Like she wasn't sorry enough to take it back. Just sorry enough to say it.
And that's when something inside you snapped.
"You don't think that version of you exists?" you repeated, slowly, voice rising with every syllable. "Then what the fuck have I been holding on to, Tara? What the hell have I been fighting for all this time?"
"I never asked you to fight," she bit back, voice sharp now, ugly.
"No," you spat. "You just let me."
You were shaking ā full-body shaking ā like your grief was trying to claw its way out of your skin. You took a step toward her, not to threaten, but because standing still hurt too much. "You let me call. Let me text. Let me write letters. You let me lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering if you were okay, if you still loved me, if I'd done something wrong. You let me keep giving when you knew you'd already checked out."
"I didn't know!" she snapped, stepping forward now too, fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing! I was scared and numb and just trying to survive and every time I looked at my phone and saw your name I felt like I was drowning in all the ways I was failing you."
"You weren't failing me," you shouted. "You were leaving me!"
Tara's face twisted. "I didn't know how to be with you and be broken at the same time."
"And I didn't know how to be without you," you said, and it came out a sob. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a raw, trembling ache you couldn't keep down any longer. "But I tried. I tried so hard. I tried when you went quiet, and when your texts got short, and when you started saying Chad's name more than mine. I tried when it felt like I was talking to a version of you that had already decided I was part of a different life. One you were trying to forget."
You kept going, because there was no turning back now.
"You think I'm thriving, don't you? That because I have people and lectures and some bullshit little academic glow-up, I don't need you anymore? That I forgot what it felt like to kiss you with blood still on your shirt? That I stopped waking up in the middle of the night wanting to hear your voice just so I didn't fall apart?"
"I didn't want to be your trauma!" she shouted suddenly, like the words had been rotting inside her for months. "I didn't want to be the thing that held you back! I didn't want to be the reason you couldn't fucking breathe."
"And now you're not," you whispered. "Now I'm just the girl you forgot to say goodbye to."
"Do you have any idea how humiliating it felt to walk into your apartment and realize everyone knew before I did? That your friends had already seen you pull away and just let me show up like some lovesick idiot begging for scraps? That they watched me sit on your couch while you laughed at Chad's fucking jokes like I was invisible?"
Her mouth opened. Her voice cracked. "It wasn'tā"
"I loved you more than anything," you said, stepping back, chest heaving. "And you let me come here thinking we were still us."
"I didn't know how to tell you," she said, breathless.
You said it like it was the last thing you'd ever say to her.
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