AN: Hi! So I wrote this actually last September. I fully intended it to be a oneshot but unfortunately I got stuck somewhere in the second part and realized it made a lot more sense to just split it in two anyway, as the storyline sort of shifts halfway through. I still donât have the second half done, but I figured why hold off on posting the first half? Haha.
But seriously, I do feel the need to probably warn you that if you are an Ezria shipper who is dabbling in Spoby fanfiction, this is not the story for you. If you are a Spoby shipper who also hardcore ships Ezria, I advise you to proceed with caution. This first chapter has absolutely nothing to do with Ezria at all-in fact, I think they are scarcely even mentioned-but the second half focuses on Spencer and them in a very, very negative way and I just want to give you a clear warning that this is truly not a Ezra friendly story (though I did ship them once upon a time⌠prior to 4B, letâs just say).
Otherwise, I feel the need to maybe also throw out there that this is an extremely chaotic run-on-sentence style of writing I tried out and maybe it wonât really work for you, maybe itâll be way too confusing, and Iâm really, truly sorry if thatâs the case, but I started randomly writing without a plan-though the storyline in the first chapter is a more simplified version of a much more in-depth story I still have every intention of writing-and this is what came out.
Anyways, I love all you out there who are reading this. You all mean the world to me and I hope you enjoy this fic and that you do comeback for more. Your never-ending support for everything I write really means more than I could ever even express. (I sound so cliche right now but all my author notes kind of sound cliche soooo I guess this is just me hahaha.)
Oh and I basically forgot to even give you the time period this takes place in-though I hope itâs apparent a few paragraphs in, hahaha. This is set after 7x20. And, if you didnât know, the title comes from the poem Spencer recited to Toby in the end of the finale. She didnât say the entire thing, but the poemâs second to last line translates to the title of this fic.
An ordinary day is a rarity after spending years upon years living in constant fear of an unknown figure, an all-knowing tormentor, a ruthless, violent psychopath. Ordinary days are unexpected blessings that no one who had an average youth could possibly even begin to comprehend.
But unfortunately some didnât have the luxury of ignorance and were forced to bear the brunt of the past, forced to live every second of every day with skeletons and ghosts and demons and whispers all sitting at the threshold of their closet, begging to be unleashed, begging to be set free, begging to devour what was built in spite of the panic and the fear and the lingering anxiety that somehow, some way, it wasnât over, and somewhere out there in the dark that no one could see, the game was still happening.
Some days the trepidation was so debilitating, it incapacitated them from doing anything more strenuous than inhaling and exhaling from the comfort of their beds.
Spencer was one of those people. The stunning, brilliant brunette, who spent her entire young adulthood looking over her shoulder, flinching whenever a new text came, evading cops and parents and the boy with blue eyes that she loved more than her own life, always terrified of looking behind her on the off chance of finding sociopaths or stalkers or killersâor her own familyâwaiting, had lived a life that most people couldnât even stomach envisioning and somehow, by some miracle of strength and stamina, she managed not to let it destroy her completely.
Itâd been two years. Two years since the game had officially ended. Two years since Toby and the girls and Caleb and Mona had all found Alexâs underground bunker, found their tormentor and their best friend fighting over an axe, found Ezra with a crack in his skull. Two years since Toby had alone deciphered which twin was the crazed mastermind and which twin was the girl who owned his entire heart.
âUne orange sur la table.
Two years since Alex and Mary and Mona had all but evaporated into thin air. Two years since a cop came and took Alex away and never booked her into custody and never reported the incident and never told any authority figure that there laid a bunker underground, underneath a beautiful blue house that meant for a girl with mocha eyes but instead had been permanently marred by her twin.
In the two years since that night, the entire group had struggled and faltered and fell and rose and made leap and bounds and failed and succeeded, time and time again.
