Mandomover

You know your surroundings well by now and use the knowledge to formulate your next move. You slowly circle around the tree- its massive trunk shielding you from sight. The enemy halts, listens. You pick up a stick and hurtle it in the opposite direction, hoping even a second or two of distraction will give you the head start you need to make it to the gorge. When you hear the enemy move in that direction, you sprint off the opposite way. Ahead, the deep gorge- maybe thirty feet wide and two hundred feet deep. Its craggy walls are covered in slick moss, so even if you were to climb down the side, there’d be little hope of holding on. 

You pump your arms faster, knowing you’ll need every bit of speed you can muster to make it to the halfway point over the middle. Confident in your decision, you speed forth, waiting until the absolute last second- your toes hanging off the edge of the cliff face before you take a flying leap. Your arms swing wildly in a windmill motion as nothingness passes below your feet. The opposite side of the gorge feels miles away- you’ll never make it on your own. 

Luckily, there are thick ropes of jungle vine that hang from the canopy above. Sometimes they give, like the snap of a rubber band, and sometimes they hold. Sometimes. Today is just another roll of the dice. 

Your hands squeeze tight when they meet the thick cord of green rope. Your body slides down- the slick of morning dew making it difficult to hold on until you squeeze even harder, hands cramping, knuckles tensing. The power of your jump gives you the momentum to swing the remaining distance. You let go, tumbling into a roll. Another laser blast hits the soil next to your face, a spray of dirt hitting your eyes. The enemy is relentless. You clamber back to your feet, knowing every second is precious. 

The path is rocky, littered with rolling pebbles and thick tree roots. You nearly stumble, as your toe catches on one, the path now heading down the mountain. Another blast zings past your shoulder, causing a flock of birds to scatter from the brush. You instinctively duck as more blasts fire in quick succession. 

The path begins to level out just as you approach a secondary forest within- this one made up of a thick grove of bamboo shoots. Maneuvering quickly between the tall stalks is challenging, but it also provides added cover from more blaster fire. 

The enemy is gaining, and you are starting to slow down. You consider two options. You could try climbing the stalks, which jut upward into the canopy. Your enemy might not think to look up. It's possible you’ll be able to take cover from above, if you can get out of sight in time. If not, you’ll be an easy target. Looking up and assessing your energy level, you decide to go with option two instead. Picking one of the more juvenile stalks, you grab a hold and bend it down, using all your strength to snap the stalk at a low point. Stalk in hand, you race to the edge of the grove where a robust stream carves its way through the landscape. 

You run, full steam ahead, stalk poised for your next maneuver. When you are mere feet from the water’s edge, you thrust the stalk into a gopher hole, using the leverage to vault yourself up over the swampy water. You stealthy land on the back of a mud yak, peacefully napping in the marsh. He lifts his head and grunts a protest as you skip across the backs of his herd companions. Blaster fire erupts all around you now that you are out in the open, peppering the water’s surface and splattering you with muck. When the path of mud yak backs runs out, you say a silent prayer and hope one of the mossy rocks doesn't take you out completely. You nimbly hop from one to the next, substituting rocks for protruding water cypress knees when necessary. With one final leap, your feet make an impact with dry land.

Blaster fire ceases as your attention is drawn to a slow clap.

“Look at you. Not a single hit this time?” 

A quick body check confirms you are mostly unscathed, if not dirty. Luke confirms as much as he gently pulls a leaf from your hair.

“Nope, and I think I shaved a few seconds off my time.” you say, bending over, hands on your knees as you catch your breath. 

“You’d have been even faster if you had taken the light saber, like I suggested.” 

“I told you, I’m more of a blaster girl, or knife girl.”

Luke inhales deeply, likely tired of this same old argument.  “Sabers are the weapons of the jedi- you can’t avoid them forever.”

Watch me. 

Deciding better of it, Luke drops the issue and hands you a water bladder. You tilt your head back and chug the cool water, caring not one bit that rivulets stream down the sides of your mouth. When you’ve had your fill, you dab your wet chin into the crook of your elbow.  The training bot that had been chasing you hovers over, awaiting its next instruction. 

“Better luck next time.” Luke says, before dismissing it for the day. 

“I’m proud of you, you’ve come a long way.”

When Luke had first brought you to Ossus, you had spent weeks just healing your body and recovering from all the neglect you had suffered on Gideeon’s ship. You hadn’t realized the amount of weight you had lost, both muscle and mass. Hadn’t realized how depleted you were. It had taken a solid month of rest and regular meals before you were able to start physical ‘training’. After that it had been months of running the training course before you were able to get through it all, and now, more than a year later, you were finishing it with nary a scratch on you. Truth be told, it was your favorite part of training. Being out in the wild felt like home and when you were running the course, there wasn’t time to get lost in other thoughts. Because that’s what happens. Sessions of silent meditation and contemplation that were supposed to ‘connect you to the force’, instead lead you down a rabbit hole to the past. Thoughts of Din. Thoughts of your brother, sometimes even of your parents. You may have made great progress so far as physical strength went, but when it came to making strides as a force wielder, you felt no stronger than you did the day you arrived. 

An hour later, you and Luke sit opposite each other, your legs crossed, eyes shut, as you once again try to connect to the force. Short blades of grass tickle your ankles as the cool breeze flutters past. One-eyed bullfrogs croak a chorus with the river reeds while crickets chirp in the background. And between you, lay a pile of river rocks that should be hovering midair. You sneak one eye open for a peek- not a single rock floats, not even a wiggle. 

“Ahhh!” you blurt out in frustration. “It’s no use, I can’t do it!” you say, plopping on your back, arms splayed to your sides in defeat. 

Luke sighs. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Don’t you think I would if I could? You say youngling padawans can do this- why can’t I? I just don’t feel it the way you do.”

“Because you don’t want to.”

“You think I’m doing this on purpose?”

“I think you’re still in denial that you have this ability, I’m just not sure why.”

You look away, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Talk to me- I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you’re feeling.”

It takes you a moment. Sharing feelings in a therapy sesh isn’t exactly standard practice growing up in an orphanage. Suck it up, swallow it down and ignore it, that's the way you “deal” with it. 

“You say, with the force, I can lift a rock as easily as a whole ship- that the difference is only in my mind.”

He nods, “That’s right.”

“Well if that’s true, and I have this ability…that means I could have saved my brother, and I didn’t.”

Realization dawns on his face. He slides over the grass to sit beside you. 

“You’re carrying guilt that you aren’t responsible for. You have to find a way to let go of it, or you’ll never get past this.” 

“He might still be alive if I hadn’t been so weak.” 

“You can’t think that way, it wasn’t your fault.”

You begin plucking blades of grass, needing to find something to do with your fingers as your mind struggles to process the emotions reeling through you. 

“I know how you feel- the guilt. I’ve been right where you are.”

“You have?” you ask, sitting up. 

“Right before I found out I had the ability, my aunt and my uncle were killed. They were the ones that raised me.” He says by way of explanation. “I should have been there, but I wasn’t…and they were where I should have been.”

“Luke,” you hesitate. “I had no idea- I’m so sorry.” 

“I used to think, if I had been there, they’d still be alive.”

You remain silent, not sure what to say. 

“But I had to let go of that.”

You try to contemplate how exactly you are supposed to let go of the guilt. Holding on to it had proved to be easy. Letting go was a different beast altogether. Images of Halo plague your brain. Everything he had done for you. Tore you away from your father, hid you away where you wouldn’t be found- going on the run and taking the heat for all of it, leaving behind the life he had built, all to protect you. Gone in a few moments because you were too weak to seize this ability and save him.  “How?”

“I suppose, it was realizing that it wasn’t my fault. Bad things happen everywhere- all the time. The Empire hurts people all the time, regular people, farmers, families. Those people aren’t force wielders, they’re just ordinary people trying to live their lives. And this…” he continues, looking down at his hands, “You can’t look at it like a curse. You have to embrace it, as a way to help those people.” 

Silence reigns as his words sink in. You had viewed it as a curse, and had said those very words to yourself time and again. Hadn’t you thought yourself a monster, but really? I’m just trying to live. 

“How do I get past it?”

He smiles. “Rather than focusing on what’s been lost, try focusing on gratitude for what’s been given. I lost my father, I did lose my family, but found another one in the process.” 

And he’s giving up time with them to train me. 

You take that in and let it sit. Great, more guilt.

After a few more moments, he nudges you with his shoulder. “Hey, I think that’s enough training for today. We’re long overdue for some fun, don’t you think?”

“Sure, fun sounds good, what do you have in mind?”

“What do you want to do?” 

Drumming fingers over your bent knee, you consider the limited options available to you on the far outskirts of Ossus. A few rounds of sabacc? Rather than playing with credits, you and Luke had taken up some high stakes games, betting the homestead chores as wagers. Field tennis? Target practice? Nah. Your brain lands on the funnest thing you’ve done since coming here. Without saying a word, Luke returns your smile and says, “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. Last one there is a rotten gartro egg!”

A few hours later, you’re worn out from having the most fun you’ve had in a long time. You flick off the last few switches, effectively shutting down the engines of the Eclipse - a modified starfighter, conveniently lifted from Moff Gideon’s cruiser. Luke had chosen to hijack the ship, picked for its maneuverability, speed, hyperdrive, laser cannons, and most importantly- its extra seat. R2 had piloted back his preferred X-Wing, while you two had gotten acquainted over the journey. 

What should have been one of the most awkward and uncomfortable get-to-know-you situations of your life, had turned out to be peaceful. Luke's presence was comforting- a welcome surprise considering your initial introduction had been a plea into the void and then witnessing the man completely annihilate a garrison of dark troopers without breaking a sweat. 

As months fell off the calendar, the two of you had spent many hours on the ship. At first, they were spent making modifications. First to go, was all location transponders and identifiers. Later, it was repainting the black and red exterior. When all the old paint was buffed away, Luke had assigned you the task of picking the replacement color. When you stared back at that freshly buffed chrome, it reminded you of beskar. “Let's keep it the way it is.”

You often wondered whose ship it might have been, but your feelings had landed on the logical conclusions. It belonged to either Flint or Jax. Most likely it had been Jax’s. You wouldn’t put it past that arrogant asshat to coordinate the colors of his ship to the colors of his wardrobe. You hoped it was his, because in that case, there’d likely be nobody looking for it. And if it wasn’t? Well, then you’d have to add theft to the list of things you now owed Flint for. 

Kindness ✓

Killing Jax ✓

Potentially sacrificing his mission ✓

Helping me escape ✓

Ship ✓

You think about him often, wondering if he escaped the ship in another spacecraft, as not to compromise his identity? Or was he discovered by the crew of Mandalorians that had overtaken the ship? Did he and Din ever cross paths? 

With the previous owner’s identity in question, Luke had preferred to stick to the immediate area, out of sight from anyone who may be on the lookout for a missing starfighter. He taught you to fly, and in only a matter of months you had moved beyond basic maneuvers and into battle ones. Sometimes you’d play non-lethal war games and dog-fight him with simulated blasts while he piloted his x-wing. He was an excellent pilot and to date, you hadn’t yet landed a shot on him, but your confidence was growing. You may not be much compared to a seasoned pilot, but you were a dead shot when it came to hitting the targets he set up for you. 

Other times, you’d take the ship to the nearest mountaintop village of Knossa, when you needed supplies or found yourself going stir crazy. 

You take off your helmet and goggles, leaving them behind and climb down from the cockpit. Luke does the same from his ship and you meet in the middle as you make your way back towards the shelter you now call home. “I almost had you! I was so close!” 

“Yeah, I thought for sure you’d catch me coming off that barrel roll.” 

“Me too, but you just completely disappeared from sight, where’d you go?”

“Landed on that asteroid that was passing by.” 

“What!? No way! Unbelievable.” 

“Learned that one from an old friend.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, next time.” 

“Tell you what, why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off- I’ll see you for last meal?”

“Yes, Master.”

You walk into your small stone hut, tossing your jacket onto the bed. A nap sounds great- rotations on Ossus are thirty-one hours, making training days long with a few breaks scattered throughout. Mid-day sleeps are necessary for the body to recover, but since you had the rest of the day off you decide to get on with your chores instead. If all goes according to plan, you’ll hit the sack right after last meal and tack on that extra two hours to your sleep night. You bend over and tap the little metal dome you’ve come to love.

“Wake up DUM.” 

The modified pit droid wakes, unfurling his robotic limbs from his compact resting position. He stretches his brown and gray plated limbs into the air and mimics the sound of a human yawn- which makes absolutely no sense for a droid to do. A lot about him doesn’t make sense, including why he has a tan hat with goggles around the rim. Somebody had retrofitted a chest compartment, complete with tools as well. Luke had hypothesized it had something to do with his custom coding, and a brain module which appears to have come from the remnants of a safari droid. Nevertheless, you have come to love the little hairbrain, affectionately dubbed DUM, not only because he is a second class, D-U-M series pit droid, but because he is also kind of, well…dumb. 

DUM was a gift from Luke months ago when he had worried that you were growing lonely, silently pining over your lost Mandalorian.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Very much.” is all you had said. 

Not long after, Luke had found the little guy waiting to be demolished at a scrap yard and figured you could use a companion other than himself. Though he in no way makes up for the loss of the Mandalorian, he did provide some welcome companionship and occasionally, entertainment. Mostly he likes to accompany you outdoors and observe the local wildlife. That’s what safari droids are for- programmed to survey and research the galaxy’s creatures and environments. Mostly he runs around imitating what he sees in nature and is a complete menace in the process, chirping like a bird, purring like a loth-cat.

“Had a good sleep, did you?”

BATTERY 100. BATTERY 100. 

That’s the other thing. At some point his external vocabulator had been damaged- or maybe it was his processor. Now he has a limited index of maybe two-hundred basic words- mostly all fauna related- and he repeats everything he says twice. 

“How’s Edy today, did you water her?” For some reason you had taken to naming each and every plant you nurtured from a seedling, assigning each a name that coordinated with their subsequent imagined personality. A colorful name for the ones you dub as dramatic- dropping yellow leaves or wilting when you’re a day late for watering, and more serious names for the ones that stand proud. 

DUM WATER. DUM WATER.

“ Good, and how are the propagations? Have they rooted yet?”

NEW GROWTH. NEW GROWTH. 

“Excellent! Looks like I’ll have to weave another hanging basket. We can put it right…” You scan the small room for a potential empty spot and find none that the sunlight can still reach. Vines of Undying Heart, cover nearly every wall surface including the ceiling above. “Damn. Looks like we might be outta space.”

OOOoooh. OOOoooh.

You sigh, “Big brother’d be proud.”

You look back at DUM, eagerly awaiting your next words, like a hound wagging its tail, ready to be walked. 

“Shall we do our rounds?” 

He beeps and does a little twinkle-toes happy dance, making you smile. 

A few hours later and the garden has been tended, the eggs collected, and the traps checked for game. The sun was finally starting to set, the sky awash in swatches of light pinks and purples.

You sit at the meadow’s edge near the riverbank, elbow resting on your knee, head tilted and propped by the support of your palm and watch as DUM darts in and out of the brush every few minutes. He’s taken a liking to a flock of miniature churi that have nested nearby, but they seem thoroughly annoyed with their new admirer. You grin as a churi sprints out of the bush, proclaiming its annoyance with loud, stressed squawking noises as DUM trails behind, flapping his mechanical arms, and doing his best to imitate the sound. It's funny as hell. 

A moment later, the two are facing off in the meadow. The large bird splays its wings, vibrating them in a colorful display of dominance, shifting its weight from foot to foot. DUM does his best to reciprocate, extending his arms and dilating his lens as his antennae swivels. With his white and yellow paneling and bright pink sensor, he’s actually holding his own. The bird tilts its head, intrigued, and then startles DUM with a new delighted chirping sound. The roles quickly reverse, and the bird chases after DUM, who is now panicked. 

“Careful DUM, you might have just accepted a marriage proposal with that little mating dance,” you softly laugh to yourself. 

DUM’s antics are often entertaining, and even with his limited vocabulary, he has proven to be a decent companion. Sure, Luke had become a good friend, and over the past year you had spent more time with him than most other people in your entire life; but he is also your teacher-your master foremost, and maintaining a friendship with somebody that is also constantly giving you instructions and rules to follow, can be challenging at times. There was a line there that you are constantly aware of.  

DUM emerges from the bushes a few moments later. His head is down as he slowly walks toward you, staring at something in his metal hands. 

“Whatcha got DUM?” 

He was always bringing you new things to examine and identify in an effort to expand his catalog of nature knowledge. Little cotton balls, twigs, feathers, even a tadpole once. 

He makes sort of a sad sound- a modulated whimper, extending his hands to you. BROKEN. BROKEN.

In his hands, is a young churi, its downy wings still lacking the vibrant color of the adult birds. Its left wing is clearly broken, bent back at a nearly ninety degree angle. A fatal wound for its age and species.

“Oh no DUM, what happened? Did you do this?”

DUM FOUND NEST BROKEN, he repeated twice. 

“You found him like this? Poor little guy, what a shame.”

LIVE? LIVE?

“Will he live? I doubt it buddy. He’s still young and without the use of his wing, he won’t be able to fly or defend himself. Predators will target an injured bird pretty quickly, I’m afraid.”

DUM makes another sad sound as he looks down at the injured creature. It's barely moving, as if the little thing has already accepted its fate.

DUM extends his hands out to you in offering. FIX? FIX?

“Fix it? I’m no vet….” you trail off, your heart sinking when DUM’s antennae lower, mimicking two sad eyebrows. 

“Well, I suppose I could try.”

DUM perks up at your words, his plate feet alternating as they stamp the ground with hope. 

You carefully take the bird into your hands, being mindful not to touch the broken wing. Two little yellow eyes look up at you and then away, too weak to fight back, as if it was saying, make it quick.

If it weren’t for DUM, you’d consider the thing as found breakfast, but as it were, trapping was good lately, and the food stores were currently enough to get by for a month without adding to them. Appeasing your mechanical friend is the obvious choice.  

You hold the small creature in one hand, covering it with the other. You close your eyes and search for the little light that lives down deep inside, the one you abandoned on Gideon ’s ship. At first you think the light might be gone, nowhere to be found after a year of not looking. But eventually, the small soft light begins to grow, expanding until it’s large enough to tug on. When you have a good mind-grip on it, you begin to push it forward, channeling it outward, and into the small bird. You slow the flow when you begin to feel fluttering in your palms, and cut the stream off completely when it begins to flap its wings. 

You open your eyes and move your hand revealing a completely healed bird. It stands in your palm, its head bobbing slightly as it turns. You run your finger down, from the top of its head down its back a few times. 

“I think we did it, DUM. All fixed.”

FIXED. FIXED. FIXED. FIXED. DUM repeats, his tone excited as he claps and beeps. Where did he learn this stuff?

His excitement startles the bird, and it quickly takes flight, back in the direction of its family's nest. DUM takes off too, tracking his new step-child, it would seem. The whole scene makes you smile.

“I’ve failed you.” Luke says, startling you. Unbeknownst to you, he must have witnessed the whole thing. 

“What?” you ask, as he comes over and sits beside you on the grass. 

“I’ve failed you.”

Your stomach turns, instantly soured by his words. “You haven't failed me, if anything I’ve failed you.”

He slowly shakes his head in disagreement. “I just watched you heal that creature, on the brink of death, with little effort. I don’t think you realize how extraordinary you are. What you just did is practically unheard of. Jedi masters have studied the ancient texts for decades and never come close to achieving that ability.”

“First of all, it wasn’t with ‘very little effort’, I actually tried really hard. And second, If I’m so ‘extraordinary’, why can I do that and yet, not lift a few rocks off the ground?”

“And therein lies my failure.” 

You look at him questioningly.

“Tell me about the other times you’ve used the force, the other times you have done what I just saw.”

Taking a deep breath, you start detailing the history of your power use. You start at the beginning- the incident with your father. Then it was at the orphanage with Tuck. The mudhorn with Din. On Lahsbane, when you and Din were falling from the sky and again when he was injured without his helmet. On Gideon’s ship. 

Luke nods. “And tell me how you did it.” 

“How?” It seems like a silly question coming from someone who has mastered his own force abilities. 

“Yes, how did you access the force in those times?”

You feel a little embarrassed to try and describe using the force to him- a pro, but ok, here it goes.

“I close my eyes, and search for a little light that hides deep in my chest. If I concentrate hard enough, I can see it begin to grow. It builds and builds until there's enough light, and then I loose the energy where I need it to go.”

He looks stunned and a little… disappointed? He rubs the scruff on his chin with his solid hand, pausing with his fingers over his mouth. 

“What? Is that…wrong?”

“I’m what’s wrong.” He shakes his head. All this time, I’ve been telling you how things are instead of teaching how they are. I’m so sorry.” 

“What do you mean?”

“It makes so much sense now.” 

“Luke, nothing you’re saying is making sense. Please, explain.” you say with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. He seems so defeated. 

He sighs. “You are truly a rarity.” You shake your head, still not comprehending what is now clearly obvious to him. 

“Most sentient beings- even the ones who are not gifted with the force- have a natural inclination, a desire, an impulse, or even an instinct to want to control their surroundings.” 

“Ok…” 

“What have I told you about the force, what have I made you repeat a thousand times over? Where is it?”

“The force is an energy that binds all things in the galaxy. It is everywhere, in everything.” You say, reciting the words from your many lessons.

“Right, and the natural instinct of most every force wielder is to bend, to borrow, to influence the force that surrounds them. But not you.”

You shake your head slowly, still not comprehending.

“You’re the exact opposite. When I lift this rock from the ground, I’m influencing the force around me. The force in the air, the ground and the rock itself.” He demonstrates as a palm sized rock floats easily between you. “You on the other hand, the only force you are wielding, is your own lifeforce- the force that lies within. You pull and tug and push it outward into the universe, right?”

It finally makes sense. You nod. 

“That’s probably also why you frequently passed out afterwards.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. Every situation in which you blacked out after, was a life-or-death situation. Under those circumstances, you were willing to sacrifice your own lifeforce to save someone else’s. Even that bird a moment ago- his life was on the line.” 

“So…you don’t have a little light in you that can …affect things?”

“The light you see in your mind is just the tool your brain has chosen to focus and visualize your power. Instead of using the light you see inside yourself, I want you to seek out the light around you, the light that surrounds us and push that instead. Eventually, Maker willing- you won’t need to visualize it anymore, you’ll simply sense it.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, hugging them as you ponder the potential of this revelation. Your heart begins to pound with excitement. Things are finally, after all this time struggling, starting to make sense. Sure, maybe you couldn’t lift the rocks- because there was no real danger. There hadn’t been a motivation big enough to drain your lifeforce, but…

“So, I’ve been digging a well, while everyone else collects rainwater.” 

Growing up on a dry planet, Luke always appreciated a good water analogy. 

“You’ve tapped into a well most Jedi forgot existed. If you can figure out how to get water from both…” 

“I’ll never be thirsty.”

“But here’s the difference. You are right to visualize your life-force like a well, something that can be drained, because if you’re not careful with how you use it, it can run dry. You understand the ramifications of that?”

“I die if I drain it completely?” 

He nods, “I think you’ve been very lucky, it’s probably been your body's way of self-preservation, when you pass out before you completely deplete yourself.”

But it’s been worth it every time.

“When it comes to wielding the force around you, I don’t want you to think of it as a well. Instead, I want you to think of it as a muscle- it will continue to grow in strength the more you use it.” 

Finally- it finally makes sense! All this time…When it came to moving rocks, lifting a tin can- whatever it was, you had always drawn on your lifeforce because that’s what you had always done. That was what had worked the first time and so that is how you thought it always had to be done. It never occurred to you that there was another way. Excitement and a previously unknown contentment battle for dominion in your heart. Clarity at last. 

You sit together in silence for a while after that, watching the sun make its slow descent behind the slate mountains. 

“You don’t have to stay.” He finally says, breaking the silence. “What?” you say, jerking your head in surprise. 

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay. In fact, I’m not sure you should.” 

“You’re kidding right? We finally have a breakthrough, and now you’re doubting me?”

“I’m not doubting you at all. I’m doubting myself. I should have figured this out a long time ago.”

“C’mon, don’t do that- It’s not exactly like we have the resources of the old jedi. They had libraries, temples and a community to learn from. We just have each other. All things considered, I think we’re doing pretty good.” you say, nudging his shoulder. 

“Still. I’m not sure I’m the best person for your training, I hardly had much training myself.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it, you’re a natural. Luke, the student prodigy,” you joke. “Besides, if not you, then who?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes answer for you all the same. You look away, not wanting to talk about it.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he asks. 

A year had come and gone a long time ago, and your love for Din hadn’t wavered one iota. 

“Can I ask you something, Luke?”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever wished you had a… normal life? That you didn’t have this ability?”

He thinks about it for a moment and then answers. “Growing up on Tatooine, I spent most of my youth looking forward to the day I could escape my mediocre existence. All I wanted was to get away and see what else the galaxy had to offer. When I finally did get away, I had no idea what was waiting for me out there. This thing, this ability that we have…well. It’s not overstating it to say that it has saved a lot of lives.” Luke was being humble. You knew well that he had played a crucial role in bringing down the empire.  

“Still...I had this dream not long ago. I was back on Tatooine, and I was married to this girl, Camie. Camie was a friend of mine back then and truth is, I had a big crush on her when I was young.” Luke smiles a pure genuine smile you've never seen before, his cheeks blushing slightly.

 ” I never did anything about it though, because she was going with my friend Laze at the time. Anyways, in this dream, Camie and I were married. We had a child and were just living an ordinary existence back on the moisture farm- no force powers to speak of. I don’t remember much else of the dream, but I do remember feeling like I was …..”

“Happy.” you say at the same time. 

He smiles at you, and you smile at him. The pink and purple clouds are backlit with the illuminating glow of the setting sun as it sinks behind the highest peak of the furthest mountain top. Water trickles in the background as you inhale the clean air and tranquility. You’ve managed to carve out a slice of heavenly peace in the center of the universe. 

With all the ugly in the galaxy, death, the destruction, the sadness. The evil, the grime and poverty. Here, none of that exists. After years of running, and being afraid of what you are, you finally feel like there’s some hope. That maybe you can stop running from it and finally become worthy of it. Stop mourning what was lost and be thankful that you had it at all- even for a moment.  You look up to the fading light above as the first stars of the night wake in the sky. Reaching out with your senses, there’s light all around you. It’s everywhere, in everything. 

Later that night, you lay in your cot, the soft glow of the lone candle dissipating as hours pass by. You can finally sense it, lifeforce everywhere. In the air, in the ground, in every green leafed vine hanging from the ceiling. At the start of the day, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to leave this planet again. Now, the endless possibilities beckon. Instead of running from your past, you can run toward a future.

You turn your head and blow out the candle. No longer afraid of the pitch black of darkness, instead you welcome it with open arms. For in the dark is where he meets you. Where you see him in your dreams and get to talk to him, kiss him, hold him again. You may not be able to fully trust the image of his face that you conjure- no doubt a pale comparison born of the precious few seconds you were given to imprint his features into your memory- but Maker, you know his voice, his hands and his kiss.  

In the early morning hours, before the first light breaks, you finish stuffing your rucksack with only the necessities. You take a last look around, marveling at the place you’ve called home for the past fourteen months. Your heart squeezes at the sight of every green plant you’ve cared for and the sight of little DUM, looking small and confused. You can’t take him with you, as you have no idea where you’re heading and the little safari droid is ill-equipped for galaxy travel. You press your forehead to his cold dome. 

“Don’t forget to put the seedlings in soil when the roots are six inches long. I know you can do it buddy.”

He answers with a sad sounding beep that tugs at your heart strings. 

Luke enters the doorway, beaming when he sees three rocks floating in whimsical formations in the center of the room. He leans against the doorway, not bothering to hide his pride at the sight. 

“You’ll look after him, won’t you? He’s not very needy and he’ll tend to the plants- that is if you want to keep them going.”

“Of course.” 

“Can you spare R2 for a rotation? He can drop me at the nearest star port.”

“No, I want you to take the Eclipse. It’s yours.”

“I couldn’t- it’s worth too much.”

“I don’t need two ships, and I prefer the x-wing. It should be safe enough for travel, and if you’d rather sell it, you should fetch enough credits to get you set up anywhere you want to go.”

“I don’t know how to thank you enough… for everything.”

“You don’t have to.”

You slip your bag onto your shoulders and hug Luke with all the thanks in your heart, knowing there’s always the possibility you may never see him again.

He squeezes back, a palm on the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper in his ear, tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry I’m not what you thought. Sorry I’m not a jedi.”

“Just so you know,” he answers back, “The goal was never to make you a jedi. It was to make you safe. I think we accomplished that much.”

“I think so too,” you say, the rocks begin spinning faster in place and he smiles at your new-found control. 

“What will you do now?” you ask.

“I’m not sure.”

“I was thinking about it last night. There has to be more out there like me. Maybe even young ones who are lost. Teachable ones! You should find them, Luke. Bring them here. Do for them what you did for me.”

He smiles. “Maybe I will.”

“Goodbye.” You kiss him on the cheek and head out the door, rubbing DUM’s head as you pass, the rocks coming to a gentle landing on the ground. 

You step out into the morning air and breathe in slowly. Your future is out there somewhere, waiting.

“How will you find him?” Luke calls out behind you.

“I won’t. He’s a bounty hunter. If he still wants me, he’ll find me.”

Din

Morlana One looks like a hundred other planets the Galactic Empire has left its mark on- dark, dreary, and hiding a corrupt underworld of villainy under the guise of free trade and security. No doubt, there is probably a section of landscape carved out for the elite to retreat to and bask in their spoils- but work never takes me to those places; and for every city block featuring fancy sky towers and cloud cutters occupied by the rich, there’s ten times the amount of space dedicated to the scourge. Dank back alleys with shady deals, legal and illegal gambling, and brothels- which is exactly where I’m headed. 

Cold rain pummels me from above, seeping through my flight suit by way of the gaps between my armor. I have to work overtime to keep my steps uniform in outward appearance, but on the wet concrete, I can pick up on the sound of the uneven steps due to my limp- an unfortunate mishap of my own doing during an acquisition a few weeks back. Maybe it’s because I was outnumbered, though five to one had never been a dealbreaker before. More likely, it’s because my head wasn’t in the game- hadn’t been since leaving Moff Gideon’s ship. 

I tried to bury myself in work, taking on every bounty I could get my hands on and in a record amount of time. Anything to distract me from my thoughts. Thoughts of being cast out as an apostate from the Tribe. Thoughts of her- where she’s at, what she’s doing, and who she’s doing it with. My imagination has become my worst enemy. Taunting me with images of her, sharing a bed with the jedi.

The light in the dark alley flickers in time with the seductive rhythm of music, beckoning callers inside with the promise of a good time. If you have the credits, then that which you desire can be bought- for a short time anyway. And that’s exactly what I want. A distraction, and ultimately a release. Maybe that’s the catalyst I need to pull my head out of the fog and start moving on with my life. I’ve been stuck in limbo, unable to move forward in any direction. Maker knows she was able to move on, and I’m glad for it. Thankful she’s safe. But for some reason, my head’s still stuck back on Tython, watching her slip out of my arms. I’m stuck chasing after something, only this time, I’m not sure exactly what it is. 

When she was taken, my sole purpose became getting back what I had lost. Every second spent not in pursuit of that goal was either a waste of time, or an obstacle to overcome. Even stopping to eat and sleep felt like time lost that I came to abhor. 

Now that the mission has been completed, I find myself unable to move forward, my purpose undefined. I’ve tried to revert back to old ways, to pick up where I left off at the beginning of all this. Before her, survival was the goal. And I achieved that by doing what I was good at, hunting. But now, survival isn’t enough. I’ve had a taste of what lies beyond survival, and Maker knows it was far more fulfilling. 

Unable to concentrate, I began slipping up. When the majority of my bounties were being turned in cold, it was Carga who had suggested “a release might be in order.” After hunting down every available bounty in the parsec in record time, he’d grown tired of my relentless pace and questionable executions. Said it was “bad for business.” "I have other guild members to satisfy you know, and you’re making them all look bad. You do the work in half the time for the same price.”

“They’re making themselves look bad. You know most are either lazy or purposely hold off for weeks, just so they can drive the price up.”

 “That may be the case, but either way, I can’t keep giving you jobs like this and keep the guild happy. So effective now, you’re on a hiring freeze.” 

“I’m the best hunter you have, and you’re putting me on a freeze? For how long?”

 “Until you get your shit together.”

 “My shit together? I've turned in more bounties than all of these guys put together."

"And how many of those yielded no reward because they were turned in cold?"

I don't answer.

 “Mando, I’m your friend, you know I like you, but you can’t keep going like this, if you do, it’s going to catch up with you sooner than later. You need a reset. Slow down, put all those credits you’ve earned to good use. Take a vacation. And if a vacation isn’t in the Mandalorian code, why not at least go find a release somewhere. Listen, I have a connection at the twi-lek healing baths, the girls are clean, they’ll take real good care of you.” 

That had been months ago. You’d walked out of Carga’s with a “No thanks,” but after months of continuing on the same course and no change, now I’m thinking, maybe he was right. Maybe all I needed was a good release to clear my head and get back in the game. It had been forever since I had one that wasn’t by my own hand, and it’s not just because I spend the vast majority of my time alone on a ship.  And why have I put it off for so long? It’s not as if this was exactly new to me. I lost my virginity in a brothel, been to plenty of them over the years. It made sense for someone who’s never in one place for more than a few days at a time and prefers to avoid attachments. I learned that lesson the hard way in my youth. Learned that some women quickly grow attached, when I had a one night stand with a mercenary working a mutual job. Needless to say, I haven't worked on a team since.  And that’s why brothels are perfect. Get in. Get off. Get out.  

There’s a bouncer at the entrance, hidden mostly in shadow until I approach, and he warns, “Sorry Mando, no weapons, no comms.” 

“I’m not here on business.”

 “Don’t care. Rules apply to everyone, so unless you plan on popping that lid off and removing the suit, you don’t have entry.”

 “Let him pass Tensee,” a husky female voice says from the doorway. She lightly drags her nails along the wall as she approaches, taking in the sight of me. 

“Business or pleasure?” she asks. 

“I’m not here on business.” I repeat.

“Well, in that case, I think we can make an exception for one of the galaxy’s fiercest warriors, don’t you Tensee?”

Tensee is clearly annoyed but doesn’t make a peep about the woman overriding him, which means she’s probably the owner of the establishment. 

“Welcome,” she says, as I follow her down the dimly lit hall that opens up to a bar and lounge area. There’s only a few patrons scattered around the room. None appear to be threatening. It must be a slow night- maybe that’s the reason she’s breaking her own rules. 

“Looking for something special?”

Historically, I’ve never been too picky when it came to women. Any humanoid species will do. Size, shape never mattered too much. In fact, there's an element of freedom that comes with experiencing variety. Never judge a book by its cover and all that. Which is why I surprise the hell out of myself when a veritable list of attributes tumbles out of my mouth. “This tall,” I level with my palm, followed by species-human, weight, skin, and the exact shade of eye color. 

“Droid or biolog-”, 

“No droids.”

“Are you sure you’re not on duty?” she responds, and I realize I just sited a list like a specific chain code. 

“Not on duty. Just…particular.”

“I see. Well, I don’t have anyone that matches that exact description, but I think you’ll be happy with what we’ve got.” 

“Fine.” 

“And the helmet?”

“Stays on.”

“Understood. Give me a moment and I’ll see who’s available.”

“And tell her not to talk.”

She pauses, looking like she might be regretting breaking her own rules after all- like I’m sending off red flags as some creep. 

 “I’m not gonna hurt anyone, I just have particular tastes, that's all.”

She nods her acceptance before disappearing behind a curtain down the corridor. A few minutes later, and I’m in a private room where the neon glow of the bar and the moans from other customers can’t reach me. When the private door slides open, the Madam returns with a woman.

“Mando, this is-” 

“That won’t be necessary,” I interject. 

She nods again. “Of course, you can call her whatever you want- she knows the rules. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted." She slips out the door leaving me and the woman alone. She cautiously approaches. Her hair is the right color, but it’s done up all wrong, her eyes aren’t even close and she’s about four inches too tall. 

“Lose the shoes.”

She immediately obeys, kicking off a pair of pointy ball breakers with a five-inch spike for support. Better. Her face is all wrong, sending up warning bells in my brain, but that’s easily remedied. Just take her from behind. She reaches for my belt buckle and my hand immediately shoots out to grab her by the wrists. It’s instinct and I have to remind myself that this is what I came here for. She swallows hard but doesn’t back away. I unfasten my buckle, removing the belt, short blade and holster. I set it down within arms reach and return to the task at hand. I unzip and loosen my flight pants just enough to give her access. I’ve learned over the years that I don’t have to shed much clothing to get business done and it’s a hell of a lot more convenient.

She drops to her knees, which is just fine. At this angle I won't have to see as much of her face. Reaching in, she pulls out my dick and starts stroking. I close my eyes and throw back my head in an attempt to concentrate- which is a new development. In the past, by now, I’d be rock hard and well on my way to release. Now, It feels like a mental fight just to get my dick to stir. She switches to using her mouth, and at first I think, this’ll work. Then I make the mistake of looking down and into her eyes. Wrong. Everything about her is wrong. This isn’t going to work, I can’t even get an erection, I’m literally limp in her hands. It’s awkward as fuck. I step back, tucking my dick back in my pants and grab my belt to re-arm myself.

“I’m sorry,” She speaks. “If you give me some more time-”

“Don’t be. It’s not you.” I say, fastening my belt in anger. I’m not embarrassed, I’m just frustrated that I really thought this might be what I needed to clear my head. I pull out a stack of credits and leave it on the bed as I head out the door. The Madam is waiting at the front entrance as I make my hasty retreat. 

“You overpaid.” 

For a second, I wonder how she knows I’m not just a short fuse, but then again, she was probably watching the whole thing on some hidden viewer as a safety precaution. 

“Wasn’t her fault, she did her job.”

“Is she dead?”

“Dead? I told you I wouldn’t hurt her; you can go ask her yourself.” 

“Not her.”

She continues when I don’t answer. “This tall,” she says, reciting back my wish list of features. “I’ve seen it before, more often than you’d think. There are several reasons for this scenario.” she says, alluding to my failure in the bedroom.  “One is age, which by the looks of you, isn’t it. Your body is strong, it’s your mind that’s warped.  Drugs- also no. Then there’s PTSD or some kind of sexual trauma, which I’m also guessing is a no. That leaves the last.” 

“Which is?” 

“Widower syndrome. Men who have loved and lost their wives come here in the hopes of recreating that emotional connection. Sometimes, we can fake it, but most of the time, it’s not enough to come close to replicating what they’ve lost. They either end up curled up in a ball, crying on the bed, or they just can’t get it up. So, am I right? Did she die?”

“No. She’s not dead.” 

“Hmmm. But she left you? Let me guess, upset that you’re more committed to your profession than you are to her? You refused to settle down?” 

“No.” 

She looks perplexed, until a dawning realization washes over her face. “Was it the helmet? Because I won’t lie, it’d be fun for a while, but then…” 

“No, she never asked me to remove my helmet.”

“What then? I know she didn’t leave you for another man, you’re a walking wet dream in that department, even with the helmet on, so what was it?” 

“You really need to know that badly?”

“I’m a problem solver at my core and my entire profession is based on knowing the minds of men, so yes, it is driving me absolutely insane to not know why.”

I inhale. “We’re sworn enemies. I told her to leave, that she’d be better off with her own kind.”

“....Damn- I’ll give you that, I haven't heard that one before. Do you really believe that?”

“I thought I did.”

“And now you don’t?” 

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” 

How in the worlds I got wrapped up in a conversation about my personal existential crisis with a brothel owner, I’ll never know. But here we are, and somehow, putting words to the way this feels and letting this complete stranger playfully delve into sorting out my personal problem is oddly comforting. 

Been cooped up on the ship for too long. 

“I bet she’d take you back.”

“A lot of time has passed. It’s too late for that now.”

“You don’t know that for sure. If she’s alive, there’s still a chance.”

“I sent her straight into the arms of someone like her. Someone who is…her equal.”

“Listen Mando, I don’t know a lot about matters of the heart, but I do know that when the Maker sends you the one , it’s never your equal.” 

“And you know this because… you’ve found the one? ”

“Hell no! But I did find the wasn’t ,” she smiles before continuing. “But, all those widowers I was telling you about, the ones that curl up and cry, well trust me when I say, I was getting paid to listen to hours of stories about their wives, and in every scenario, the Maker has paired them up with someone who on paper is their complete opposite. It’s not about being equal, it’s about being balanced.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that the only difference between you and those widowers, is that they don’t have that chance anymore.”

“You hand her another credit, 'for the friendly advice' and head out into the still pouring rain. 

“Hey Mando!” She shouts, “For what it’s worth, I hope we never see you again!”

Thirty minutes later and I’m back on my ship where I can relax under the added protection of hyperspace travel. I take a cold shower-another failure in my attempt to clear my head. Afterward, I collapse into my cot naked, feeling no rush to jump back into my armor. Thoughts quickly turn to her- they always do the minute my head hits the pillow. I think of her face, her body, her voice, the things we did, what we went through…and sure enough, my dick is harder than beskar. A few strokes in and I’m already there. With a free hand, I yank the pillow out from beneath my head and place it over my face, inhaling deeply. I don’t know if her lingering scent is a reality, or if it’s something I’ve conjured from a memory, but one deep pull and I’m coming faster than warp speed. 

My dick is a traitor. 

Add it to the list of things gone wrong. A ship that has seen better days. A 'hiring freeze' by my employer. Cast out from my tribe- an apostate with no prospects of redemption. A Mandalorian no more.

And it was worth it. Given the choice, I’d do it all over again to ensure her safety. So why can’t I let go? 

I can’t stop thinking about what the Madam said. 'It’s not about being equal, it’s about being balanced.' We had felt balanced. “It’s what we do, we save each other." 

And right now, I need her to save me.

I jump out of my cot, and climb up to the cockpit, quickly pulling up the navigational maps. 

In the days that followed the events on Gideon’s ship, I assisted the rebel crew of Mandalorian outsiders in the acquisition and systematic dismantling of Gideon’s ship. They seemed excited to gain access to potential intel- none of which interested me. But after I saw her reaction to a cryo-freezer, and Gideon said she could be carrying a child, I made it my number one priority to eradicate any information on her. Medical files, biologic data used for tracking fobs, and every known marker of her chain code. The destruction of that data would help ensure they’d never find her again, and I made sure of it. But not before noting her final transponder location. 

I plug in the coordinates, and detailed data on the planet Ossus appears. The chances that it wasn’t just a stopping point and she has remained there all these months- well over a year- is small. But it’s a start isn’t it?  If anyone can find her…

And just like that, the clouds muddling my mind part to reveal my renewed purpose. Find my girl. With a clarity I haven't possessed in months, my thoughts come into clear focus, shining a beacon on a singular objective. I’m in the dark, and she is the light.

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A/N: Yes, I will finish this story. I know I said one more chapter, but it turned into two. So, one more chapter to go after this, and part one will be finished. I've already plotted the first 6 chapters of part two and have renewed inspiration to get there. For those who patiently wait and support the necessary leave of absence author's sometimes have to take, I thank you.

*This chapter's playlist includes:

Star Wars | Jedi Knight Meditation Music & Ambience

(SW) The Mandalorian | Man of Honor

Not sure if I still have followers, but here is my last known taglist:

@mandosmistress @mandomover @yeetusfeetus3000 @wildmoonflower @littlemisspascal @starwars-thirst @spideysimpossiblegirl @mominousrex @toobsessedsstuff @pickledbeskar @brunette-overalls @jeonmvvn

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night. 

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong. 

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app. 

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting. 

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom. 

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie? 

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him? 

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again. 

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too. 

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality. 

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright. 

“Hey.” 

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest. 

“How are you feeling?” 

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach. 

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.” 

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless. 

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here. 

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone? 

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic. 

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started. 

Stupid girl. 

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.” 

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head. 

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?” 

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom. 

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl. 

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat. 

God fucking damnit. 

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time. 

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole. 

Anyway. 

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting. 

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things. 

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking. 

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you. 

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well… 

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph. 

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?” 

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?” 

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.” 

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap. 

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.” 

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud. 

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.” 

“Correct.” 

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting. 

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place? 

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?” 

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.” 

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.” 

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.” 

“Correct.” 

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.” 

“Do you believe he was being truthful?” 

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.” 

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?” 

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?” 

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?” 

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.” 

“Thanks, Ralph.” 

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?” 

“Will do.” 

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. 

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him. 

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?” 

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?” 

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug. 

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it. 

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch. 

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns. 

“What is this?” you ask. 

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.” 

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Kissing my ass.” 

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.” 

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew. 

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful. 

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement. 

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails. 

“No.” 

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—” 

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.” 

“Ok, but—” 

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention. 

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret. 

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time? 

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always. 

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house. 

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps. 

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.” 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though. 

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.” 

You winced, “Don’t do that.” 

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?” 

“That! You’re being an asshole.” 

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?” 

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?” 

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?” 

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?” 

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop. 

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.” 

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction. 

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway. 

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.” 

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.” 

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand. 

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.” 

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust. 

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing. 

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!” 

It hits you square in the chest. 

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them. 

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over. 

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it. 

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere. 

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table. 

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair. 

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?” 

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.” 

“Is that good or bad?” 

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.” 

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway. 

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest. 

“How is the case going, do you know?” 

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.” 

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?” 

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone. 

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?” 

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.” 

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium. 

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.” 

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.” 

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room. 

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today. 

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did. 

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.” 

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face. 

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it. 

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion. 

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt. 

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important. 

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin? 

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.” 

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next. 

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives. 

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him. 

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences. 

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.” 

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium. 

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss. 

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding. 

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either. 

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his? 

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage. 

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk. 

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty. 

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—” 

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch. 

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before. 

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name. 

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no. 

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring. 

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”  

“I am.” 

“Are you busy?” 

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?” 

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?” 

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?” 

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?” 

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.” 

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.” 

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.” 

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.” 

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge. 

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake. 

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles. 

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.  

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed. 

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut. 

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you. 

“Hey sleepyhead.” 

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head. 

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.” 

“Not sleeping well?” 

“Fucking awful, honestly.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.” 

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.” 

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.” 

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns. 

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more. 

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?” 

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.” 

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet. 

“How much do you want me to tell you?” 

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move. 

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you. 

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat. 

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact. 

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer. 

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest. 

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

i have also been reading/writing fic since i was 12, so that's one thing we have common! you're 20, like you said, so i'm not holding anything against you here, but you don't just get older and stop enjoying things. like, if people stopped writing romance when they got married there would be no romance novels. and when you get married, you don't just...stop finding other people attractive. i mean, some people might and that's fine, but having a celebrity crush is perfectly normal, even when you're completely fulfilled in your romantic relationship!

and it sounds like (to me, at least) you might have some feelings about still liking or enjoying fandom after a certain age. i've seen a lot of that in the last few years, but i just want you to know--you can enjoy fandom until the day you day at 105 years old surrounded by your family. you don't just turn 25 and stop liking the things you like, you know what i mean? sooo many of the people i know who write/read fic are happily married or in long term relationships. my husband makes me feel good, and so does writing and reading and fic and fandom, but they're not the same kind of fulfillment. it's all very different.

and writing is such an incredible way to process things! a lot of the time when i'm writing about romantic or sexy things they're helping me process experiences from long before i met my husband. and pedro is very much my creative muse. he is in a completely different part of my brain from my romantic partner.