Julia

৻ꪆ where is time for him to meet your friends.

৻ꪆ staring: michael olise x fem reader

৻ꪆ a/n: just let me know at the end if you agree with me about his love language lol i hope you like it

ᵎᵎ i described reader's personality and maybe it doesn't fit yours, but i apologize anyway, don't be mad at me lol it was necessary

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

HEAVY rain hit london late in the day. the amount of rain was unusual for the city, especially since it's summer, likely a consequence of global warming.

although rain is welcome on a hot, dry day like that, you weren't properly prepared for such a natural event. no umbrellas or raincoats, nothing that would stop you from going home soaked.

however, perhaps the universe could still be on your side. when olise looked out the apartment window and saw the raindrops rolling down the glass, nothing else crossed his mind but you.

michael olise: need a ride?

michael olise: wait for me there, i'll come get you.

that's very much him. acts of service without even thinking twice. even when he's far away, even when he's thousands of kilometers away and can't be near you. he makes good use of opportunities when he's around.

you: would you do that? 😭😭

you: wait a little bit, If the rain stops, you can enjoy more time with your friends

you: i take the tube

michael olise: and are you going to walk all the way to the station?

michael olise: your white pants?

you: what's wrong with my white pants?

michael olise: they'll get dirty if you accidentally step in a puddle

you: are you really worried about my white pants? 😭

michael olise: i'm just saying i'll come get you anyway

you: such a gentleman 😝😝

you: but are you sure? i don't want to interrupt your day with your friends

michael olise: i'm already in the car so don't worry abt that

olise couldn't care less about what his friends would think, and he was teased when he said goodbye to them, mentioning he was going to pick you up from work, but again, he couldn't care less.

until six months ago, the only reason that brought the french player back to london was to see his old friends, nothing more. but at one of these meetings, he met a friend of a friend of one of his mates' girlfriends. you. which has now become the main reason that brings him back to london whenever he has some free time.

people were a little shocked when they found out you two were together, but it wasn't a bad surprise. it's just that you two complement each other in a beautiful, wonderful way that goes far beyond personality.

some people might imagine you two as opposites, and maybe you are, but the two of you together? it's the perfect balance. his shyness, yours extroverted nature, his rationality even in stressful moments and your impulsiveness during those same moments.

and it wasn't long before olise arrived to pick you up. you ran to his car as soon as you saw the vehicle and he opened the door for you quickly, without getting out of the car but worried that the raindrops would soak you.

the smile you had on your face made him smile instantly, a wide and passionate smile.

"hi my handsome baby," your fingers touched his chin giving it a light squeeze before you gave him a quick kiss, "i can't believe you came."

he gave a sideways smile before locking the car and starting the engine, "you were doubting i would come?"

you shrugged as you fastened your seatbelt, "i thought you were having a great time with your friends and didn't want to leave. by the way, how was it?"

he glanced at you quickly and said, "same thing as always."

"so it was good?" you raised an eyebrow.

he nodded as he stopped at a red light, "quite."

olise took the opportunity to admire you. his eyes traced the path from your feet to your head, his favorite view, by the way.

"those white pants look good on you," he reached out and lightly touched the fabric.

"my favorite pants."

the light turned green again, but his hand didn't leave her leg; now it rested peacefully on her thigh as if it had known the place for years.

"when are you going back to munich?"

he shrugged lightly, "to be honest, i don't know. they sent a message letting me know, but i haven't looked yet."

"don't you want to know?"

he squeezed her thigh lightly, "not at all."

you chuckled softly while placing your hand over his and intertwining your fingers.

"i have a question."

you leaned your back against the car door, sitting sideways. he had to put both hands on the steering wheel, making you instantly miss his touch.

"go on."

you bit your lower lip and scratched your head slightly; it was the nervousness of asking a silly question, but one that could mean a lot.

"would you like to meet my friends?"

he seemed confused, "what?"

"not today and not out of the blue," you smiled awkwardly, "one of them organized a birthday dinner in two days. i was wondering if you wanted to go? the girls are nice and you already know one of them. and you wouldn't be the only man, almost everyone is dating," you raised your hands slightly as if surrendering, "but no pressure."

another red light, and this time olise smiled, not as brightly as before, his hands went to the back of the seat, behind his head.

"when?"

"wednesday."

"dress code?"

"none."

"sounds good," he nodded more to himself than to you, "i'll go with you."

you tried to contain the great excitement you felt at the answer michael gave you. you already met his friends, but olise didn't know your closest friends.

"promise me you'll really go?"

he looked at you, "believe me when i say I'm going to do something."

"i believe in you," the response was instantaneous, "i was just afraid that you..."

"i would go anywhere and would do anything you suggested, anything for you."

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

olise was sitting next to you, holding your hand under the table. the entire table had their eyes and ears attentive to the birthday girl, who was telling them something about her work.

you glanced over your shoulder and saw olise was already looking at you, which made you smile and lean in to give him a quick kiss.

"all good?"

he nodded and rested his chin slightly on his shoulder, "your friends are nice. the guys invited me to play pool."

"you are going?"

he nodded again, "If my woman lets me."

you put your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing out loud, "your woman?"

"you, my woman."

"okay then," you chuckled "your woman gives you permission to play pool."

you gave him his turn to take the initiative, and he kissed you on the corner of your mouth.

"i'll get my real kiss when we're alone."

"i can't wait then," you smiled, "thank you for coming."

"thank you for inviting me," he said, playing with the end of a strand of her hair, "it means a lot to me to get to know your world like this."

a/n: ok girls don’t judge me for writing this 😭 i was thinking abt it bcs of a song i heard… kinda missed doing moodboards even tho i think this one turned out kinda bad lol but it’s fine, i just wanted y’all to read it n tell me what u felt + if u got it… it might be confusing idk

Pov- you

Requested by @cocoamintsstuff 🤎 Veryyyy Late but Freshly Baked HAHA 👩🏻‍🍳

PS : I love Butter cookies 🧈😋

Feedback is appreciated 🫶🏻

IMPORTANT : If you use these dividers please tag @uzmacchiato for credit in the post you use it.

➡️ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ✨

Cookies & Biscuits :

Cocoa Cookie Themed :

Themed Lines :

( Images from Pinterest & Canva )

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Please don't use without providing credit to the account mentioned above.

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✮ Is That What You Call It? - Ferran Torres

ferran torres x fem!reader

sy: has ferran gotten to grips with braiding hair yet? or will he still need you—some tutorials—to help make his daughters wishes a reality.

a/n: humour me cause this is the first time writing in months, so, sorry if it’s a lil stiff 🙏🏼 + is football a dying writing fandom or.. ALSO @n0vazsq this is for you.

warnings: nopeity.

you don’t intend to stare, really. promise.

but there’s something admiringly captivating about the way ferran cares for your daughter. the way he brushes the dirt from her knees as she falls; the way he spends hours in the morning designing mickey mouse pancakes—even if, they end up looking like mini elephants.

at the time, as much as it made your heart drop a smidge.. like god help us all, your daughter asked her daddy to help her plait her hair for the first time, he’d hesitated to the point of trembles and eventually, well, succeeded.

now, this is the second time.

they say second times a charm, don’t they?

“does this look okay?” ferran twists the corner of his mouth to whisper. you cock a brow until nodding from the doorway.

natiala, your daughter, sits bright-eyed infront of the mirror and high on a stepping stool with her hands neatly interlocked. she’s watching, carefully, almost ferran’s every move and muscle twitch. her feet also sway slightly in the air, her toes brushing the wood with every bounce of excitement.

its scary. the amount of attention she pays to the smallest of things.

“papà, you forgot this strand,” she lifts up a strand of her hair whilst ferran furrows his brows, subtly peering over to the tiktok tutorial in bewilderment.

following his gaze, noticing the phone, you catch your bottom lip between your teeth to seal a laugh. it’s on its lowest light, no sound and tucked halfway behind the pale blinds.

as if hiding the cheat sheet will make him look any less clueless.

they’re both there for another few minutes. natalia is perched, patiently, the glow in her eyes as she becomes more and more excited for the trendy—although if this were trendy, dear lord—updo, ferran is trying to perfect.

the heart of yours aches as you watch. one shoulder rests on the doorframe, as your arms loosely fold across your chest. she really is her daddy’s copy.

“andd.. ta-da!”

huh.

well…

ferran’s mini hops excitedly, squealing, as joy spreads across her features. she’s bringing the plait over her shoulder, slowly rotating in the mirror to herself and—

“daddy..” she squints, turning entirely to the side as his heart drops to his stomach. “this doesn’t look like rumi’s hair..”

a slap in the face. his face looks immediately rejected. like someone had told him santa wasn’t real. again.

“er,” ferran clears his throat, running a hand through the mullet of his. “little help?”

you laugh but it breaks like a breathy sigh; you plod along to where they stand. “i was waiting for you to say that.”

the long, tanned fingers of his find their way to your hair, combing it through until it he cradles the back of your head to lure you into a warm kiss. natalia gags to herself, muttering, “get a room.”

a snort bubbles from your lips as the kiss breaks, and you direct your attention to the birds nest of her hair. i mean, the only words you could describe her plait were as an inevitabile disaster.

honest work but also pitiful.

as you begin unraveling the artwork—definitely—scammery, you whisper, confidently, into your little girls ear. natalia beams, wiggling her brows.

“watch and learn daddy.”

you smirk. “yeah, watch and learn, baby.”

ferran huffs, trying to seem agitated but he doesn’t have one iritated bone in his body when it comes to you two. as you slowly unbraid natalia’s hair, you bring his fingers to yours, teaching him to weave the three sections of her hair. his tongue pokes out from his mouth, now, really dedicated to not mess it up this time.

“left over middle,” you murmur. “now right.”

for the first minute, you’re doing most of the work as his hands hesitate, and he glances into the reflection of the mirror as though he’s expecting you to catch him out. every now and then, he mutters a small “wait, wait,” which earns a soft chuckle from you.

it’s not long until you begin letting go a little more, as he learns to get ahold of the pattern. he doesn’t notice it at first, too occupied making sure he hasn’t somehow tied your daughter’s hair into a sailor’s knot, but by the end of it he’s the one weaving the strands together whilst your fingertips merely hover nearby.

“now this,” you hand him a small elastic; he complies by fastening it at the end of the braid.

you tap her on her shoulder. “look, hun.”

natalia doesn’t need telling twice.

she’s practically bouncing from the stool as she preens towards the mirror, turning her head from one side to the other before a grin stretches across her face.

“papà!” she gasps, twisting to throw her arms around his neck. “i look just like rumi!”

the footballer sighs a laugh of relief, as he goes to cuddle her. “well,” he says dramatically, looking over her shoulder towards you, “don’t sound too surprised.”

“i’m surprised,” you tease.

he rolls his eyes, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth never once falters. without thinking, his hand smooths over the braid, flattening a strand that had begun slipping loose before tucking it neatly behind her ear. it’s so instinctive that you don’t think he even realises he’d done it.

maybe that’s your favourite thing about him. that his love and care for the people he loves is never for show.

it’s simply just for who he is when nobody’s asking him to be.

ferran catches you staring, tilting his head. “que?”

“nothing.”

he pouts. “that’s not a nothing face.”

you shake your head, smiling to yourself before reaching up to flatten the stubborn piece of hair sticking out his curls. “i just…” you pause, watching natalia attend her focus back on the mirror. “i think you’re a better dad than you give yourself credit for.”

ferran smirks, pulling you closer by your hand. “is that what you call it?”

your eyes flick towards your baby girl. she’s still turning from side to side, beaming at a braid she’ll undoubtedly ask ferran to recreate tomorrow morning.

you smile. “yeah.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles.

“i think i do.”

ferran only hums, his gaze following yours as you admire your special little girl. she mutters a song quietly whilst she proceeds to admire herself in the mirror. that’s what she’ll remember when she grows up. not whether her hair was perfect and exactly how she liked it.

but instead, how her daddy never stopped trying until it made her smile.

⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗

william saliba x f!reader.

friends.

note: based on this req!! maybe a part.2 👀

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you're always daydreaming about william and you exactly know why.

jannik sinner x royal!fem!reader

sy: you should of seen it coming, really. distance is chasing you away again, and silence seems to drown you. you face internal conflict about whether consequence or love prevails. i guess you’ll find out.

a/n: yes the colour theme is icky. yes i hate it. (trying to base the colours off emotions but lyk) feedback alwaysss welcome (will need it for this 🙏🏼)

warnings: nauh

-> PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3

MORNING DOESNT COME GENTLY, not at all. truth be told, you cried yourself unconscious, so everything past the second you touched your bed is a blur. the second you’re woken up by an apparent circus being hosted downstairs, the guilt ridden heart ache comes instantly.

“for f—christ’s sake,” you quickly correct, irritated by the sudden wake up call. it takes your eyes a moment to fully adjust, as the swelling from last nights waterworks made them puffy. you push your palm deep at your chest, as if trying to mitigate the ache.

aimlessly, you reach for your phone somewhere on your bed, and swipe it open as your heart races. 

all you want is a message from him.

however, you’re met with disappointment.

there’s no text. you chew at the inside of your cheek, wondering if you should  message him first. 

after all, aren’t you the one that ran out on him?

you chew at the inside of your cheek harder. no.. no. maybe he needs time. maybe he isn’t awake yet. or maybe he’s waiting for you to text him? no.. you need to give him time. 

sighing, when you squeeze your eyes shut, the memories flood back in. “i’m still in love with you,” he had whispered. “i said i love you.” the warmth of his fingertips, you can still feel etched into your skin like scars. the coolness of his skin meeting your warm.

the kiss. 

the kiss that sealed—

knock. 

“rise and shine sunshine!”

you jolt up at the speed of usain bolt, throw your phone and collide your head with a skull cracking thump. “ow!”

your mother appears, so full of grace.

it’s naturally unfair, really. how she carries such elegance even at the ripe time of dawn. 

when you groan and rub at your head, she beelines her way to the curtains; she pulls them aside to allow light into the pool of darkness in your room. 

“mother—it’s too early for this.”

you wince like a vampire to the sun, and you swear you almost feel your skin sizzle to the sudden heat boring through the glass pane. 

“its never too early to open your curtains,” she feigns. “why are you laying in the dark anyway?”

“i wasn’t. i’ve only just woken up.”

her face pales. you frown. what’s so wrong with that?

“only just? hon, it’s 12pm.”

“it is not—” it so is. god damn for clocks. especially for your particular one, that hangs right above your doorframe and impossible to ignore. it does infact read, 12:02pm. you pull your lips into a straight line, why didn’t you even think to look at the time on your phone? 

doofus.

“geez,” you blow.

she watches you closely now, her perfectly arched eyebrows knitting together. her expression is one that can’t decide between disappointment or concern. her eyes dart between yours; you can only accept that she’s discovering the sadness hidden beneath your reddened eyes. kate places herself on your bed, resting her hand next. 

“can you tell me what’s going on?”

“what? n—nothings going on,” you scoff nervously, pacing away to your vanity. “why would something be going on?”

your mother sighs, extracting her hands to her lap. her beady eyes travel across your frame: the inky reminscience of cried off mascara under your eyes, the frizzy nature of your hair—evident that you’ve either been caught up in the rain or coaxed by tigers—the swollen puff of your lips n cheek; not to mention, how you’ve managed to sleep like a baby, in a wooly jacket, in 26c heat.

she pulls her lips together. “ever since wimbledon you haven’t been acting yourself. it seems like you’re always on edge or… i don’t know, in a fight or flight trance.”

you grimace and shake your head. 

“look, darling,” kate sighs again. “i’m not going to be angry—“

you dismiss it immediately. “look, mum, there’s nothing going on, alright? so you can stop with the whole detective thing.”

the princesses calm persona doesn’t waver, and guilt almost entirely consumes you. you can’t tell her. no way. you can’t tell anybody. 

because you know how this game works. 

news spreads like wildfire in this family, so does gossip. so do secrets. 

even if you were to slip up, or confess, that you’ve decided royal protocol isn’t the focal point of your life? as a matter of fact, what better way to stun her into suspected disappointment is that you’re willing to risk it all over a man?

she wouldn’t understand.

nobody would understand.

“alright,” she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. “are you certain that there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

she deadpans you with a look that you fear she can see straight through you. you and your lies. but you don’t want to venture that far and take the risk, so, you shake your head with a eventual, “no.”

your mother nods, a smile breaking through that’s nothing like what she usually wears. it’s strained, forced probably. “well, come down to eat. the food will go cold.” the royal rises, smoothing down the creases of her dress and slips swiftly from the door.

you rake a breath out you weren’t even aware you were holding.

phew.

you wince at the immediate burning sensation shooting through your temple from the attempt to crack your skull. the sun blares through the glass, right into your eyes and you hammer the curtains shut to bare with the strain behind your eyelids. dear lord, your eyes ache. a heavy pit of guilt settles at the bottom of your stomach, and stalks your heart.

your boyfriend creeps back into your head. 

standing dizzily, your mind wanders to replay the way he’d snaked his arms around you like he needed to, drank in every last softness of your lips when he couldn’t get enough of you; when he reeled you in so much that there wasn’t an inch of a gap between you, giving you every piece of him and his vulnerability with it. the pads of your fingers instinctively rise to trace over the kisses he’d left along your jaw as you’re still lost in memory. you can almost hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, feel it coaxing your body into a lullaby, and the way he looked at you as if you were a living, breathing angel. 

the tears come back, but they come slow. your palms come faster to catch them before they leak.

god, you miss him. more than ever.

and you can only beat yourself up about how you didn’t tell him the same. 

when you really wanted to. 

you check your phone again, but there’s nothing but the time and date of the day. carefully, grasping both hands, the urge takes control over your limbs and you type away. 

‘hey, i need to see you again. can you text me back baby. please.’

suddenly, his words ring again in your mind, making you feel nauseous. “i said i love you.”

it feels as if your mind is haunting you with his words, punishing you for allowing cowardice to win.  

“stop it,” you tell your brain as the guilt becomes unbearable to handle. 

in an attempt to distract yourself, you swing onto a stool that accompanies your vanity. you pull out a hairbrush, a hair tie and some lip balm before you make your way to the on-suite bathroom of your own to win back some normality in your appearance.

“eugh..”

the mirror, it doesn’t show… you.

not how it presented you two days ago. 

bright eyed, polished and well-kept now seems to diminish infront of your very eyes to sort of what you would describe as a doll that’s been worn and torn. that had been thrashed around by pre schoolers with snotty and filthy hands.

you look closer to death than you do alive.

rapidly, you brush your teeth on autopilot, spit, and ignore the mirror as you walk back out of the bathroom and out into the hallway.

deep breath. 

your flats squeak against the polished flooring as you make your way downstairs, toying with the band of your necklace; harshly clearing your throat, which makes it sting, just as you cut the corner to the open-casted doors of the dining hall.

the fraction of a second you make contact to the room, your blood runs cold. everyone’sat the dining table already: both parents, charlotte, louis and unfortunately george. but what’s new to you is the newspaper swarmed out between the table, each person looking overly interested.

there’s never been anything other than food and water at the breakfast table. ever.

your steps are hesitant, slow, and you already feel the bile rise in your throat. what could possibly be so interesting on the cover of a tuesday’s post?

each and every tv cable is still unplugged, as you heard complaints from george as soon as you greeted the table. ‘but i can’t watch attenborough’s documentary,’ he had whined. which, good news. however, you’d forgotten your fathers tendency for the occasional afternoon paper.

like goddammit, it’s 2025.

why do physical papers still exist?

“good mornin—or should i say, afternoon, you!” your father booms. “it’s about time you make greetings with your family and stop hiding in that cave of yours upstairs.”

he chuckles wolfishly, the sound echoing in the wide space. you take your seat next to louis. in return, you laugh sheepishly, curling your fingers around the silver cutlery with shaky hands.

there’s not one still movement as you begin chewing on a slice of toast. 

the more your knee bounces from nerves, the more your dress rises up to your thigh, so the more you tug it back down with trembly, clammy hands. your left hand is present at your knee, because whilst it’s not busy tugging the cotton fabric of your dress down, it’s cleaning the sweat off of your palms and onto your equally clammy skin of your knee as the heat from your anxiety builds up with each passing second.

its eerily still. that’s what scary.

your throat clamps dry with a bite, and after a prolonging sip of oj, you decide to break the ice. “what’s so interesting?”

after a beat, charlotte says, “horse racing gossip.”

“well, not all, horse racing,” your father corrects, scanning the pages with such ardor. “the mail caught some celebrity scandal last night too.”

the cutlery in your hands almost slip. george swallows his food. “oh, do tell father.”

the child cocks a brow and a wild, devilish and sarcastic oh-no smirk up at you. he still chews irritably on his jam and peanut sandwich, knowing how much chewing with his mouth open, irks you.

no, surely it wouldn’t make the physical copies of news yet… would it? 

william sucks in a breath. 

oh no.

this is it.

this is where you suffer a heart attack.

this is where i die.

adrenaline pulses through your veins; suddenly, you’re on high alert to everything surrounding you. the way louis scraps his fork across the plate, the screeches of it, the soft slurping of charlotte when she picks up her ribena, the rythmatic tapping of your least favourite sibling’s fingers, hitting the table, like it’s a timed countdown to your inevitable death.

“they believe it to be a woman—yet to be identified—but, a celebrity, fooling around after hours with,” father raises his brows in surprise, “sinner.”

cough. 

your mother peers over to the paper that your father eventually sets infront. she scans it briefly, and only briefly, does her gaze flicker towards you. on the other hand, your father hums in thought, who’s clearly entertained by this scandal rather than perturbed by it. you can see it now. the black and white, scratchy photo of two people stumbling at the curb underneath the poor light of a lamppost.

“last night you say?” george squeaks. louis gurgles down his milk as your blood boils and it slivers through your cheeks.

you’re sure you’re as red as a babbons buttocks right now.

“indeed, son.”

the bile in your stomach climbs up to your throat and threatens to spill to your tongue.

why is everybody acting like this is a game? is george actually smart enough to connect the dots?

surely not. 

you throw down a mouthful of water that almost chokes you. george definitely has his suspicions, and he’ll be the one to rat you out. 

“it’s strange though,” william adds. “no clear imagine of this woman. the daily mail is usually better at catching these things.”

as your knuckles pale when your grip tightens around your fork, you stab at your boiled egg with a decreasing appetite. 

“silly woman,” george shrugs. “i’m sure she woefully regrets it now.”

your appetite vanishes completely, and if you spend one more millisecond at that table, you’re sure you’ll hurl. or worse. 

“i—” you stand abruptly, lost for words. everybody looks you up and down as if you’re loony when your plate crashes hard. 

“i—i’m not feeling too good,” you stutter. “i think i need to go lie down.”

you don’t actually wait for anybody to give you approval, nor do you seek it. you spin away on your heel, grasping at the—what feels like a sack of hot coals—churning sensation in your stomach. 

you don’t even know where to go.

though, you don’t stop jogging. your calves burn, taut and stiff, as you twist and push yourself through every left corner of this house. 

with no real destination in mind, your flats continue to slip softly when your pace quickens but all you know is you have to get away. 

just away.

away from them. away from the table. away from that godforsaken paper, before you make one wrong move and out yourself. 

the thoughts refuse to cool.

they spiral, over and over like a film reel. the image on the paper, the moment you heaved jannik up from the curb and he came crashing onto you, it replays non stop, as if it’s a punishment that’s been burned onto your eyelids for secretly breaking the royal conduct.

your hand flies to your mouth as you round another corner, pressing hard like you can physically shove the panic back down your throat before it consumes you whole. as if the guilt wasn’t enough. your breathing also comes out uneven and there’s a ringing in your ears that drowns out everything else.

they’re going to find out soon. 

you know they will. 

the media will pick it apart piece by piece, crucify you until there’s no escaping it nor denying it. they’re clever, so clever, that it’s only a matter of time before they find out. 

then what? do you lose jannik?

no. no. no. no. no. 

that sends your head around like a carousel. 

the article is one thing. but he’s another. 

when you whip your phone from your dress pocket, your grip tightens so that the sweat from your palms doesn’t cause you to drop it. your thumb scrolls hard until you find his chat.

you gulp. delivered.

no reply. no seen. no, nothing.

did he see it?

the question appears uninvited into your brain. then a million more appear. 

did he see the photo? did he recognise us?

did he realise…

the words taste sour on your tongue as you whisper, “…is that why he hasn’t answered?”

you shake your head quickly, like that alone might dislodge the thought but it’s already there, already rooting itself into every gap in your mind. because what if he did? what if he woke up, saw it plastered across headlines… saw what last night looked like from the outside and regretted it?

does he regret us?

the word regret hits harder than anything else. “no,” you mutter under your breath pleadingly. “no, he said—he said he loved me, he wouldn’t just—”

leave.

but the realisation hits you, that, you left.

as the memory returns, when he softened his voice, only, to confess, like he doesn’t throw that term around lightly. then, the way he held you for a fraction tighter afterwards, like he was hoping for it in return. 

and you gave him nothing. although, that’s all you wanted to tell him. 

“jan, i’m so sorry,” you whisper, broken. a tear falls. “i do—”

all of a sudden, the doors swing open and blows a gush of cold wind into the room. you jump aback, startled, and one of the many maids you can’t quite place a name on, steps in and stops just as fast. 

both of you freeze. 

the maids eyes widen the second she sees you, her hand still on the door like she might yank it shut again. “i’m so sorry—i thought no one was—i didn’t—”

she cuts herself off, already backing away. 

“its fine,” you say quickly, voice a little rough. “you didn’t—it’s okay.”

the young woman shakes her head, almost ashamed, her gaze dropping to the floor. “i didn’t know… i’m really sorry ma’am—i’ll just—“

panickangly, she starts to hurried leave. “no,” you stammer huskily. “don’t go.”

she hesitates.

you step forward cautiously, urging her to not open the door again. you put your hands out almost like a peace offering, and that’s when you notice her pink, sore eyes and fresh tears clinging to her eyelashes. 

poor girl, you think. as you wipe your own teary eyes, you say, “did you wanna talk? i can tell you’re upset.”

the woman licks at her bottom lip, “i—“ she looks startled, as if you, a royal, would be offering help to her. you tilt your head, reassuring with a gentle smile.

“no—it’s okay.. it’s stupid anyway,” she mutters.

you chuckle. “im sure its not stupid. hit me.”

at this point, nothing could phase you after these past couple days. but she doesn’t say anything still. 

“hey,” you offer a another gentle grin, and gently shut the door with your palm as her hand still grips the handle. “you can talk to me. i’m not that scary.” 

that earns a soft, rough chuckle. she sniffles, pressing her palms to her eyes. “i—um, okay…”

gently, you lead her far away from the door, raking out two chairs from beneath a small, ceramic table, where you encourage her to sit before you do the same. 

she wipes her nose on her sleeve and tucks flyaways beneath her ears. her cheeks are flustered, and it looks as though she’s been suffering internally just as much as you have. 

pain recognises pain.

you give her all the time she needs, until she starts, “well…” she sighs out, “it’s just my boyfriend.”

your stomach does backflips. 

the woman’s eyes stay glued to her lap as she fiddles with her rings, sheepishly continuing, “we had a bit of a thing. not even a proper argument, just—“ the maid sniffles again. “he thinks i don’t love him.”

you ask, “why?”

she shrugs, but it’s not causal. “because he says i don’t say it enough.. or show it. he says it all the time, and i just.. don’t. not like how he wants,” her lips press together. “and now he thinks i dont love him at all.”

it feels like something sharp pokes at your eye. you wince, look away and look back. 

“well… do you love him?”

“yeah, a lot,” she answers straightaway. “i just—i dont know how to say it without it feeling.. too much or too late.”

too late. 

you gulp back a lump. and the dozy face that jannik looked at you with, flashes infront of your eyes. “so, you’re just not going to tell him? even though you do love him?”

her nails dig deep into her skin, leaving crescent shaped marks. she doesn’t say anything for a beat, so you ask for her name. 

“maria.” she murmurs. 

you nod, about to speak but she interrupts. “i don’t know. maybe it’s easier not to.. because if i say it now and he doesn’t believe me still, or if it doesn’t fix anything then,” her voice cracks a syllable. “i might lose him and i don’t wanna lose him.”

hot air leaves your nose as you exhale heavily. 

god, you understand that. 

“if you really love him, and you mean it,” you whistle out, “you need to tell him. that’s what he clearly wants, isn’t it?”

she looks up at you. 

“if you don’t say anything, he’s just going to keep thinking you don’t feel it,” you continue, and surprisingly your voice seems steady though the chaos in your head is not. “and then  you lose him anyway. at least if you tell him, you’re still fighting for the person you love.”

the room falls eerily quiet, but the only thing audible is your heartbeat that pounds against your ribs. you can feel the words spill from your mouth as smooth as jelly, because you’re living the reality of this.

its not just about maria. its about you, too. 

your fingers curl against the arm of the chair. “you don’t lose him by saying it,” you add softly, “you lose him by not.”

maria stares at you, seeping your words in. 

“so should i tell him?”

a smile curls at your lips, for the first time in a small while. “i think if you love him, you don’t get to stay silent about it,” something unsettles you and you shiver. “because silence doesn’t protect anything. it just guarantees you lose him without trying.”

she lets out a small breath, as if she’s been holding it in. but suddenly, you’re not talking to her anymore.

you’re talking to yourself. 

your fingers find your phone again, and it’s still frozen on the message you last sent to jannik. it’s still sitting there with no reply, but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for one.

its so obvious to you now. 

you don’t fix this over a measly message.

not by waiting and spiralling.

you fix this by telling him before it’s too late. 

there’s something resolute settling across your expression that wasn’t there before. you look back up to the young woman. 

“thank you,” you spit out suddenly. 

she blinks, confused. “for what?”

but your already standing up quick enough for your knees to crack, scraping your chair back. you can’t spare yourself a second to hesitate.

“for reminding me,” you answer as your halfway to the door. 

because now you know, exactly, what you have to do. and for the first time in your life,

you’re not choosing to stay hidden.

you’re choosing to fight for what you love.

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