andi

VISUALS ★ moodboards (per chapter) ★ scene/setting aesthetics inspo ★ pinterest boards ★ etc.

FUN ★ headcanons ★ incorrect quotes ★ etc.

WORLDBUILDING ★ (fictional) location guides ★ background character facts ★ random world details ★ pre-story timelines & info (spoiler-free) ★ etc.

AUDIO ★ snippets of audiobook readings (dyslexia ftw!) ★ playlists (official & character-related, etc.) ★ etc.

CANON CONTENT ★ chapter summaries (for catching up) ★ extra/lost/deleted scenes (e.g. late-nevermore flashbacks or daily domesticity) ★ character & thematic deep-dives ★ etc.

BEHIND THE CHAPTER ★ my writing process ★ snippets ★ my commentary or thoughts on chapters ★ etc.

OTHER ★ parallel explanations ★ other things that randomly come to mind!

Okay that seems like a lot but guys if you know me, then you know that if I commit to something... I commit 100%! Hence why I am shoving unnecessary content down your throats obvi

STAYED TUNED, BROCHACHOS???

They swore to build something here together, to fashion a life from what remained after running so long - not just existing, but living. Seattle welcomed them with a downpour, the sky opening in recognition of their arrival, washing away what came before.

Rain tapped against the window when Enid woke, the sound simultaneously known and foreign. Above her stretched a ceiling unlike the textured white of their temporary Astoria shelter or the bumpy expanse of countless motel rooms. This ceiling was unblemished, bathed in soft peach light as morning broke. She remained motionless, gradually assembling the pieces of her new reality: the unexpected support of the mattress beneath her, the absence of Thing’s familiar movements, the rhythm of city traffic replacing the whisper of wind through trees. For a moment, disorientation gripped her - was this merely a dream? Would she suddenly find herself back in her parents’ house, or worse, beside him in that massive bed she’d once feared?

But certainty settled over. This was no dream. This was real and this was theirs.

She rolled to her side and found Wednesday beside her, still sleeping. Her girlfriend’s face was turned toward the wall, dark hair fanned across the pillow in a way that made her look younger, or maybe just softer. One arm was flung across her abdomen, the other reaching out, fingers curled loosely. There was a gray-ish pallor to Wednesday’s skin, a residue of last night’s exhaustion and the cocktail of medication and pain she’d choked down, but there was also peace.

Memory trickled back: the long hours in the car, Wednesday’s refusal to nap until they’d passed the Oregon border, Jude’s endless questions about geography and dinosaurs, the way he’d asked, “Is this home now?” as they’d crossed the bridge into the city. Enid remembered Bianca’s efficiency as she unlocked their apartment for the first time, flicking on lights, opening windows, talking them through the building’s quirks. She remembered Jude falling asleep mid-sentence at the kitchen table, lips sticky with sauce, and how she’d carried him to his new bed, laying him down in the blue-dino sheets he’d picked out.

The night ended with Wednesday’s head on her shoulder, mumbling gratitude into her collarbone before surrendering, at last, to sleep. Enid laid awake a while longer, listening to the rain begin, feeling the wild animal urge to patrol the perimeter, to check locks and window latches, to make sure their new home was truly safe. But her body had other plans, and exhaustion eventually dragged her under.

Now, the fatigue was a bruise under her skin - real, but not bleeding.

The floor was cold beneath her feet as she tiptoed past the bathroom, where a single towel hung on a hook and the tile gleamed with recent scrubbing, and into the kitchen. The space was compact, but the windows let in enough light to make it seem bigger. Yoko’s “Housewarming Survival Kit” sat on the counter, an old Trader Joe’s bag stuffed with ramen, instant miso, three chocolate bars, duct tape, and a floral-patterned hot water bottle. Enid grinned, made a mental note to text a thank-you, and set the kettle on to boil.

Already, there was so much to do.

The boxes in the guest closet, the paperwork for Jude’s new school, the medical folders Bianca left with reminders about appointments and insurance. Enid learned, in the years since her father’s collapse and her own first flight, that every new home came with an inventory of invisible risks. She needed to memorize bus routes, local emergency numbers, how to reach the hospital in less than fifteen minutes. She needed to know the layout of the building - where the fire escapes were, which neighbors left their doors unlocked, which ones had dogs that barked at strangers.

There was no such thing as too much preparation.

She found her pad of sticky notes and uncapped a pen. The first list was simple: Groceries. Pharmacy. Confirm Monday’s appointment. Next, a reminder to email the landlord about a lock change. Then, a list of things for Jude—bus pass, lunch box, new rain boots. Enid scribbled fiercely, the act of writing down possibilities shrinking them to manageable size.

She paused to sip her tea and tried to conjure a vision of the future that was more than just a daily gauntlet of tasks. What would it feel like to build routine here, to become a fixture at the corner café, to watch Jude sprint across the park on summer evenings? What would it be like to see Wednesday’s cheeks flush with health again, to hear her laugh at some private joke, to plan a week or a month ahead without bracing for disaster?

It was possible. And that was the cruel, beautiful core of hope: it could be real. She just had to build it, one morning at a time.

The kettle began to whistle again, and Enid startled, not realizing she’d filled it twice. She poured herself a second cup, set it next to the first, and began a fresh sticky note. This one read: “Figure out how to be happy.” Underneath, in tiny script, she added: “Don’t screw it up.”

She stared at the second note for a long moment, then folded it and tucked it into her pocket. Some promises were too fragile to leave lying around, even written in her own hand. The first list, practical and manageable, she stuck to the refrigerator door next to a photo Jude had drawn yesterday of their car loaded with boxes - three stick figures visible through the windshield, all smiling despite the chaos.