#ben's diary

But it is different, being married. Different, somehow. And it’s more than just calling her my wife (which I guess I did even before she really was) and it’s more than just remembering to put my ring on in the morning (which is something I only sometimes forget to do). Being married is different, and if I were a little more like her, maybe I would believe in a joining of the souls, because holding her hand feels different now and I don’t know why. Or when she sits next to me on the couch after my parents have gone to bed—we may as well be conjoined twins, except not really ‘cause then we’d be siblings which would be weird. Or when we kiss—and I don’t mean kissing is better, now; if anything I feel more blasé about it—but that’s just it, it’s all normal, and people talk about that like it’s a bad thing, the everything-becoming-normal, but it’s exactly what I like about being married. I see her naked all the time now and she sees me, and I don’t even mean for sex, which is kind of my point. I can be stripped down to my ass and start talking to her about job applications or the weather forecast or a stupid meme I saw, and it’s all normal, normal, normal—and I did like the excitement, and I still like it on certain nights, but I’ve come to find that this really suits me—it suits me, it suits me, it suits me, more than I ever thought something like marriage ever could.

You talk about more things than you used to, too. And I don’t mean thoughts of having kids, or your deepest childhood traumas, or your secret sexual fantasies, though those are definitely on the list, and now I know she’s always wanted to…well, never mind; those aren’t the things I meant.

You talk about more things than you used to, and what I mean is when her period is supposed to come, and why one of her nipples is always pushed inward for some reason, and how your farts do not always smell like that, and whether you had a regular bowel movement last night. She looks at my butt both because she likes it and also because I want to know if that bump near the crack looks weird to her—and if any of that sounds gross to you, it’s probably just ‘cause you and I aren’t married.

Even sex isn’t all bad, and there are things to like about it, even for me. I like being as close to her as physically possible—if you think about it, your total surface area increases just a little, when you’re joined together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, so it really is as close to one another as you could ever be. And I like seeing the look on her face, and knowing I’m the only one who sees it, and I like when she says my name because it makes me feel real—makes me know who I am, makes me sure I exist—because I have a name, and she’s calling me by it, and I am the person whose name that is, and I am the person she loves.

And I love her. I love her more than flirting and butterflies and date nights and dancing and roses and chocolates and gold rings and wedding cake and kissing and making out and sex. I love her. I like marriage, but I love her.

So…it is different. It’s different being married, but…it’s also kind of not.

Maybe I’m not making sense.

I’m comfortable with her. More comfortable with her than I’ve ever been with anybody, and more comfortable with her now than I ever was before we were married.

And I feel safe with her. I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I wasn’t safe. But with her, I am.

"Okay...whatever," I said. "I was wondering if I could get some help with something."

"That much was obvious," he drawled. "Spit it out."

"Fine. I, um...I need some help remembering stuff."

"Oh, so you want to see the Archivist," the guy said, spinning the earrings around in his lobes. His big ears and his even bigger attitude reminded me of someone. Someone I kind of hated. "Floor 4."

I found my eyes wandering over his desk. He had a bunch of stuff on it that he probably worked on when he didn't have anything to do...or maybe even when he did. A half-finished puzzle. A half-filled composition book. A half-drunk Sehrveissa Q'ristal. He had some pictures on the wall, too. He saw me looking.

"That's my wife," he said, jerking his thumb back. "Ain't she a beauty?"

It was a picture of himself.

"And that's my kid," he said, pointing to another. "Best little peltball pitcher this side of the galaxy."

It was also a picture of himself.

"I love my family," he told me, absentmindedly scratching himself between the legs. "They're my everything."

"And...what's that?" I asked, pointing to a golden placard behind him.

"Oh, that?" he echoed proudly. "That's my greatest achievement. My pride and joy. I'm gonna have them bolt it to my tombstone when I kick the can."

I squinted at it.

Damn Good Secretary, 30 ABY.

--

The elevator was funky. The only song it played was a five-second melody I'd heard in the grocery store but couldn't quite place. The jingle haunted me all the way to the Archivist's office, where I found the door wide open to what looked like a library.

I stepped tentatively inside. There was a high-backed red velvet armchair in the center, and a young man draped over it. He was already looking right at me as I walked in.

“Are you the Archivist?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I killed the Archivist,” the man explained. “Me, I’m the Truncator.”

He stood about six feet tall, or he would have, had he been standing. His arms and legs dangled over his comically-opulent throne, and he was swathed in a robe of similar color and gaudiness. He periodically touched a wood-carved pipe to his lips. His fingers twitched every so often, and his dark hair fell across his face with greasy abandon.

I observed his pipe had nothing in it.

“The...Truncator?” I repeated, twiddling my thumbs in the pouch of my hoodie. "I'm looking for the Archivist."

"What did I just tell you? I killed him," the Truncator said impatiently, gesturing to a coffin in the corner. Against my better judgment I crossed the room and peered inside.

The Archivist was dead, all right. He was so dead, he had X's for eyes.

“Okay...um...so can you tell me about the past?” I asked, turning back around. My gaze swept over the shelves that surrounded him on either side of the crackling fireplace. They were filled with labeled bins: Life Day 22 ABY. Obscure Darth Vader Trivia. Top Ten Most Embarrassing Moments of All Time.

The Complete Chronology of Ben and Fannie.

I spotted the bin and took a step forward.

“Oh, absolutely," the Truncator interrupted, kicking his legs and swinging himself up. "In fact, it’s best if I do exactly that—tell you about it.” He inserted himself between me and the shelf and plucked a file from the very front of the Ben and Fannie bin. “Here you go," he said, placing it in my hands.

I squinted. It had just one thing written on it.

“'She hates you,'” I read aloud. “Um…what the hell?”

“Yyyep. That’s all you need to know about that,” the Truncator shrugged, flopping back down in the armchair and taking a few puffs of his empty pipe. “That’s my job, see. I sum things up.”

“Yeah...I don't think so," I snapped, lunging forward. "I want to see more of that bin."

“Ah ah ah,” the Truncator warned as my fingers hooked over the side of it. “You don’t want to get into those.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“‘Cause it’ll hurt, dummy. That’s why I’m here. I’ve gone through all of it for you, and just like I told you, that file you’re holding in your hand is all you need to know.”

“But I know what’s written on this file isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well...I can’t support my claim without evidence," I said, "the likes of which are in this box you won’t let me into. But I’m pretty sure it can’t be true.” I reached for one of the files.

“I’ll kill you if you go in there,” the Truncator hissed suddenly, his dark eyes flashing.

I stopped short.

“I can’t let you in there," he repeated, more softly. "It’s too painful for you.”

“So you’ll kill me instead?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied darkly. “It would be a mercy to you. You don’t understand, Ben. How much it would hurt.”

I hesitated, staring at him in disbelief.

One by one, my fingers slipped off the side of the box. I let my hand fall to my side.

“Good boy,” the Truncator said cheerfully.

“But...I can’t just have amnesia,” I said at last. “I need to at least remember the facts of what happened. Otherwise I’ll have a chunk of my life missing.”

Wait… A chunk of my life missing. I already had plenty of those.

I looked at him suspiciously, and then at the shelves and shelves of bins he was guarding from me.

“Fair enough, you can have the facts,” the Truncator said. He twirled an idle finger. “Turn the file over.”

I did.

“'You became friends with Fannie in your teens,'" I read. "'She helped you a lot. You didn’t talk for a while. Last year you dated. It didn’t work out. You haven’t talked to her in weeks.'"

I looked up. “Is…is that all I get? But what if I want to know what I thought of her? What if I want to remember how she made me feel?”

“I don’t see why you’d want that,” the Truncator replied. “She’s gone.”

“Well—why does she hate me?”

“Didn’t you just read the summary? Because you haven’t talked to her in weeks.”

“How does that mean she hates me?”

“Just does,” he said. “If she didn’t, she’d talk to you. She hasn’t talked to you, so she hates you.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re very good at your job,” I snarled.

“Say what you want," he shrugged. "I’m just trying to keep you from hurting, experiencing discomfort, or sensing the slightest bit of anything difficult, ever.”

“I’m gonna text her right now,” I said. “I don’t care what you say.”

“I highly advise against that," he warned. "As a general principle, I recommend never exerting any effort or doing anything that feels hard. But, hey. Suit yourself."

So I did.

Hey Fan, I wrote. Sorry it’s been so long! I’d love to plan a time to visit again. I miss you. It’ll be a little harder to plan since I’m working now, but maybe we could organize around a weekend and I could spend like four-ish days with you so we can hang and catch up? You must be pretty preoccupied since your sister’s due date is close, huh? I’d be happy to listen. Again, sorry.

I looked up again at the Truncator. “I get that you’re trying to do what you think will help me," I told him seriously, "but you don’t need to lie to me and scare me away from her. She and I are grownups. We’re fine.”

“Are you sure?” the Truncator asked, then gestured to my holopod.

Fannie had replied almost immediately.

Hi Ben. :) Yes, it would be a pleasure to see you again and chat. I appreciate your willingness to take the time to visit me, but I think I would prefer if we just met on Ossus for an hour or two instead. Hope you’re well.

I frowned. "...Wait. What does that mean? Why'd she shut me down like that?"

“Turn over the file again,” the Truncator sighed.

I did.

She hates you.

"What do I do?" I asked, my heart sinking.

"Oh, I don't give guidance," said the Truncator flippantly. "I just tell you what was and what is. You want advice? Go see the Counselor. Floor 7."

--

Thankfully, the Counselor had not been murdered and replaced with a performative-pipe-smoking successor.

Unfortunately, I almost wished he had.

The Counselor was pale and jittery and he kept chewing on his lower lip. His dark eyes darted back and forth, and he sat as if his legs were too long and he didn't know what to do with them.

"Uh...are you okay?" I asked.

"I hate that question," mumbled the Counselor, bouncing his knees. "Mostly because the answer is never really yes."

"Why are you in charge of giving advice?" I couldn't help but ask. "You look like you're about to throw up."

The Counselor burst into tears. "I knew it!" he moaned. "Everyone can sense my unbelievable incompetence. I don't deserve to live!" He started hyperventilating and rocking back and forth in his seat.

"Uh...maybe I should go," I said slowly.

"Don't go!" he screamed, so I didn't.

I did, however, back away.

"I can do my job, Ben, I swear," he begged. "I can tell you what to do. I can give you the advice you're looking for. I promise. Just...please don't go. Please don't give up on me!"

"Look, man, you seem to be taking your occupation kind of personally, don't you think?" I asked uneasily.

"No, no, no! I didn't think it was so obvious!" he shrieked, slamming his fists into his forehead. "Dang it! Darn it! Dagnabbit! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"

"You need help, dude," I said. He was starting to freak me out.

"I don't need help!" he shouted, trembling like there was a current running through him. "I'm fine! Just tell me what you need help with so I can help you. So I can prove that I deserve to live and I'm not just a huge disappointment and a failure that should have been wiped from the galaxy!"

"I...I need help with my ex," I uttered, completely terrified of him. "Er...my friend. My best friend? Maybe just my friend. Or...I don't know if she's even that anymore."

The Counselor quit tearing out his hair and turned to look at me.

"Fannie Pentarra?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Oh," he said, calming down and lowering himself back into his seat. He folded his hands on the desk. "She hates you. It's over. You're screwed."

I blinked.

"That's it," I snapped. "I want to talk to the manager. Or...whoever the hell's in charge here."

"That would be the Executive Director," the Counselor said, wiping tears and snot off his face with the palms of his hands. "Floor 10."

--

“Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, kriff, yes, ugh! That’s it. That’s it, baby. Keep going…”

I froze before knocking, repulsed and afraid. Finally I braced myself and pushed through the door. The Executive Director was sitting on a loveseat with his back to me, watching a giant holoscreen.

I risked a look at the video title.

Watching Paint Dry Compilation, 12 Hours

Well. I cocked my head and wrinkled my nose.

I cleared my throat, and the guy whipped his head around, shocked.

“Oh—frick!” the Executive Director shouted, jumping up and trying to block the holoscreen with his body. He was wearing white boxers with red hearts beneath a business blazer and tie. He had an angular face and knobby knees and looked like he couldn’t be any older than twenty-five. “You didn’t see that, I hope. If word gets out about my perverse tendencies…”

“What? That you get off on watching paint dry?”

“No, no,” he said. “That I periodically zone out in my underwear and shout really loud in my office to make people think I’m having sex. It’s getting rather embarrassing for me. All the other CEOs are on their fifth, sixth sex scandal, and I’ve never even had an orgasm, you know.”

“Uh…I didn’t know that. I don’t want to know that.”

“Never even had an erection.”

“That...doesn't sound normal. Maybe you should check out a doctor.”

“Oh, I’ve checked out plenty of doctors, but I never found any of them more sexually attractive than I find the rest of the population," the Executive Director sighed. "Geez, what kind of ED am I? Y'know, that reminds me of something funny. ED also stands for..."

“Listen, I came to you to complain," I interrupted him. "This place is insane, and weird, and freaky, and not a single person is serious around here." I tried not to look down at his red-heart boxers.

“Ah,” said the Executive Director sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Ben.” He bowed his head once, and looked at me.

I paused. We stared at each other.

“Is…is that all?” I asked.

“Yep. Pretty much,” said the Executive Director, straightening his tie. I watched as he stepped over to his desk, bent over a line of white powder, and snorted it right in front of me.

He caught my stunned gaze.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's just pyraxilone," he explained. He took a clear orange bottle from a drawer, emptied the pills onto the desk, and started hammering away at them with a golden mallet. "I have anxiety."

"You're supposed to take that orally."

"This isn't even the weirdest way I've taken it," he boasted.

I decided to immediately drop the subject.

“What about my complaint?" I asked. "You’re not gonna try to change anything? Or make it up to me somehow, or…at least lie to me and pretend you will to get me to leave?”

“Nope,” he said. “This place is a sinking ship, y’know.”

That pissed me off.

“No, it’s not,” I snapped. “Things could be better around here if you only tried. You're the one in charge, for crying out loud! So why don't you do something?"

The Executive Director bristled, his eyes flashing. It would seem I had struck a nerve.

"Listen, kid, I am under a lot of pressure," he growled, striding towards me and coming so close our noses almost touched. "And you have the audacity to come in here and tell me I'm just not trying hard enough?"

"Well, it sure doesn't look like you are," I told him angrily.

"You have no idea how much I do for you," he hissed. "How much I do for everyone."

"What, when you're not serenading wet paint or shoving prescription meds up the back door?"

“Fine,” he sniffed. "You're the Executive Director now. "He took off his blazer and draped it around my shoulders.

I gasped. It weighed about fifty pounds.

“So what's your first move, huh?" he jeered. "What's your big gameplan to turn this place around? Tell me what your first executive order's gonna be."

The suit began to weigh more and more as I wore it. My bones threatened to collapse and my heart started to race. And the noise--my head was filled with noise. I covered my ears and began to writhe in agony. I couldn't take it anymore. I stumbled over to the open window and threw myself out, screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, you high-and-mighty loser!" the ex-Executive Director called after me as I plummeted.

I fell down past Floor 7 and the Counselor's office.

Down past Floor 4 and the late Archivist's library.

I caught the bemused eye of the secretary through the window right before I hit the ground.

And then I went ka-splat and turned into jelly--right as I woke up in my bed, gasping and coughing and sweating icy bullets.

Geez Louise! Was it possible that pickled lava peppers maybe did contain psychoactive compounds, after all?

I picked up my holopod from my nightstand and started jotting down the dream as fast as I could. At least the one upside to having the galaxy's most bizarre REM stages was free inspiration for my writing.

Unfortunately...there was still one thing that hadn't been just a dream.

I think all these things as I’m stirring in the milkpod, and then I wonder just how long it’s been since I’ve talked to her, so I check—and I realize it's been nearly a month.

A month? That can’t be right!

But it is right. And of course, she’s the last one to have written, and she’s still waiting for me to respond. I groan and rub my knuckles against my forehead.

I think about something Amalia said about me once. That I will find the time to write five poems and an essay and a research paper before I ever find the time to write “I’m fine, thanks, and how are you.”

Well, that's not true. Not this time, anyway.

I haven't been writing.

Maybe it’s good we didn’t get back together, I think for the hundredth time. I can’t even do the long-distance thing as friends.

I’m surprised Fannie hasn’t said anything about it for a whole month. What did we last talk about? One month is a little past my capacity for retention. I leaf through the files in my head.

Fan, I don’t know if I’m in love with you anymore.

That’s all right, Ben. You don’t have to know. Focus on getting better.

Oh…right.

I scrape the stirstick on the rim of the cup and throw it away, and that’s when I start to worry. Why hasn't she come after me to chew me out? Maybe she’s too mad at me. Maybe she’s given up on me. Maybe she doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

Liquid nightmare begins to settle in my stomach as I take my caf back to my desk—you know the feeling?—but then the comm buzzes and I forget everything and hit the button as fast as I can. “You’ve reached the office of Senator Organa," I say. "This is Ben, how can I help you?”

I toss Korrie a smug grin as I say it, her finger still hovering over her comms machine. She sighs, crosses over to the plexiboard, and draws a tally under my name. Greer walks past and rolls her eyes at us.

This competitive punctuality is a feature reserved exclusively for my professional life. My personal comms, on the other hand, go straight to my voco-records graveyard.

After I get off the call, I check the holomail. “Hi Ben,” the newest message reads, "thank you for your quick response. The charity auction is scheduled for January 3rd…”

There is perhaps only one context in which I am known for quick responses, and that is the office of Senator Leia Organa. Fannie may not have heard from me for a month, but she's still the most recent of my friends to have heard from me at all.

I should try to visit Fan again, I think--but then the thought of arranging a trip sounds impossible. When would I go? I'd have to take time off from work. I'd have to get flight tickets. I'd have to pack. I'd have to talk to her and make sure she isn't mad. I'd have to...

It just sounds too complicated, I think, switching rapidly between the master calendar, the budgeting spreadsheet, and the file tree containing official copy, statements, and speeches. Greer says I process information as fast as a droid. And I do. (Maybe even faster. Now that I work with Threepio in a business setting, the way he always takes so long to get to the point drives me nuts.) I'm really good at keeping track of information and organizing it and making sure nothing gets missed. Crazy good. I pride myself on it.

But...no, I can't work out a plan to go visit Ryloth. That would be too hard.

What the heck is wrong with me? I think, a little annoyed at myself. I must be some sort of psychopath. Yeah, that must be it. I mean, I can't think of any other reason why a normal, capable person would act this way. Yeah. I'm just a shell of a person with no love in his heart and I don't freaking try and I don't freaking care.

...No, I think next. That's not it. It's The Other Thing.

I catch Mom's eye through the clear walls of her inner office. She smiles, and I toss her a work-appropriate gesture of goodwill and nod back at her. She's happy because I've been doing better these days--I mean showing up to work on time, doing chores around the house, reading books instead of scrolling on my holopod. I haven't messaged her in ages, either, but that's okay. We live in the same house.

You know what would solve this, actually? I think. Getting back under the same roof as Fan.

But it's a bit of a stupid paradox, unfortunately, because I'm only good at maintaining relationships with the people I live with apparently, and generally you only move in with a guy who's already proven his ability to maintain a relationship.

Lousy boyfriend. Flaky-ass friend.

At least I'm a damn good secretary, I think, semi-cheerfully.

But...not that cheerfully.

The most interesting moment occurred when I was blowing out my candles. Poe and Treeso insisted on having exactly twenty-four candles on the cake, even though Amalia called them both idiots and said they were gonna burn the place down. But Poe and Treeso together proved to be an unstoppable force of unhinged chaos, so, twenty-four candles it was.

“Let’s all wish for Ben to go on his first date before he turns twenty-five!” said Treeso, clapping his hands.

“What’re you talking about? He’s already got a girlfriend,” said Poe, lighting the last candle.

“Not anymore—they broke up,” said Amalia, tipping back a bottle of beer.

And then they all looked at me.

“Bro, you got a girlfriend?” asked Treeso, stunned.

“You broke up with her?” asked Poe, surprised.

Amalia just looked at me and dipped her finger into the side of the cake and licked the frosting off of it without breaking eye contact.

“Had a girlfriend. Don’t have one anymore. Story’s over. Cake! Now,” I said, and blew out all the candles, and grabbed the cake cutter.

“Dude, you never tell me anything!” complained Treeso.

“I live with him and he never tells me anything,” remarked Poe.

“Stalk him online. It’s the only way,” advised Amalia.

Poe took the cake cutter and started cutting two slices (one of them was for Beebee-Ate, so he would “feel included”). “Well,” he said, “if I had known you guys were broken up, I sure wouldn’t have invited her.”

I choked on my cake. “Wait—what—is she coming?”

And, for a second, I was terrified. But, two seconds later, I felt this intensely powerful ache of hope—that I might see her again, that she’d be at the door, that the daydream I’d been having over and over might come at least a little bit true.

Amalia looked at me, and then looked at Poe. Poe looked at Amalia, and then at me. Treeso looked at the slice of cake he was cutting that was almost like a whole fourth of the cake. Beebee-Ate looked at all of us, his head swiveling around.

“Uh…no,” Poe said. “She’s…she’s not coming.”

“But—are you just saying that, or is she actually not coming?” I demanded, my heart pounding. “If…if she was…already on her way, or something, I—I don’t want you to tell her not to come—”

“Ben, she’s not coming,” Amalia confirmed. “I messaged her this morning. She’s still on Ryloth.”

I turned to look at her. “Why’d you message her?” I asked.

Amalia shrugged. “Wanted to check on her. It’s your birthday. Thought it might be hard for her. Didn’t know if you two had plans together, or something, before the breakup.”

“I didn’t think you two were friends,” I said, kind of surprised.

“Why not?” Amalia shrugged. “I can be nice. Sometimes.” She started cutting her own slice of cake. “But, you’re right—it’s easier for me and her to be friends, now that you and her aren’t together.”

“Well…glad it was good for someone, at least,” I said bitterly. And, suddenly, the cake didn’t taste so great anymore.

“Uh…sorry,” I muttered. “I’ll…I’ll be right back.”

I pretended to go to the bathroom. But really, I just sat on my bed in the dark, and tried to very politely ask the sinking weight in my chest to leave, so I could do my best to enjoy my birthday and the fact that all my friends were here.

Well. Not all of them.

The sinking weight swelled up in my stomach, and reached yearningly down toward my toes.

I found myself tugging at the friendship bracelet around my left wrist, feeling the warp and weft between my forefinger and thumb. The colored threads were becoming muddy with dirt because I tugged on it a lot these days. I blinked rapidly, trying to keep my tears at bay. It wasn’t bedtime yet—the tears would have to wait. I swallowed really hard a couple of times but I couldn’t really get the lump in my throat to go away.

…What are you doing, dear?

“Thinking about you,” I whispered under my breath. “Like always.”

My. You do think about me a lot, don’t you?

“Every day.” I licked my lips, and choked out, very quietly: “Do you think about me?”

Well…ah…I’m not sure, Ben. I…assume that I would. It seems like I would. Do you think that I would?

I shrugged, and rubbed the bracelet between my fingers some more.

An imaginary hand graced my shoulder.

Love…please…you shouldn’t be sitting all alone in here, thinking of me. Your friends are here—they came all this way to see you. Truly, I’m flattered…but you know I wouldn’t want you crying in the dark. Not on your birthday. Well, not ever—but especially not on your birthday. And especially not when three of your dearest friends are all here to celebrate you.

“I wish you were here instead,” I whispered. “I know I shouldn’t. But I do.”

Well…perhaps we will celebrate another of your birthdays together. Only time will tell. But…for now…do you think you could please try to focus on the present? On the things you do have, that you are fortunate to have? And not what you don’t?

I sighed heavily and smeared the palm of my hand across my forehead.

I know, love. I know it’s very hard. But, you are very brave. You are very strong. I know that you can. Please. Don’t waste this time. Not on my account.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Okay.”

And I held my hands out in front of me.

And for the very first time since the end of August, I untied the bracelet of green and pink and blue.

Held the full length of it in my hands, stretched out across my palms.

Looked at it, and thought about how long it had taken to wind the strings together, and imagined her fingers working the strands.

Pressed my lips to the woven threads.

Then…rolled it up very carefully, and put it in the box on my nightstand where I keep all my earrings, and took in a deep breath, and let it go…

Pentarra's estate is located far away from any of the surrounding villages, distanced from them geographically as well as socioeconomically. The taxi driver dropped me off outside the gates of a massive sprawling property, one with a bright green, somehow-artificially-supported garden that looked so unnatural against the rough and rocky Rylothian landscape, and a massive manor in the backdrop, and that was when the thought finally occurred to me that—huh!—I just might be way in over my head.

Threepio and I stood outside the gates for a good solid minute, and I checked my holopod to kind of pretend like I knew what I was doing.

"There does appear to be a visitor's comm at the gate," Threepio offered helpfully. "Shall I ring?"

"Um...no," I said. "I don't know who would answer. Nobody here knows me, except for Fannie."

"Perhaps you could comm her?" Threepio suggested.

...You know, sometimes I think giving droids the ability to speak was kind of a mistake. Because, making droids feel like people makes it so that you can feel embarrassed in front of them, and—ya know? I don't think we should have given them that.

"I...I don't know," I sighed, and sat down on one of the decorative boulders outside the gate.

Some twenty minutes later, I heard voices coming from inside the gates, and I stood up, and I saw a girl that I thought I recognized from holos as one of Fannie's sisters, walking arm-in-arm with another Twi'lek guy. She was tall and shapely and had kind of bluish-green skin and she wasn't wearing a whole lot.

Thing was, I couldn't remember which sister it was. So I just started cycling through names. "Connie!" I shouted. "Ginnie! Pennie!"

The girl turned abruptly and looked me over like "who the hell is this guy?"

"Coneeyla," she said. "My name is Coneeyla. Who are you?"

"I'm Ben Solo," I told her. "Is Fannie home?"

"Fannie? You mean Fa’nakhra?"

"I...maybe? Yeah?"

Maybe I'm an idiot for this, but I had never once considered that "Fannie" might be a nickname.

Can you blame me, though? I mean. My name is Ben for crying out loud. That's literally just my given name. Every nickname that anyone has ever given me was longer than my real name.

So...wow! What a loser I was. I'd just showed up here, couldn't get in, and didn't even know my girlfriend-not-girlfriend's full first name—

But I didn't have any more time to beat myself up, because then Connie turned over her shoulder, and yelled, in the way that only a little sister can. (I have one. I should know.)

"Fa’nakhra! Nu'sola ke'vahl dosu ahk meeh! Va'cha dosu Ben Solo!"

Wait, Fannie was here? My heart started beating faster all of a sudden, and I wasn't sure if the feeling was good or bad.

Well, she was here. Because then, I heard her voice—and I kinda got the shivers, 'cause by this time it had been weeks since I'd last seen her face-to-face—

"Goodness, Connie! Nu'vaahn ti sehni, ahk'la ri meeh—"

And then...there was Fannie, coming from behind the trees, walking with another one of her sisters behind Connie and her beau.

We made eye contact at the same exact time, and she dropped the basket she was holding.

You know in cheesy romance flimsibacks, when the guy looks at the girl, and everything else fades to black 'cause she's the only thing he sees? Yeah. Super cringe, I know. But...that's how that felt.

"Ben...!" Fannie said. And I put an exclamation point on there, because she did exclaim it...but, also, her exclamation was as soft as a breath.

I waved a little and tried to smile.

"That can't be it. You're the nicest person I know," I said. "Sounds like you're just a little depressed right now. And anyway...it looks like you do feel something." I took a napkin and patted the tears off her cheeks. "Have you talked to Luke about all this?"

Fannie sighed. "A little bit. Your uncle is so kind and a wonderful teacher and has good advice...but I don't think that's enough to help me. It's not like before, when I lived with him and the other Jedi and had their constant support. I go through my days alone now. And I don't know what to do."

"You're not alone," I told her. "You just have to reach out."

"Yes," she agreed. "But surely you know more than anyone that it's not as easy as it sounds, when you feel darkness all around you."

I nodded. She was right.

She laughed a little. "Imagine: me, talking about feeling darkness all around. Me, with my knitting and my ribbons and my bright pastels." She held up the corner of her sky-blue tunic with the pink ruffles she had sewn herself, and let it fall with another sigh.

"Hm, yeah." I bumped my shoulder against hers. "You know...I know a guy with a ton of black turtleneck sweaters he never wears. Maybe he can lend you some."

That got her to laugh, more genuinely this time. It felt good to make her laugh.

"Seriously though," I said. "It doesn't matter that you're Little Miss Ribbons McRuffles. Life can get anyone down. And just because you feel like this right now doesn't mean you're not still who you've always been. I know you're still you."

"Well...thank you, Ben." She smiled a little.

But then something else seemed to cross her mind, and her smile vanished like air being sucked out of an airlock. Her face grew dark and concentrated. I noticed her fingers start to twitch in her lap—a phantom knitting project.

"...Fannie? You okay?" I scooped up both her hands with one of mine and made her lose count of the invisible stitches. She looked at me, surprised, and shook her head.

"No...Ben....there's...well, there's something else going on."

Her hands were quivering. I had a feeling this was bad.

"Okay," I said solemnly. "Spill."

"It's—" She stopped abruptly, as if desperately holding back the words from leaving her mouth, then tried once more. "It's my—" She choked again and planted her face in her hands.

I got on my knees and shuffled around so I could face her. "Hey. It's okay," I said. I gently pulled her hands down.

Her eyes shot open, like sharp unseeing daggers. I jumped a little and almost withdrew my hands from hers.

"It's my youngest sister," she blurted. "Pennie." Her voice was strained, yet monotone. As if she could not feel. "My father...Pentarra..."

Then she started to crumble, her lips trembling, her eyes blinking rapidly and darting around like panicked fireflies. She took a few jagged breaths, in and out, in and out—then suddenly she locked eyes with me and spoke hoarsely.

"My father has made my sister one of his dancers."

The statement hit like a space freighter slamming into me. I stared at her.

Fannie had often told me about her family on Ryloth, her story unusual to someone who'd grown up in the Core Worlds like me. How her father Ruut Pentarra, a rich and powerful Twi’lek, had several "wives" who were really more like slaves—one of whom being Fashha, Fannie’s mother. She’d told me about her three younger sisters, Connie, Ginnie, and Pennie, and about her nine other half-siblings. And she’d told me how Pentarra praised his sons and treated them as such, but seemed to ignore his daughters.

Well...until now, at least. Ew.

"...How old is Pennie now?" I asked, after a long silence. I was thinking of my own sister, Rey, who was thirteen. I couldn't remember, but I hoped Pennie was older—not that it would make things much better.

"Nineteen," Fannie said. "But she is still more girl than woman."

I didn't know what to say. My first thought was something along the lines of "that has to be illegal," but we'd had that conversation so many times before. Ryloth was an independent world, not part of the New Republic, so their laws and law enforcement were different from ours. And anyway, Pentarra's influence and wealth protected him from a lot. Fannie had told me stories of things he'd gotten away with that I couldn't believe.

“Pennie is too immature to understand,” Fannie went on, staring hard into the distance. “She has always felt overlooked. So now, she is pleased to receive what she sees as extra attention, a recognition of her adulthood, and an honor not given to any of her sisters. And Pentarra sees Pennie’s hunger for love, and uses it to his advantage. I tried to speak to my sister, to convince her to leave, but she is so blinded by delusion that she accused me of being jealous. My heart is broken for her."

Fannie's lips curled into a faint odd smile, and she looked straight at me. Her brown eyes, normally soft and kind, were intense.

"I would love to spill my father's blood," she stated calmly, sweetly, with an eerie lilt. Her lips pulled back to reveal a feral, toothy grimace that sent a chill down my spine. "And drink it. Drop by drop."

I could only look back at her, shocked. Not at what she said, because I felt she was entitled to that sentiment (well, okay, maybe the drink-it-drop-by-drop part was just a little unhinged)—but shocked because it was coming from Fannie, the good girl Jedi who had asked me not to use swear words in front of her.

And then her eyes widened and she looked all scared and she shuddered all over and turned away. "Oh my goodness. It just came out. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I would say such a thing. You see? I'm not myself." She gave a distracted whimper and went back to her imaginary needles and yarn.

I chewed on my lip, thinking carefully. All right. Well. This was...a lot. Like...a lot a lot.

After a pause, I reached out and took her hands in mine.

"...Okay," I said slowly. "So. You're not going back to Ryloth. At least, not after we go back and get your stuff. You're gonna stay here with me for a while."

She shook her head again without looking at me. "I told you already, Ben. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to be roommates with a boy."

"Hey." I swiped my knuckles against her cheek playfully. "I'm no boy, sister. I'm a gentleman."

“Maybe if you’d been wearing a shirt this morning, I’d believe you.”

There was just a hint of a smirk on her face—the mischievous side of her that rarely revealed itself. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m just teasing you,” she said with that tiny smirk, then cleared her throat and picked at some fuzz on the picnic blanket. “But…I don’t know, Ben.”

"Come on. I lived in the same house as Rey for three years and she's a girl."

She gave me an exasperated, are-you-stupid kind of look. "Well, of course, Ben. Rey's your sister."

"Not by blood," I reminded her. I was going somewhere with this. "What's that Twi'lek thing you always used to say? Kartakk..."

Her eyes told me she'd picked up what I was putting down (even if my Twi'leki pronunciation was atrocious). "Kartakk erai de numa,'" she finished begrudgingly. It was the phrase that Twi'lek slave women were said to have whispered to one another in passing to show camaraderie. Fannie had said it to me many times in the past.

"Which means...?" I gave her a nudge with the back of my hand.

She sighed. "'Call me your sister.'"

"Yeah. See? You're my sister, too."

“But...I can't leave Ryloth. I have my work…”

“Which is…?” I prodded. She blinked.

“...Holocounseling.”

“Exactly. You can do that from Naboo.”

She was quiet.

"...Hey," I said. "You had fun today, right?" She nodded slowly. "Well...maybe getting away for a bit is just what you need. You said you feel like you face every day alone, so...maybe it could be good for you to be less on your own. At least for a little while."

She stayed quiet. I saw her counting stitches in her head.

And then...

"...Well...maybe I can stay with you for the summer," Fannie said finally. "For just a couple of months. Till...till I can get back to my old self again."

She smiled. Genuinely. It was like that time I'd called her a month ago. Like sun breaking through the clouds.

I think of Luke, rescuing orphans and training them in the way of the Jedi, empowering them and sending them out to bring light into the darkness. I think of my old pal Fannie, one of Luke’s students, who went back to Ryloth to help free women from slavery. It’s no question that their lives’ work hold immense purpose.

My life runs on a never-ending loop. My alarm goes off in the morning, I get up and make caf, drag myself out of the apartment, go to the gym, go to work, come home, scrape some kind of dinner together, look at memes, go to bed, and then do it all over again. And it’s like…what am I even doing? Did my parents fight a war just so I could do…this?

Sometimes I think that, if I took some time to attune myself to the Force, everything would become clear, and even the most mundane of things would come alive with a new sense of meaning and purpose. But somehow, I’m afraid to reach out to the Force. I feel like the Force knows me…knows that I am a son of Skywalker and yet denied the path of the Jedi. And for what? To sit at a desk, churning out low-stakes articles for people to glance at for two seconds before they scroll to “breaking news.” Is there now a hole in the galaxy where I should have been?

Maybe I was supposed to become a Jedi after all, as much as that scares me. Maybe I’ve missed my destiny…

Or maybe there was no destiny written for me in the stars, and the pen lies squarely in my own hand…and I seem to have the worst case of writer’s block, ever.

My mom didn’t want me to move out and go to college. She was worried about Snoke preying on me again if I was separated from the family. If I was going anywhere else, she wanted me to be with Uncle Luke so he could watch over me. But Dad and Luke stood up for me, which surprised me, and reluctantly, Mom let me go. I think part of her was hoping I’d come back home after I finished my degree.

I wish I could prove to my mom that I’ve done it. That I’ve made my way, and that I’m happy with my life. But my life doesn’t feel quite right, somehow, and I’m not really sure what’s missing. I mean, things are okay. But I don’t think life, this grand adventure only experienced once, is supposed to be just okay.

I think I mentioned to you how Amalia has developed some different beliefs on the Force. She thinks the Force must be a person rather than a thing. Like…some sort of divine spiritual being, I guess. And again, I say: don’t ask me about that stuff—not my lane, buddy. I just live here.

All I know is, she seems happier this way, thinking of the Force as someone who cares about her, and I thought Fannie would be happy for her, too. I mean…I am. But...she wasn't.

“Amalia…the Force isn’t a person,” Fannie said, sounding confused. “The Jedi have never believed the Force is a person.”

“Well, that’s why I’m not a Jedi,” said Amalia.

“The Jedi have passed down their ancient knowledge and wisdom for centuries. Do you really think they were all incorrect?”

“The Jedi have also passed down many mistakes and corrupt practices,” Amalia countered. “They were incorrect in that. Who’s to say there weren’t other things they got wrong? Or things that got twisted along the way? The Jedi were mortal. The Force is not. I follow the Force now, Fannie. Not the Jedi.”

“The Jedi do follow the Force,” Fannie argued. “The Jedi Order, despite its failings, has been a firm foundation for many years for all who would follow the Force—”

“All? Or just those with a high enough Force sensitivity?” Amalia asked.

“Well, yes, I suppose the life of a Jedi is specifically for those with a special ability to sense the Force, like you and I,” Fannie conceded, “but isn’t that all the more reason why you should have stayed? You were given a gift. It seems a shame to waste it."

"You just said someone gave me a gift," pressed Amalia. "Who did, if not a person?"

You know me. I’m all for debating the esoteric. But I was starting to get a little stressed about them fighting. One of them was a good friend because she shared my darker sense of humor and the feeling of being kind of an outcast. And one of them I was kinda hoping would be my girlfriend soon.

"Okay, ladies, break it up," I said. "I mean, come on. Who can really know anything about the Force for sure?"

"Every one of us can, if we seek to know the Force," said Amalia, with the urgency of one sharing a profound revelation.

"The Jedi know the Force," said Fannie, with the zeal of one defending a sacred institution. "They have studied it for generations."

"Why don't you guys just accept that you, you know, each see things a little differently, and move on?" I suggested, with the pragmatism of one who’d given up trying to understand the galaxy a long time ago. "It seems to be working out great for each of you, even if you guys believe different things. And who knows, maybe both of you are kind of right."

Amazingly enough, then they both turned on me.

"We can't both be right, Solo," Amalia said. "Our beliefs about the Force are pretty mutually exclusive."

"There is only one truth," agreed Fannie. "Your eyes couldn't be brown and blue at the same time."

"Well, what if I had one eye that was brown, and one eye that was blue, and each of you were sitting on either side of me—" I started to say, but as clever as I thought this little parable was, it did not go over well with the girls.

"Oh please. Not that 'blind men and the bantha' crap," Amalia groaned.

"There would still be only one truth—that you had a brown eye and a blue eye, rather than fully brown or fully blue—and both of us would be wrong," Fannie said.

"Okaaay," I said, "but you'd still both be half right—"

"Which would still make us both wrong," Amalia said.

"Look, is it really that important what the Force is or isn't like?" I asked impatiently.

"Yes!" Fannie and Amalia said at the same time.

"The Force is the giver of all life, watching over us, working all events toward our good, loving us despite our darkness, giving us the will and the strength to do what's right," said Amalia. "I didn't know how to have hope or joy or love for myself or anyone else, until I discovered that the Force made me on purpose and gives a damn about me."

"The Force is the energy that flows through each of us and every living creature, and in the influence we wield over the world, whether for good or evil," said Fannie. “If you are not in tune with it, you are not in tune with yourself or others or the rest of nature.”

"The Force is out there, sure, but I don't see why it's so worth bothering about," I said. “Seems like it kinda just does what it wants. I mean, it doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me. And if I’m honest? I don’t really want anything to do with it, either.”

Fannie and Amalia both stared at me, frustrated. I didn't understand why they thought I was so wrong. I was the only one here not trying to get everyone else to change their mind. I was totally okay with Amalia believing what she wanted to and Fannie believing what she wanted to as long as I could believe what I wanted to and somehow that made me the bad guy?

We were all quiet for a bit, until Fannie broke the silence.

“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “We all learned the same things from Master Luke. All three of us.”

Amalia and I exchanged glances.

“Well...I just don’t think that what Luke taught was true,” Amalia said, her words brusque, but her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “Not because he’s a liar. Because he’s misguided. I think he learned and taught an incorrect understanding of the Force.”

“I just don’t really care what’s true because my life is just work and rent and whatever little time I get to myself to have fun, and the last time I was interested in the Force I got super abused and manipulated,” I said.

“But we used to all accept the same things as truth,” said Fannie. "I just...don't know what's different."

“We were younger then. People change as they grow up. Not everyone believes the same things at twenty-five that they did at fifteen,” Amalia said.

“I’ve sure changed a lot. Not just regarding the Force, but all over,” I said.

Fannie sighed, and started to look a little sad. And then...I felt an impression brush up against the outside of my mind—it was the three of us, at Luke's school: Amalia and I a little smaller than we were right now and Fannie exactly the same size, hair and lekku and montrals all a little shorter—the three of us, dressed in Jedi robes, Fannie's with the ruffles she'd sewn on, mine plain and rough and ugly, Amalia's with the sleeves cut short—sitting in the grass and comparing notes scrawled from lessons with Uncle Luke—discussing the light side of the Force and the dark, meditating together—Amalia and I goofing off while Fannie tried in vain to reel us back in—Fannie and I teaming up to talk Amalia away from the deep end when she was losing her mind—me watching in absolute jealousy while Fannie and Amalia sparred—Fannie's saber against the saber that was once Amalia's but now sat sadly on a special shelf in my uncle's office—Amalia had no idea how often I'd caught Luke gazing wistfully at it, back when I used to still meet with him for counseling—

All that in a flash, and then I turned and looked and saw it all in Fannie’s eyes, and my heart felt heavy for her. And I realized that...letting Amalia and I go our own way was a sort of bitter loss for Fan, a source of grief that I couldn’t really understand—but I could feel it—an anchor dragging her below the surface—my friend, the girl I loved, the girl with the great big heart like an open wound, the girl who yearned for the galaxy to make sense.

I put my arm around her shoulder without really thinking about it, and brushed the backs of my fingers against her cheek to comfort her. And gave her a little nudge like, hey, things are okay, I’m still here, right?

“Oh my frick,” said Amalia, who I’d temporarily forgotten about, in a tone of voice like she was witnessing the eighth wonder of the galaxy. “I had to see it to believe it. But I just saw it, and I still don’t know if I believe it.”

Fannie and I looked at each other uncomfortably. We hadn’t been planning to tell her. Or anyone, really. Not for a while. But acting close with each other had just become sort of natural to us. I withdrew my arm and Fannie scooted ever-so-slightly further away from me.

Amalia shook her head. “I mean. Look. Sure. You guys are kind of cute, not gonna lie. But I’m just gonna say it: you two shouldn’t be together.”

I was stunned. That was really so not her business.

“Okay. Cool. Who asked you?” I replied, more than a little annoyed.

“Nobody, but you know that I always say what I think, just like you do, Ben,” she said. “Think about the whole conversation we’ve just had. I mean. Do you guys not see how incompatible your worldviews are? Do you not think you’re gonna have issues down the line trying to reconcile your values?”

I looked at Fannie, almost afraid she’d agree. But she looked upset, and not agreeable in the least, and I felt better. I turned back to Amalia's hologram.

“We have a lot of differences, yeah. But we’re willing to work through them and accept each other as we are, and that’s that,” I said stiffly.

“Ben’s been through a lot,” said Fannie. “I can forgive that he has trouble connecting with the Force.”

“Hey, I’ve been through a lot, too!” said Amalia. “But I still believe in something. I believe in something, Fannie—he doesn’t believe in anything. And he doesn’t have trouble connecting with the Force—that man is sprinting in the opposite direction as fast as he freaking can.”

“Hey, I said I believe in the Force,” I said defensively. “It’s pretty hard not to, when people can use it to make things float and stuff.”

“And he’s Luke’s own nephew, for goodness’ sake!” Fannie said.

“He's also the grandson of one of the biggest Sith Lords who ever lived. But I don’t think it really matters who he’s related to, or if he believes the Force exists, if he doesn’t care,” said Amalia. “Be honest with yourself, Fannie. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with someone who doesn’t have a purpose and doesn’t know why he’s alive, except to make money and have fun?”

“Listen, Mal,” I said. “Not all of us are cut out for seeing the grand scope of some cosmic order and imagining we have a part in it. Some of us just wanna live our lives—”

But Fannie interrupted me.

“You’re jealous, Amalia,” she said, unusually nasty, unusually venomous. We both stared at her. “You’re jealous. You’re jealous! You liked him, too. I know you did. And you’re jealous that he chose me.”

That seemed to hit kind of a nerve with Amalia. I’m not sure why. Either it was true…or it was so untrue that it pissed her off to even hear the idea suggested. She raised her brow and sucked in her cheeks and blinked a little, as if to say…well, damn, alrighty then.

“…Okay,” she said, sounding less-than-friendly, but less-than-frigid. “Weeell. That sounds like a great place to call it quits. Nice talking with you both, and I wish y’all the best. Talk to you later, Ben. And, Fannie…good luck.” And then she signed off, before I could even say anything.

I looked at Fan desperately, hoping we could have some kind of debrief, but…she stood up with a huff and stormed off too.