#sad shit

Behind him, Y/N approached slowly, eyes filled with something deeper than awe. Dread.

“What have you done, Phainon?”

He turned to her, radiant with belief. “I’ve gathered the world’s truth. I can rewrite everything—the wars, the Black Tide, your death—none of it has to happen.”

“But none of it has happened yet.” Her voice trembled. “You're trying to fix a future that doesn’t exist.”

He stepped toward her. “I saw it, Y/N. I saw you die.”

“Then let it be a warning—not a reason to set the world on fire.”

But it was too late. The Coreflames reacted—violently. The world shuddered. Time unraveled at the edges.

Phainon reached for her, but the flames between them lashed out. They weren’t meant to be merged. Not like this.

The ritual collapsed.

And in the chaos, as the Coreflames imploded, Y/N was caught in the surge.

He screamed her name, but she was gone before he reached her. Burned away in a flicker of white light—leaving only her pendant, charred and still warm, in his hand.

Silence fell.

The world had not been reborn.

It had simply broken.

Phainon stood in the ruins of hope, the flames that once meant salvation now crawling up his arm like a curse. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, empty.

That was the first time.

The first time he lost her.

The first time the world ended.

The first step toward becoming the Flame Reaver.

“The Second Cycle”

He woke up screaming.

Not from pain—but memory.

The fire, the ritual, her voice—Y/N—all of it branded into his soul. And yet, the world had turned again. The cycle reset. He was back—before it all ended.

Amphoreus still stood.

Y/N was still alive.

And this time… he would save her.

Phainon found her in the gardens, humming softly while tending to the flame orchids. Just like before.

She turned to him, surprised.

“You’re early. You always come after sunset.”

“I—couldn’t wait.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. "You look like you haven't slept in years."

You died in my arms, he wanted to say. I watched you burn and couldn’t stop it.

But he only smiled.

“Just… wanted to see you. While I still can.”

Over the next weeks, Phainon changed everything. He refused the final Coreflame. Abandoned the Flame-Chase. Sabotaged the rites. Warned the Council of the collapse.

"The world doesn't need to be rewritten," he told them. "It needs to be remembered."

Y/N saw the change in him. In his eyes—how he clung to every moment with her. She didn’t understand, but she felt the weight in his hands whenever he held hers.

“You keep acting like I’m going to disappear,” she whispered once, under the starlight.

“I won’t let you,” he replied.

But the world had rules.

And it was meant to break.

The Coreflames stirred. The Black Tide surged earlier this time. Events twisted, mutated—correcting his interference.

The collapse happened anyway.

And at the heart of it—again—was Y/N.

He reached her seconds too late. The ground was fracturing, the flames spiraling. She’d run back to save someone else—a child—caught in the fallout. Selfless, as always.

“Y/N, no—don’t—!”

The surge hit.

He caught her in the aftermath, her body broken but still breathing.

“You changed something,” she whispered, blood on her lips. “Didn’t you?”

He nodded, trembling. “I tried to save you. I tried to stop it.”

“Then… this isn’t your fault.”

She touched his face, smile weak.

“Some things are meant to die beautifully.”

And then she was gone.

Phainon fell silent.

The second cycle ended not with flame, but frost—his heart frozen in a grief he could no longer rationalize. Even with all his power, fate laughed in his face.

That was the second time.

The second time he watched her die.

And somewhere deep inside him, something cracked further.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next time he would get it right.

“The Third Cycle”

Phainon awoke beneath a sky that felt wrong. Familiar constellations — out of place. The winds carried whispers. Time had twisted tighter this time.

“Third time’s the curse,” he muttered to himself.

His thoughts were singular: Find Y/N. Protect her. Don’t let it happen again.

But when he reached the garden, she wasn’t alone.

She was laughing.

With him.

Phainon froze in the shadows—watching himself, the version from this cycle, younger, lighter, unscarred. That Phainon didn’t carry the burden of memory. He was still whole. He still believed this world could be saved.

And Y/N looked at him like she always had.

Like he was hers.

He shouldn’t have approached. Every instinct screamed at him to stay hidden. To wait. To guide the future from behind the curtain.

But he couldn’t bear it.

“Y/N,” he called, voice ragged.

She turned. Confused. Unsettled.

The other Phainon stepped in front of her.

“Who—are you?”

The moment fractured.

The sky cracked. Threads of gold unraveled from the air itself.

Phainon saw it: Time recognized the anomaly.

“I’m—” he hesitated. “You. From before. From… after.”

The other him stepped forward, Coreflame flickering defensively. “What have you done?”

“I came to warn you. It doesn’t work. You lose her. No matter what you try—she dies.”

Y/N looked between them, eyes wide with horror.

“You’re me,” the current Phainon said. “But wrong. Twisted.”

“I remember,” the broken one said softly. “I remember her last breath. Twice.”

The instability intensified—gravity warping, light bending around their clash. The World-Root groaned. Something ancient stirred.

“You being here is tearing reality apart!” the current Phainon shouted.

“I don’t care,” the older whispered. “If it gives me one more chance to save her—”

The tear widened.

And Y/N screamed.

The shockwave threw them all apart. As time surged and collapsed in the same breath, Phainon saw her flicker—Y/N being pulled in two directions: the past she belonged to, the future she was fated to die in.

He reached for her.

So did the other Phainon.

“Y/N!” they both cried.

But she vanished—ripped from the cycle.

Not dead.

Not alive.

Just… gone.

When the world settled, only the broken Phainon remained.

Alone.

Again.

And now, even worse—he didn’t know where she was anymore.

“I should never have come,” he whispered to the empty wind.

That was the third time.

But this time, he hadn’t lost her to death.

He had lost her to himself.

“The Fourth Cycle"

He buried his other self beneath the ashwood tree at dawn.

“I'm sorry,” the Phainon whispered to the lifeless body. “But you wouldn't have saved her either.”

The Fourth Cycle had begun. And this time, he would finish it.

He slipped into the role like it was his own skin — because it once had been.

He answered to Phainon. Wore the robes. Recalled the allies. Feigned ignorance of the future.

Only one person ever made him hesitate.

Y/N.

She smiled when she saw him, but it faltered — the faintest twitch of unease in her brow.

“You’re early,” she said. “You always sleep in on free Mornings.”

“New dreams,” he replied smoothly. “Less restful.”

But her eyes lingered.

It got worse in the days that followed.

“You always call me ‘hummingbird.’ You haven’t once since you woke up.”

“You said you hated that nickname.”

“No, I said it was embarrassing. That’s not the same.”

She laughed to hide her nerves, but he felt it — the distance growing.

She watched him now. Closely. Searching his face for something.

And each time she touched him, it was more like checking for a pulse than affection.

Then she asked the question.

“Do you remember the lantern pond?”

His silence lasted a beat too long.

“Of course,” he lied. “Where you wished for—”

“I never told you what I wished for.”

He blinked.

Y/N stepped back.

“Who are you?”

“Y/N—”

“No. You look like him. You sound like him. But something in you is... Like you’ve already mourned me.”

“I have.”

He told her everything. The loops. The deaths. Her erasure. His failure.

“I thought if I could just become him, you might survive.”

She was silent for a long time. Then:

“So you killed him?”

“He would’ve let you die again. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You already did.”

He looked up.

“You already let me die. And now… I don’t even know if I’m the same Y/N you keep trying to save.”

She left him that night. Not with hate — but with sorrow. The kind that says: I don’t know who you are anymore, and I don’t know if I can love you for who you’ve become.

And though the Flame Reaver had conquered fate to reach her again…

For the fourth time,

he had already lost her.

Cycle after cycle, it never changed — Y/N always died.

He tried everything.

In one life, he surrendered the Flame-Chase entirely, refusing power, hoping peace would preserve her.

It didn’t.

In another, he severed ties with everyone, even her — trying to keep fate from reaching her through him.

She still vanished.

He bound gods. Made pacts. Burned entire cities. In one cycle, he even tried to kill her first, thinking a controlled death would break fate’s grip.

It didn’t.

She died anyway — in worse ways. Ways she didn't deserve.

He began to question if she was the cost of his existence — the balancing weight for every miracle he tried to steal.

Eventually, Phainon stopped trying to save her specifically, and instead tried to save the moment of her death — rewinding it, delaying it, replacing her with illusions, fragment-duplicates, Coreflame mirrors.

Nothing held.

The timeline always found its way back to the same event:

Her last breath.

His failure.

So he broke the Cycle itself.

He ripped through time.

Used forbidden Titansight, stared directly into causal threads.

He began stitching timelines together, rewriting pasts and futures until they blurred.

Reality screamed.

And he kept going.

Until the Cradle of Aeons shattered, and he fell into a space between timelines — a labyrinth of collapsed cycles and discarded versions of himself.

There, he was burned clean of meaning.

His name?

Lost.

His face?

Flickering.

His purpose?

Corrupted.

He wasn't Phainon anymore.

Not fully.

He became a fractured echo, a vessel of fury, memory, and grief.

The Flame Reaver.

A being cursed to wander broken realities, always chasing a version of her that would live, only to find her dying again — each time in a different form:

• Crushed beneath falling ruins.

• Erased by the Black Tide.

• Consumed by Coreflame backlash.

• Killed by him — or someone wearing his face.

And in every version, the moment she died, the world followed.

Her death wasn’t just tragedy — it was anchor.

Her soul, unknowingly intertwined with the stability of the Flame-Chase itself.

The universe had made her the keystone.

Phainon had become the hammer.

And as he chased a future that could never hold,

as he clawed deeper into time,

he became what he hated most:

The end of everything.

"The Current Cycle"

By now, the one who was once Phainon is long gone.

The Flame Reaver walks with only fragments of who he used to be — the rest, burned away by centuries of shattered timelines and recursive failure.

He has one goal left.

Seize the Coreflames.

End the Cycles.

Reset everything.

Nothing else remains.

His mind is broken, but not completely gone — only enough to still move, still hunt, still destroy.

What’s left of his voice is static and ember, a glitch in reality’s script.

He no longer speaks to others — he mutters at the universe.

"Core...flames... must... stop..."

"Time... lies... lies... lies..."

"Reset... reset... reset..."

The Trailblazer, Castorice, Trianne — they tried to reason with him, tried to understand.

But there is no reasoning with a ghost that no longer recognizes itself.

Each cycle has eaten away at his sanity, like rot beneath steel. He doesn't see people anymore — he sees only threats to the end. Guardians of a loop he can no longer escape.

In the fight at the Grove of Epiphany, his movements were erratic, unpredictable — as though his very existence was unstable, phasing in and out of parallel possibilities.

He doesn’t choose to kill anymore.

He eliminates variables.

Y/N, even in this cycle, seems to register only faintly in his flickering memory — like a word half-remembered or a song hummed in a dream.

If he sees her, he hesitates, but the effect is momentary, and then gone.

She’s died so many times now, her face is blurred by trauma, overwritten by grief. Even when she stands in front of him, breathing, alive, he’s not sure if it’s really her… or just another illusion time has weaponized to stop him.

"She... always... dies..."

"No more... pain... end it... end it..."

He moves from ruin to ruin, chasing the final Coreflames — not to use them for power, but to burn everything down and unmake the loop.

To him, this is mercy.

To everyone else, he is cataclysm.

The Flame Reaver isn't the villain.

He's what's left when a hero is allowed to grieve for too long,

with no rest,

no peace,

-------------------------

The Burn Book fallout didn’t explode. It rotted—slowly, publicly, like a fruit left out in the sun. Names smeared in lipstick bled into locker whispers. Friendships turned rigid, brittle. The Plastics were no longer a unit—just three girls orbiting different silences.

And Regina George, for the first time in her life, wasn’t the center of it all.

She still walked like she was, but you could see it—the slight hesitation in her step, the tension in her jaw. Like she was holding something in. Or trying not to fall apart in the middle of the hallway.

You hadn’t been part of the mess. You hadn’t written anything in the book. You hadn’t had your name written in it, either. You were just... there. A shadow on the edge of it all. Watching.

And slowly, you started watching her.

Not the version of Regina everyone talked about. Not the venom-dripping queen bee or the post-fall social exile. Just... her. The way she pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek when someone looked at her too long. The way she only ever touched her hair now when she was nervous. The way her friends no longer waited for her at her locker.

The way no one stayed.

So you did.

You found her alone behind the gym, legs crossed at the ankle, picking at the tape around her lacrosse stick like it had personally offended her. She didn’t look up when you stopped a few feet away—just said flatly, “What? Come to tell me I deserved it?”

“No,” you said quietly.

That made her look. Not with curiosity. With suspicion.

You shifted your weight. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

She scoffed. “Cute.” Then went back to peeling the tape. “I’m fine. I always am.”

You stood there for a moment, awkward in the silence. You thought about leaving. Thought about turning around and pretending this never happened. But something in the slope of her shoulders—something in the way she kept her eyes down like she wanted to believe she was fine—made you stay.

“Okay,” you said again, softer this time. “Just thought I’d ask.”

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t tell you to leave.

---

The next day, you caught up to her before second period. She was standing by her locker, glaring into it like the books inside had personally betrayed her.

You held out a coffee.

“Just a tad bit of sugar,” you said. “Just how you like it.”

She blinked at the cup. Then at you. Then at the cup again, like you might be joking.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she said flatly.

“I know.”

Her fingers hovered for a second longer before she finally took it from your hand. She didn’t thank you.

“I’m not saying thank you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her locker. But she took a sip.

---

Two days later, she was in the nurse’s office again. Same hoodie, different excuse. This time she didn’t even pretend to look sick—just curled up on the cot with her phone in her hand and her face unreadable.

“You skipped gym,” you said softly as you dropped your bag into the plastic chair beside her.

“Jesus. What are you, my tracker?”

Her tone was sharp, but her voice was low. She didn’t look at you.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small heat pad—the kind you had to crack in the center to warm up. You snapped it, watched it cloud over with warmth, and held it out to her.

She stared at it. For a long second, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she reached out and took it from your hand.

Her fingers brushed yours. Cold.

She placed it against her stomach like she was trying not to care that it helped.

“You’re annoying,” she muttered, eyes on the ceiling.

“I know.”

You didn’t move from the chair.

---

A week passed. Then another. You kept showing up.

Sometimes it was coffee. Sometimes it was notes you slipped under her textbook when she wasn’t looking—“Don’t forget your calc homework,” or “You left your lip gloss in the locker room.” She never mentioned them, but she never ignored them either.

One afternoon, she was seated on the bench by the auditorium stairs, chewing absently on a pen cap.

“You know I don’t need you, right?” she said, still not looking at you.

“Yeah,” you answered, barely above a whisper.

“So why are you still here?”

You shrugged, fingers tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “You haven’t told me to leave.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

But the next day, you found her waiting in the same spot.

---

Some days, she was cruel in small, thoughtless ways.

“You breathe like it’s a performance,” she muttered once while you walked beside her to class, not even bothering to glance at you. “Do you always sound that desperate?”

You didn’t say anything. You just shifted your bag on your shoulder and kept pace. She still let you walk her to homeroom the next morning.

Another day, you offered her gum. She took it and immediately said, “This tastes like shit,” but she kept chewing it anyway. You watched her tear off another piece during third period and didn’t say a word.

You weren’t sure when it started to feel like routine. Maybe when she began leaving her locker open just long enough for you to slip her notes inside. Maybe when she started sitting in the far corner of the cafeteria instead of the middle—and always left a space open across from her.

She never invited you to sit. But she never stopped you, either.

---

One morning, she sat down beside you during study hall, didn’t say a word, and stole the pen out of your hand. You blinked at her, and she said, “Yours don’t smudge.”

You didn’t ask how she knew that. You just let her keep it.

When it ran out of ink a week later, she dropped it back onto your desk like it had never mattered.

But that night, she texted you. “Got another one of those pens?”

You stared at the screen for a full minute. Then texted back: “Yeap. You want red or black?”

“Black. Red makes me look angry.”

She was already angry. But you didn’t say that.

---

You started bringing her snacks when she skipped lunch—just small things. Crackers. A granola bar. Cut fruit. Once, you offered her a wrapped cookie from your bag and she said, “Are you trying to make me fat?”

You almost pulled your hand back. Almost.

Instead, you set it on her desk and said, “It’s vegan.”

She ate it.

---

It was little things. Always little things.

Holding her books when her bag was too full. Letting her borrow your jacket on cold mornings and not asking for it back until she forgot it in your locker two weeks later. Writing down the homework she refused to care about and leaving the answers where she’d find them.

Every time, she acted like she didn’t notice.

Every time, she noticed.

You caught her once—just once—opening the folded paper you left in her French textbook. She didn’t read it right away. Just held it for a moment in both hands, like it was something fragile.

Then she tucked it into her bag and walked away.

****

You don’t remember when it started feeling different. Not bad—just... heavier.

There’s no moment you can point to. No clear turning point. Just a slow, sinking sensation, like you’re walking through the same hallway every day and the lights are dimmer now. Like the floor has dipped slightly beneath you, and no one else noticed.

You still show up. Still walk beside her. Still hand her coffee without asking how her night was. Still slip notes under her folders, still nod when she says something sharp like it doesn’t bother you. And most days, it doesn’t. Not really.

But lately, something’s off inside you. Quieter.

You wake up with this soft ache behind your eyes—not from crying, but from the absence of crying. From not feeling anything. From staring at the ceiling too long in the dark and thinking, maybe this is just how I am now.

You keep moving through the motions because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. Even when you were nine and your doctor gave your mother a list of “coping tools,” like crayons could draw the depression out of your chest. Even when people told you it would get better if you just tried harder, smiled more, took your vitamins.

Even now.

You love her. Or you think you do. Maybe you always have. You’re not sure anymore what the difference is between love and obsession and need when all of them feel like hunger.

You keep loving her like that’s your job. Like maybe if you love her long enough, gently enough, something inside her will open. And maybe when that happens, the thing that’s been broken inside you will finally heal too.

But she never touches you unless she’s taking something.

She never says your name unless she needs something.

And still, you stay.

You haven’t written in your journal in weeks.

You tried once—just a few lines. All it said was: “I feel like a song playing underwater. Slow. Muffled. Fading before the bridge.”

You closed the page and didn’t open it again.

Sometimes, you sit across from her and wonder what she sees when she looks at you. If she looks at you. If she’s aware of you at all beyond your usefulness—your softness, your silence, your unwavering presence.

And even when that thought stings, you don’t move.

---

Saturday comes gray and half-hearted, the kind of afternoon that’s too quiet to be anything other than lonely. So you text her.

Y/N: you doing anything?

Reginaa: no. bored.

Y/N: wanna go out? not like fancy. just out.

Reginaa: fine. but I’m not dressing up.

You smile at that. You don’t expect her to dress up. You just want her to show up.

---

You take her to a little park on the edge of town. Nothing extravagant. A food truck, a few people walking dogs, a faded jungle gym rusting at the edges. It’s not special—not in the way she’s used to—but that’s why you picked it.

You’re wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and holding a paper cup of fries between you. She’s in leggings and an old North Shore sweatshirt, hair pulled up and sunglasses shoved into it even though the sun’s not out. Her makeup’s half-done. She still looks painfully pretty.

You didn’t call it a date.

She didn’t ask what it was.

But the way she lets you brush your shoulder against hers on the park bench feels like something close.

---

You talk about nothing. Class. A teacher you both hate. Someone from school who cut their bangs unevenly and posted about it like it was a breakup. She rolls her eyes in that signature way, but you catch how often her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

She makes you laugh. She always does.

And for a while, you forget the dull ache in your chest. You forget the way it follows you everywhere like a shadow. Because she’s here, beside you. Close enough to touch. Close enough that you don’t have to think about yourself.

For an hour or so, she’s louder than your depression.

That’s all you wanted.

---

You’re mid-sentence about something dumb—some reality show moment you thought was funny—when you feel it: her eyes on you. Not just glancing. Watching.

You trail off.

“What?” you ask, a little breathless.

She shakes her head. Looks away. “Nothing.”

But you saw it. That flicker. That shift in her expression, like she was about to say something that didn’t come wrapped in sarcasm or cruelty. Like maybe she wanted to tell you she saw how tired you looked when you weren’t smiling. Like maybe she noticed the way your voice got lighter when you were trying to hide that it had been a hard week.

Like she noticed you.

Not what you did for her. You.

You wait. Let the silence hang. Let her decide.

She doesn’t.

Regina shifts, adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, and mutters, “You’ve got ketchup on your hand.”

You glance down. She’s right. You wipe it with a napkin.

And just like that, the moment’s gone.

---

The next day, you wake up with that feeling again—that empty kind of full, like your chest is packed with cement. Heavy and cold. You lie still for ten minutes, then twenty. Your phone buzzes once. A text from her.

“I’m bored again.”

You stare at the screen like it’s a math problem you don’t want to solve.

You don’t want to move. Don’t want to speak. The thought of showering feels unbearable. Your mouth is dry. Your limbs are slow. But somewhere under all that, you still want to be near her. Not because she makes it better—not anymore—but because you can’t bear the thought of her hurting alone.

So you respond.

Y/N: “Want to get slushies?”

Reginaa: “You’re so weird.”

Y/N: “So is that a yes?”

Reginaa: “Fine. But I’m not walking in if it smells like piss.”

---

You end up sitting side by side on the curb outside a gas station, neon lights flickering above your heads, two crumpled plastic cups in your hands. It’s cheaper than cheap. Barely even a hangout. The slushies taste like freezer burn and chemical cherry, but you drink them anyway.

Regina pulls her hoodie tighter around her shoulders and makes a face. “God. This is depressing.”

You glance sideways at her. “You didn’t have to come.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You invited me.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The silence after that is awkward. Not the good kind. Not the one that feels like shared air. This one just sits between you, stale and slightly bitter.

She stabs at the ice in her cup with the straw. “Seriously. If you’re not taking me anywhere nice, why even bother taking me out at all?”

You blink once. Twice. Her tone isn’t joking. Not even a little.

You want to say, Because I wanted to see you. You want to say, Because I didn’t know what else to do with myself today. You want to say, Because I thought maybe you needed something, and I thought I could be that something, even if I’m not much.

But you don’t say anything.

---

You walk her home afterward. It’s a short walk, a quiet one. The kind where the silence is starting to feel like a bruise.

She doesn’t thank you.

You don’t expect her to.

When you get to her front step, she doesn’t look at you as she says, “Same time tomorrow?”

You nod.

Even though you don’t know if you’ll be able to get out of bed.

****

The next day, you sit beside her in the library after last period. She doesn’t say hi when you slide into the chair. Just keeps scribbling in her notebook like you were expected.

You are, in a way.

You feel it—today is worse than yesterday. Your limbs are heavier. Your stomach’s hollow and aching, but food doesn’t feel like something that belongs in your body right now. Your head hurts. Everything hurts. And the worst part is, there’s nothing wrong.

You’re just tired. Of everything.

But you smile when she asks if you brought a pen. Of course you did. Black ink. Smooth. You slide it toward her, and she doesn’t look up as she takes it. Just murmurs, “Took you long enough.”

You don’t answer. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

---

She’s filling out something for French—hastily, messily—when the paper slices the tip of her index finger. Just a thin, sharp cut. Barely visible. But you hear the way she hisses under her breath.

You sit up straighter. “You okay?”

She grimaces, wipes her hand on her jeans, looks annoyed more than hurt. “It’s nothing.”

You reach into your bag anyway. You keep bandaids on you now. For her.

When you hold one out, she rolls her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, loud enough to sting. “You act like I’m made of glass.”

You don’t move. Just hold the bandaid there, steady.

“Seriously,” she says, pulling her hand back slightly. “Why are you always like this? It’s a paper cut, not open heart surgery.”

You look at her.

Her face is hard. Defensive. Like she’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you want to. Just a little. Her words sting more than they should.

You don’t know why it hurts this time more than all the others. Maybe it’s because today, everything hurts. Maybe it’s because you’re already half-submerged in the dark and she just pressed a hand on your head.

Maybe it’s because you wish—just once—she’d let you care without making you feel small for doing it.

“I just wanted to help,” you say quietly.

She scoffs, then tears the bandaid from your hand and puts it on herself.

“I’m not your project,” she mutters.

You don’t answer.

You watch her wrap her finger with slow, impatient hands. She doesn’t look at you. You don’t look away.

You sit there for a long time after.

Both of you silent. Both of you tired.

You wonder what she’d do if you just stopped showing up.

You already know the answer.

****

You tell yourself today will be better.

You wake up, take a longer shower than usual. Brush your hair twice. Eat something—even though it tastes like cardboard in your mouth. You tell yourself: You can do this. You can still be good for her. You can still matter.

So you text her: “Let’s go somewhere.”

Reginaa: “Where?”

Y/N: “Surprise.”

Reginaa: “If it sucks again I’m leaving.”

Y/N: “It won’t.” (You hope.)

---

You take her to a weekend street market—one of those pop-up ones downtown where people sell handmade jewelry and overpriced iced lattes and candles with names like “Moon Milk” and “Regret.”

It’s cheap enough to exist. Expensive enough to feel like effort.

She eyes the stalls like she’s above all of it, but she doesn’t leave. She trails beside you, sunglasses perched on her head again, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like she just rolled out of a magazine spread.

You don’t say it’s a date. You never do.

But she lets you buy her a lavender lemonade, and you pretend her fingers brushing yours is an accident.

---

You stop at a table selling little trinkets. Beaded rings. Crochet frogs. Clay pins shaped like bad dreams and sea creatures. You pick up two matching keychains—small, hand-painted frogs with tiny heart eyes.

She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“They match,” you say, offering her one. “He looks smug. Like you.”

“I don’t look smug.”

“You do. But it works on you.”

She rolls her eyes but takes the frog. She turns it over in her palm. Doesn’t say anything.

You expect her to drop it back on the table. She doesn’t.

She slips it into the front pocket of her hoodie like it doesn’t mean anything.

You don’t know she’ll keep it. Always. That she’ll touch it when she’s alone, or that she’ll check her bag for it twice before every trip. You don’t know any of that.

You just smile and buy your matching one.

---

You get her a sticker too—one that says “This Is Fine (But It Isn’t).” She stares at it for a long second before sticking it on the back of her phone case without comment.

“I didn’t think you’d actually use it,” you say.

She shrugs. “It’s stupid. I like stupid things.”

You try not to think about what that means.

---

For a while, it’s almost light. Almost fun. You catch her smiling at one of the booths—genuine, unguarded. You memorize the shape of it. You pretend that moment means something.

That maybe you mean something.

That maybe this is working.

---

They sell earrings shaped like teeth and stickers shaped like feelings. She scoffs at both. You still catch her pausing at a booth with hand-poured perfumes, pretending to be bored as she tests a scent on her wrist.

She lets you hold her drink while she does.

You don’t say anything, just watch her swipe a tester onto her skin and then lean in like she might actually care about the smell. She doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t ask what you think—but her nose wrinkles a little, and you murmur, “It smells like smoke and flowers.”

She blinks at you.

Then looks away, like that caught her off-guard. “Whatever.”

She doesn’t wipe it off.

---

It’s getting late by the time you circle back toward the street where she parked. The air’s cooler now, dusk starting to color everything soft and blue. She kicks a pebble with the toe of her shoe, lazy and half-distracted.

“Not as depressing as last time,” she says casually.

You glance at her. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She smirks. Doesn’t deny it.

Then, after a few more steps: “You looked like shit yesterday.”

Your stomach sinks, but you try to laugh it off. “Yeah. I felt like shit too.”

“No offense,” she says, “but it was obvious.”

She doesn’t say it gently. She never does.

But then she adds, quieter: “You’re... better today.”

You nod. “I’m trying.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but her fingers brush yours when your arms swing close.

You don’t pull away.

---

When you reach her house, she lingers on the sidewalk like she’s deciding something.

“Same time next weekend?” you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to sound hopeful.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she says, “Don’t get weird about the frog.”

You blink. “What?”

“The keychain. It doesn’t mean anything.”

You feel the heat rise in your throat, but you keep your voice steady. “I know.”

She nods like that settles something. Then climbs her front steps without saying goodbye.

You watch her go.

You don’t expect a thank you. Or a smile. Or anything, really.

But she tucks her hand into the pocket with the frog before she unlocks her front door.

You see that.

And it’s enough. For now.

****

It happens the next Tuesday.

You’re at her house after school, half-studying, half-waiting for her to get bored enough to talk to you. She’s lying on her stomach on the bed, scrolling through her phone, legs kicked up behind her like she’s thirteen again and pretending none of this matters.

You’re sitting on the floor, notebook open, pen tapping against your knee. The room smells like perfume and faint heat—like expensive lotion and something a little sour under it, like the scent of a girl who doesn’t sleep enough.

You’re trying not to spiral. You've been trying all week. You’re not sure it's working.

“Should I order food?” you ask after a while. “I can go pick it up if you want—”

“God,” she groans, cutting you off. “You’re always offering shit. Do you ever shut up?”

You blink. “I was just—”

“Just being you, I know.” She sits up, throwing her phone on the bed like it suddenly pissed her off. “So helpful. So obsessed. So fucking clingy.”

The word hits you like a slap. You don't move.

“Seriously,” she continues, sharper now. “It’s like you need me to be broken or something. Like it gives you some kind of purpose.”

You stare at her. “That’s not true.”

She laughs—dry, humorless. “Oh, come on. You think I don’t notice? The way you hover. The way you act like you’re saving me every time you bring me coffee or write my name cute on a sticky note. It’s pathetic.”

You don’t speak.

You can't.

“I didn’t ask for any of it,” she snaps. “You do all this shit like you expect something from me. Like one day I’m gonna wake up and decide you’re the one. Newsflash—I won’t.”

She stops.

You’re still staring at her, eyes wide, chest hollow.

Regina exhales, sharp and shallow. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Forget it.”

You want to leave. You should.

Instead, you pick up your phone.

Your voice is barely audible. “What do you want to eat?”

She looks at you like you’ve slapped her this time. Like she doesn’t understand.

“I said I’m ordering food,” you repeat, even softer. “So just tell me what you want.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares.

Then she mutters, “Thai.”

You nod.

You place the order. You don’t speak again.

When the food comes, you hand her the takeout bag, sit back down on the floor, and eat your half in silence. You don’t look at her. She doesn’t look at you. But she eats everything.

---

Later, you gather your things slowly. She doesn’t stop you.

She watches as you stand. Still angry. Still distant. But watching.

And when you reach the door, she says—barely above a whisper— “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

Then nod. “Yeah.”

Because you still care about Regina- and maybe even love. You don't know when that happened. Because part of you thinks this pain means you’re real to her. That you’re close. Because you don’t know how to stop.

****

You were eight when they told you.

It was in a clean office with quiet walls. Your mom sat too stiff beside you, hands knotted in her lap. The doctor said major depressive disorder like it was just another spelling word. Something to memorize. Something you could fix with routines and “coping strategies.”

You remember staring at the poster behind him—Feelings Are Valid!—and wondering if that meant yours were too.

They gave you worksheets. Breathing exercises. A journal with a cartoon owl on the cover and wide, generous lines. You wrote in it once.

“I think something is wrong with me.”

One low day, when your mom would talk to you while she brushes your hair, she said, “One day someone will love you so much you won’t even remember what this sadness feels like,” and you believed her.

You got older, but the feeling stayed the same. The colors just changed.

You started using love like glue. Like maybe if someone held you long enough, you wouldn’t feel like you were disappearing. Maybe if someone needed you, it would mean you deserved to exist.

So you got good at tending. At noticing what others needed before they said it. At shrinking yourself small enough to fit into the gaps people didn’t even know they had.

You convinced yourself: If I give enough, someone will stay.

If I love hard enough, maybe I’ll get fixed.

Regina wasn’t the first person you tried it with. But she’s the one you’ve held on to longest.

Because she feels broken too. Cracked in a way you recognize. Not the same shape as yours, but still jagged.

You’re starting to learn that love is not medicine.

And loving her is starting to feel more like a wound you press on to check if you're still alive.

You haven’t written in a journal in years.

Tonight, you try again.

You sit on the floor with the lights off, blanket wrapped around your legs, and scrawl two sentences onto a page.

“I’m tired of loving people who don’t even ask me to.” “But I don’t know what else to do.”

****

It happens between third and fourth period.

The hallway is chaos—bodies moving like fish in a tight tank, fluorescent lights flickering a little too bright above everyone’s heads. You’re walking beside her, clutching a notebook to your chest because her pace is faster than yours and you’re trying to keep up.

She’s scrolling through her phone with one hand, drink in the other, and still somehow navigating the crowd like she owns the building. You have to half-jog every few steps to stay beside her.

She looks down at you, smirking.

“You walk like a baby deer,” she says.

You blink up at her. “What?”

“Like. Wobbly. And tragic.”

You let out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “Thanks?”

She grins. “You’re welcome.”

You know she’s teasing. You know it’s not meant to be kind. But it still makes your heart twist in that specific way—like something sharp wrapped in velvet.

By the time you reach your locker, she’s already leaning against the one next to it, looming slightly, drink straw between her teeth. She tilts her chin down at you.

You don’t realize until then just how tall she is today—boots with a thick heel, legs for miles, towering over you like it’s her job.

You try not to shrink under her gaze, but she notices anyway.

“God,” she mutters. “You’re like… pocket-sized.”

You flush. “That’s not a bad thing.”

She hums like she’s deciding whether or not to agree. “You’d be so easy to pick up.”

Your breath catches.

“I won’t,” she adds, like it’s a threat. “But I could.”

You nod, a little dizzy. “Okay.”

She watches you struggle with the combo on your locker for a second, then bumps your hand aside with the side of hers. “Let me.”

You don’t argue. You let her open it for you, like you’re helpless. Like it’s always been this way.

And then—before she walks off—she leans down just enough to say something into your ear.

“You’re lucky I'm with you,” she says. "You'd be helpless otherwise."

Then she’s gone. Just like that. No glance back.

You exhale.

It should feel nice. Like a win.

But somehow it leaves your lungs feeling even emptier than before.

---

On Wednesday, Regina makes a girl cry in the bathroom before homeroom. It’s not a rumor this time—you’re there. You watch it happen.

You stay near the sink, silent, as Regina picks apart the girl’s mascara and her outfit and the way her thighs look in jeans. Her voice is all sugar and venom, and when it’s over, she turns to you like nothing happened.

“What?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

She wipes lip gloss across her mouth like war paint and walks out first. You follow.

Then Thursday, she posts something vague and cruel on her story. You know it’s about someone in your class, maybe even someone you like. You say nothing.

At lunch, she drops her bag into the seat beside you like you’re just another piece of furniture. Steals a fry off your tray. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t look at you when she says:

“Fix your face. You look like you’re gonna cry.”

You weren’t.

But now you might.

****

Regina’s laughing more now.

That should feel like progress. Like something to be proud of. You were there when she couldn’t even lift her head. You saw her the morning after the fallout, mascara smudged and knuckles tight around her locker like it might be the last thing holding her together. You saw her then—and you stayed.

But now she’s laughing.

Now she’s walking the halls like a blade again, sharp and shining.

Now she doesn’t need you.

---

You find yourself watching her from a distance more now. Letting her walk a few steps ahead. Letting silence stretch longer between you.

You don’t complain.

You don’t ask what you did wrong.

Because deep down, you already know.

She’s almost whole again. And you’re still… you.

Still hollow.

Still tired.

Still eight years old, trying to prove that love can save people.

You think about how this ends—how you’ll fade back into the background. How one day, she just won’t need you to orbit her anymore.

****

You don’t know the exact moment she starts acting different. You just feel it.

The shift.

One day she’s brushing you off like usual. The next, she’s watching you. Closer. Sharper. Like she’s waiting for something to drop.

Like she’s noticed the way your eyes don’t find hers as fast. The way you don’t always answer the first time she calls your name.

You didn’t think she’d notice.

But she does.

And she hates it.

She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. That would be too vulnerable. Too soft.

Instead, she’s… meaner.

Snapping more. Correcting you over nothing. Pulling you by the wrist instead of saying please.

“Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t lie. You’re always staring at me. Now you won’t even look.”

You glance up from your desk. “I’m just tired.”

She scoffs. “You’re always tired. Get new material.”

She sits closer at lunch now. Her knees touch yours beneath the table. She steals your fries again—but watches you while she eats them, like she’s daring you to say something about it.

You don’t.

You never do.

So she leans in, smirks, and says, “You’re boring lately.”

Your throat tightens. “Sorry.”

She stares at you. Frowns.

“Don’t say that,” she snaps.

“Say what?”

“‘Sorry.’ Like you mean it.”

You look at her for too long. You think she’s going to pull away.

She doesn’t.

She just shoves the last fry in her mouth and mutters, “Don’t ignore me again.”

****

You’ve stopped eating lunch. Not on purpose—not as a statement. You’re just not hungry. Or maybe you forget. Or maybe the cafeteria feels too loud and too bright and too much, and it’s easier to say you already ate.

You still bring Regina her iced coffee. Still carry her bag when she asks. Still wait for her after practice even when the sun’s already dipped behind the trees.

But everything’s slower now.

Your walk. Your responses. Your smile.

You’re unraveling so quietly no one notices.

Except Regina.

---

“Hello?” she snaps one afternoon, waving a hand in front of your face. “Are you even listening?”

You blink. Force a nod. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You’ve been weird all week.”

You shrug.

She narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to ghost me or something?”

Your throat tightens. “No.”

“You didn’t text me back. You didn’t save me a seat in bio. You forgot my lip gloss in my locker again.”

You wince. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired.” Her voice rises. “If you’re not gonna keep up, don’t bother acting like you’re still useful.”

That one lands harder than it should.

You look away. “Sorry.”

Regina stares at you. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to pass out.”

You don’t answer.

She scoffs. “Whatever.”

But she doesn’t walk away. She lingers. Eyes still on you, like you’re a puzzle missing pieces she didn’t realize were gone.

You hand her the coffee you bought on the way to school. Your fingers shake a little.

She takes it.

Her hand brushes yours.

She doesn’t thank you.

---

You’re still sitting on the edge of Regina’s bed when she finishes her eyeliner. She caps the pen with a practiced flick, then turns and looks at you like you’ve become inconvenient just by existing in her space.

“You look like a Victorian ghost,” she mutters.

You blink. “Thanks.”

“No, like. Your skin is so pale it’s kind of impressive. How are you not dead?”

“I don’t know. Willpower?”

Regina snorts. “Gross.”

But then she grabs her makeup bag again. Crosses the room.

Before you can react, she’s standing in front of you, one hand under your chin, tilting your face upward like you’re a doll she’s bored enough to play with.

It starts with the eyeliner, but Regina doesn’t stop there.

“No, if we’re doing this, we’re doing this,” she says, already throwing her makeup bag down onto the bed like it’s some sacred ritual. “Your skin’s a mess.”

You laugh—quiet, uncertain. “Thank you?”

“Shut up. It’s not your fault. You’re probably iron deficient.”

You don’t tell her you haven’t eaten all day. That it’s been three days, really, of skipping meals and pretending your hands aren’t shaking from something deeper than nerves. You just sit there, still and pliant, as Regina pushes your knees apart with hers to stand between them.

She’s taller like this. She always is. But up close, like this, she feels impossible. Her presence pressing down on you like heat.

She starts with primer, dabbing it onto your face with cold fingers. She tilts your chin this way and that, frowning as she smooths it in, like she’s trying to solve a problem that can’t be named. Then comes concealer, foundation, a sweep of bronzer.

“Your bone structure’s actually decent,” she mutters. “If you ever slept, you’d probably be hot.”

You give her a soft, startled laugh. It escapes before you can catch it.

She doesn’t smile.

Next is blush—barely there, but enough to fake life—and then highlighter, dusted in with the edge of her finger. Mascara follows, each stroke precise, like war paint. She doesn’t talk much now. Just the occasional impatient hum when you flinch or blink too early.

You sit still, breathing shallow. Letting her touch you. Letting her hold your face in her hands like she’s sculpting something she doesn’t want to admit she cares about.

Because in her own way, maybe she does.

Then comes the lip gloss.

For a second, you think she’s going to hand it to you, let you finish the look yourself. She doesn’t. Instead, she unscrews the wand, leans in—closer than she’s been all night—and paints it on herself first, slow and unhurried. She watches you the entire time, and then, without saying a word, leans in again.

You can feel her breath on your mouth.

“Stop fidgeting,” she murmurs.

You freeze.

Her wrist grazes your jaw as she paints your bottom lip. Her other hand holds your chin steady, firm but careful. She doesn’t blink.

The moment stretches. Breaks.

When she pulls back, she doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you—really looks—like she’s just now seeing what she’s made.

You look pretty.

Soft.

Almost hers.

And Regina’s face changes.

Her eyes shutter. Her mouth tightens. Her whole body recoils like she’s caught herself in something dangerous.

Then, abruptly, she scoffs and tosses the gloss back into her bag like it burned her fingers. She grabs her phone off the bed.

“You look ridiculous,” she says, her voice sharp and flat.

You blink once. “Oh.”

“I was bored,” she snaps. “Don’t get weird about it.”

You nod. “Right.”

She doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t wait for you to follow. She just walks to the door like the room hasn’t shifted around her.

And as she’s halfway out, her voice slices through the silence behind her.

“Wipe it off.”

Then she’s gone.

And you sit there, still wearing her touch all over your face. Still not moving. Still not hungry.

And you wipe it off even though you wanted to keep it on.

****

Regina's room is dark when she finally gets home. She doesn’t bother turning on the lights. Drops her bag on the floor, kicks off her boots, shrugs off her jacket like it’s all too heavy.

She’s not tired. She just wants to stop thinking.

She falls onto her bed like her body doesn’t want to hold her up anymore. Lays there. Staring at the ceiling.

For a while, that’s all.

Then Regina's hand reaches—absentminded at first—to her bedside drawer.

She pulls it open slowly. Tucked beneath her perfume bottles and old receipts, her fingers find it.

Small. Plastic. Green.

The little frog keychain you gave her.

It wasn’t expensive. You hadn’t even said anything when you gave it to her—just passed it over like it didn’t mean anything, like you weren’t hoping she’d keep it.

She had.

She didn’t know why. She still doesn’t.

She turns it over in her hand now, thumb brushing across its smooth face. Its little smile is faded from being touched too much.

It’s stupid.

It’s just plastic.

But her grip on it tightens anyway.

She thinks about your face earlier. The way you flinched when she told you to wipe everything off. The way you didn’t argue. Didn’t even look hurt.

Just nodded. Like you always do.

Something in her chest twists while she looks at the stupid frog.

It’s so stupid, she thinks again. It is stupid. It has these tiny beady eyes and a chipped toe. It’s not even her color. You’d called it "ugly-cute" when you handed it to her with shy eyes, like you were already bracing for her to hate it.

She didn’t hate it.

She didn’t say anything at all, actually. Just looked at it, then looked at you, then shoved it into her jacket pocket like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

And she never gave it back.

Never even tried to.

Now it’s the only thing she still carries every day. Sometimes in her pencil case. Sometimes zipped inside her jacket. Sometimes in the waistband of her planner, tucked just out of sight.

You’ve probably forgotten.

You probably thought she threw it away.

But she didn’t.

She can’t.

Not because it’s special. She refuses to say that. It’s just—it's yours.

And she’s not sure why that matters so much. But it does.

It does.

Regina flips it in her hand again. Presses her thumb into the tiny rubber belly. The surface is warm now from her skin.

She doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t cry.

She just lies back down with it still in her hand, resting it on her chest like a weight. Like an anchor.

She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. Her eyes flicker, once.

“I don’t even like you,” she whispers into the dark.

But she doesn’t let go.

Not all night.

****

Today, when she almost snapped at you for being late to lunch, but stopped halfway through her sentence and just said, “Whatever. Sit.”

Or when she noticed you didn’t bring a jacket and, without a word, draped hers across your shoulders. Not because it was cold. Just because she noticed.

You didn’t say thank you. She would’ve hated that.

You just wore it. And didn’t give it back until fifth period.

---

You’ve stopped trying to fix her. You’re not hovering like you used to—jumping at every sigh, every shadow across her eyes. You’re still there, still loyal, still you, but different now.

You’re choosing her. Not out of hope that loving her will fix something in you, but because you love her. You've accepted that now.

Even when she’s difficult.

Even when she’s quiet.

Even when she’s distant.

You sit beside her now because it feels like home—not because you’re afraid she’ll fall apart if you don’t.

And maybe that’s why she looks at you differently sometimes. Like she’s still trying to understand you.

Like she’s realizing she misses things about you—not just what you do for her, but you.

---

“You’re better at this than I am,” Regina says one day.

You blink. “At what?”

She shrugs, picking at her nail polish. “Being... nice. Not pathetic nice. Just—like. Real.”

You don’t know how to answer that, so you don’t.

She glances at you. “I’m trying.”

You smile, barely. “I know.”

And she doesn’t push. Doesn’t call you clingy or stupid.

She just leans back, shoulder brushing yours, and doesn’t pull away.

---

She walks you to class now.

Not always. Not when other people are around. But when it’s early, or late, or no one’s watching—Regina finds you. Hooks her fingers through your backpack strap like it’s just a reflex and strolls beside you like she’s not thinking about it at all.

She never says she missed you, but she always shows up.

---

One day, you're sitting outside on the benches near the field, sketching absentmindedly in your notebook. Regina walks past you, stops, and backs up like she just noticed something’s out of place.

She looks at you for a second too long. Then sits down beside you with a heavy sigh.

You glance at her. “You okay?”

“No,” she says, flat. “My life is terrible. But whatever.”

You hum, flipping to a blank page. “Want me to draw you as a frog?”

She looks over, unimpressed. “Do I look like I want that?”

You already start sketching. “Too late.”

She doesn’t stop you.

---

When your pencil scratches to a halt, you show her the result: a little frog with a crown, sitting on a throne made of broken cell phones and Starbucks cups.

Regina squints. “Is that supposed to be my ex's phone?”

You shrug. “Art is interpretive.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hand the paper back. Just stares at it, then folds it carefully and slips it into her bag.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

****

Lunch is brutal today.

It starts before you even sit down.

You and Regina are halfway across the cafeteria when Gretchen walks by your table—head high, ponytail swinging, tray in hand—and says it loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Wow. She really downgraded, huh?”

She doesn’t look at either of you when she says it. Doesn’t need to.

The table bursts into quiet, stifled laughter.

Regina freezes.

You feel her go still beside you, but she doesn’t say anything—not yet. She just blinks, smile frozen on her face, like she didn’t quite hear it. Or like she’s trying to decide whether or not it’s worth the explosion.

You don’t say anything either. You never do.

You just wait for the temperature to drop.

It does.

Regina laughs, sharp and loud—too loud for the room. She flips her hair and sits across from you, tossing her tray down like it weighs nothing.

Her phone is already in her hand. She scrolls aggressively, scrolling like it might erase what just happened. Her eyes skim everyone but you. Her mouth is tight.

She doesn’t eat.

Her leg bounces under the table like it’s trying to leave before she does.

You open your mouth. Close it.

You’ve learned when not to ask.

---

Regina drops her bag on the floor and throws her keys down harder than necessary. She doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t take off her jacket.

You stand awkwardly in the doorway of her room, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

She turns to you sharply.

“Why are you just standing there?”

You blink. “I didn’t know if you wanted—”

“God, do I have to tell you everything? I swear to God you’re so fucking—”

She stops. Breathes in.

Too late.

Whatever she’s holding back? It explodes anyway.

“I hate when you hover like that. Like some pathetic little pet. Do you think that’s cute? That it’s some fucking love story just because you show up every day and stare at me like you’re waiting to be fed?”

You don’t move.

She keeps going.

“I’m not your goddamn project. And you’re not special. You’re just—easy. That’s why I let you stay.”

Your stomach drops. Something inside you goes very still.

Regina’s breathing hard now. Like that took effort. Like she ran up a hill to say it.

You look at her for a long moment. Not angry. Just… sad.

“I know,” you say quietly.

And that’s worse somehow. That you don’t yell. That you don’t run. That you just… take it.

You don’t leave right away.

You stand there a second longer. Just long enough to make sure she’s really done.

She won’t look at you. She’s already turned away, hands tight at her sides like she’s holding in the rest of it.

You reach for your jacket.

Your fingers brush something in your pocket—a little square of foil. Sour candy. The kind she said once, months ago, made her lips hurt in a good way. You’d grabbed a pack yesterday. You thought maybe she’d laugh. Maybe it’d make her soften, just a little.

You were going to give it to her today.

You pull it out.

Look at it.

Then slowly, carefully, slide it back into your pocket.

You don’t say anything.

You just leave.

---

You walk home instead of texting your mom. It takes thirty minutes, but you don’t feel any of them. You don’t even feel the air.

By the time you reach your house, your fingers are stiff and your throat hurts, but you’re not sure why.

You go straight to your room. Don’t answer when your name’s called. Don’t turn on the light.

You drop your bag to the floor and lower yourself onto the carpet like your body isn’t sure how to hold weight anymore.

Then you lie there. On the floor.

Not your bed. Not your chair. Just the floor.

The silence is too big. The ceiling too far.

You don't move.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. Then again. You don’t check.

You’re not hungry. You didn’t eat lunch. You didn’t eat breakfast.

You didn’t want to.

You reach into your pocket, pull out the candy again. Turn it over in your hand once.

Then you toss it under your bed.

You can’t throw it away. Not yet. But you can’t look at it either.

So you just lie there, letting the nothing settle over you like a blanket.

Letting yourself vanish a little more.

****

Regina doesn’t notice how quiet the room is until she hears the door close behind you.

Even then, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, jacket still on, eyes fixed on nothing.

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. Could be a minute. Could be ten. Her heartbeat’s too loud to tell.

Eventually, she sinks onto her bed like her legs gave out. Her phone is still in her jacket pocket, buzzing once—twice—but she doesn’t check it.

She doesn’t have to.

She knows it’s not you.

You would’ve stayed. You always stayed.

That’s your whole thing, right?

You stay.

She drags her jacket off, fingers too tight. Something falls out of the pocket.

It’s not loud. Just a soft plasticky flutter. But it hits like a gunshot.

She looks down.

The frog keychain stares up at her from the floor. Dumb smile. One eye scratched.

Regina picks it up carefully. Like it might crumble if she touches it wrong.

She stares at it in her palm.

Then lies back on her bed, holding it against her chest like a bandaid she doesn’t deserve.

She replays what she said. Word for word.

“You’re just easy.”

It echoes. Bounces off the corners of her ribcage.

She thinks about how your face looked. How still you were. How small.

She told herself you could take it. That you always do.

But now the silence is stretching longer than it ever has before.

And suddenly, that silence doesn’t feel like safety. It feels like absence.

She grabs her phone.

No new messages.

She opens your thread anyway.

Scrolls up, up, up—to the time you sent her a picture of your socks mismatched on purpose just to make her laugh. To the time she replied with nothing but “loser,” and you sent back a heart.

She stares at the blinking cursor.

She types: “did you get home”

Backspaces.

Types: “are you mad”

Backspaces again.

Her fingers hover for a long time before she just closes the app and throws the phone face down beside her.

She clutches the frog in one hand. Pulls the blanket over her head with the other.

And for the first time in months, she doesn’t know if you’re going to show up tomorrow.

For the first time, Regina George is afraid you won’t.

****

The hallway lights buzz faintly when you slip through the front doors before first period.

No one’s here yet—not really. Just janitors and the hum of vending machines. The school always feels heavier when it’s empty.

Your bag is heavier too. You packed it carefully. Notebooks, loose cash, a charger Regina always asks to borrow. Her iced coffee—melting a little in your hand. You forgot gloves. Your fingers sting.

It doesn’t matter.

You head to her locker.

You know the combination. Of course you do. She told you once offhandedly like it didn’t mean anything. Like she didn’t think you’d remember.

You always remember.

You open it. It smells like her perfume. A tiny wave of comfort and ache.

Inside, it’s mostly chaotic—folders jammed sideways, a forgotten hairbrush, receipts from places you’ve never been with her.

You make room.

Inside, you organize what little is there—re-stack her notebooks, line up her pens, toss out a crumpled gum wrapper. You slip a bottle of the face mist she always forgets she likes into the side pocket. Slide a fresh pack of gum next to her calculator.

You wipe the tiny mirror clean with the sleeve of your hoodie.

Then you close it again.

You don’t leave a note.

She’ll know it was you.

---

Next is the library. You sign her in for study hall even though she never goes. Reserve a charger from the front desk so she can borrow it later without asking.

You leave a note with her name on it in loopy handwriting. No message. Just her name.

You tape it to the desk in the back corner where she likes to sit when she wants to be seen but not spoken to.

---

You walk home slowly. The streets feel louder than usual. You feel less than usual.

But her locker is ready. That’s enough.

That has to be enough.

By the time the first bell rings, the halls start to fill.

You’re already gone.

You don’t check your phone the rest of the day. You don’t wait for a thank you. You don’t expect her to notice right away.

You just go home.

You crawl back under your blanket. Close your eyes.

And let yourself vanish, just a little more.

---

Regina gets to school fifteen minutes late.

She doesn't care.

She never does.

She pulls into the student lot like the world owes her something. Her sunglasses are on. Her coffee is cold. Her mouth tastes like toothpaste and regret.

Still, she keeps her chin high. Shoulders squared. She’s good at pretending the air doesn’t feel wrong.

She walks through the front doors and into the first wave of students like she’s untouchable.

But her eyes flick toward the lockers, looking for you.

You’re not there.

---

She gets to hers and freezes.

The door is already unlocked.

Her mirror’s clean.

Her notebooks—stacked. Pens in order. Gum sitting right there next to her calculator like a stupid little gift.

And then she sees the face mist. She forgot she even liked that one.

She doesn’t touch anything.

Just stares.

Like the locker is haunted.

---

Third period. She drags herself to the library, eyes burning, heart picking up speed like it’s catching on to something she hasn’t said aloud yet.

She’s about to walk past, like she always does—until she sees the note.

Her name. Your handwriting. No message.

Just her name.

Taped to the back desk where she always sits.

She doesn’t move for a long time.

When she finally sits down, her hands shake.

She pulls out her phone. No new texts from you. She types something. Stops. Backspaces. Types again.

where are you are you sick are you mad still can you just answer

She doesn’t hit send.

She locks the phone. Unlocks it. Locks it again and reaches for the little chain in her pocket.

---

Fifth period drags.

Regina stares at the clock like it’s mocking her. Every tick scratches at her nerves. The teacher says something about The Great Gatsby, and she barely registers it.

She can’t stop thinking about the gum. The face mist. The little taped note with her name.

You weren’t in the hallway after fourth. You weren’t in the cafeteria. You didn’t even sign into study hall.

You’re gone—and worse, you left the place neater than when you came. Like you cleaned up after yourself. Like you’re not planning on coming back.

Her leg bounces beneath the desk.

She doesn’t even realize she’s gripping something in her fist until the bell rings.

She looks down.

The frog keychain.

When did she even pick it up?

---

By seventh period, her patience is gone.

She walks out halfway through class. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t say anything.

Some kid calls out “Queen George!” as she passes. She doesn’t even roll her eyes.

She drives with both hands on the wheel and the keychain pressed tight in one fist. It digs into her palm. Plastic and dumb and real.

She’s angry. That’s what she tells herself. Angry you’re being dramatic. Angry you didn’t text. Angry you didn’t give her the chance to say sorry—even though she still doesn’t know if she would have.

But her hands are shaking.

---

By the time she gets to your house, she’s buzzing.

She doesn’t knock gently. She taps, sharp and annoyed. The way you’d knock if someone owed you something.

When you open the door, you’re still in your hoodie. No shoes. Eyes puffy but dry.

You blink like you weren’t expecting her.

And Regina starts talking before you can say anything.

“This is ridiculous,” she says. Not hello. Not I’m sorry. Not even your name. “I said things. Okay? But this whole dramatic disappearance thing is just—pathetic.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t fold.

You just look at her.

Regina’s jaw clenches. “You left school. You didn’t say anything. You’re not even answering your phone.”

Still, you don’t speak.

She opens her mouth to keep going—and then she sees it.

Her own hand.

Still gripping the frog keychain.

Her voice catches, just slightly.

She hides it behind her back like it burns.

Then she exhales like she’s mad at herself for coming.

But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she comes in.

“I mean, what the hell was that?” she snaps, eyes still fixed on you. “You ghosted me. Like I’m supposed to… what, chase after you? Feel bad?”

You don’t answer.

She keeps going.

“Because I don’t. I don’t feel bad. People say shit when they’re mad. That’s normal.”

Still, you stay quiet. Breathing soft. Barely moving.

Her fingers close tighter around the keychain.

“And now you’re just… here, like a fucking blanket someone left on the couch. Sad and still and—” she cuts herself off, frustrated. “You’re supposed to be the one who talks. Who follows. That’s your thing, isn’t it? You show up.”

She finally looks at you.

You’re curled into yourself, smaller than usual. Eyes dark. Shoulders rounded. Looking at her through your lashes.

She sees the shadow under your eyes. The way your sweatshirt hangs off you. Like you haven’t eaten. Like you haven’t been here all week, even though you physically are.

Regina swallows.

Her voice falters. Just a breath.

“You weren’t supposed to just… stop.”

You blink, slow.

And something changes in her expression. Not soft. Not kind. But raw.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says, fast, like she’s not even sure she wants you to hear. “That shit I said. I didn’t mean it.”

Your gaze flickers—to her lap. The frog keychain, still clutched in her hand.

You say nothing.

But she follows your eyes.

Looks down.

Seeing that stupid fucking frog she tried to hide from you just now.

She stares at it for a second. Too long. And suddenly all her words catch in her throat.

For the first time, Regina doesn’t have anything left to say.

Not because she’s out of anger.

But because what’s left underneath it is fear.

Regina’s still staring at the keychain when she starts again.

Her voice is sharper now, cracking at the edges.

“You think this makes you deep? Walking around like some sad little ghost? You think ignoring me is gonna fix anything?”

You watch her.

“I get it, okay? You’re tired. You’re hurting. Boo-hoo. Join the fucking club.”

You flinch, barely.

But she notices. It only winds her up more.

“I’m trying, for once, and you just—disappear. You make me feel like I’m the bad guy for being honest. Like I’m the monster.”

She scoffs.

“God, you’re so—fragile. Like I have to be careful with every word or you’ll fall apart. Like I can’t even get mad without you curling up and fading out.”

Her hands shake.

She presses her palms against her knees, knuckles white.

“And then you act like you’re fine. Like you don’t need anything. Like being quiet makes you stronger or something.”

She stands up suddenly. Starts pacing.

“You didn’t even text. You didn’t show up. You didn’t ask if I was okay. You didn’t do anything. You just—left.”

She rounds on you, eyes glassy now. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

“Stop fucking doing this pathetic ghosting shit,” she spits.

Her hands clench at her sides. The frog keychain dangles between her fingers.

“Because I don’t—” Her breath stumbles. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

Silence.

Heavy.

You stare at her.

And Regina realizes what she said.

Too late.

The words are out, floating between you like something sacred and broken.

Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.

But nothing comes out.

Not this time.

Because that— that was the truth. and she didn’t mean to give it away.

Regina freezes.

Just for a second.

Eyes wide. Chest rising too fast.

And then she scoffs.

“Whatever,” she mutters. “It’s not—like, it’s not a big deal. I didn’t even mean that.”

Her voice wavers.

“I just… I don’t know. I was tired. You were acting weird. It’s not like I care if you’re here or not, I just…”

You step forward.

She doesn’t back away, but she talks faster. Like if she fills the space with enough sound, the silence won’t swallow her.

“Like, I’m fine, okay? It’s not like I need you. I just—God, you’re making it weird now. I don’t even know why I came.”

You take her wrist. Gently.

She doesn’t stop you.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says quickly, like a warning. “Where you’re all soft and weird and—stop it. Just—stop looking at me like that.”

You guide her to the bed.

She sits without realizing.

Still mid-sentence.

“I swear to God, if you say something corny right now, I’m leaving. I’ll actually leave. Don’t you dare—”

You kneel in front of her. Hands still on her wrists. Light. Careful.

She goes quiet.

Not because you shushed her. Not because you said anything profound. But because your eyes are so fucking kind and she doesn’t know how to survive that.

Her jaw tightens. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something she can’t.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says again. Quieter this time. “I mean… I did. But not like that. Not so—”

She exhales hard.

“Fuck.”

You don’t let go of her.

She doesn't pull away.

She just sits there, lips pressed into a hard line, eyes darting everywhere but your face. Like if she meets your gaze, she’ll fall apart for real.

And maybe she already is.

Regina’s mouth opens like she wants to say something.

Then shuts.

Then opens again.

She’s breathing like she ran here. Like it hurts.

And then—suddenly—

“I don’t know how to be nice.”

It comes out fast, sharp, like a confession or a curse.

“I don’t know how to do the—whatever this is. The… kindness thing. The gentle thing.”

She laughs, but it’s broken. Bitter.

“I wasn’t built for that. I wasn’t raised for that. I don’t know how to let people…” She shakes her head. “…in. I don’t know how to let them stay.”

You’re still in front of her. Still holding her wrists, just barely. Not pulling. Not pushing.

She blinks hard.

“I try,” she whispers. “I swear to God, I try. But it comes out wrong. It comes out mean.”

Her voice is shaking now. Eyes still refusing to meet yours.

“I don’t know how to love someone without hurting them. I don’t know how to be wanted without wrecking it. It’s like—every time I get close to something good, I fucking ruin it.”

Her hands start trembling in yours.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

You feel it before she does.

The tear that slips off her chin. The wetness gathering at her jawline.

She blinks again. Confused.

Then touches her cheek like it’s foreign.

“Shit,” she mutters. “Wait, I’m not—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Her voice chokes. Collapses.

And then she’s crying.

Not pretty. Not cinematic.

Just real. Just ruined.

Her shoulders curl forward like she’s trying to fold in on herself. Her hands finally reach for yours—not to hold, but to cling.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Over and over. Barely audible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—”

You don’t interrupt.

You don’t fix it.

You just hold her wrists and let her fall.

Because this time, she needs someone to stay while she does.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

Softer this time. Hoarse.

“I’m sorry I said you weren’t special.”

Her fingers dig into your hoodie like she’s anchoring herself there.

“I’m sorry I called you easy. I didn’t mean that. I just—I was scared.”

Another breath. Her nose is running now, but she doesn’t even notice.

“I was scared you’d leave. So I made it easier to blame you.”

She sucks in a shaky breath, and her next words hit the back of her throat like they hurt.

“I’m sorry I made fun of your shoes that day in the parking lot.”

You blink.

She keeps going.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you for bringing me coffee with cream when I said almond milk. I’m sorry I called your music weird. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to earn my attention just to breathe near me.”

Her voice starts breaking again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice when you stopped eating. I saw it. I knew something was off. I just didn’t say anything because I thought—because I wanted you to take care of me.”

You don’t say anything. You just sit closer now. Your legs touching hers. Steady. Solid.

Regina shudders.

“I’m sorry I only held your hand when no one was looking.”

The silence swells.

“I’m sorry I never said thank you.”

She finally looks up at you. Red eyes. Wet cheeks. Lips trembling.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

And you believe her.

Because this—this girl in front of you—is not the one who weaponized her smile and pushed people to the edges.

This is just Regina.

Tired. Messy. Crying.

And finally, finally telling the truth.

Regina stops talking.

Not because she’s done, but because there’s nothing left.

She’s folded in on herself now, breathing ragged, knees tucked tight against your throw blanket, hands limp in her lap.

You’re still on the floor in front of her.

Your shoulder against her shin.

You don’t speak.

Not yet.

The silence isn’t awkward. It doesn’t need to be filled.

It’s heavy. Real.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists when two people have finally stopped pretending.

Regina wipes her face with the sleeve of her jacket, like she just remembered she has skin. Her fingers are clumsy. Her breathing hiccups once.

You watch her.

Still not moving. Still not fixing. Just staying.

And when she finally lifts her head, when her eyes finally meet yours—you speak.

“I stayed because I wanted to,” you say softly. “Not because you made me. Not because I didn’t know how to leave.”

Your voice is even. Small. But steady.

“And I didn’t leave because I hated you. I left because I was disappearing.”

You pause.

Not for drama. Just because the words take weight.

“I didn’t want to vanish next to someone I love.”

Regina blinks hard. Her breath catches.

But you don’t let it be a cliffhanger.

You keep going.

“I love you,” you breathe out like the words are heavy. “And I never wanted to change you. I just wanted… to stay.”

Silence again.

Then—

You lean forward. Gently.

Place your hand over hers, still curled weakly around that stupid fucking frog keychain.

“I will.”

Regina stares at you. Like you’ve just said something cruel.

Her eyes widen—just barely—then narrow again, defensive. Disbelieving.

Her throat tightens.

And then—

“Why?”

It’s not curious. It’s not soft. It’s sharpened.

“Why do you love me?”

You start to answer, but she keeps going, louder now, more jagged.

“You should leave. You should’ve left weeks ago. After the first time I said something shitty. Or the second. Or the hundredth.”

She stands again—too fast, too tight in her skin. Her arms wrap around her own stomach like she’s trying to keep herself from spilling open.

“I’m a terrible person.”

You stand slowly, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’m not—nice,” she spits. “I’m not gentle, or selfless, or whatever the fuck you think I am. I hurt people. That’s what I do. That’s who I am.”

Her voice breaks. She swallows hard, like she’s choking on her own honesty.

“I don’t know how to be loved.”

She says it so quietly it’s barely audible.

“I don’t know how to believe someone when they say they love me. Because I never… I never believed I could be safe with someone.”

Her fists tremble at her sides.

“I don’t want you to waste yourself on me. I don’t want you to stay just to drown.”

Regina’s voice is small now. Ragged from the crying, the yelling, the truth.

“But God,” she says, eyes shining, lip trembling, “I want you to stay.”

Her shoulders pull up like she’s bracing for a no. Like she knows she’s asking too much.

But she asks anyway.

“Will you?”

The room goes still.

You take a step forward.

Then another.

Until you’re standing right in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of her panic.

You don’t say anything right away.

Just reach for her hands, gentle but sure.

Your fingers curl into hers.

And then you nod.

“Of course.”

And something heavy settles in Regina's heart. Something akin to fear. Hopefully it doesn't control her one.

---------------------