#this is four

NAYEON'S BUBBLE

(update)

The way I'm crazy about PINK TZUYU

The cheers are muffled by the bathroom door. Still loud, still alive, but distant now, like waves crashing just out of reach. She braces both hands on either side of the marble sink, eyes lifted to her reflection but not really seeing it.

Ellen Wilson, Astronaut.

NASA Administrator.

Senator.

President.

She lets the weight of the last word settle in her chest. President. It doesn’t feel real yet.

Her blazer is unbuttoned. Someone handed her a glass of champagne, she doesn’t remember who, and she set it down without drinking. She can still hear Larry outside, voice ragged with joy. Her campaign manager had tears in her eyes. Her mother hugged her so tightly it almost hurt.

She doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

She watches herself breathe. One hand lifts and runs over the front of her hair, then back down to the counter. Her knuckles are pale. She tries unclenching her jaw.

A woman is elected President of the United States.

It hits her in pieces. Not with a bang but like a slow tide creeping in.

She thinks of other tides. Of other moments when history shifted. Molly Cobb on the moon. The ERA finally ratified.

She remembers where she was when the news broke about the amendment. Perched on a barstool, hands gripping the wood. Pam’s arms around her before the words on the screen had even sunk in.

The two of them hugging over the bar, grinning so wide it hurt. Holding each other a beat too long. Not caring.

They didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

And now—

Now she wonders.

Is Pam watching tonight?

Did she vote for her?

Is she celebrating with Elise, smiling in their living room, maybe a hand around her waist, maybe a toast raised in the air? Just another woman glad to see the glass ceiling crack again.

Does she remember that night at the bar?

Does she remember how they celebrated later, just the two of them, breathless with joy and possibility?

Does she remember what it meant?

Ellen’s throat tightens. Her hand curls into a fist against the counter before she forces it to relax.

She draws in a slow breath through her nose, releases it carefully.

This is supposed to be joy. And it is. But joy this big comes with shadows.

She is the President-Elect.

She is in love with a woman she hasn’t seen in almost a decade.

And she is entirely alone.

Ellen straightens, lets her hands fall to her sides. Looks herself in the eye.

Then she presses her palms to the cool marble again and bows her head. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe it all in.

And then she leaves the bathroom, a bright smile fixed to her face, arms open for more hugs, laughter at the ready. The crowd outside is still cheering.

What I find hilarious is that Greta, who instantly recognized the cat isn’t real (because, you know, there is no cat) is willing to play along. And, better yet, she has independently come up with a way to refer to this non-existent cat. Does she call it an imaginary friend? No. Instead, just the other day she asked: Felix, how’s your ghost cat?