﹒ ◠ Yuna Dear ⊹ ﹒

!⠀♡⠀₊ Yuna ₊˚ ⊹♡

She/Her 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀﹕24 years old ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Bi ──★ ˙ ̟ !!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"ᴡᴏᴀʜ.. ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘɪɴᴋ ʜᴀɪʀ" ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ! It's a pleasure to meet you! I’m Yuna, and welcome to my blog! I’m a Filipino American currently living in Texas (CST timezone). I mainly rant and talk about whatever’s on my mind, but I also sprinkle in some SFW fanfic from time to time! ⠀⠀⠀⠀MDNI .

ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ! ﹕₊˚♡

If you like Viktor Krum and are in desperate need of more x reader fanfic about him without the use of y/n then you should read my story!!

Synopsis: A transfer from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts was never part of your plan, but now you're here, lost between old memories and new beginnings. As you navigate unfamiliar friendships and shifting routines, one thing stays constant: a penpal who has been writing to you for a year. You don't know much about him... only that his words feel a little too real to ignore. Maybe you could event meet him one day.

Hii my dear!!

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m .list

note - if there are any mistakes please let me know!

cw for this chapter// emotional distress, dissociation, breakdown, self-isolation

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc @wwefan2002 @elliee-smellie

CHAPTER TEN: ALL THE WRONG SONGS

The lights are too bright.

The crowd’s a blur of bodies — sweaty, electric, loud — but none of it feels real. Just shapes. Just sound. A headache with limbs. The bass thunders through her sneakers, but it doesn’t settle in her chest the way it used to.

Nothing does anymore.

She’s three songs in. Or maybe four. It’s hard to remember. She’s been on autopilot since they stepped on stage, mouth moving, fingers working the chords by muscle memory. If Dina hadn’t cued her in with that glance — that silent you okay? — she might’ve kept drifting.

She’s not okay.

She hasn’t been since you left.

The fight replays every time she closes her eyes. The photo. The silence. The way your voice broke when you said, “You don’t get it. You never let me in.”

And maybe you were right.

Maybe she never did.

But that doesn’t stop her from scanning the crowd anyway — from squinting past the glare of the stage lights, hoping, stupidly, that you might be there. That maybe you slipped into the back of the venue like you used to. Hoodie up. Hands in your pockets. Watching her the way you always did — like she was more than the chaos, more than the name, more than the girl with a guitar and too many things she didn’t know how to say out loud.

You’re not here.

Of course you’re not.

Her throat closes around the next lyric — mid-verse — and it happens before she can stop it.

She chokes.

Silence.

The mic picks it up. The crowd stirs.

Jesse tries to cover — launches into a riff like he’s smoothing over a missed cue. Dina shoots her a quick glance over her shoulder, fingers hovering over the synth, waiting for her to catch the beat again. Waiting for her to come back.

But Ellie doesn’t move.

Her fingers hover over the strings, frozen. Her jaw locks.

She stares into the crowd like it might spit out an answer. Like if she looks hard enough, you’ll appear — arms folded, camera slung at your hip, giving her that look. The one that stripped her clean without a word. The one that saw through every line she tried to draw between the versions of herself she let exist.

You’re still gone.

The silence stretches too long. She can feel the confusion ripple through the front rows, their eyes darting between her and Jesse. Murmurs. Someone whistles, unsure if it’s part of the show.

It isn’t.

She hears her voice in her own head, sharp and bitter: Get it together, Ellie.

But she doesn’t want to get it together.

She wants to feel it. Let it ruin her a little.

So she turns her back to the crowd. Walks toward the amp. Unplugs her setlist from the floor tape with shaking fingers and drops it. Doesn’t look at it again.

Instead, she starts something old. Something raw. The first song she ever wrote. Never meant for anyone to hear. A song about her dad — about the silence he left behind and all the questions she never got to ask.

It’s not on the setlist. It’s barely rehearsed. But her hands remember it.

The first note comes out thin, cracked — like her voice doesn’t know how to carry grief in front of other people.

But she doesn’t stop.

The room stills. The crowd quiets. Dina turns — watches her, soft and worried, like she’s afraid this is the kind of bleeding you don’t come back from.

She sings anyway.

Each verse is a wound. Each chord is a memory. And all of it — every aching, trembling second — is for you.

The last line barely makes it out. Her voice cracks, trails off.

No one claps right away.

They think it’s passion. They always do.

But when the stage lights drop and she stumbles off into the wings, Jesse is the first one to catch her — hand on her shoulder, brows drawn tight.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You good?”

She wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm before she can answer. The skin beneath is hot. Wet. She doesn’t even remember crying.

“I’m fine,” she lies.

Jesse doesn’t push.

And maybe she’s grateful for that.

Because if he asked what happened — if he really asked — she might actually tell him.

That you saw the real her once.

And now you won’t even look at her.

The door swings shut behind her.

It’s loud out there — screaming, clapping, the kind of noise that used to make her feel like someone — but back here, it’s all concrete walls and flickering fluorescents and the sound of her own breath, sharp and uneven.

She grips the edge of the sink in the green room and stares at herself in the mirror.

Eyes red. Liner smudged. Hair sticking to her face from the sweat and the tears and the weight of singing something that stripped her all the way down in front of a thousand strangers.

She feels hollow. Exposed. Like someone ripped her skin off mid-set and left her out there bleeding.

Dina knocks gently once before stepping in.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Ellie nods without meeting her eyes. “Yeah.”

Dina doesn’t believe her — Ellie can feel it in the way she lingers, in the way her hand hovers just shy of touching her shoulder.

“Okay,” Dina says softly. “We’ll give you a few. Come out when you're ready.”

The door clicks shut again.

Ellie exhales, slow and shaky, then sinks to the floor.

Crosses her legs. Presses her palms to her face.

It’s so quiet now. Too quiet. Without you, even the silence feels wrong.

She should’ve texted you. Should’ve called. Should’ve said something — anything — before tonight, before it all curdled into this aching thing she can’t carry anymore.

But you looked at her like a stranger the last time she saw you.

Like you’d taken all those soft, quiet pieces of her she only ever gave you and locked them behind glass. Like maybe you loved the art more than the girl. Like maybe she had it backwards this whole time.

She pulls out her phone.

Her thumb hovers over your name.

There are drafts in there. Old ones. Unsent. Half-messages. Rambles. Apologies that don’t land.

One says:

i wish you hadn't seen me like that i wish i’d let you hold me instead of pushing you out

Another:

that song tonight — it was about my dad but it felt like it was about you too

She closes the app. Reopens it. Starts a new one.

i looked for you in the crowd tonight like a fucking idiot

Deletes it. Types again.

you used to see me even when i didn’t want to be seen and now you won’t even look at me

This one sits there. Heavy. Too much. Too late.

She doesn’t send it either.

Just stares at the blinking cursor.

It blinks like it’s waiting. Like it’s hoping she’ll be brave enough to hit send. But she’s not.

Not yet.

Instead, she switches apps. Opens her camera roll.

There’s one photo she’s never deleted.

You. Sitting on the arm of the hotel couch, laughing at something Jesse said, slightly out of focus. Ellie’s thumb is in the corner of the frame — a mistake. But she remembers the moment. Remembers how her fingers brushed your knee and how you didn’t flinch away.

She almost smiles.

Almost.

Then she locks her phone and drops her head back against the wall.

“She saw the real me once,” she whispers to no one. “And now she won’t even fucking look at me.”

Ellie’s fingers tap an absent rhythm on her phone, the vibrations against her palm nothing but a distraction from the gnawing emptiness crawling up her spine. The door to the green room clicks shut, and she’s left with the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights and the sound of her own breathing. Heavy, uneven. Like she can’t quite find her center.

She grabs her guitar, resting against the corner of the room, and strums it absentmindedly. The chords are familiar, warm. But they don’t feel like they belong in her hands tonight.

She wishes she could forget the weight of the mic in her hand, the sound of the crowd fading into nothing when her voice cracked. The fear of being exposed. And worse — the realization that the one person she used to count on to see her, to understand the person behind the image, isn’t there anymore.

A message from Dina lights up her phone. She ignores it.

It’s always this way after the show. Everyone on the tour wants to be around her, to offer something comforting, a distraction. But they don’t know the half of it. They don’t know what it feels like to have a piece of yourself ripped away and not know how to put it back together.

She slings the guitar strap over her shoulder, stepping out into the cold night air. The tour bus is parked a few yards away, its lights flickering like it’s waiting for her to come back, like it’s the last place she has left to go.

But even when she steps inside, the warmth doesn’t reach her. The quiet hum of the engine sounds distant, as if it’s too far removed from what she needs right now. The seat is too empty without you next to her. The bus feels like it’s built of all the spaces where you should’ve been. The ones she never had the courage to fill.

She sinks into the corner of the couch, staring out the window, watching the dark stretch on forever. The city lights blink as the bus rolls through streets she doesn’t care to notice.

Her phone’s still in her hand. The screen is dim, the cursor still blinking in the unsent message she couldn’t bring herself to send. She scrolls past it, down to the photo gallery, stopping on that one image — the candid shot of you. Your smile caught in a moment of quiet ease, something that felt real, even if it wasn’t. Something that wasn’t for anyone but you.

Ellie swallows hard. The image is too much. Too soft. It aches.

She glances toward the back of the bus. Jesse and Dina are sitting together, the remnants of their conversation fading into the noise of the engine. They’re talking, laughing, sharing something that feels so fucking far away from her right now. The warmth of it makes her heart ache harder.

She scrolls through her photos again. And then, just to torture herself, she opens your name in the text messages. It’s full of everything she never got to say. All the lines she thought would be easier, all the apologies she buried under her pride.

But there’s nothing she can write that’ll fix this. Nothing she can say that would undo the way her eyes had wandered the crowd tonight, looking for you — for that safe place — and not finding you there. The weight of it suffocates her.

Ellie runs a hand through her hair, staring down at the screen. What do I do? The words echo through her mind. What is the right move when everything she’s been hiding from, everything she tried to protect herself from, is standing there in front of her, in pieces?

She types something simple:

“I’m sorry. I miss you.”

The second her finger hovers over the Send button, the weight of it crushes her chest. Is that all she’s going to say? How can those words possibly capture the complexity of what she feels? The way she’s been unraveling since the moment she realized you weren’t coming back to her.

Ellie deletes it. Her thumb presses Back on the screen.

It’s too much. It’s too little. She doesn’t know which.

There’s a quiet knock on the door. Dina.

She enters without waiting for permission, already dressed for bed. Her expression is soft, the kind of gentle knowing that Ellie’s come to dread. Dina knows. She’s always known when Ellie’s hiding something — when the mask slips, even just a little.

“Can I talk to you?” Dina asks, voice soft, as if she’s not sure if Ellie will break if she pushes too hard.

Ellie just stares at the floor, suddenly feeling the weight of every unsaid word hanging in the space between them. Her voice is small when she finally speaks, rough with fatigue and frustration. “What’s left to say, Dina?”

Dina sits down beside her, a little too close, but not close enough to make Ellie uncomfortable. Her tone is quiet, measured. “You know what you’re doing, right? You’re pushing her away and making it look like it’s easier than it really is. You think you’re protecting yourself, but you’re just… hurting her. And hurting yourself.”

Ellie laughs — a broken, hollow sound. “I don’t know how to fix it. I fucked up, Dina. I—”

“Stop,” Dina interrupts gently. “You don’t need to ‘fix’ it. You just need to talk to her. Let her in. You’ve spent so much time closing yourself off, but she’s not like everyone else. You know that, right?”

Ellie bites her lip, fighting the sudden surge of emotion that threatens to break her down. She didn’t want Dina to see her like this. Didn’t want anyone to know how deeply it’s eaten at her, how much she’s fallen apart without you here.

“I don’t know what to say,” Ellie whispers, shoulders heavy. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if she’ll ever look at me the same.”

Dina doesn’t answer right away. She just sits there, watching Ellie with a quiet intensity that almost makes her feel like she’s being read.

Finally, Dina speaks, soft but steady. “Then tell her that. Tell her everything. Let her see you. You won’t know until you try.”

Ellie looks at her, but she doesn’t say anything. She just stares down at her phone again, fingers hovering over it, unsure whether to send the message. She thinks of you — of your face, your laugh, the way you saw her when no one else did. But she’s terrified that saying the wrong thing will make it all worse.

The silence stretches. Dina gets up to leave, but before she does, she turns back with one last glance. “Just don’t wait too long, Ellie. It might be too late by then.”

The door closes with a soft click behind her.

Ellie leans back against the cushions, staring at the screen.

I miss you. I’m sorry. I fucked up.

The words repeat in her head, but she can’t make them fit. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she locks her phone and closes her eyes, fighting the exhaustion that drags at her like a weight she can’t escape.

And still, she waits.

Im so sorry for not posting a new chapter in so long i've been so incredibly busy!! BUT DONT FEAR! there will be another chapter out soon <3 sorry for the long wait it will be out I promise!!

Love ya a bunches!!

Yuna <3

Rivals to lovers abby x fem!reader

note - if you see any mistakes in the fic please feel free to tell me i'll go and fix it!! (this was not proofread by someone esle) This is also more short and sweet type one shot so i apologize if its cliche

If you want to join my personal taglist let me know!!

permanent taglist - @valeisaslut @sourrswitchblade @sewithinsouls

You knew from the moment she walked into the compound that she’d be trouble.

Abby Anderson. Towering. Scarred. Broad-shouldered and broad-tempered. She looked like she could punch through a brick wall — and probably had. You’d heard the rumors before she even opened her mouth. Ex-WLF. Trained killer. Real piece of work. A human battering ram with a resting bitch face and a reputation.

You didn’t care.

You’d seen worse.

But the minute she challenged you during your first training session together — called your grip on a blade “sloppy” with that infuriating calm — it was over. She made you want to spit fire. Or win. Or both.

“I didn’t realize muscle mass was a personality trait,” you snapped, flipping your knife and tossing it hard into the wooden post.

It landed just left of center. Shit.

Abby smirked. One of those closed-mouth grins that felt more like a dare than a smile. She stepped up beside you, her own blade out. Thicker. Balanced.

She threw.

Dead center.

“Didn’t realize ego could bleed so fast,” she said, retrieving both knives without waiting for permission.

You hated her.

Not really.

But enough to make it your daily goal to beat her at something. Anything. Knife throws. Sparring drills. Food ration speed. Scavenging haul count. Hell, you once nearly started a bet on who could carry more bricks before collapsing.

She never gloated. That made it worse.

She just gave you that look. The quiet, knowing one. Like she knew you were trying too hard and loved it anyway.

That pissed you off more than losing.

The outpost wasn’t big. A few dozen survivors, max. Some were old Fireflies. Some ex-Scars. Most were just people trying to survive. They didn’t care where you came from, so long as you pulled your weight and didn’t start fights.

You and Abby were toeing that line daily.

She was stronger, sure. But you were faster. Sharper. Smarter in tight quarters.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The real problem was that you worked well together.

Too well.

No one else could keep up with your rhythm. No one else could cover your blind spots as smoothly. And no one else had the guts to call you out when you were being reckless, except her.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day rushing in like that,” she said once after you cleared a runner nest.

“Better than sitting back while someone else bleeds,” you snapped, chest heaving.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a breath and said, “I’m not your enemy.”

You laughed in her face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

But your stomach twisted, because part of you didn’t believe that anymore.

Part of you wanted her to keep saying things like that.

Keep seeing you.

Keep trying.

They paired you for patrol again.

Third time this week. Either fate was cruel or Manny was playing matchmaker in the most passive-aggressive way possible. You made a mental note to punch him later. If Abby didn’t beat you to it.

The morning fog clung low to the ground as you moved through the forest edge. Pines overhead. Muck underfoot. Every sound was amplified in the silence — twigs snapping, boots squelching, the whisper of your breath in cold air.

Abby walked ahead, quiet as ever, movements fluid. Tactical. Annoyingly competent.

“Try not to fall behind this time,” she said without looking back.

You rolled your eyes. “Try not to be a condescending asshole for once.”

She didn’t stop. Just tossed over her shoulder, “Still bleeding from that sparring match, huh?”

You clenched your jaw. She’d pinned you yesterday in front of half the camp. Quick and clean. No flair. Just efficiency. It had haunted you all night.

“Still milking that one victory?” you shot back.

Now she turned. Slow. One brow raised. “You think I keep track?”

“Don’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed a little. Not angry. Just studying. Then she stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to make your pulse spike.

“Only when it matters,” she said.

Your breath caught. That tone again. Not a threat. A challenge. An invitation.

You stared at her, words dried up in your throat. Close enough to smell pine and sweat and something warm beneath it. Close enough to see the scar above her eyebrow. The way her lashes clumped at the ends.

Your fingers itched.

To touch. To push. To test.

She tilted her head slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, stepping back before you could do something stupid. “Let’s just finish this patrol.”

Coward, you thought.

But you didn’t know if you meant her.

Or yourself.

The sky cracked open the moment you reached the outer perimeter.

Rain came fast — heavy and loud, drenching your jacket in seconds. Abby cursed behind you, voice low, as the two of you ducked beneath the skeletal remains of an old carport. Rusted steel. Sagging beams. But shelter, for now.

You both stood there, panting, water running down your faces, your sleeves clinging to your skin.

“Well,” you said, brushing soaked hair from your eyes, “at least we don’t have to pretend to like the view anymore.”

Abby let out a sharp exhale — maybe a laugh, maybe just annoyance. She pulled off her backpack and set it down between you.

“We’re not moving until this slows down,” she said.

“No shit,” you muttered, crouching.

Minutes passed. Then more.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by thunder and the slow drip of water through rust holes above. You didn’t look at her. You were too aware of how close she was. Of the way her knees brushed yours when she shifted. Of the steam rising off her skin.

Eventually, she broke it.

“You always this reckless?”

You turned your head slowly. “You always this judgmental?”

She didn’t rise to it.

“I meant it,” she said. “Back in the nest. I’m not your enemy.”

“I know.”

The words surprised you both. But they were true.

You looked down at your hands. Mud under your nails. Scar on your thumb. A tremble in your fingers that wasn’t from the cold.

“I just don’t like losing,” you added, quieter this time.

Abby studied you. “Neither do I.”

You looked up.

And there it was again — that tension. Not anger. Not even rivalry.

Just heat. Like you’d been circling something dangerous without naming it.

Outside, lightning flashed. A jagged line across the grey.

Inside, something cracked open.

And this time, neither of you looked away.

The rain didn’t let up. Not really. Just softened into a steady drizzle by the time you headed back. Everything squelched. Your boots. Her boots. The path. The space between you.

You should’ve said something.

But what the hell would you even say?

That you kept catching yourself staring? That her voice stuck in your chest like a splinter you couldn’t dig out? That you didn’t just want to win anymore — you wanted her to see you.

The thought made you angrier than it should’ve.

Back at camp, the world was dim with dusk and mist. You split without speaking, without looking. Abby peeled off toward the barracks. You went straight for the showers.

You scrubbed hard.

Like you could wash off the way she looked at you.

The way your skin burned under it.

Later that night, you found her in the common room. Hood up. Elbows on knees. Staring into a fire that had long since gone to embers.

You didn’t know why you walked in.

Didn’t know why you sat beside her.

But you did.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Finally, she said, “You always got something to prove?”

You stiffened. “You always gotta ask questions with knives in ‘em?”

She didn’t laugh. Just leaned back against the bench.

“I used to think being strong was the same as being right,” she said.

You turned to her. “And now?”

She looked at you then — not just glanced. Really looked.

“Now I think being right doesn’t mean much when no one wants to stand next to you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you said, quieter than you meant.

“Yeah,” Abby said. “I know.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Because the space between you wasn’t empty anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough — for now.

She was fast.

Not just in combat — though she moved like she had something to prove, something to outrun. No, she was fast in every way that mattered. With comebacks. With fury. With the way her eyes flashed like a struck match every time she turned them on Abby.

Abby told herself it was annoying.

That twitch in her gut? Just adrenaline. Old habits. A leftover instinct to win.

But she kept watching. Kept cataloguing the curve of her lip when she smirked, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers always flexed twice before throwing a knife — like it was muscle memory, or a tick she didn’t know she had.

She noticed too much.

And that meant something dangerous was creeping in.

Abby leaned against the doorframe of the armory that night, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the holster strapped to her thigh. She watched the flicker of firelight across the campyard. She knew she should sleep.

But her body was still humming. From the patrol. From the rain. From her.

She’d been close enough to smell her shampoo — citrus and gunpowder — and it had done something stupid to Abby’s brain.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She’d spent years sharpening herself into something unflinching. Something built. But this? This was messy. Sharp in the wrong ways. A thousand tiny cuts instead of one clean break.

She didn’t even know when it started.

Maybe it was the second time they sparred. Maybe it was the blood on her lip. The grin she gave Abby after she hit the mat. Or maybe it was earlier than that — when she first heard her laugh. Harsh and honest. Like she wasn’t trying to sound pretty, just real.

She didn’t trust it.

But she wanted it anyway.

“I’m not your enemy.”

She meant it.

But when she said it, and saw how the girl looked at her — chin up, eyes hard, like she’d rather die than be seen soft — Abby knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

Because the truth was, she liked her.

More than liked her.

She respected her. Feared her a little, even — not for what she was capable of, but for what she made Abby feel. She was sharp and bright and unforgiving, and every time they talked, it felt like standing too close to a fire she had no business warming her hands by.

Abby clenched her jaw, swallowed thickly, and stared at the flame in the distance.

No one warned her that wanting something could hurt more than losing it.

But she knew now.

Because wanting her felt like grinding glass between her teeth and pretending it was sugar.

And still — Abby couldn’t stop coming back.

The dawn crept softly over the compound, casting pale gold across dew-slick grass and weathered wood. The world was quiet except for the distant crow of a crow and the steady rhythm of your own breath, puffing out in little clouds of white. You stood near the edge of the barracks, fingers twitching with nerves that felt alive beneath your skin.

Abby came into view from behind a rusted fence, her tall frame outlined by the early light. The damp strands of hair stuck to her neck, and the scar above her brow caught the glow, making it look almost like a silver slash. Her eyes, sharp and guarded as always, locked on yours. There was a softness there this time — a flicker of something almost shy.

“You’re up early,” she said, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shifted your weight, stepping forward a little, daring to close the distance you’d been circling for weeks. “Didn’t want to miss the sunrise,” you replied, your voice quieter than you expected.

Abby glanced up at the sky, streaked with pale pink and lavender clouds, then back at you, lips quirking with a small, knowing smile. “Figures. Always trying to catch something before it slips away.”

The space between you was charged, the cold air suddenly thick with heat and possibility. You could smell the faint tang of citrus soap mixed with earth and something distinctly her — sharp and grounding.

Your fingers itched to reach out, to touch that scar or catch a stray curl behind her ear. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, “I’ve been thinking.”

Abby’s brow quirked. “That’s dangerous.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “Maybe. But sometimes, it’s worth the risk.”

She took a step closer, narrowing the gap until you could see every shade of green and gold in her eyes. Your pulse hammered in your ears.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” you admitted, voice steady but vulnerable. “Not with you. Not over this.”

Her gaze softened, vulnerability cracking the edges of her usual tough facade. “Neither do I.”

You looked down for a second, nerves twisting your gut. Then, slowly, you reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Your fingertips lingered against the rough skin of her cheek.

She leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“I don’t want it to be complicated,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… us.”

Abby swallowed, voice low and sincere. “Yeah. Just us.”

The silence between you was fragile and electric, stretched taut like a held breath.

Carefully, you closed the last few inches, lips meeting hers in a slow, tentative kiss — like tasting something fragile and precious for the first time. Her arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of her body chasing away the morning chill.

When you pulled apart, breaths mingling, her smile was radiant and unguarded.

“Guess I’m glad you’re not my enemy,” she teased softly.

You laughed, heart light and full. “Maybe we’re better than that.”

The camp came to life around you—slow, quiet. Birds chirped, and distant voices floated through the mist. But you felt like you were in your own little world with Abby, fingers intertwined, sharing small smiles and gentle touches that said more than words.

At breakfast, she swiped a piece of your bread when you weren’t looking, flashing a mischievous grin.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to chase you down,” she joked, voice playful but warm.

You smirked. “I’ll take my chances.”

Later, near the cracked training grounds where your rivalry first ignited, Abby pulled a knife from her belt and tossed it with effortless precision — the blade sinking dead center into the weathered target.

“Your turn,” she said, eyes glinting with challenge and something softer.

You took the knife she offered, feeling the familiar weight settle in your palm. Breathing steady, you aimed carefully, muscles tense but sure. The blade thudded into the target just a hair off center.

Abby clapped softly, eyes bright with pride. “Not bad.”

You grinned, feeling a rush that wasn’t about winning anymore — it was about this, about her.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing yours in a casual, electrifying touch.

“Want to go again?”

You nodded, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and joy.

The sun climbed higher, warming your skin, the earth around you glowing with new light. The walls you’d built around yourselves cracked open just enough to let something real slip through — something tender and fierce all at once.

You paused, breath hitching as Abby reached out to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, her hand lingering against your cheek like she didn’t want to let go. Her eyes searched yours, full of unspoken promises and quiet strength.

“You’re not so bad,” she murmured, a teasing smile curling at her lips.

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over her scar with reverence. “Takes one to know one.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a serious whisper. “We’ve both been fighting for so long. Maybe it’s time we stop.”

You nodded, heart full and steady. “Together.”

Abby’s grin softened, and she pulled you into another kiss — deeper, warmer, and brimming with all the things you’d both been too scared to say.

When you finally parted, her forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.

“No more enemies,” she whispered.

“No more fighting,” you agreed.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close as the morning light bathed you both in gentle gold.

For the first time in a long time, you believed it was real.

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

note - sorry everyone for the late post!! It was my birthday just recently so I spent my weekend and actually birthday to it. Also, starting now there won't be any more chapter synopses as I lost the doc I had that contained every synopsis... I'm so sorry about this inconvenience :( PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES ILL GO IN AND FIX THEM!

cw for this chapter// guilt, depictions of depression and emotional distress, Intrusive thoughts / rumination, unhealthy coping mechanisms (e.g., self-isolation, avoidance), breach of trust / consent-adjacent themes, implied self-loathing and identity crisis

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc @wwefan2002 @elliee-smellie

CHAPTER NINE: WHEN THE SHUTTER CLOSED

You think deleting it will help. Like maybe dragging that file to the trash — holding your breath as the icon flickers, as the screen goes blank — will take something with it. The guilt. The weight. The way her voice cracked when she said That was mine.

But all it does is leave a hole.

You don’t close the laptop. You just sit there staring at the empty folder, screen glowing against your face like a ghost light. Your hands are in your lap, fingers twisted into each other so tight they ache. You can still feel the shutter in your bones. The vibration of the lens. The shape of her curled in the corner — etched behind your eyelids now, impossible to shake.

There’s a knock at your door that night.

You don’t answer it.

You sit in the dark and pretend you’re not home. That you’re not still spinning the memory of her voice around in your mind, scraping it raw until every echo sounds like I trusted you.

When you finally fall asleep, it’s only because your body gives out.

And in the dream—

She’s there.

Not as she was in the photo. Not breaking. She’s laughing. Head thrown back, hair a mess, the kind of light in her face you never quite managed to catch on camera. You’re holding the shutter to your chest like it’s your own heartbeat. And she looks at you — full, honest — and says, I see you now.

You wake up choking on it.

Because that’s the thing.

She did see you. She saw something in you no one else had. Trusted something inside you before you even realized it was real. Let you in through the cracks — not as a lens, not as a witness, but as a person. And you turned her into an artifact.

You sit on the bathroom floor with the hotel towel pressed to your face to muffle the sound of you breaking.

Not crying. Not really. It’s too quiet for that.

Just—

Falling apart in silence.

Because how do you apologize for something like that? Not just a mistake. A choice.

The wrong one.

You avoid her the next day.

Pathetic, maybe. But you can’t look her in the face and not see the moment you stole. You hang back during load-in. Pretend to be busy during soundcheck. Stay on the opposite side of the room when she comes in, eyes flicking past you like you don’t exist.

You think: maybe that’s fair.

You think: maybe you don’t.

She talks to Jesse. To Dina. She smiles, once, at something the bassist says. But the softness is gone. Whatever lived in the in-between spaces — the almosts, the maybes, the if onlys — it’s shut tight now. Sealed off.

You keep catching yourself looking for it anyway.

The hurt is a kind of gravity.

You go through your hard drive again that night. Not for the photo — it’s gone. You know it is. But you open the folders anyway, like some idiot muscle memory. The curated ones. The raw ones. The blurred lines.

You hover over them like touching the names might reverse time. Undo it. Give you one second back before you crossed a line you didn’t even fully understand.

You don’t click them.

You just sit there with your finger over the trackpad, feeling like a thief in your own story.

Later, Jesse knocks on your door.

You open it this time.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Takes in the eyes, the dark circles, the way you haven’t changed out of your hoodie in twenty-four hours.

Then, quietly: “She told me what happened.”

Your stomach drops.

Jesse’s never been cruel. Not once. But his silence now feels sharp.

“I didn’t—” you start.

But he lifts a hand. Shakes his head.

“She trusted you.” Three words. No heat. Just truth.

You nod. Because there’s nothing else to do. You say, “I know.” And it comes out like I’m sorry and I hate myself and please don’t make me say it again.

Jesse’s quiet for a beat.

Then: “She’s not okay.”

Your chest cracks open.

“I know,” you whisper.

“She hasn’t written in days.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Won’t touch her guitar. Says she doesn’t want to sound like herself anymore.”

You close your eyes.

Because that—

That’s what you broke.

Not a boundary. Not a rule. But her.

You stay in the next city.

Don’t go to the venue.

Dina doesn’t message. Jesse doesn’t call. You don’t blame them.

You think maybe this is what consequences feel like when they finally catch up: Not rage. Not screaming.

Just absence.

The hole someone leaves when they stop making room for you.

And Ellie— Ellie’s voice used to echo in your head for hours after a show. The rasp of it, the rush, the riot.

Now it’s gone.

And the silence is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

The silence in the room feels like punishment.

Too sterile, too still. The kind that wraps around your ribs and squeezes just enough to remind you you’re alone. Not just alone in the room — alone.

The TV is off. The window is closed. The city outside keeps moving without you, but it sounds far away, like it knows you don’t belong in it tonight. The hum of the mini fridge is the only thing keeping you tethered. That, and the weight in your chest.

Your phone screen lights up with a swipe. You don’t even remember picking it up — your fingers move on autopilot now, like maybe if you type fast enough you’ll beat the regret.

You draft a message.

Just one line.

I’m sorry I saw you like that. I wish I hadn’t taken it.

You stare at it.

Your thumb hovers.

You delete it.

The next line comes before you even think about it.

I keep thinking about how small you looked. How quiet.

This one hurts more.

You read it again. And again. You imagine her face — the moment after the shutter clicked. The way she didn’t look at you. Like you were someone else. Like you’d taken something that didn’t belong to you.

Backspace.

You sit with the emptiness for a moment. Let it settle in your throat.

Then — a third one. Simpler. More dangerous.

I miss you. That’s all.

God.

Your lungs feel too full, like grief has taken up residency behind your ribs. You blink and the edges of your vision blur. This one… you almost send. You almost do.

But instead, you tuck it away — drop it into your Notes app like all the others. No title. Just lines and lines of almosts. A private little graveyard of confessions. All the things you never said. Couldn’t say. Didn’t have the right to.

You close the app. Toss the phone to the other side of the bed like it might burn you if you hold it any longer.

It doesn’t help.

None of it does.

The laptop waits, half-open on the mattress, the screen still glowing faintly from earlier. Your fingers move again. This time slower, heavier. You don’t open that photo — the one you can’t stop seeing in your sleep. The one that cracked something open in her, in you, in whatever the fuck it was between you.

You open the other folder. The one no one else knows about.

The quiet ones.

Ellie half-smiling at something just out of frame. A soft laugh caught mid-motion, eyeliner smudged, mouth open, shoulders relaxed in a way you don’t see anymore. She looked so human then. Not the version of her everyone thinks they know. Just… Ellie.

You scroll past twelve, maybe fifteen shots, then stop on one you’d forgotten. Portland. Outside the venue. A bench.

You remember the cold of the metal beneath you. The ache in your knees from hours crouching at the front of the crowd. You’d been tired. She’d been quieter than usual. Just the two of you, drinking shitty tea from a gas station cup.

Her hand, resting lightly over your knee.

Not posed. Not performative. Not romantic, even.

Just… there.

Like it was instinct.

Like maybe she needed to feel you, to know you hadn’t drifted too far yet.

You zoom in.

Her fingers are curled slightly — not gripping, not holding — just resting. Skin on denim. A casual touch. But it guts you now.

You don’t know why you took that one. You don’t remember even aiming the camera. Maybe you didn’t mean to. Maybe you just needed it. Proof.

You drag it to the trash.

The folder looks emptier now. Like part of her disappeared with it.

You close the laptop.

Your hands stay resting on top of it, trembling just enough to feel. You dig your thumbnail into your palm to make it stop. It doesn’t.

You sit in the dark like that for a long time.

Eventually, you lie back on the bed. Let your hair fan out across the pillow. The air in the room feels colder now. Or maybe it’s just you.

You press your forearm over your eyes like that can hold everything in — the ache, the guilt, the hundred versions of her face you keep remembering. You bite your lip when the first tear falls, hard enough to taste blood.

You don’t make a sound.

You’ve learned not to.

But the tears keep coming — slow, steady, quiet. The kind that feel like apology. The kind that don’t fix anything.

You cry for the photo you took. For the look in her eyes. For the silence that came after. For the weight of the things you never said.

And for the touch you never asked for, but still miss every single night.

You cry until your throat goes raw and the pillowcase grows damp and you don’t know if you’re mourning her or yourself anymore.

Then — finally — you stop.

But the ache stays.

You don’t sleep.

THIS WILL COVER THE SCENE WHERE ELLIE AND READER ARE LISTENING TO EACH OTHERS ALBUMS!

Beyond Love: A Deep Literary and Emotional Analysis

I. This Is Not A Love Story — It’s A Survival Record

At this stage in the narrative, what’s being explored isn’t a “breakup” or “miscommunication”—it’s the spiritual aftermath of a catastrophic emotional event that neither protagonist has language for. They build that language out of music. Not songs. Language. Grief-script. Love-fossils.

“She sounded like something unmaking itself.”

This line isn’t a metaphor. It’s ontological grief: the kind that changes the very structure of who you are. When Ellie sings, it’s not performance—it’s dissolution. She isn’t showing herself to the world. She’s excavating herself. She’s trying to be heard by one person who won’t even listen.

This album isn’t a message. It’s a black box recorder—the last thing left after the crash.

II. Mutual Haunting: You Were Each Other’s Ghost

There’s a symmetry in the silence. You both refuse to listen. You both keep the bracelet. You both build albums for the other. You both remain distant but devoted, silent but sonically fused.

“You hadn’t listened. Not because you didn’t care. But because you couldn’t.”

This is the essence of traumatic love. The moment you open the door to knowing, you also open the door to obliteration. Because what if she doesn’t love you anymore? But worse: what if she does, and you’ve wasted years alone?

“If it was about you—it would kill you. If it wasn’t—it would kill you worse.”

This recursive logic trap is characteristic of ambiguous grief, where you don’t mourn a death—you mourn the unknowing. And so you both haunt each other without ever speaking. Ellie sings. You stay silent. But her voice finds you anyway.

III. Art as Displacement: The Cathedral of Ash

“It sounded like someone trying to build a cathedral out of ash.”

That line—maybe the emotional core of the piece—is doing architectural metaphor work that goes beyond poetic flourish.

A cathedral is a holy place. A place of prayer, confession, reverence.

Ash is what's left after total destruction.

Trying to build a cathedral out of ash is a metaphor for trying to make something sacred out of something ruined.

That’s what Ellie is doing with her album. That’s what the reader does with hers. That’s what this entire story is doing—making art out of heartbreak, building sanctuaries out of smoke and grief.

And neither of them know if it’s sturdy enough to step inside.

IV. The “Post-Language” Phase of the Relationship

By this point, neither of you communicates through speech. Not texts. Not calls. You’ve ascended past verbal communication into a rarified level of connection where only music can hold the truth.

This is something unique to this narrative: music isn’t the backdrop—it’s the language of longing. It is the romance. The silence between albums is the years you didn’t speak. The drops are emotional detonations. The lyrics are diary entries left at the door.

What’s stunning is how this allows you to explore a love story where the climax is listening, not kissing*.

“You sat in the dark and didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe until it was over. And then you cried until you didn’t have a voice.”

That’s how Ellie sounded. Now that’s how you sound. The symmetry is complete. The listener becomes the performer. The pain cycles through each body in turn.

V. Dissolution of Self: Grief, Addiction, and the Vanishing Point

Ellie’s journey: the emotional debris is all over her album. That’s why it’s more than just sad—it’s ravaged. The album isn’t commercial. It’s barely even music. It’s a living injury she pressed to vinyl.

Her addiction and absence mirror the protagonist’s own emotional deadness:

“It had been a long time since you let yourself feel anything.”

You were addicted too—to avoidance. To the fantasy of not knowing. You both disappeared in different ways. Ellie in chemicals and chaos. You in numbness and overwork.

"You didn’t know what you wanted anymore. Except maybe one thing. One impossible thing.”

The impossibility here isn’t just Ellie—it’s forgiveness. It’s the idea that you could hear her voice again and not fall apart. That you could touch the old wound and not re-bleed. But of course, you do.

VI. The “Two-Hour Holy Ground” Concept: Love Without Contact

Let’s talk about the most important line in the whole piece:

“For those sacred, fragile two hours, you were both listening.”

That line is doing mythic emotional work. It’s intimacy without touch. Reunion without confrontation. Healing without apology. It’s what literary theorist Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick called “the powerful erotics of recognition.”

You don’t need to speak to each other. You just need to be seen—finally seen—by the person who once knew you best.

And through these albums, you see each other again.

It’s a communion. A séance. A miracle.

And it passes.

But it happened.

VII. This Is a Tragedy in the Shape of a Love Song

This story is not about reconciliation. It’s about bearing witness. It’s about the ache of still loving someone and knowing you may never speak again. But also knowing, with bone-deep certainty, that they loved you too. Enough to turn their agony into melody. Enough to risk everything just to be heard.

It’s a tragedy not because they’re apart—but because they’re still connected, and that connection burns more than distance ever could.

You didn’t lose each other. You survived each other. And barely.

Closing Image: “The Shape Of What I Lost” As Emotional Cartography

That title is more than clever. It is cartographic. A map of an absence. A negative space that outlines what once was.

Ellie’s album is the echo. Yours is the ghost. Together, they’re a twin elegy for a love still alive—but caged in silence.

VIII. The Liminal Space Between Two Albums

You created two sonic ghosts—two albums that don’t just respond to each other, but orbit, echo, and haunt.

This is not a dialogue. It’s a nonlinear time loop of grief.

Ellie’s album is past-tense agony: the kind you survive only by becoming someone else.

Yours is present-tense denial: a living numbness carved into melody.

Between them is the liminal space—where neither of you speak, but both of you scream.

This isn’t a conversation. It’s a ritual.

A ritual of survival. Of devotion. Of mourning someone who isn't dead.

IX. You’re Both Trying to Bleed Without Dying

This is trauma not as backdrop—but as structure. Every choice you’ve made in this story obeys trauma logic:

Avoidance over confrontation

Art over direct speech

Gesture over presence

Distance over rupture

And yet both characters are brutally present in each other’s lives—just offscreen.

Like a phantom limb: you don’t see her, but she hurts like she’s still there.

X. Ellie’s Album as an Unsent Confession

“She sounded like something unmaking itself.”

Here’s what that means structurally: Ellie’s voice isn’t just unraveling—it’s undoing the version of herself that survived by forgetting you.

It’s a spiritual purge—not just an artistic one.

When she recorded this, she wasn’t thinking of critics, or fans, or even her label. She was talking to you—the you she doesn’t believe will ever hear it.

That’s why it’s so raw. Because she didn’t think she had an audience.

This is a love letter disguised as ruin.

XI. The Flood Myth: Emotional Apocalypse as Rebirth

Every great love story that ends in silence is actually a flood myth:

Something too big to hold crashes in.

Everything familiar drowns.

If you survive, you are no longer who you were.

This story is the after. It’s not the flood. It’s the wet clothes, the mold, the aching bones from swimming too long.

Ellie’s album isn’t the flood—it’s her attempt to map where the land used to be. Yours is the raft you clung to, still unsure if she’s alive on the other shore.

And when you finally listen to her music, it’s not just sound. It’s a flood memory. The air changes. Time slows. Your chest tightens like it did when you first lost her.

Because you never stopped being in the water.

XII. The Sacred Injury

You’re both injured, but neither of you is trying to “heal.”

Why?

Because in stories like this, the injury is sacred.

It’s the last place she touched you.

It’s the proof you loved deeply.

It’s the thing you keep alive to remember who you were before the world fell.

Ellie sings from her wound. You listen from yours. And that’s the most intimate thing that’s ever passed between you.

You didn’t share a bed anymore. You shared a fracture.

XIII. The Final Intimacy: Being Understood Without Being Seen

What makes this story devastating is that the most intimate act isn’t touch—it’s listening.

No sex scene could ever hold the same weight as that moment when the reader puts on headphones and finally listens to Ellie’s voice:

“You sat in the dark and didn’t move… And then you cried until you didn’t have a voice.”

That’s Ellie’s voice—moving through you until yours disappears.

You’ve both been waiting years for this moment, but it’s not about reconciliation. It’s about being known.

She made something that knew you better than you know yourself.

That’s what love sounds like in this universe.

Not promises. Not I’m sorry. Not I love you.

Just: “Here. This is what it felt like to lose you.”

And the only answer is silence and tears.

XIV. This Is What a Soulmate Sounds Like When the World Fails Them

If you want one final truth—it’s this:

These characters are soulmates who met at the wrong time, under the wrong lights, with too much fire and not enough grace.

But they still found a way to speak to each other. Through ash. Through silence. Through songs no one else could fully understand.

And that’s what makes this story transcendentally tragic.

Because the greatest intimacy they’ve ever shared… …is not being together. It’s being able to survive apart, and still make something holy out of the ache.

PART V: LINGUISTIC PRECISION & EMOTIONAL LEXICON

- The Power of Monosyllables

Many of Ellie’s lines are clipped, one-syllable, or spare. There’s a reason:

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“You’re late.”

“Didn’t want this.”

These aren’t just curt. They’re protective syntax. This is a linguistic survival strategy — short words keep emotions at bay. The fewer syllables, the less room for vulnerability to leak in.

Interpretation: Ellie isn’t being cold — she’s limiting the number of exits her pain has. She’s constructing walls in real-time with punctuation.

- The Absence of Metaphor = Bleakness

Ellie’s inner world is devoid of lyricism until the very end (“the dream... had burned to ashes”). Why?

Because metaphor requires imagination — and imagination requires hope. The lack of it mirrors a world gone grayscale.

Only once she chooses to move, does metaphor return. You’re signaling this subconsciously: language blooms after choice.

PART VI: TRAUMA PHYSIOLOGY IN THE SCENE

Dissecting Ellie’s physicality as textbook trauma behavior, which you’ve intuitively rendered with emotional accuracy.

- Dissociation:

“She didn’t feel real.”

Classic trauma response. The mind detaches from the body when emotional overload hits.

The hoodie detail (comfort object), the mechanical heartbeat, the ghostprint — all signs of her watching herself from outside her body.

She’s not suicidal. She’s post-suicidal. This is the realm beyond ideation — where the mind’s only priority is stillness, even at the cost of life.

- Haptic Avoidance:

“Didn’t curl around him.”

The inability to reciprocate physical contact is not a lack of affection, but an autonomic freeze.

Touch = intimacy = danger.

Even Jesse and Dina don’t reach for her until she reaches first. That’s a phenomenal detail — it's not written, but it’s felt.

PART VII: STRUCTURAL ENGINEERING — HOW THE SCENE MOVES

This scene doesn’t just happen. It spirals inwards before cracking open. Here’s the architecture:

1. Collapse

Ellie is inert. There’s no emotional engine left running. We start from maximum stasis.

2. Disruption

Joel arrives — not as savior, but as interruptor. This breaks the cycle. She is no longer alone with her pain.

A quiet room can be comforting — until someone else enters it and you realize how loud your silence was.

3. Friction

They don’t harmonize. This is not a moment of mutual clarity. It’s jagged, uneven, full of frayed wires.

4. Volcanic Pulse

“I should’ve died.”

This is the emotional apex — a raw truth that neither party can clean up.

You drop this line like a detonation. You don’t explain it, contextualize it, or soften it. And that’s exactly right.

5. Deflation

Joel doesn’t fight it. This is crucial. He doesn’t offer clichés or redemptive speeches. He simply says:

“Still here.”

Like gravity itself — inescapable, unglamorous, but real.

6. The Microchoice

Ellie doesn’t declare her will to live. She stands up. And that’s enough.

PART VIII: HIDDEN MOTIFS & ECHOES

Let’s pull apart recurring motifs across this scene — things your subconscious may have planted, and which can now be developed thematically:

1. Mirroring Without Matching

No one in the scene mirrors Ellie’s pain with the same energy — and that’s what saves her.

Joel doesn’t break down. He stays still.

Jesse and Dina don’t perform empathy. They offer presence.

Lesson: Grief isn’t healed through matching intensity. It’s stabilized through contrast.

2. The Sacredness of the Mundane

The hoodie zipper. The blanket. The door opening.

These aren’t just practical items — they are altars of reality. Proof that time still exists.

You’re leveraging the mundane as spiritual intervention — which is how trauma healing often actually begins.

3. Soundlessness as Elegy

This scene has almost no auditory detail — no music, no external sounds. It’s like you’ve hit the mute button on the universe.

That makes sense: when someone is spiraling internally, the outer world fades out. You’ve scored silence into the text — and it works like a knife.

YUNA'S MEGA-SUMMARY: ELLIE’S COLLAPSE, CHOICE, AND THE LANGUAGE OF ENDINGS

This scene captures the slow implosion of a person—not through violence, but through inertia. Ellie is not screaming, crying, or thrashing. She is quietly vanishing.

The true heartbreak isn’t that she’s broken. It’s that she almost doesn’t care.

Her collapse isn’t cinematic—it’s cellular.

At its center, the scene is about post-traumatic freeze. Ellie’s not processing pain anymore—she’s suspended in it.

She doesn’t want to die, exactly. She just doesn’t want to be. That’s what makes this moment different from a classic suicidal beat: there’s no cry for help, no drama. Just emptiness with edges.

Her mind is a vacuum. Her body a ghostprint. Her name barely hers.

And that’s the scariest place to be.

You use language like a scalpel. Every line is economical, sharp, and unfinished—like Ellie herself.

Short, clipped phrases: a survival mechanism.

No metaphor at first: imagination has shut down.

Physical withdrawal: the body says “no” before the mouth does.

You don’t need to say “Ellie is traumatized.” The syntax is the trauma.

The scene isn’t about a fix. It’s about witnessing.

Joel doesn’t save her. He stays.

Jesse doesn’t preach. He pleads.

Dina doesn’t cry. She offers quiet presence.

Everyone meets Ellie where she is—not where they wish she were. And that restraint is where the emotional devastation (and healing) lives.

This is a non-rescue rescue.

The emotional flow is crafted like a spiral inward, then a single outward breath:

Stillness → She is unreachable. Beyond numb.

Friction → Joel arrives. The past reenters the room.

Crack → Ellie says it: “I should’ve died.”

Stasis → No rebuttal. Just grief’s gravity.

Movement → She stands. No speeches. Just breath.

That stand is everything. It’s not hope—it’s motion. And sometimes, motion is all that saves us.

“The tour was over. The music had stopped.”

This is the eulogy for her old self. Not just her career, not just the band—but the girl who believed this dream would save her.

The line isn’t just about music—it’s about grief. And in this silence, the next version of Ellie is born.

Let’s bring in one final, deeper reading:

This scene isn’t just about Ellie falling apart. It’s about her choosing, even in that state, not to disappear.

The fact that she stands up?

Not because she believes it’ll get better.

Not because someone convinced her.

But because some ember of her—some primal animal self—still says:

“Move.”

And that? That’s survival. That’s character. That’s your scene's heartbeat.

You’ve written something unsparing, deeply emotional, and honest to the marrow. It resists easy redemption and rewards emotional attention.

This is the kind of writing that doesn’t just show pain—it maps it, so that what comes after can feel earned.

It’s a funeral of self. And the quiet miracle is that Ellie still breathes at the end of it.

COUGH COUGH (I hope you know I had to write this while animal crossing noises came from my keyboard and my fiancé on the bed sick watching me furiously typing away in like full uninterrupted dedication.

FOR MY LOVELY @valeisaslut HERE IS THE PART 2 EPILOUGE DEEP-DIVE ( THIS IS PART ONE OF THIS DEEP - DIVE CAUSE IT WAS TOO BIG FOR TUMBLR)

THIS DEEP-DIVE IS BASED OFF OF THE VERY BEGGINNING SCENE OF PART 2 OF THE EPILOGUE WITH A VERY NOT IN A GOOD PLACE ELLIE AND JOEL ENJOY!!

PART I: SUBTEXT & PSYCHOLOGICAL DYNAMICS

- Ellie’s Inertia = Psychological Shutdown

Her slack arms. Her refusal to hug back. Her body language is nonverbal trauma. She's not rejecting Joel out of hatred, but out of a lack of emotional energy. She’s depleted. This is catatonia in spirit — her system has moved into survival mode, and emotional connection has become a threat.

“Didn’t curl around him.” → She couldn’t. She’s unresponsive because touch is too intimate, too dangerous. But…

“Didn’t pull away either.” → The core of her hasn’t died. There’s still a thread of want. A thread of memory.

Psychological Parallel: This moment reads like a PTSD freeze response. Her lack of motion is not indifference. It’s paralysis.

- Joel = Stability vs. Regret

Joel represents constant, grounding love — but he’s not perfect. His past failures are implied in every sentence.

“They said you were disappearing.” — Joel didn’t act on instinct. He was alerted, which implies distance and guilt.

“I’ll stay until you’re ready.” — He’s not here to save her for himself. He’s here because he’s reached a moral brink. Love as responsibility.

Fatherhood Arc: Joel’s presence is late, but it’s no less fierce. This is a man begging for a second chance to not make the same mistake twice. Not just for Ellie’s sake — but for his soul.

PART II: SYMBOLS & RESONANT IMAGERY

- Heartbeat = Survival Machine

“It didn’t feel alive. It felt mechanical—like a rusted engine.”

This is not poetic fluff. It’s medical, metaphorical, and mechanical. Her body is still working, but she is gone.

“Mechanical” = Disconnection between body and mind.

“Rusted engine” = Long-neglected internal machinery. Ellie hasn’t just stopped feeling; she’s corroding.

Symbolism Layer: Her heart isn’t gone. It’s just in need of repair.

- Zipper = Control

“The zipper jammed halfway.”

The act of trying to zip the hoodie becomes an emotional metaphor:

Half-zipped = Incomplete emotional state.

Jammed zipper = Emotional blockage. She wants to shield herself, but can’t.

Hoodie from Jesse = Memory of a time she felt safe.

This is micro-symbolism at its best — tiny action, massive implication.

- Ghostprint on Joel’s Chest

“Her palms left a ghostprint.”

This moment is cinematic. It’s tactile memory — like grief you can touch. It isn’t just that she touched him; it’s that she left a residue. The ache lingers physically.

Symbolism Layer:

“Ghost” = Haunting. Ellie is already becoming someone he’s mourning.

“Print” = Proof. Despite the rage, she connected.

ART III: THEMATIC CURRENTS & NARRATIVE INFLECTION

- Not a Rescue — A Reluctant Exodus

Ellie’s decision to leave is not an act of hope. It’s an act of surrender. You portray this beautifully — she follows Joel not because she wants to live, but because she can’t afford to stay.

This aligns with the core truth of trauma recovery: people don’t heal because they’re inspired. They heal because not healing will kill them.

“She either stepped through that door—or died.”

That line is thesis-level. It cements that her choice isn’t free will. It’s a last breath.

- Found Family Holding the Ashes

The reunion with Jesse and Dina is a second climax — emotionally quieter, but devastating.

No dramatics. Just presence.

Their silence is louder than any forgiveness.

It acknowledges that the band is gone, but the people remain.

“They had stood shoulder to shoulder beneath lights so blinding, they mistook the heat for forever.”

That line should be printed and framed. It’s everything about fame, youth, and burnout.

“Mistook each other for unbreakable.” → This is why we grieve broken friendships harder than broken dreams.

- Final Lines = Elegy for the Dream

“The tour was over. The music had stopped.”

The cadence of these sentences mimics a eulogy. You’re not just ending a chapter; you’re mourning a cultural myth — that art and love and talent can save you. That youth is invincible. That the dream doesn’t have a price.

“The dream—that impossible, holy, feral dream—had burned to ashes.”

That sentence is cathedral-level. It's savage. It's holy. It's true.

PART IV: LITERARY PARALLELS & GENRE CONTEXT

Structurally reminiscent of:

The Last of Us Part II’s post-trauma tone

Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son (survival in addiction)

Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag (brutal emotional economy)

Emotionally parallel to:

Bo Burnham’s Inside

The ending of A Star Is Born

Taylor Swift’s This Is Me Trying

Musically framed trauma fiction isn’t common in fan works at this depth — this scene feels like if Florence Welch wrote a stage play. Guttural. Uncompromising.

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

She never meant to take the photo. But one click — instinctive, intimate, and all too honest — unravels everything. On tour with a band she barely knows how to stop watching, a photographer finds herself tangled in the silence between art and trespass, beauty and betrayal. What happens when the line between capturing someone and keeping them blurs? And what’s left when the subject finally turns away?

cw for this chapter// emotional distress & breakdowns, invasion of privacy, betrayal of trust, power imbalance, guilt & shame, implied substance use, implied emotional burnout, slight introspective

note - this chapter was not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes! If there are any mistakes please let me know!!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc @wwefan2002

CHAPTER EIGHT: UNSPOKEN

You don’t mean to take the photo.

Not really.

It’s just reflex — the click of your shutter more muscle memory than thought. The lens is still slung around your neck long after the shoot officially wrapped, weightless from habit, familiar like the feel of your own pulse.

The backstage lights are low, flickering in some dull amber that turns everything sluggish and tender around the edges. There’s static in the air, leftover reverb, the kind that lingers long after a show. Your ears are still ringing faintly with it.

Ellie’s crouched in the corner of the green room.

She doesn’t know you’re still here.

Her legs are drawn tight to her chest, hoodie sleeves pushed up like they’re strangling her arms. One hand is knotted in her hair. The other’s clamped over her mouth, fingers trembling against her lips like she’s holding something in — a scream, maybe. A sob. Something that has nowhere else to go.

And you—

You don’t breathe when you press the shutter.

There’s no reason for it. No thought, no framing. Just a twitch of instinct and the soft mechanical click that follows. It echoes louder than it should in the quiet.

You glance down.

The preview glows faintly on your camera screen.

And your heart folds in on itself.

Because it’s not a good photo.

It’s something else entirely.

It’s honest.

And you don’t delete it.

You don’t even move.

It started hours earlier, with nothing. Just the hum of another morning on the road.

You’d ridden with the band that day — Jesse had offered, casual as ever, and you’d climbed into the van with your camera bag already slung across your body, worn straps digging into your shoulder. The roads had blurred past in streaks of gold and concrete, sun peeking through half-rolled windows, wind pushing flyaways into your face.

Everyone was tired. That halfway-point kind of tired — the kind that loosens limbs and tongues, makes even the grumpiest crew member lean back and laugh too loudly at dumb jokes.

Ellie had been in a mood. One of the good ones. Talkative in the way she only ever was when she was deflecting. Her voice low and dry and just a little too fast, like she was trying to stay ahead of something she didn’t want to name.

“You know we only like you around because you bring normal people energy,” Jesse had joked from the front of the van, glancing back with a grin.

You’d laughed. Rolled your eyes. “Normal’s generous.”

And Ellie — she’d leaned back against the cracked leather seat and muttered, “She brings camera energy. Big difference.”

But then she’d looked at you in the mirror. Just for a second.

Not annoyed. Not cold.

Something else.

That now-familiar softness. That flicker in her eyes like you were becoming part of her language, some half-written verse she wasn’t quite ready to sing.

The show had been chaos. Glorious and brutal.

Bodies pressing against the barricade, sweat and screams and the flash of stage lights in every direction. Ellie had been feral up there — all sharp motion and raw voice, throwing herself into each song like it hurt not to. Like something inside her would’ve broken worse if she didn’t let it out that way.

You’d captured a thousand images between dusk and the breathless encore.

Technically good. A few were even gorgeous.

But none of them — not a single shot — felt like the one you’d take later. The one you weren’t supposed to.

The one that would gut you.

Back at the hotel, hours later, the buzz of adrenaline is long gone.

It’s replaced by something low and twitching. The kind of ache that hums in your knuckles after too many shutter pulls. The kind of ache that lives in your chest, slow and sharp, when the night is quiet and there’s nothing left between you and the truth.

You sit cross-legged on the hotel bed, bare thighs sticking slightly to the cheap comforter. The air conditioner clicks and whirs. Your laptop screen glows cold blue in the dark.

Contact sheets roll by.

You scroll. You flag. You edit. Fingers tapping shortcuts in practiced rhythm, eyes scanning for light and movement, contrast and clarity. The ritual is grounding. Almost comforting.

Ellie’s in so many of them.

Sharp lines. Wild mouth. Sweat curling damp wisps of hair against her temple.

But her eyes — they keep catching you.

Not posed. Not styled. Mid-scream, sure, but half-lidded. Haunted.

You pause there.

You open the full image.

Then another.

Then another.

And then — God help you — you open the folders.

You’d labeled them as placeholders. That’s the lie you tell yourself. Organizational habits. Practical things.

Clear names for future sorting.

ellie//raw — where you keep the unposted moments. The in-between captures. Her stretching before a set, long limbs lit by dusty light. Tuning her guitar barefoot in a stairwell. Her profile caught against the van window at sunrise, freckled face soft with sleep.

blurred lines — a different kind of folder. Half-secret, even to you. Nothing explicit. Just... intimate. Emotional ephemera. Voice notes of half-sung lyric ideas. A photo of her Converse nudging yours under a café table, like she was trying to make you laugh. A two-minute video where she fumbled through a joke and laughed harder when she forgot the punchline.

You never posted any of it.

But you kept them all.

And tonight — tonight your hands shake as you drag the new photo into ellie//raw.

You don’t know why.

Or maybe you do.

You should’ve asked. You didn’t.

And that’s when the door swings open.

It’s Dina.

Flushed from the afterparty, eyeliner smudged at the corners of her eyes, glitter stuck in the creases of her collarbone. She stops short when she sees your face.

Sees your laptop.

Sees the photo — Ellie, mid-breakdown, eyes wild and mouth clamped tight in grief.

Frozen. Caught. Vulnerable in a way that feels unspeakable.

“Whoa,” Dina breathes, stepping closer.

You flinch. Snap the laptop closed.

“It’s nothing. Just—editing.”

But Dina isn’t buying it.

She’s too smart for that. Too familiar with the rhythms of performance. Too loyal to ignore the tension in your shoulders.

Her voice drops. “Was she okay?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Say nothing.

That’s all the answer she needs.

Her expression shifts — not angry. Not even shocked. Just... disappointed.

“Does she know you took that?”

You look away.

Dina exhales, long and slow. Steps back.

“You’re better than this,” she says.

The words settle like dust in the air.

Are you?

You don’t sleep.

You lie in the unfamiliar bed, head turned toward the window, watching lights blur across the ceiling. Your chest aches.

Not from guilt. Not exactly.

From something else.

From the quiet truth you don’t know how to name — that you’ve been watching Ellie too closely for too long. That maybe you started seeing her too clearly. That maybe it’s not just art anymore.

That maybe it hasn’t been for a while.

The next morning, the sun is dull behind gray clouds.

You find her in the alley behind the venue. Hoodie pulled up. Smoke curling from between her fingers. Headphones in, shoulders tense.

She doesn’t hear you at first.

Then she looks up. Pulls one side of the headphones down.

Her eyes find yours.

She smiles — just barely.

Then sees your face.

“Hey,” she says. Slow. Cautious. “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice doesn’t work right away. “Rough night.”

Ellie nods too. Offers you the joint.

You shake your head.

And for a long moment, neither of you says anything.

There’s something peaceful about it. Or fragile. Like a glass bell, suspended between you.

You think, Tell her.

You think, Be honest.

But you don’t.

She finds out two days later.

You don’t know how.

You just know something shifts — a tectonic silence.

She walks into the green room after soundcheck and doesn’t meet your eyes.

Doesn’t look at you at all.

You’re at your laptop again. Sorting selects. Trying not to sweat through your shirt.

And then her voice, low and sharp:

“Can I talk to you?”

You look up.

Her face is unreadable.

You follow her down the hallway. Past the echoing reverb of the stage crew testing mics. Into a back storage room that smells like dust and old vinyl, lit by a single buzzing bulb overhead.

She turns.

Shuts the door.

Then:

“Did you take that picture?”

You freeze.

“Ellie—”

Her jaw tightens.

“Don’t. Just—answer me.”

Your voice is small. “Yes.”

She blinks. Like you slapped her.

And then she says — voice raw: “Did you even ask yourself if that was yours to take?”

Your throat locks.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did, though.” Her voice wavers. “You always mean to.”

She starts to pace. Hands flexing. Her gaze sharp and wild, like she’s looking for an exit that isn’t there.

“I let you in,” she says. “I let you see me. I thought you—” she stops. Swallows hard. “I thought you understood what that meant.”

“I do,” you try.

But her voice cuts sharper now.

“No, you don’t. You don’t get it. I have to be a thousand versions of myself for the world. For fans. For the press. For the fucking band. But that moment?”

She gestures — violent, abrupt.

“That was mine.”

Silence falls like a curtain.

You feel the weight of it then — not just the photo.

The betrayal. The line you crossed, maybe without realizing it. Maybe not.

“I didn’t show anyone,” you whisper. “I didn’t post it.”

Ellie laughs. Bitter.

“That’s not the point.”

Her voice drops, hoarse now. “You kept it. You looked at it. You made it yours.”

You look down.

And she takes a step back.

Like she’s retreating. Or breaking.

Or both.

“I need space,” she says.

You nod.

Numb.

She leaves.

Later, you delete the file.

You drag it to the trash, fingers trembling.

But the emptiness it leaves on your hard drive doesn’t even come close to the one in your chest.

Two weeks later.

You still haven’t spoken.

Not since that night in the storage room, when she walked out and didn’t look back.

The tour kept moving. Of course it did. Cities changed. Venues blurred. The van rolled on.

But something in you stayed behind. Something cracked and pulsing and stuck in that dust-choked room, where her voice broke and your silence said too much.

You’ve seen her, of course. Onstage. In green rooms. Across long merch tables. She's never far — but somehow she feels galaxies away. Every time her eyes skim past yours, every time she turns slightly away mid-conversation, it hurts in a way you didn’t know was possible.

Not rejection. Not even anger.

It’s absence.

Like she's already pulled out the thread that tied you to her, and now there’s just unraveling.

You try to pretend it’s fine.

You work. You shoot. You turn in your selects on time. You laugh at Jesse’s dumb jokes and nod when Dina checks in with her eyes. But the lens doesn’t feel safe anymore. Every time you lift it to your face, it shakes. Not from the weight. From you.

From the question you can’t stop asking: When did this stop being art?

You don’t know where you are when it happens. Just another green room. Another low hum of fluorescent lights and stale coffee and everyone talking too loudly around you.

You’re scrolling. Autopilot. Sorting files by metadata, skipping through folders you haven’t opened in weeks. Avoiding one in particular.

But then you click it.

You don’t mean to. Maybe some part of you does.

ellie//raw

The folder opens.

And there it is.

The photo.

You’d emptied your trash days ago. Wiped your backups. You’d meant to erase it — really, truly meant it.

But some ghost of it lingered. Some cache file, auto-recovery save, hidden restore point.

It’s here. Perfect. Pristine.

She’s still crouched. Still crumpled into herself like a wound. Still caught mid-break. That same unbearable honesty bleeding from the frame.

You don’t breathe.

You just… look.

And that’s when you hear her voice behind you.

“…You said you deleted it.”

Your heart stops.

You turn slowly.

Ellie’s standing in the doorway, half-shadowed by the fluorescent light, arms crossed so tight she’s practically curled into herself.

You try to close the laptop. Fumble. Miss the trackpad.

“Ellie, I didn’t— I thought it was gone, I swear—”

But it doesn’t matter.

Her face isn’t angry. It’s worse than that.

It’s devastated.

She looks at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Like you’re some stranger who’s holding something she never meant to give.

And when she speaks again, her voice is a whisper.

“Do you even see me? Or do you just… collect me?”

The words hit like a blade.

You step toward her, hands out. “That’s not fair—”

But she steps back.

Shakes her head once.

“You think it’s about the photo,” she says. “But it’s not. It’s you. It’s this whole fucking thing. You act like you care, but all you do is look. You watch me. And it’s starting to feel like I’m just a mirror for you. Something you hold up to catch your own reflection.”

Your throat goes dry.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” she says. “God, I know you didn’t mean to. That’s the worst part.”

Silence stretches. Loud and aching.

Then Ellie looks down. Her voice cracks.

“You were the one person I thought might actually see the parts of me that aren’t loud. That aren’t onstage. The quiet, fucked-up pieces I can’t even name.”

She swallows.

“And you turned it into a project.”

Tears burn your eyes.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know if anything would matter.

“I’m done,” she says softly.

And this time — when she leaves —

She closes the door behind her.

And it clicks shut like a final note.

Like a song that was never meant to be sung.