cherry š she/her. gemini. 19. occasional writer and moodboard maker. delusional dreamer. self proclaimed film bro. glam rock lover. proud beyhive member. love child of marlene mckinnon and rue bennett. astrally connected to patrick zweig and remus lupin. chronically online.
most unhealthy obsessions: challengers; marauders; the pitt, sinners; criminal minds; the hunger games; tennis; euphoria; money heist; spiderman;
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ā¦..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.Ā
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ą„ā” summary: Art Donaldson had it all figured out, or at least thatās what he told himself. Tennis, discipline, winning - that was the plan. Simple enough. Until he met her. She didnāt care about trophies or rankings, didnāt live by the same rules at all. She wanted something else, something he couldnāt name. And somewhere between the silence of his own head and the chaos she carried with her, he found a reason to want more than just the game.
ā¢ą„ā” notes: this is my first time trying to write something bigger
All he could think about was coffee. Itās the only thing on his mind during the slightly bumpy ride on the bus. He yawned, nearly dropped his head against the chilly window, and almost passed out, but managed to pull through.
Art Donaldson was moving in today. Early, cause of tennis. It mightāve been exciting if it wasnāt so damn early and his iPod hadnāt died ages ago. When the surroundings finally started to resemble every brochure heād been handed in the last couple months, he slid out of the creaky plastic seat and managed to scare the living shit out of the driver by popping his head next to him and asking if that was the building he was looking for.
The bus grunted as it left him alone in the middle of a campus he barely knew. The gravel hummed under his feet, unstable but stiff, like him. The morning air was refreshing but nothing could beat a double shot of espresso. He reminded himself that the brief break was over and such indulgence was borderline sinful.
He looked around, spotting a sparkling Range Rover parking near one of the dormitories. A grinning father exited and opened the trunk, filled up to the very top with pink flashy suitcases, and boxes of decor. A motherās squeal broke the peaceful morning when her daughter tried hauling another bag out of the bag seat. Art saw the woman shake her head and help the girl.
Then his gaze was brought down by the feeling of his duffel bag, where he believed heād successfully fit his entire life. (Heād sent his tennis stuff a week prior, so he wouldnāt have to haul that around as well.) The strap was digging into his shoulder and he wondered if the third pair of sneakers had been an overkill. Or maybe it just felt heavier because no one else was carrying it with him.
Alright, maybe that was poor planning on his part. But what was he supposed to do? His grandma has been drifting between feeling unwell and feeling way too hopeful about the way his life would turn out, so he couldnāt burden her with his incompetence, especially now that she was finally happy in that facility. And his mother, well, she was a whole different story. Who prefers a work trip to London over their sonās move-in day? He didnāt want to judge though, maybe it was important. Or maybe that businessmanās wife had finally caught on and an affair overseas was just more convenient.
Still, he was fairly confident he could manage. Regardless of the quiet, he was certain heād feel fine here once he moved in. Maybe when the campus filled up, the hustle and bustle would drown out the noise in his mind.
Pulling a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, he spun in a full circle before realizing which direction to walk. His shoes squeaked on the gravel, which made him sound like a SpongeBob character. Patrick would mock him for it. Thank goodness he wasnāt there. Nobody really was.
He got to the fancy tall door with the intricate details and glass that looks a bit too thin for a college dorm, and looked around. There was no one to call, no bell to ring. So he just opened it. It screeched softly as he slipped inside, feeling like heād walked onto the wrong movie set. It smelled slightly stale, and it was pretty stuffy. The kind of smell that makes you wonder how long sweat can linger in the air.
Some guy in a Stanford T-shirt was passed out on the couch. He jolted awake when Art walked in, blinked at him like heād never seen another human before, then shoved a key and pamphlet into his hands. By the time Art managed a polite smile, the guy had already collapsed back into the cushions, eyes shut.
Good start.
On the way up to his room, he couldnāt help but cringe internally at the awkwardness of the brief interaction. Was he supposed to beā¦cooler? His thoughts were interrupted by voices somewhere outside. A mother was crying, a father was patting a boy his age on the shoulder and telling him to not forget to call. A lump started to form in Artās throat, for no apparent reason, of course. And just then his duffel bag slid off his shoulder, almost taking him along in a fall down the stairs. As he yanked it back up, he thought about the humiliation of dying on his first day of college.
The door opened ahead of him and he looked around. Spacious, sure. Bright, too. Like a hotel someone forgot to decorate. Light was shining through the large windows, casting the room in a soft yellowish colour. The floorboards were slightly worn down but didnāt creak at every step. And he had his own bathroom. What else could a college student want? He could make it work.
Unpacking took him a long fifteen minutes. He sort of stood in the middle of the room for a moment and stared at the empty space. He could hear the echo of his own steps ring around, the silence clinging onto every brief sound. As unwelcoming as it gets. Maybe he shouldāve asked his grandma for advice. She couldnāt come, but sheād have given good tips on how to make this look less like a prison.
Well, too late. He could probably get a plant or something and it would fix it.
He didnāt have practice for a few hours but there wasnāt really much to do. He thought about calling Patrick but he was at his familyās this week. And that meant heād sleep until at the very least two pm and would straight up curse Artās entire bloodline if he dared to interrupt his rest. He thought about trying to find Tashi, but that seemed too embarrassing. Calling his best friendās girlfriend he was once into because he was lonely, as if. He could manage on his own.
His racquets were already waiting for him somewhere on campus. That was the part he knew how to handle. This? Not so much.
Before Art could get lost in the depths of his self depreciation, he heard a grunt somewhere outside his room. Curiosity and boredom drove him to open the door just a crack, too annoyed by the concept of social interaction but still desperate for a distraction.
Thatās when he saw the most beautiful girl in the world, swearing under her breath as she tried to drag a ginormous suitcase up the stairs.
Art Donaldson is warmth. Not the sunburn kind, but the golden kind. The kind that pools through a window while youāre trying to sleep in.
Heās a sunset on a warm September evening. Heās post-it notes with dad jokes and tiny detailed drawings. Heās caramel syrup and popcorn and the smell of mandarins on your fingertips hours after youāve peeled one.
Heās pretty when he cries. And heās clingy and touchy and obsessive. He grasps jacket sleeves and hands, runs his fingers through hair, counts lashes. He gets jealous easily and he pouts like a kid.
He loves with his whole heart and hates with the universe.
Art Donaldson is warmth. The kind that burns if you hold on too long.
ā¢ą„ā” summary:Ā Ā what went unsaid in that Atlanta hotel bar
ā¢ą„ā” word count:Ā 1k
ā¢ą„ā” notes:Ā loosely based on the Atlanta 2011 scene, possibly posted on ao3
Atlanta, 2011
Itās loud again. Way too loud for Tashiās liking. The volume of the TV in the dark hotel bar is turned down to just a measly line. But thatās still too much. Especially, when thereās a familiar face plastered onto the screen, and a name, so hauntingly ugly, is repeated over and over again. Blah, blah, Anna Müller, blah, blah, Wimbledon. It could drive anyone crazy.
She looks around the bar, eyes drifting between soft cushions and mahogany tables. Her eyes drift down to her drink, whiskey on the rocks. While swirling the liquid absentmindedly, her gaze is brought back to the blinding light of a white tennis skirt and tank top, long slender arms wrapped around The Venus Rosewater Dish. The German is clutching it so tightly, Tashi can almost laugh. Anna didnāt deserve it, thatās why.
But before she lets her thoughts swallow her, she tips the glass and takes a large gulp of the whiskey. Her mouth forms a thin line, holding back a reaction. Sheās always been able to hold her liquor. Biting her tongue and avoiding the cruel light of the TV, she looks around. Two other people in the bar. Makes sense, itās almost 1 am. A young man in a suit, sitting at the bar, has a pint in his large hairy hand. Heās bent over, typing on an Iphone 4s, placed on the wet and sticky wooden bartop, with one finger. Behind him, an old lady is slowly sipping a clear liquid from a glass. Maybe vodka. Definitely vodka. Her wrinkled lips are overlined to the gods and thereās a pearl necklace hanging around her neck.
This pathetic excuse for entertainment is not enough. Itās getting loud again. Annaās name. Anna cursing at her in German years ago. āGood luck champā. The gasps. The doctor saying āI canāt promise anythingā. Art whispering sweet nothings into her ear when things got very bad and very real. The firm but not unkind voice of the athletics director telling her about the withdrawal of her scholarship. Her mom shushing her softly as she sobbed in her arms during the 5 hour drive back home. āI want you to join my team because I wanna win.ā Artās shaky, shallow voice as he gave the eulogy at his grandmotherās funeral. Artās soft āI need youās she hears daily, between the rumbles of sheets and weak moans. Artās grunts when he plays. Artās mumbled āgood nightā. Art, Art, Art.
It makes her head spin. She tries to drown it in whiskey, taking another sip and looking out the window, hoping to find a distraction. A cat fight, a plastic bag being blown away by the wind. Anything that could stop those tears from falling. She hadnāt cried since their engagement. She wouldnāt cry now.
A person walks furiously past the window. Her breath hitches. It all happens so fast, the manās steps come to an abrupt halt, he turns around. Patrick. Their eyes lock for a brief second. Piercing blue making her blood run cold. It seems like she blinks once and heās there, inside. He doesnāt say a word as he sits down opposite of her. Their eyes lock and it seems to be the only thing needed.
Heād grown up. His boyish features have become sharper, in his eyes she can no longer see childish arrogance. Thereās just cold, unwavering distrust. A slight stubble covers his jaw. His facial hair has finally evened out, she thinks. Heās leaning against the back of the chair, a surprising warmth filling his eyes for a second, then disappearing. She looks down at the glass in her left hand.
Thatās when he sees it. The ring. He has to bite down a scowl. Too pretentious, too big of a rock for her delicate fingers. But a family heirloom. Heās heard the stories from Art, he knows. Thatās why he doesnāt ask. And she couldnāt be more grateful.
She leans back as well, trying to exude all of what sheās lost. The good posture, the slight tilt of her chin - they should all mean confidence. But he knows her, *he is her*. Itās just a mask. Her fingers tremble slightly, causing the rock to catch the light and then be engulfed in the darkness of the bar once again. She hasnāt glared at him even once, which is certainly new. Tashi seems to be avoiding his gaze, for the first time, maybe in her life, looking scared and broken and hurt. Her brows furrow involuntarily as she looks down at her drink once again. She takes another sip.
āDidnāt know you did scotch.ā He mumbles, trying to find a way to bring the fire back, or the ice, whatever comes. Itās uncharted territory, sheād always carried it with her, no matter what. But now, she seems empty, hollow, a shell of what she once was.
She doesnāt look at him. If she did, sheād see true desperation. He wants her to yell, to curse, to go for blood. Patrick wants to know that sheās not gone, that *he* hasnāt sucked the soul out of her. But all he gets is a quick once-over. Her eyes drift back to the TV for a second, and her expression tightens further. He looks over his shoulder briefly. Oh Tashi, he thinks. Now he gets it. If he could give her tennis back - he would. If he could give her the world - he would. But someone else has promised to do the latter.
Her hand drops from the glass and remains on the table, the neutral ground between them. If he didnāt know her, heās think sheās making herself comfortable. But he does. Itās not a first step, but itās an invitation for one. Which is the most you can get out of Tashi Duncan. He looks down at her hand, then back up to meet her eyes, no longer narrow and seething with anger. Just big and hurt. It looks unnatural, wrong. A wave of nostalgia washes over him. Why does he miss the way they hurt each other?
She downs her glass and gets up, eyes lingering on him for that one extra second that explains it all. He follows her lead.
ā¢ą„ā” summary:Ā seven-year-old Lily awaits her parentsā return, only to be surprised when they arrive with a strange man, a smelly dog and a secret that shifts the dynamic of her worldĀ
ā¢ą„ā” word count: 1.5k
ā¢ą„ā” notes: i think i posted this on ao3 a while ago, but i cant log in anymore so itās gonna be here as well :)
Lily Donaldson has always loved dogs. They had been the first animal sheād learned to imitate as a baby, the first thing sheād look for when visiting her grandmotherās house. She still sleeps with a cocker spaniel plushy. Her mom says sheās too old for it, but she always finds someone to repair it when the left ear or the right paw gets ripped out while theyāre traveling.
Lily had also always wanted a dog. She was only five years old when she forced her nanny to make a PowerPoint presentation about how much their family would benefit from a puppy. Sheād picked the pictures and the animations and was extremely proud of it. Her parents werenāt so impressed when they were met by an exhilarated Lily at the door after a 14-hour flight. She was struggling to hold the laptop up, but her little fingers pressed the keys with rehearsed efficiency as she recited her speech. Once she broke out into song, Tashi had to put an end to it. That night, they had one of their big-girl talks. Lily listened with wide eyes as her mom explained how it was irresponsible for them to get a puppy when they traveled so much. The girl was too smart to deny that her logic made sense, but that didnāt stop a small, adorable pout from appearing on her face. Thatās one of the main reasons Art wasnāt allowed to be present at this conversation. Had it been up to him, Lily would have a kennel and a half. But Tashi wouldnāt have it. So Lily got another plushy and a day at the zoo with her parents.
And with time, as her features grew more similar to her dadās and her personality to her momās, Lily began dreaming bigger. She had many ideas, hopes, and plans. She thought about puppies less and less often. With school starting, she had so many books to read and so many pictures to draw.
She was now 7, and the hopeless dreams of owning a dog were long forgotten. Perhaps she had inherited her motherās pragmatism or her fatherās pessimism. It didnāt really matter. She was entirely over it, like any big girl could be.
It was an hour past her bedtime. The nanny was getting sick of reading stories, bringing water, and fluffing pillows. But Lily just wasnāt tired. How could she be sleeping when Mom and Dad were coming home soon? Her tiny ears picked up the soft purring of a car engine somewhere outside. Her eyes widened as a bright smile split her face. She almost ran into her babysitter and knocked down the mug of warm milk with honey that the woman was carrying. Loud pats echoed on the cold wooden floor, contrasting with the oppressive silence of the past two weeks since her parents had left. She stood at the door, chest heaving, big brown eyes gleaming with excitement.
The heavy door was soon pushed open by her father. The crisp night air hit Lily, and she shuddered. Dad froze with a slightly uneasy expression on his face, which was concerning, given the fact that he had just won the US Open. Lily had seen that with her own two eyes. She had kissed the TV, screamed, and jumped, while her grandma blew a whistle and clapped. But now he looked tense. She heard her mom let out a huff, then saw her poke her head inside, as if frustrated that Dad was too slow. She froze too. Tashi. Her mother, her rock, the ever-so-calm-and-collected Tashi Duncan was now nervous. They clearly hadnāt expected to see her there. But they shouldāve known better. Itās Lily Donaldson we are talking about.Ā
Her tiny brows furrowed when she heard heavy breathing that was so very inhuman. Tashi let out a soft sigh of defeat and pushed the door open to reveal a scrawny dog. And a⦠scruffy man. That Patrick guy her dad had beaten in New Rochelle last month. She remembered Dadās face after that matchāsomething hadnāt been right, even then. But no one had ever explained. Mom and Dad had gone back to being funny and nice. And Lily had written it off as a result of the win.
Patrickās expression was the calmest, as if he had expected to see Lily there. His hand dropped from her dadās back and dipped into his pocket. She saw the way his eyes drifted between her parentsā backs with an *I told ya* type of glimmer in them, almost condescending. Mom and Dad shared a brief glance, out of their element for some odd reason. What had happened in New York?Ā
Wait⦠a dog? For a split second, her dream of a fluffy puppy flickered in her mind, but this thing? It smelled. And its fur was patchy. She almost fell for it. Keyword: almost. Her tiny arms crossed, and she gave the three of them a look that was a carbon copy of Tashiās unamused expression.
āAre you having a new baby?ā she asked, shamelessly. She had never been one to beat around the bush. Like mother, like daughter.
Taken aback, Art opened and closed his mouth. He was already fidgeting with the keys in his hand. She could see him swallowing thickly. The new guy was holding back a smirk and twisting the dogās leash once more around his wrist. He had this weird air to him. Way too confident. Yet there was a glimmer of fondness in his eyes. He seemed to observe Lily with a mixture of amusement and true curiosity. Tashi knelt down to her level and shook her head.
āNo, Lily bear, weāre not having a new baāā Before she could continue with her rushed but shaky explanation, Lily interrupted her.
āThen whatās this?ā A tiny finger pointed toward the big but skinny dog that had its nose deep in the nannyās shoes by their doorway and was leaking a certain... smell. āAre you trying to get me to like you?ā she said with impressive conviction. She wasnāt wrong per se. āWhy would I not like you if youāre not having a new baby?ā
Tashi looked down for a second, composing herself. Art was rubbing his neck anxiously.
āThis is Rex, Patrickās dog.ā The singular wrinkle on her momās forehead was concerning Lily. She never had that unless something had happened. She would wait for an explanation first. Surely there was one...
āRex?ā Her tiny forehead creased, eyebrows furrowing. She had never been the patient type. Got it from her dad. āWhatās it doing here? Whatās he doing here? Thatās the New Rochelle guy, isnāt it?ā she said quickly, her lisp coming out once again. There went a year of speech therapy.
Tashi stuttered briefly. She almost corrected her lisp, but then she held back.Ā
āWell, yes. Patrick is staying with us for a while. Do you mind?ā
Tashiās voice had that slight edge, one that Lily knew all too well. She heard it when she hadnāt done her homework, or set her plate in the sink, or had left her easel in the living room. When she had made Mom irritated, but not angry. Yet the usual sternness was not present in her expression. Her eyes were ever so slightly wider, and she was holding onto Lilyās arms in a very strange way. Almost as if she were nervous. As if she were trying to get Lily to drop the entire subject, to rein in her curiosity. Her bottom lip jutted forward. But there was definitely more to the Patrick thing. The little girlās eyes drifted between the three of them for a few seconds. She wanted to protest, to ask her questions, to get answers. But she decided to spare them the trouble. At least for tonight. She would be dreaming about it probably, or spending all night making up explanations in her head. The girl had never been able to just forget about peculiarities. But Mom and Dad looked tired. She freed herself from her momās hold and went to briefly hug her dadās legs.
āGood job, Daddy.ā He stared down at her, stiff and dumbfounded by her nonchalance, managing to only pat her back twice. With the corner of her eye she could see Mom glancing briefly at the new guy. Lily then pulled away and started dragging her feet toward the stairwell.
Her parents were frozen in their places, the Patrick guy was leaning against the doorframe, a smug expression on his face, and the weird dog had attacked the umbrella holder next. Lily rubbed her eyes.
āIām going to bed. You guys are extra weird.ā Before disappearing on the second floor, she mumbled, āI wanted a puppy. This thing smells.ā
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hiii YOUR FICS ARE SO GOOD mayhaps could you potentially write connor murphy x reader where they're online friends and anonymous but find out they're classmates irl šš
it's not livin if it's not with you!
college! connor murphy x reader
tw for angst kinda just mental illness mentions
you donāt know his name, not his face, not his major, not what dorm he lives in or what color his eyes are. but you do know the sound of his voice, you know that he taps his fingers when heās nervous, that he only drinks coffee with oat milk, that he listens to shoegaze when he canāt sleep, that heās kind in the quiet, raw way that isnāt always soft, but always honest. you met him on an anonymous forum at the beginning of the semester. he'd posted, "does anyone else ever want to disappear?" you'd replied, "all the time." and somewhere along the way, you'd become friends, or something like it. long late night text chains turned to phone calls.
you still donāt know how it happened, how a forum conversation at 2 am turned into every night, how strangers became something closer than friends. sometimes you talk until dawn, about everything and nothing. sometimes you fall asleep to the sound of him breathing, soft and steady in your ear. you donāt ask for names. or photos. thatās the rule. itās vague, and possibly strange, but itās safe. you donāt say it out loud, of course. because this thing, this almost relationship, this secret corner of your life, doesnāt have room for a label like that. and what would it even mean, if you donāt know his face, canāt reach for his hand in the hallway, canāt find him in a crowd? but it still happens. you feel it when he laughs at something you say, when his voice drops quiet at night, like heās telling you secrets. when he says, āiām glad you exist,ā with the kind of honesty that only accompanies sleep deprivation.
you meet connor murphy on a tuesday. not on purpose, not in a fairytale sort of way. he just gets transferred into your chemistry lab after a scheduling change. your TA calls out his name and he mumbles a response, taking the empty seat next to you with a quiet apology. heās all messy hair and black hoodie and biting sarcasm. closed off, careful. doesnāt make much eye contact. the kind of guy you mightāve avoided in high school out of pure self preservation. but heās smart - unexpectedly so. he mutters funny commentary under his breath and corrects the TA when she mislabels the compound. you donāt mean to like him, not really, but you do. and the worst part is, he reminds you of him, your voice on the phone. they have the same dry wit, same kind of sadness, quiet and bitter like old coffee. same soft moments that slip through the cracks when he thinks no oneās looking. you find yourself smiling when he texts you for lab notes, flushing when he leans over to explain something. wanting to know more. and then, at night, you still talk to him. your mystery boy, the one you canāt see but somehow know more intimately than anyone else. it splits something in you, honestly, festers into this growing, aching guilt.
one day, during lab, he laughs. really laughs, dry and sudden and kind of breathless, and it clicks. your blood turns to static, cold and strange in your veins, because youāve heard that laugh before. at 3 am when you told him about your roommate sleepwalking, because he laughed just like that. like he forgot to be guarded. heās explaining something to the girl next to him, hands moving like heās trying to sketch the thought into the air, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, rings on three fingers. he says something, half sarcastic, half sincere, and it hits you all at once. itās him. your mystery voice, your 2 am comfort, the boy you told your darkest thoughts to. the boy who doesnāt know what you look like. your heart races, constricts, and before you can process your own actions, you shove your notebook into your bag and stand up, fast enough to knock your chair sideways. āyou okay?ā he asks, brows furrowed. "forestfire," his forum username leaves your lips like a curse. "shit. wait-" you donāt answer, just speed walk out of there, straight back to your dorm. you hear him call your name, but it sounds all wrong coming from his mouth.
you miss his first call, then his second. then, the texts come. 'i'm sorry.' then, 'i swear i didn't know. please talk to me.' you turn your phone facedown and lie there staring at the ceiling like maybe itāll collapse and bury the part of you that thought this would never happen. you liked him. well, both versions of him. now that the two worlds have collided, you donāt know how to feel about it. you skip class the next day. it was cowardly, you knew, and probably immature, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. he leaves you a voicemail at 9pm, his voice slightly shaky, "i don't know what to say. i don't want to make this worse. i just miss you, and i'm sorry, and i need you to believe that i had no idea. uhm, i guess that's it. call me back, please. okay, bye," your thumb hovers over the delete button, but you can't bring yourself to press it. finally, after hours of scrolling through old messages, you text him. 'i'm sorry i left. i just panicked, i guess. i liked not knowing, and i freaked out when that got taken away. i don't want to pretend it didn't happen.' he replies moments later, 'i get it. i'm scared too. can i see you?' 'yeah, sure. where?' 'that cafe off campus? i'm free after my 9am.' you hesitate, but picturing the look on his face when you left the room is all you need. 'see you then.'
heās already there when you arrive, seated in a corner booth, dressed in a black hoodie with a to go cup in his hands. he looks up when you walk in, and his shoulders go still. you sit across from him, smile sheepishly. "hi," you murmur. "hi," he says back, quiet and gentle. you break the calm silence first, "i wasnāt supposed to know what you looked like," "i know," he nods, looking down at the table. "you weren't supposed to know what i looked like," "i know," he says again, glancing up at you, "does it ruin it for you?" he looks uncertain in a way that makes your chest ache. "no," you shake your head, "i guess that's part of the problem," his lips twitch into a tired half smile. "i liked you," you admit, "on the phone, in class. and now i don't know how to combine them," "yeah, me neither," he nods, biting at the inside of his cheek, "i didn't expect it to be you, but it makes sense, in a way. i felt like i knew you, even when i sat beside you that first day," he looks at you for a long time after that, soft and contemplative.
"i fell for your voice first," you say after a moment, "your words, the way i related to you. your face makes it so much worse," he laughs, breathy and loose, "why?" "you're just so much better up close," you say softly, "in real life. i don't know what to do with all these feelings," his eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes, tentative and slow before he leans in, "can i-" you don't let him finish, just close the space between you, pressing your lips to his. it's achingly familiar, like remembering a dream days after it passed. when you pull away, heās breathless. "hi," he grins, voice quiet. "hi," you laugh softly, breath fanning against his face, "you're good at that," you walk side by side after the cafe, not saying much. your heart still races every time your shoulder brushes his, and his fingers keep twitching like heās debating whether or not to reach for your hand. you donāt speak until youāre halfway across campus. he clears his throat softly, "do you want to come back to my dorm?" you glance at him, partially surprised, "yeah, okay," he lets out a breath heād clearly been holding.
his dorm is quiet. small, dim, a little messy but not in a bad way. there's clothes on the floor, half full mugs. stacks of notebooks with drawings on the corners. it looks lived in, real, like him. he kicks off his shoes, then hovers awkwardly near the edge of his bed. you stay by the door for a second, unsure. "you can sit," he says, "or lay down, or leave. whatever you want," you give him a look, "i'm not leaving, connor," he gives a small, shy smile, then drops onto the bed with a heavy sigh. you follow, curling up beside him, not quite touching, but close. you both stare at the ceiling."you were always on the other side of a phone," you say quietly, "now youāre right here," he turns his head toward you, "it's weird, right?" "yeah," there's a slight pause. "good weird?" you smile slightly, "yeah. good weird," the silence settles again, softer this time. "you ever think," he says, voice low, "how strange it is that you can know someone better through a phone than you ever could in person? like, i told you the stuff i never even told my therapist, or my sister, anybody. and you didn't even know my name,"
"you always felt real to me," you say softly, "even when i didnāt know your face," he looks at you like that means more than you realize. "can i lay closer?" you nod. he shifts, just enough that his knee brushes yours, and your shoulders press together. he smells like coffee and dryer sheets and something warm you canāt name. your fingers brush, and this time you let them stay that way. his voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "i think i liked you before i knew it. i just didn't have a face to put with the feeling," "i liked you too, connor," his breath hitches, his gaze flicking to your mouth and back. "can i kiss you again?" he murmurs. "of course," you nod, already missing the feeling. he kisses you like heās learning how. slow and reverent, like the moment might break if he breathes too hard. his fingers find yours and thread together. itās not urgent, not rushed. itās just you, and him, and the ache of maybe love youāre both finally letting happen.
Patrick has a big dog. One of those lumbering, slightly slobbery breeds. Heās had him since he was a kid, back when everything was simpler and naming his pup Rex or Max was just right. The name stuck, even as the years passed and Patrick started feeling that nothing is so simple and right anymore. Patrick torments him occasionally by making him wear dumb hats on walks, pretending to throw the ball and then cackling in his disappointed face, or shoving an unlit cigarette in his mouth and giggling as he takes photos to send to everyone he knows. But under all that is a fierce devotion. If anything ever happened to that dog, Patrick wouldnāt just be heartbroken, heād come unglued. Rex is his last tie to childhood.
Tashi has an axolotl (or something like a gecko or a tiny frog) that is suspended in a carefully curated tank that could pass for a tiny spa. She became obsessed back when she was twelve, during a science unit. While the rest of the class scowled and gagged, Tashi fell in love. She spent weeks begging her parents until they finally caved and got her one for her birthday. And the fascination doesnāt fade because itās now discipline. She tracks water temperatures daily, changes the tank on a strict schedule, feeds with surgical precision and will spiral into a forum rabbit hole if she even suspects a shift in behavior. For Tashi, caring for something that fragile, that demanding, scratches the same itch tennis does. Itās control, structure, accountability. But itās also her escape. Itās the one part of her life where nothing depends on winning. Just consistency, care and the quiet satisfaction of getting every detail right.
Art has a cat. He doesnāt really know how she ended up in his house. One day she was just there. He never named her, but she answers to āheyā and thatās good enough for now. She was grumpy and mean and downright annoying in the beginning. She hissed at everyone and scratched when touched. It was like that until Artās grandmother passed. Itās like she felt his loss and decided to help. It showed in the quiet way she started moving through the space. The way sheād sit near him without asking for anything exactly when he needs her most. His grandmother used to do that too - just show up in the room with a cup of tea and let the silence do the work. Sometimes when the cat watches him with that slow, unblinking gaze, it feels like something old and familiar has found its way back to him. Not her, exactly, but something like the echo of her care. He never planned to have the cat, just like he never planned to grieve so quietly.