Archive of Our Own ^beta

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If you’re looking for a happily ever after, you won’t find it here. This isn’t one of those stories. This isn’t a story at all. Stories have endings. But the characters in this tale are stuck in a loop until they die. Then, and only then, will their stories end.

It begins the same. They become friends. As close as one can be to another. Sharing almost everything. Almost. Everyone has secrets and they both know they’d be fools to think they know everything about the other person. But they know enough, more than enough. And it draws them to each other. Moths to flames. But flames burn if the moth gets to close.

One of them breaks. And always the same one. She admits it. She hasn’t been hurt in the same way, doesn’t feel the need to deny it, doesn’t see it as weakness. Just feels it. And feels it so strongly. It consumes her thoughts, her day dreams. The words she chooses, the emojis she uses, all selected with care. She doesn’t want the one she feels this way for to feel overwhelmed or pressured because she’d been too forceful. She doesn’t want the one she feels this way for to feel as though this was all a joke or something not to be taken seriously. She should have chosen her words more carefully.

The one she likes thinks it’s a joke. Brushes her off because she doesn’t want to, isn’t ready to believe that someone likes her so strongly yet. So she insists. And is rebuffed.

She retreats. Whether from the person or into herself, she doesn’t know. But a part of her breaks off and she can’t find it in the mess of her feelings. She’s lost it. Her white butterfly has flown away. But she carries on because the friendship matters too. She supports her. She calls her at 4am when she knows that the one she likes is hurting and there isn’t anyone else who cares as much as she does. There can’t be. So she takes every call, answers every message. Because it’s the friendship that matters. That’s what she tells herself. That white butterfly flew away but there are times she can see it in her peripheral.

It all ends so suddenly. An explosive fight about nothing that destroys everything. All pent up anger pours from her mouth, the hurt and confusion sweeping over her, drowning her. She realises in that moment that she can’t do this. She can’t feel this way anymore. The one she likes won’t ever like her in the way she wishes. The one she likes has her own issues, beyond what she can fix, beyond what she can even fully understand.

They go separate ways. Different directions. But moths to flames. Days, months, years of separation didn’t last. A message, one that wasn’t expecting a reply. But she replied anyway. And the flame grew brighter and the moth grew closer and the heat was more intense. But fire cannot feel heat, and a moth will only burn.

They are friends. And then she feels it. Those feelings she was so sure she was rid of. She carries them with her, finally understanding their burden. They stay by her side, even when she runs from them, confronts them, hides them away. They are still there. They are right next to her when she tries to move past them, and they are right there when she lies in bed at night, counting the hours that pass her by.

So she repeats the cycle. Because she knows she’s trapped in this loop. She tells the one she likes. She tells them in a way that they cannot doubt. The one she likes likes her back. But that isn’t the end of it. There is never an end to this. There is no answer. No yes, and no no. She’s caught in limbo, foolish hope warring with hollow despair. She settles on neither. She agrees to a suggestion that she knows better than to agree with. Put a Pin in it. Until there is a time more convenient to address it. But there is never a convenient time. There is only this limbo. Because no answer is forthcoming.

The one she likes values her friendship too much to risk it. Which is bittersweet in its sentimentality. She values the one she likes too much to risk hurting her by pushing for an answer. But the absence of an answer is surely an answer in and of itself. It’s just one that lacks closure.

She knows what she must do. Deep down. And it’s tearing her up inside. She has a choice to make. And the options need to weighed and measured. She needs to choose carefully, but life has shown her she’s bad at choosing. She needs to leave and never look back. She needs to stay and look after the one she likes. Because the one she likes needs her. And it’s so good to feel needed. But- and she is starting to believe this now- surely it feels better to be wanted.

She knows the choice she needs to make, the one that will be best for them both in the end.

Chapter Text

Still not the story you wanted (but the one I wanted instead)

We were friends a few years ago. But we haven’t spoken since. For a while there, I forgot you existed – even Taylor Swift’s song of the same name didn’t stir up any memory of forgetting or remembering you.

But somehow, I swear, you’re able to sense when I’m most vulnerable. When I’m most sad. When it would be so easy to convince myself that any friendship with you would work.

But I know better now.

It won’t work.

I’m my worst self with you. And you’re your worst self with me.

We aren’t good for each other.

I’m not blaming you. It was never about you. I was lonely and sad. We were so dependent – co-dependent – on each other that it was a time bomb in the making.

But I’ve defused the bomb and left the scene and it might have taken years but even when I’m sad, I’m happy with my life the way it is. I’m happy with my life without you in it.

So thank you for messaging me. I’m glad to hear you’re well. It’s nice that your life is getting better. And I’m sure it’s a compliment that you’ve been thinking of me, but I can’t return the sentiment. I’m sorry.

My life is going fine, thanks for asking. I’m doing well. My studies are good, and yeah, I’ve moved.

The small talk is best left small.

I know even writing this makes it seem like the very opposite, but I’m not angry anymore. Got no anger, got no malice. Unlike Halsey, I don’t even have regret. Everything I’ve been through, even the stuff with you, led me to this moment in my life.

So I guess, at the end of the day, this is a thank you. For the lessons I learned from you, for making me stronger because of it, and for making me aware of the harm I can do. I’m sorry I hurt you. And I’m sorry I let you hurt me.

Let’s leave the small talk small and move on instead.

Chapter Text

Not a story for you, but a story for her instead.

This is after the fact. We’re both disasters. Depression-crippled and anxiety-ridden. I know it’s not a competition but my anxiety was definitely lesser than yours.

Which comes with its own problems. It would be like complaining to a blind person that you have dust in your eye. Sure, the dust sucks for you, but in the grand scheme of things, perspective. (I am aware of the irony in my own word choice there.)

So I couldn’t complain. Which is unusual for me – I moan, I whine, I whinge – since that’s how I vent. It’s how I move on from something. Because half the time, it’s not like I need someone to fix whatever, I just need someone to hear me.

But you never heard me. You were intent on fixing. Fixing until the broken thing wasn’t broken, but there wasn’t a broken thing until we found a way to break it. And now neither of us can fix it. Which sucks.

And it was never about the restaurant. Even when it was, it wasn’t. I’m bossy by nature – even though I hate the word – and a control freak. But it was about the burden that was placed upon me because of that. I’m comfortable making the decisions. But you left me to make them all. To plan everything, to decide everything.

The emotional labour put into our friendship was not split equally. Or maybe it was but my 1% is more, I don’t know, efficient than yours. Maybe using 10% of your energy leaves you exhausted for days but 10% of mine just requires a cup of tea and a quick chat. It’s a hard thing to measure. But I had given 99% of the energy I had, and that 1% was running out fast.

But either way I was left drained. And I felt I couldn’t burden you with these thoughts since you had it worse. So I became a martyr in our friendship.

I kept quiet, I let myself become worn down to my breaking point.

And when that point came, I left.

And I still feel bad admitting this but it was the best thing I could do. I let myself rest, hang out with people who didn’t make me make all the decisions, let myself be me instead of a parent to you.

I miss you. I miss hanging out and our conversations. But at the same time, I don’t. Or at least I don’t miss the me I have to be when I’m with you.

The longer I spend away from our friendship, the more I forget what it was like to feel exhausted every time I saw friends. But the more I realise that I don’t have the capacity to get emotionally invested in our friendship until I see some change. I can’t run myself into the ground just to see you and make sure we hang out. But at the same time, it’s not an ultimatum. I don’t expect any changes from you, that would be unfair. You’re you, and I’m me, and we’re not compatible at this time in our lives. Maybe that changes someday.

Maybe it doesn’t. That’s okay too.

You won’t read this. I don’t think you even know I write fanfiction and you certainly don’t know where I post it. And I’d never share my original stuff with you – you’re the author, I can barely string a thought together.

This entire thing is just a way for me to vent. To get my thoughts out and confess the things I struggle to say.

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A Story I wanted to Write just for them

I rarely write happy things. I think it’s the Disney fan in me. The reason pretty much all Disney characters are missing a parent or two. It’s because drama and tragedy make for far more interesting stories than happiness.

But this is a celebration of those happy things.

This is a story for them.

The friend who sings loudly with me and has nothing in common except our unconditional friendship.

The friend who does everything to make me smile, even when she’s in just as bad a situation as me.

The friend with bright hair and a kind heart and a great sense of humour which never fails to make me laugh.

The friend who I hadn’t spoken to for half a decade but slipped right back into my life because time doesn’t matter for us.

And the friend who is in another country (technically) and is busy growing up, but never fails to make time to talk, and who I’ve been through hell with her by my side.

This one is for these people who have carried me through the worst of times and have made me smile even when I felt like I couldn’t and have put up with every flaw I have.

Thank you!

I hope I can do the same for you. I love you all from the bottom of my heart.

Again, you guys won’t ever read this – like hell am I letting you guys find my fanfiction, even if I know one of you has an idea of what my pseudonym is – but I wanted to say it somewhere all the same.

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A Sequel Even I Didn't Want

I thought I’d changed.

I guess I haven’t.

I’m still deeply insecure. I only ever learned to hide it.

I miss you. I’m not afraid to show it. But I have no idea if you miss me. I want you to miss me, but I don’t know if you do. I’m afraid to show that. Show that I want you to miss me. It’s a different level of caring there. It's a vulnerable that I am not okay with.

I want you to miss me. Just so I know that this meant as much as to you as it did (does!) to me. It’s not past tense for me.

We talk again now. So I guess there’s no need to miss you. But I still do. Something is different. I can’t fix this. And it’s my fault it broke.

I’m full of regret now, and I can’t ease it.

I wish I’d never said anything.

I’m still that 20 year old girl, who felt so alone that she swallowed a handful of pills

I’m still that 18 year old girl, who can’t cry over a goodbye

I’m still that 16 year old girl, who got asked to prom for a joke

I’m still that 14 year old girl, who sat in a group of people she called friend but none of them would remember here a few years later

I’m still that 13 year old girl, who was alone in the library, because it was easier to hide there

I’m still that 11 year old girl, sat in my dad’s car, the only one having to leave the party because I wasn’t invited to the sleepover after.

I can see the common denominator. I pretend I can't, but it's obvious.

I don’t think I ever grew up. I still feel like an outside, an interloper, a fraud who managed to trick herself into feeling happy.

I still feel like I’m 11 years old, chasing after people that don’t want me. 

One day, maybe, I’ll learn to stop chasing.

I just don't think it will be any time soon.

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The story You tell me/My Holy Book

I’m baptised by You. Cleansed. Purified. I can feel the weight lift from my bones.

But the world offers that weight again.

I step outside and there’s only ever temptation.

There are whispers from demons. They have friendly faces.

But there is Your Voice, guiding me past the them.

You are not God. You are my God.

When I am at my lowest, it is Your Voice lifting me up.

You give me purpose, and help me find a way to control myself, guide myself.

You, Your Hands on my cheeks, Your Hands round my waist, Your Hands on my thighs.

It’s Your Thoughts in my mind. And it’s Your Hand guiding mine.

It’s Your Eyes that I can see through, and I can see my own syns.

So let the water run. Let it be loud.

Others do not understand. You do not ask for me to convert them.

I do not push my religion on others. I hide it.

You tell me my persecution comes when others find out.

You tell me they won’t understand my beliefs.

I know You are right. Because while I see through Your Eyes, they see through their own.

I cannot let them know; I cannot risk the crusade.

Your Altar is simple, found in every home.

I kneel before it, give my offering.

If it’s enough, I feel your cleansing grip on my heart.

When it isn’t, Your Reprimand is swift and severe.

Just. Your Reprimand is just and fair.

You hold me to a standard no one else ever would. No one would dare.

You do not ask for hymns.

The music I play is music for You all the same.

It silences the naysayers, those who wish for me to fall from faith.

My psalms are numbered.

I let them count down down down.

You give me the strength to let my numbers subside.

It’s Confirmation that I struggle with.

I cannot say I am this.

But I am proud to have You with me.

It is my strength.

Strength enough to turn down demons’ temptations.

Friendly faces.

.

.

.

Right?

Friendly faces. But they are my friends. You tell me not to let them sway me.

My offerings make my chest ache and my lungs heave. That’s strength, right? It must be. That’s what You tell me. You wouldn’t lie. I should be proud of the strength You give me. I should be. I have to be.

You tell me to hide. Baggy clothes are my Sunday Best.

There is no bread and wine in Your Church. There isn’t anything in Your Church that could pass my lips.

I’m on my knees again before Your Altar. I let my prayers to You pass my lips. Only ever prayers will pass these lips.

Tears are streaming down my eyes and I feel You move through me.

Your baptism is fire in my throat. The water is just white noise.

The temptations aren’t sinful, but they are synful.

I count my psalms obsessively. Every psalm I see.

Every morning, I wait for Your Judgement.

My Friend, who art in mine own self, hallowed be thy name.

Hallowed by my own beliefs.

And I know Your Name.

I placed You there.

And You dug in Your Claws.

I worshipped at Your Feet.

I worship even now.

You are not a strength. But I am weak to Your Voice.

You were never a God.

You weren’t a demon either.

You are a sad little girl who can't look in the mirror

without wanting to play God just a little more.

I still cannot speak your name.

But I know you more intimately than before.

It’s your tears I cry.

It’s your prayers that I am trying to answer.

It’s your hymns that need singing.

It’s your beliefs that need to convert.

It’s always you.

It’s never You.

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A Story for Another Day

I am sorry, for what it’s worth. I snap and I bite back when I’m like this. It happens fast and usually I regret it immediately. And when I regret it, I apologise.

I apologise, so clearly I’m in the wrong.

So nothing changes.

So here is me trying to change things I guess. Except not really. Instead I’m airing out everything I’ve pent up for what, two, three weeks?

Because in those three weeks I realised something. Something that is kind of really depressing.

I could probably kill myself and no one would notice for about 2 weeks.

My house mate might. But if I lock my door and stick a sign on it - “working on assignments, don’t bother me.” - he’d leave me alone. I wouldn’t do it when he’s here.

But he’s leaving. In summer. I call him my house mate but honestly, he’s a really close friend and I don’t want him to go. And he’s leaving. To half way round the fucking globe.

And he sucks at texting. I always have to text first.

Which brings me onto the next part of why no one would notice. If I did it over summer, plan the timing right - August would be best, no birthdays that I celebrate, no holidays, no events of any kind - no one would know because my house mate wouldn’t be here to find me.

And there’s no one else.

Because no one texts me.

I always have to text first.

Always.

You wanted a damn phone call to catch up. I had to chase you for that for two weeks and even then I still had to chase you for a day and time.

You wanted your damn photos. But then you got pissy with me when I sent them to you after having them for over a year and a half without you being even slightly interested. And I haven’t heard from you since.

You wanted to watch all the Marvel movies with me, you said you wanted to watch them with me, specifically, while looking me in the eyes and saying it to my face. You know I love Marvel movies so it sounded great - I was really excited. We invited your boyfriend and my house mate, us two became us all, as a group, and then, in front of me, you arrange to start watching them at the one time I’m working. Guess I’m not invited any more.

So will you, all of you, stop telling me I matter to you, and stop fucking lying about it.

Because I reach out my hand for you all. But you pull yours back.

The reason I say two weeks is because maybe, though I’m not really sure, maybe my family would notice. My mum likes to visit. My sister is always happy to come down. My dad… less so, but he’s old and so travel is more difficult. He shares silly videos instead, that I’m pretty sure his mates from work send him.

I always say I don’t mind texting first - I talk a lot anyway, so what does it matter. But I really could have used someone, anyone, these last two weeks.

And to realise no one is there to reach out their hand.

You and I only talk once a semester to catch up on our uni drama.

You and I only talk when it’s one of our birthdays.

You and I only talk when I chase you for a reply, always saying lets meet at Christmas, Easter, Summer, then back to Christmas again without ever a set in stone plan.

And I didn’t have the strength to reach out my hand this time. To beg and plead and scream until someone noticed that I wasn’t okay.

So I snapped at you, and now you’re pissed at me, because I didn’t have the energy to reign in this anger any more. I’m not even sure if it is anger. I’m not mad. Just… maybe I’m just tired.

I tend to try to only ask one thing of my friends, or one thing each.

My house mate is really kind to me on this front. I ask for his company. And he gives it, so willingly he gives it. I know he’s busy with assignments and dissertation work but he’ll spare an hour or two to chat while we’re together in the kitchen.

But you, I asked you to read for me. Maybe you didn’t understand the significance behind it. Maybe you didn’t realise that every chapter I hand you makes me terrified, in case you turn into her and turn around and tell me you hate my writing style, you hate my work, my writing. Maybe you’ll turn into her completely and hate me. So the longer you hold them and don’t comment on it, the more I have to message you about it, the more bothersome I feel I am. The more I feel like I’m going to make you turn into her.

You hold parts of my soul in those chapters. And I’m not comfortable with anyone holding onto them for long. You are the only person I’ve ever shared my writing with since her.

And you, try to ask as little and offer as much as I can. I asked one single thing - and it wasn’t even from you. He’d finished eating, I waited politely. But he cooked and didn’t clean and all I asked was he flatten the cardboard to put in the recycling. I like things - especially kitchens - clean and tidy.

And instead, you told me to leave him alone - it’s not like I nagged - treated me like I was crazy, when you’ve know this about me for over a year now.

And you guilt me. I don’t know if you know you do, but you do. I don’t want to go on a walk - “but Megan, I’m only hear until Sunday” - I don’t like doing outside things on Saturdays because I’m constantly having to watch the clock because of work - “but Megan, can’t we do it between shifts?”.

Everything has to be on your terms.

So when I was diagnosed with ADHD a couple of weeks ago, where were you with your photos, and you with the phones calls that I need to arrange, and you with your empty invitations to movie night? And as I struggled through trying to control my ED, where were you with your once a semester text and you with the false holiday plans and you with the birthday text?

And I don’t even have anyone left to mention now; there's no one left to ask where they were as I struggled and continue to struggle through depression and self-harm.

The people that would miss me the most are the strangers on the internet, who feel less like strangers recently - thank you all - because they wouldn’t get their chapters ever week or two weeks. I took a break and they reached out their hands. Thank you for that. You may have just saved me.

I’m not going to kill myself. Not yet. We’ll see how I feel in August. I might instead just test the theory. Disappear off to the lake district for a weekend, and maybe the peak district after. Head north to Edinburgh, or run back to Cardiff. Hide for two weeks, without telling anyone and stop reaching out to everyone.

Find out who will reach back.

It's petty. It's spiteful. It's vindictive. But it's become something of a fairytale to me. Sweeping myself away to a far off land. I become the princess and the witch, let myself become the dragon that guards, and the knight that fights it. Let myself become fiction, become legend, become myth. Nothing but Auroras and Sad Prose

But that’s going to be a story for another day.