Chapter Text
Jackie and Shauna weren’t always like this.
Well. Maybe they were.
The thing is — Jackie’s never been great at remembering things how they actually happened. She remembers them the way they should’ve gone. In her head, freshman year of college was golden: soccer games they actually won, parties where Shauna always found her in the crowd, midnight runs for milkshakes where they laughed so hard Jackie forgot to worry about how she looked when she laughed.
But in reality, there were cracks. She just didn’t see them then. Or didn’t want to.
Like how Shauna always stared at her too long when she thought Jackie wasn’t looking. Or how Jackie always picked a fight when Shauna paid more attention to someone else — like Mari or Natalie or that girl with the green eyeliner who ran track and smelled like oranges and weed.
Jackie never said it, obviously. She’s not that kind of girl. She has a boyfriend (had?), and a decent GPA, and her whole life planned in pastel Sharpie in the back of her planner. She’s not messy. She’s not reckless. She’s not—
(“I’m not you,” she once hissed at Shauna, drunk on vodka cranberries and years of unsaid things.)
That was after the fight. The fight with a capital F. At the party.
Now Shauna doesn’t talk to her.
Like, at all.
She’ll say things like “pass the water” or “we’re out of paper towels,” but it’s clipped. Barely a sentence. Not even full eye contact. Like Jackie’s a mildly annoying coworker instead of her best friend since sophomore year of high school.
And okay, it’s been a few months, but it still feels recent enough that Jackie hasn’t figured out what to do with it. Every time she sees Shauna across the quad or in the locker room or — worst — at a party, it's like there’s a glitch in the universe. Something gets stuck behind Jackie’s ribs. She keeps expecting a joke, or a dig, or Shauna’s eye-roll-smile combo that always meant ugh, you’re ridiculous, but I like you anyway.
Now it’s just the “ugh.”
Shauna’s gone... rough. Rougher than she was before. She’s always had that whole world-weary, deadpan, too-smart-for-this vibe, but lately it’s just kind of rude. Like she’s angry all the time. But quiet about it. That’s the worst part — the quietness. It makes Jackie feel like she’s on trial for a crime she doesn’t remember committing.
And Shauna? She’s dressing like some indie movie extra now. Worn boots, baggy flannels, scuffed nail polish. She chews on the strings of her hoodie and smokes cloves behind the dining hall with Nat and Ben. Her laugh sounds different now, like it got sharper when Jackie wasn’t looking. Like maybe it never belonged to Jackie in the first place.
Jackie tried texting. Once.
Just:
“Hey”
Left on read.
She told herself she didn’t care. Then she told Mari she didn’t care. Then she made sure everyone knew she didn’t care. ("Honestly? I think Shauna’s just going through a phase. Like, whatever. We all have weird college identity crises, right?")
But she does care.
And she doesn’t know why Shauna’s mad.
Okay, yeah, there was that night, but Jackie doesn’t even remember saying anything that bad. They were drunk. Everyone was drunk. It was that stupid off-campus soccer party where the walls were sweating and everyone kept playing Rage Against the Machine like they were trying to summon Satan. Jackie remembers Shauna cornering her in the hallway — red cup in one hand, that infuriating squint in her eye like she’d already decided Jackie was guilty of something — and saying something like:
“You don’t even see me, do you?”
Which: what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Jackie sees her all the time. Practically lived in each other’s dorms for half of freshman year. Used to share fries, secrets, gum, everything. Jackie knows her. Probably better than anyone. (Definitely better than Jeff ever did.)
And maybe Jackie said something back. Maybe she said something mean. She was drunk. And angry. And scared. But mostly angry. Because Shauna had been weird for weeks by then. Distant and snappy and, like, mean in that way only she could be — not cruel, exactly, but accurate. Like she had x-ray vision for every one of Jackie’s weak spots.
One time she said Jackie was “performing.” Just that. Nothing else.
Performing what?
Whatever. It’s stupid. Jackie doesn’t care.
Except she keeps replaying the scene in her head at 3 a.m. every night like it’s a movie with one missing reel.
Now when they pass each other on the quad, Shauna looks through her. Not past her — through her. Like Jackie is glass. Like she’s irrelevant. Like she’s not worth it.
And that’s what stings the most.
Because Shauna was the only person who ever made Jackie feel like she wasn’t pretending. Like there was something under all the cheerleader-perfect-girl routines. Like maybe Jackie could be more.
So what if she was pretending?
Big fucking deal.
She made everyone happy, didn’t she? Jeff was happy. Her parents were happy. Coach Ben? Happy! Everyone smiling, everyone saying how together she was. “So responsible,” “so dependable,” “such a good head on her shoulders.”
Yeah. Because she pretended. Because she said the right things. Because she dressed the part and remembered birthdays and never smoked in public and wore a fucking cross necklace she got in eighth grade even though it gave her a rash.
And news flash? Shauna used to act happy too.
Shauna used to hold her hand under the cafeteria table and mouth I hate everyone here and then laugh like she didn’t mean it.
Shauna used to choose Jackie — at every party, every practice, every time they needed to split up in twos. Jackie was her person.
Shauna used to smile back.
So it’s a little rich — no, it’s fucking ironic — that Shauna of all people is the one who decided Jackie was fake. That she’s too much and not enough and “insecure and boring” and blah blah blah. Like Jackie didn’t spend years being Shauna’s anchor while Shauna drifted through life pretending she didn’t care about anything.
(And okay. Maybe she said that stuff first. About being boring. Maybe Jackie started it. Whatever. She was mad.)
But the thing no one gets — the thing Shauna doesn’t get — is that if Jackie didn’t pretend, she’d be locked up in a padded room by now. Seriously. People would start whispering. Her mom would call a priest. Her dad would stop making eye contact at dinner. Again.
If Jackie told the truth, the real truth, the ugly truth — she doesn’t think anyone would be able to look at her the same.
Her first admissions would be:
I’m gay.
I don’t believe in God.
No, Mom, really. I don’t. I just say I do so you’ll keep letting me live at home. Sorry.
Also, fuck, I get so exhausted I want to die.
Sometimes I don’t eat.
Sometimes I forget how to speak without lying first.
Sometimes I stare at my ceiling and count cracks just to prove I exist. Sometimes I don’t feel worth being here.
And shit, it’s worse without Shauna.
Of course it is.
Because no one knew Jackie like Shauna did. Even the parts Jackie didn’t say out loud. Especially those.
Shauna could always tell when Jackie was spiraling — she’d just pass her a Gatorade and a granola bar like she was offering a lifeline. Shauna would text her "you alive?" at 2 a.m. like it was nothing. Like Jackie mattered. Not Jackie-the-good-girl. Just... Jackie.
But now?
Now it’s just silence.
It’s just pretending all over again. It’s: smile at Coach and say “No problem!” when he hands her extra laundry duty even though she wants to scream.
Nod and say “Totally!” when Mari talks about some party Jackie’s never going to.
It’s: tell her parents she’s “killing it!” even though she failed a quiz and cried in a bathroom stall for forty-five minutes yesterday.
And refuse Nat’s joint with a perfect little “No thanks :)” even though she wants to say “God yes, please, I can’t do this today.”
Now it’s back to being the version of herself she knows isn’t real. The one everyone likes better.
The one who doesn’t scare people.
The one who doesn’t say fuck.
Except—Fuck.
Because she misses Shauna so much it makes her stomach hurt.
Which she tries to forget as she leaves her dorm room.
The path behind the dorms is always cracked and uneven, like it’s trying to trip her. Jackie adjusts her scarf (useless — it's not even that cold), smooths her hair (not frizzy, but could be better), and breathes through her nose.
She’s on her way to the local shops. Just some strip mall bullshit: a CVS, a bagel place, a weird little vintage shop that always smells like cloves and sadness.
Mari texted her an hour ago:
"Wanna meet up? girl hang!"
Which is fine. Which is good, actually. Jackie has exactly enough energy for Mari. Not a party, not a practice, not a family phone call — just Mari. Maybe they’ll get boba and complain about their chem class and the idiot TA with the chin beard.
That’s manageable.
She turns the corner by the coffee place with the cryptic chalkboard quotes (today it’s "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."), and she sees them.
Mari.
And Nat.
And like, three guys — scruffy and sprawled across a half-dead patch of lawn like they’ve been there all day. One of them’s got a beanie pulled down low, and another’s wearing sunglasses even though the sun’s barely up.
Nat’s holding court. Of course she is. She’s got a cigarette between her fingers and a coffee in her other hand and a slouch that says I don’t care if I fail out, I’ll still win. Her laugh cracks through the air like it belongs there.
Mari’s next to her, twirling a straw in her cup, nodding along. She looks up first and spots Jackie.
Smiles, waves.
Not guilty. Not exactly excited, either. Just... placeholder energy. Social momentum.
Jackie slows.
She hadn’t signed up for this.
Her stomach dips — not dramatically, just a little nudge. Like a dog pawing her ribs.
She could turn around. Pretend she forgot. Claim she got called in for a team meeting. Say she has a headache. (Not a lie. Kind of.)
But Mari’s already calling out, “Hey! Come sit!”
So Jackie smiles — the one that stretches her skin too tight — and keeps walking.
She knows how to do this. She can pretend for twenty minutes. Tops. Or — no.
Fuck Shauna. She’s not pretending.
She’s just being chill.
She’s just hanging out.
Jackie drops down between Mari and Nat, smoothing her skirt like it’s part of the bit, and flashes them both the kind of smile she used to save for post-game photos and homecoming floats.
“Hey, girls,” she says, voice sugary. She leans into Nat’s side, breath warm. “You got weed?”
That gets a double-take.
Nat blinks at her, then grins — wide and delighted, like someone just handed her front row tickets to a fight.
“Shit, you serious, Jackie? I’ve never seen you high.”
Jackie shrugs, a single elegant lift of the shoulder like this is all very casual, very her.
“First time for everything?”
Nat lets out a half-cackle and starts digging through her bottomless canvas bag. “Well fuck me. I was saving this for later but—”
She pulls out a little tin, pops it open, and soon there’s a joint lit and passing between them. The paper burns unevenly, the tip glowing like a warning sign.
Jackie takes it like she’s done it before. Maybe she has. Once. With Shauna, actually — god, forever ago. In Shauna’s basement while they watched The Virgin Suicides and tried to act like they got it. Shauna kept coughing and laughing, kept brushing her knee against Jackie’s like she didn’t notice.
Jackie doesn’t cough this time.
She just exhales slow. Like a scene in a movie.
Mari leans in next — takes her drag, hand brushing Jackie’s on the way back. And again. And again. Subtle, but not.
Jackie feels Mari watching her. Hangs on the beat of too-much eye contact.
Mari’s fingers press against the grass between them, pinky just barely touching Jackie’s hand.
It should be hot. It should.
Because Jackie is single. And she knows Mari is pretty, and predictable, and she smiles at everything Jackie says.
But Jackie’s head is filled with smoke.
Her heart sounds too loud. Her limbs feel distant. And everything around her — Mari’s laugh, the guys’ voices, the scratch of Nat’s lighter, the stupid chirp of a nearby bird — all of it blurs into a sort of slideshow. Snapshots. Moments, not movement.
She’s not even sure if she’s blinking.
She’s not even sure if she’s still in her body.
Because Shauna.
Shauna is walking toward them.
No.
She thinks she sees Shauna.
She’s not sure it’s real — not at first — but the shape of her, the swing of her jacket, the way her arms are crossed tight across her stomach like a shield? Jackie would know that silhouette in her sleep. Would feel it in a blackout.
And then Tai’s beside her.
And Van’s too clear not to be real.
Shit.
They’re real.
They’re here.
The joint is hovering in Jackie’s fingers and her tongue is dry and all the fake cool drains out of her like water through cracked porcelain.
“Oh my god,” Mari is whispering, nudging her. “Don’t look now but—”
“I already saw her,” Jackie hisses back, barely moving her lips.
Shauna hasn’t noticed her yet.
Or maybe she has and is just pretending she hasn’t.
Which is worse.
They’re walking toward the CVS behind them, mid-conversation, but Shauna’s eyes flick toward the group. One flick. No reaction.
No wave.
No smile.
Just: neutral.
Like Jackie’s a stranger.
Like she’s no one at all.
That sucks.
Shauna not looking at her. Not even blinking in her direction. Not even a nod.
But whatever.
This is new Jackie.
This is Honest Jackie.
This is We-Don’t-Give-A-Shit Jackie.
She leans her head back, rolls it toward Nat in something that feels like slow motion, smoke curling from the tip of her fingers.
“Seriously?” she drawls, eyes half-lidded.
“Fuck Shauna.”
Nat throws her head back and howls. One of the guys echoes it, stupid and loud, and soon everyone’s laughing.
“Yeah, fuck Shauna,” Nat grins, biting her lip and offering the joint again. “I mean—god—she’s totally different now that you guys aren’t friends…like aggro as fuck.”
Jackie laughs. Like, a real laugh. Or something close to it. Sharp around the edges but with a little joy tucked in the middle.
“Wait—” she giggles, swaying a little closer. “Why don’t you like her?”
She doesn’t mean it like a trap. She’s genuinely curious. High and warm and floating.
Nat gives her a look — something crooked and surprisingly soft.
“I mean… she’s just… intense now, I guess. Always looking for a fight. But you—”
She taps Jackie’s knee with the back of her hand. “You’re alright. I know we had our… moments or whatever.”
So true.
Jackie used to find Nat infuriating. The way she moved through people like they were an open bar. The way she knew what she wanted. With guys, with girls, with everything. Jackie used to watch her across the locker room like she was from another planet. Like someone turned confidence into a girl with a blunt and chipped black nail polish.
She was jealous.
Still kind of is.
But she’s always respected her.
“Yeah,” Jackie laughs again. “Moments.”
Mari giggles beside her, her hand ghosting over Jackie’s wrist again, playful and pointless.
Even the guys, who don’t know her at all, laugh like they’ve been part of this the whole time.
“Aggro?” Jackie repeats, snorting. “Shauna?”
Nat nods, pulling in another drag and talking through the exhale.
“Yeah. Aggro. Always picking a fight, man. Like, lately it’s just—”
She flicks her hand. “All heat, no chill.”
Mari leans in, rolls her eyes dramatically. “Especially with me.”
That lands weird.
Nat kind of half-laughs, like she gets it — like she really gets it — and Jackie’s high enough to pick up on it. Too high not to notice.
“Wait, what?” Jackie asks, eyebrows raised, voice teasing.
“Why?”
Mari coughs. Like a fake cough. Like a bad fake cough.
“No reason!” she blurts, and laughs too loudly. “Just… she’s just weird sometimes.”
Mari’s eyes flick away. Nat doesn’t say anything. The joint circles on.
Shauna sees them before Jackie sees her.
Of course she does.
They’re loud. And Mari laughs like a car alarm. And Nat’s always got her legs stretched across some guy’s lap like she owns the sidewalk.
She sees Jackie right away — sitting there like she belongs, like this is her group now. Nat’s passing her something and Jackie’s lips are around it like she’s done it before.
Shauna looks away.
Fast. Too fast. It makes her look guilty, so she keeps her expression neutral. She crosses her arms. Adjusts her bag strap. Doesn’t react when Van says something funny and Tai chuckles beside her.
She doesn’t care.
Jackie’s allowed to have friends. Smoke weed. Laugh too loud. Pretend like she wasn’t the one who said Shauna was insecure and bitter and jealous.
Shauna’s allowed to ignore her.
That’s fair. That’s balance.
Right?
And anyway, Shauna’s better now. Different. She’s been letting things go.
She journals now. Sort of. Well, she bought a journal. Same thing.
She went to that dumb campus feminist art show Van dragged her to and didn’t even roll her eyes out loud. She’s got her own friends. She doesn’t need—
She doesn’t need Jackie.
(Except, sometimes, she dreams about her. Not even in that way, just—just moments. Soft looks. The way Jackie used to squeeze her shoulder after games like it meant something. The way her perfume used to cling to Shauna’s hoodie when she borrowed it.)
Shauna stops walking. Pretends to check her phone.
Tai glances over. “You okay?”
Shauna shrugs. “Just checking the time.”
Van looks past her. “Isn’t that Jackie?”
Shauna doesn’t look back.
“No clue.”
Liar.
So what?
So what if she called Jackie insecure and boring.
It wasn’t even that bad. It’s not like she screamed it across a quad or posted it on Fizz or whatever. They were drunk. Everyone was yelling that night. And maybe she was a little mean — but she was telling the truth.
She’d been quiet. She’d been calm. Until Jackie said “you’re acting crazy”, like that wasn’t the worst thing you could say to a girl holding back a tidal wave.
So yeah, she said it.
“You’re boring, Jackie. And insecure. And everyone knows it.”
And Jackie had looked at her like she’d been shot.
Eyes wide. Hazel and glossy. Face all crumpled like a fucking indie movie. And Shauna felt it — for one second — that weird, awful drop in her chest like guilt.
But guilt is a trap.
Shauna doesn’t do guilt.
Not anymore.
She speaks up now.
She’s honest.
Brave.
Unfiltered.
So fucking what if Mari’s sitting all cozy next to Jackie now.
So what if Jackie’s suddenly the kind of girl who smokes weed at 3PM and laughs too loudly.
Shauna keeps walking like her hands aren’t clenched inside her sleeves.
Jackie’s straight.
Jackie’s so straight she fucked Jeff, the world’s most average boy, just to keep the world turning smoothly.
Shauna only slept with Jeff because…
Because she was mad.
Because she was tired of waiting for something to happen.
Because Jackie made her feel like a secret. A weird little ghost that only mattered in the dark.
She regrets it.
Not the sex. It was whatever.
She regrets the way Jackie looked at her when she found out. Like the betrayal hadn’t been perfectly mutual. Like it hadn’t already been burning between them for months. Like they hadn’t almost kissed. Twice. Like Jackie didn’t know.
And now Jackie’s all relaxed and soft-spoken and cool, with Mari draped over her like a well-styled scarf. Mari, who once told Shauna she didn’t like girls “in that way,” but who also clearly likes Jackie in that way.
“They look cozy,” Van says lightly, nudging Tai.
Shauna pretends she doesn’t hear it.
She’s fine. She’s good. She’s been meeting up with Melissa after class, because Melissa’s always available, always nice, always ready to say “yeah, totally” to whatever Shauna says.
Except now she can’t stand Melissa.
Melissa thinks Everything Everywhere All At Once is “kind of confusing.”
Melissa puts cream cheese on plain crackers and calls it lunch.
Melissa doesn’t have any original thoughts unless she copies Shauna’s.
And the worst part?
Melissa makes Shauna furious. Not because of who she is, but because of what she represents.
Melissa is who Shauna used to be.
Quiet. Apologetic. Afraid to upset the status quo.
A girl who shrinks to fit.
And it makes Shauna sick.
“You okay?” Tai asks beside her, gentle.
Shauna blinks.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just thinking.”
Thinking too much. About Jackie’s face. The look in her eyes. The way Shauna still feels it, days and weeks and months later, like a bruise she keeps pressing.
Van is still grinning about something as they push through the doors of CVS, the air-conditioned blast hitting Shauna’s face like a reset button.
“Okay,” Tai says, pulling out her notes app like this is a tactical operation. “Popcorn, Red Vines, kettle chips, and something stupidly sweet.”
Van adds, “And coconut water, because we’re not animals.”
They split up, and Shauna drifts toward the candy aisle, half-listening, half-checking out of her body. Her hands go through the motions — gummy worms, chocolate pretzels, sour keys — but her mind is skipping ahead, leaping over the now.
To the movie night. To the moment she can sit on Tai’s floor, legs tangled with someone else's, a blanket thrown over her lap and a bowl of snacks in her hands. To a version of herself that feels untouchable.
Van and Tai are easy. They’re soft with each other. Out in the open, loving without apology. Shauna loves being near it — how normal it feels, how possible.
Real queer friends, she thinks. Real queer joy. No secrets.
And Melissa — okay. Melissa is trying.
She’s gay. That’s confirmed. She’s also into Shauna. Probably. She always texts back. She always shows up. She blushes when Shauna touches her wrist, compliments her shirts, asks what her favorite bands are.
And she’s safe. There’s no edge with Melissa. No history. No pressure to be cooler or meaner or quieter than she is.
Shauna doesn’t need to worry about Melissa being too perfect.
Too pretty.
With, like, gorgeous hazel eyes.
Nope. Melissa has blue eyes.
Very blue.
Almost grey, really.
Like dishwater, if Shauna’s being honest.
Anyway.
They get what they came for. They pay. Van sneaks an extra bag of chips into Tai’s basket like it’s contraband. Shauna buys a random lipstick she’ll never wear just to feel like she has control over something.
And then they’re walking back — and of course they pass them again.
Still on the grass. Still laughing. Still there.
Shauna doesn’t look. She doesn’t look.
Even when Mari laughs too loudly. Even when Jackie’s voice carries, mid-joke, over the path. Even when Nat howls like a fucking animal.
“Do not engage,” Van mutters like a prayer, and Shauna almost snorts.
They make it back to Tai’s dorm. Second floor. No elevator. Shauna lets herself sink into the familiar; the glow of string lights, the scent of popcorn and leftover incense, the way Van always kicks off her shoes in the exact same place.
They watch a bad horror movie where the killer is obvious and the final girl is way too chill about everything. They talk over it. They pause to spiral about midterms. Tai imitates their professor’s voice and Van nearly spits wine out her nose.
It’s good. It’s warm. It’s almost real.
Shauna curls into a blanket on the couch, head resting against Van’s shoulder, half-listening to them talk about class schedules.
And still, beneath it all, like a thread wrapped too tight around her lungs, there’s Jackie.
Jackie’s laugh, trapped in her head.
Jackie’s voice saying, “You’re my best friend,” like it was something sacred.
Jackie’s eyes when she said it.
Shauna closes her own.
I don’t care, she thinks.
She thinks it again and again until she falls asleep.