CHAPTER 11: HOME

"They say home is where your heart is set in stone, it's where you go when you're alone; it's where you go to rest your bones." Home, by Gabrielle Aplin

to Anne Lia, aka impediments. She's wonderful.

Zoey Willow Hunter

       THERE WAS NO SNOW. Around this time of year, at least one snow storm would've sprinkled the essential piece of the holidays. Because of intensifying global warming; the ground in Silvercrest was dry. It didn't stop the air from smelling like snow, though. I hadn't been gone for an eternity, but the view from the hour long taxi ride from the airport to my home was excruciating. Pieces of the country that could never be brought along to England stood out the most; Tim Horton's, hockey supporters, even the different tone of "sorry" or "excuse me".

It didn't matter that I got home at 3 a.m. and crashed on my bed without looking twice around. It didn't matter that I checked up on Julia and mom, who slept in the same bed, and didn't have the heart to wake them up, even though all I wanted was to jump between them and taste the only kind of love that mattered.

It didn't matter that I was too afraid to look around my room too much. I knew mom left it the way it was, even after I moved out. I knew every piece, every part, every inch that were inside the walls. I also knew that if I took more than a look, I would've been plagued by the child who strived to be the best and make others happy, the teenager who vowed never to let a man step over her again, the girl who could never stay awake in her boyfriend's arms, the young adult who left this room with big hopes and dreams, ones that were bigger than the house.

It didn't matter that I felt guilt, once I stepped into that room. It didn't matter that I felt as if I failed. Failed my family, failed my friends, and failed myself. It didn't matter that for a moment, I never wanted to leave. None of it did.

I was home; not in a boy's arms, not in a boy's false love, not with a boy. I could finally extend the walls in my heart to take place in the home they once left; for a whole month. I could let myself be, until I could stop feeling sorry for myself. I was home.

It most definitely felt like home when I woke up to my mom squeezing my cheeks and widely smiling. I squinted to peek through the sunlight; I didn't recall having open curtains when I fell asleep.

"Get up! Get up, get up, get up! I need to give you a proper hug! My baby girl is back," cooed a bright Amanda Hunter, practically pulling me out of my own (very soft, comfortable, cloud-like) bed and forcing me into her arms.

I hugged her back, naturally smiling. If there was a person to break out the morning grogginess, it was my mom. Her embrace was enough to make me forget London, along with everyone there. She was never going to leave, I was assured. She loved me, she always would.

"Oh! My baby," she held my face in her hands, "I missed you! So much. Did you lose weight? Oh my God, isn't there food in London? You don't eat. I can hold your whole waist in my hands."

She couldn't, at all. Not even a little.

Her light green eyes were almost grey, in the sun. Her hair was freshly and clean, reaching her shoulders instead of her back. Instead of growing old, she seemed to defy age. Wrinkles of excessive joy were in the corner of her eyes and lips; she hated them but they loved her. She looked like a bride. (Not the 18 year old bride version of herself, because at the time, her hair was bigger than my face.)

"Missed you too, momma. It was only five months."

"Five months too many," she wrapped her arm around my waist and hastily led me out of my room. "We've got so much to talk about!"

"But I'll just shower; I haven't since before the flight—"

She grimaced, "I'm your mother! You look lovely. Got a little drool on your lips. And sleep wrinkles. And your hair looks like a mess," she crooked her head to the side and sighed, "fine. Be downstairs as soon as you can."

"O—kay? What time is it? Is Skye home? Is Julia home?"

"Half past noon," she replied. "Julia's at school, Skye's, uh, out."

I frowned at the thought of seeing neither one of my sisters, "where?"

Mom's eye twitched, she smiled wider instead of answering my question and pushed me towards the bathroom. "Go clean up, Zoey. Your food is getting cold."

I should've wondered about her stuttering and twitching, but I didn't. Instead, I took a shower and got ready for a laid back day at home; watching Say Yes to the Dress with my mom and sisters, taking a mouthful of pretzels every time a bride said: "I want to look sexy," and insulting the moms when they insulted their daughters' favorite dresses.

The smell of pancakes and eggs made a smile appear on my face and I rushed downstairs, feeling like a kid again. I almost slipped on the stairs more than once, due to the friction of socks and hardwood floor. What I expected and yearned to see was a plate of homemade breakfast and mom serving it with a knowing face. What I didn't expect though, was a handful of people shouting "surprise!" and blowing on birthday whistles.

The first to jump on me was Diana, who loved to unintentionally suffocate me by letting her hair free during our hugs. For once, I enjoyed the feel of her locks against my face. Her joy rubbed off on me and I almost didn't want to let go. She broke off and shoved her dainty hand, one with a silver ring, in my face.

"Oh," I had to squint to see the diamond, but the rock still winked at me, sending my friends' love and commitment my way. "It's beautiful! My God. You're getting married." The sentence came out in an unexpected squeal, one I hadn't heard the sound of ever since the last time I saw her.

"I'm getting married too, you know," added Joel. His hair was a little shorter, but still vividly blonde. He crushed both of us into a group hug, and their familiar warmth made the smile on my face permanent.

Moments after the reunion between friends, Skye opened the front door, with startled eyes and a composure that could stay still and perfect through a storm, and said: "Am I late? Oh—"she wheezed at the sight of me, "—fuck. I am." She shut the door with her leg and dropped the grocery bags on the ground.

"Nice to see you too," I said to her, Joel's arm still around me and Diana's on my waist.

Skye rolled her eyes, "five months, Zoey. Five months. I don't see why mom's making such a fuss out of this," she pushed my friends away and kissed my cheek. "Ouh, ah. Little Zoey's back home. Let's throw a party; we have all missed her so much."

To be noted: Her words were thickly drenched in the kind of sarcasm that could've made Walters cringe.

While our mother shot dark looks to her eldest, I grinned to my sister: "Missed you too, sis."

"Yeah, yeah. Blah. You done saying your hellos? I'm hungry as fu—"

"Skylar. Stop it with the swearing."

Diana giggled, as Skye gave mom a peck on the cheek: "Mother. I'm 23."

"Zoey, que lindeza, as always." A tall man tuned out the rising voices, including the repetitive, famous line: "You're 23, but you're still my daughter and you're under my roof!"  (Que lindeza: what prettiness, in Portuguese.)

I reached out to give him a light hug, but he seemed to have other ideas. He squeezed me tightly, despite the discussion we had about giving people a simple pat on the back and letting go.

Rafael De Lima was many things, but never sad. He carried grace and genuine affection with every step. Aside from being a good person—which was quite rare, nowadays—he was handsome and benevolent. He was a lawyer who preferred helping those who couldn't defend themselves, especially Latino and Hispanic immigrants with close to no comprehension of English. He made my mother blush and smile for the first time in years, and all the proof I needed to accept him into our family.

"How was London?" he asked, and his eyes dissolved all that was around me.

I chose to devolve the truth and how unsteady I felt. "Great. It's beautiful, all of it. It's like another universe."

"Good," Rafael smiled. "Are you happy?"

"I—" don't know. I don't think so. I don't want to go back. Everything hurts. I'm not happy. I'm not happy. I'm not happy. "—am. As happy as can be."

He patted my shoulder and I thought of Walters. He never was too good with handling people's feelings, but he listened. He listened even when the days were gray and I didn't feel so good. Sometimes, the best thing someone can do is to listen. Opening up to a friend is hard enough, but the best response, in my opinion, is just for them to be there. They don't have to insult whoever hurt you, or give you life advice. Just have an accepting heart. It's the same thing with sitting in silence with a friend, there is enough love and comfort to shoo the words away.

Mom spread out the pancakes into plates. Bacon, syrup and scrambled eggs sat in each plate, except Diana's. Bacon was a big no-no, she became a vegetarian a few months back and still gave long speeches about the value of the animals "you're so savagely stuffing in your mouth" to anyone she had dinner with. What caught my attention wasn't the crooked forks & poorly folded napkins; it was the fact that there were seven plates. I counted the people in the room; we were six. Joel, Diana, Mom, Rafael, Skye and I.

"Mom," I rubbed my finger on the carved wood on my chair. "Who's missing?"

While Joel and Diana sank into their seats, my mother laughed casually and waved for me to sit. "James. I know how much you miss him and all, but you saw each other less than a week ago. Sit, love. He's running a little late."

How many people in this room knew about James cheating? Two.

How many people in this room knew about me breaking up with James and kicking him out of my apartment, and out of my life? Zero.

I sat next to Diana and Skye. I could've announced to everyone what had happened and get the whole awkward phase over with, but doing so would ruin the surprise my mom poured out of the bottom of her heart. I decided to let the breakfast, or at this point brunch, pass in peace, then I'd unveil the information about my relationship status.

"You all right?" Diana whispered in my ear, as loud chatter about the upcoming wedding filled up the room.

"No," I said. I stuffed a big chunk of syrup covered pancake in my mouth and mustered saying:"I will be, though."

She nodded and gave my hand a quick squeeze. I chugged food down in the most lady-like way of chugging food down one's throat. It gave me warmth. I prepared the scene in my mind, flinched internally at any sound close to the doorbell. I would act normal, barely touch him, ask him to make up an excuse to leave and have a nice conversation with my family.

But when the ringing sounded in my ears, I seemed to have forgotten how to move for an instant. Mom rushed to open the door, hugged James and moved away so that we could have clear vision of each other. He seemed fine. No dark circles under his eyes, no fallen appearance, no sad face. On the contrary, his smile lit up the room.

He looked at me and I saw the regret in his eyes, it shadowed in his joyful face. He walked towards me and for a split second, I thought he might kiss me and I'd realize this was all just a nightmare. I'd snap out of the horrid daydream and be back in his arms, and everything would be okay. I wanted it to be okay.

I stood up and remembered my mom's effort. "Hi," I put on a smile, one I could only get at the thought of good memories with him. He hugged me in a flash and I subtly pushed him away.

"What, no kiss?" drawled Skye, chewing on a strip of bacon.

I took my place once more and did my best to giggle, while avoiding James. "No, I'm saving that for later."

Mom and Rafael didn't notice the lack of truth in my laughter. They continued to eat in silence. Skye, though, kicked me under the table. I stifled a scream and looked at her.

She nudged her head towards me and I read that expression: what's going on? She moved her lips to say: fight?

"No," I mumbled. I grabbed a strip of bacon in my hands and split it into two uneven pieces.

Her mouth formed an "oh" and looked down to her food. She took a glass of orange juice in her hands and suddenly its contents were spilled all over her blouse. All of the glass, not a few drops. Her action was enough for me to understand the purpose of this.

She gasped with no emotion, "oh, no. I'm such a klutz. Zoey, can you lend me something to wear? Excuse us."

I had no choice; for she had my wrist in her hands and dragged me to my room. Skye lifted her blouse over her head, leaving her in a tank top. She went through my suitcase for a change of clothes, messily, might I say so.

"What happened?" she lifted a blue shirt and grimaced.

I sat on the bed, still recovering from seeing him so soon. "He slept with someone. Drunk. Then, he lied about it more than once."

She dropped the item of clothing in her hands and gaped at me. Sarcastic, upset or even eating like a starving animal, she still managed to be gorgeous. "That son of a bitch," she said. And the pity changed her features, made them softer.

"Yeah," I chuckled.

She put a white shirt over her head and folded up the short sleeves twice. "Should I punch him or just knee him in the balls? Oh, right. Never mind. He doesn't have any."

"Skye, do none of that. I'm fine. He's fine. I'll ask him to leave after we eat. I just don't want to ruin mom's big brunch. She looks so happy."

"I'm not going to do it for you," she folded the strewn clothes and put them back in the suitcase, which was a gesture she never would have done before. "I'm doing it because assholes like him deserve to be put back in their place. Plus, why did he show his face again? He could've invented any kind of excuse to not be here. I don't understand."

"Neither do I," I replied. "But it'll all be fine. Let's just go eat, okay? Food first, then dealing with exes."

Skye took my hand. We stood at the door. She cupped my face in her hands, purposefully squeezing my cheeks too tightly. "Are you sure that you don't want me to hurt him?"

"Yah," I managed to say. "I'm OK."

She poked my nose with her thumb, "good. You'd make a pretty smoking chipmunk, Zoey. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No."

"Well, now, the only person who matters has." I really did love her, even though I wasn't too sure if looking like a pretty smoking chipmunk was a compliment or an insult.

When we went downstairs, the face I was avoiding was gone. The plates were practically empty, except for Skye and I's. I sighed in relief and disappointment at his empty seat. I'd prepared a small speech that I wanted to tell him while asking him to leave, but he was gone.

"Where'd jacka—James go?" asked Skye, smoothly recovering from an elbow shove by me.

Mom shrugged, "he said he had to go, work or something."

"Did he just leave?" I said, opening the front door. I didn't need an answer, because he was already on the sidewalk, ready to get in his car.

All the love and pain I reserved for him pounded in my ears, whispering words coming from hurting. They weren't safe, they weren't kind. They'd been building up for days, struggling to balance between betrayal and anger. But when I called out his name and walked towards the same car where we had our first real fight and made up; they were silent. Anticipating; challenging me to say the words that I could some day regret.

He looked at me, and his composure, the one I thought was perfect, was gone. There were tears in his eyes, a defeated look of a soldier who didn't know how to love. "Hey, um. Apologize to your mom for me again. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Thanks," I said. "For leaving. I was going to ask you to leave anyway."

"Yeah, I know."

I looked at him from head to toe and tried to remember the feelings I had, the love I kept bottled up for him. I would be heartless, if my love for him was gone. Thinking back upon it, said love seemed to be a mistake; a memory already drifting away. I didn't want to kiss him anymore. I didn't look at him and see all of the loss, the kisses, the warmth I felt. Maybe there are two kinds of people in the world; those who write poetry out of heartbreak and those who read it and feel nothing. I was becoming the latter.

"I know saying this doesn't change anything. But I really am sorry. Hurting you is something I can't—ah. I can't bear it."

"I can't forgive you, I hope you understand that. I mean, I know in movies and shit like that, people say "let's still be friends", but even the idea of that doesn't sound too good," I said, calmly.

He bowed his head down in agreement. "Right, of course. I get that. I am going to miss you."

The automated response in my head was to say: so am I. But I didn't want to lie to him, especially not after what he did to me. The truth was harsh, but saying it would release any connection I had to him.

"You really shouldn't," I started. "We're better off apart. This was going to happen at some point or the other. Not you cheating and lying, because that could've been easily avoided," a slight scoff, "but us not being together anymore, it was inevitable."

"What?" His face had fallen.

"Did I stutter?" I didn't.

He frowned, "are you saying you were going to end it, even before it happened?"

"No, of course not, James. It is you cheating and lying, by the way. All I'm saying is that I always had a feeling that we were never going to survive long distance. I was depending on seeing you and having all of that worry go away, but it happened."

"But you—why didn't you tell me? I thought we trusted each other with that kind of stuff. You're the one who told me that we could make this work. You're the one who pushed away any idea of us breaking up, you're the one who said: distance is nothing to worry about, as long as we have each other. We'll defy the odds. What happened to all of that?"

And it was at that moment that I posed myself a question I never dared to ask, one I'd been too afraid to answer: Did I ever love James? The fabricated reply was: of course, don't be silly. Sadly, the more I looked at him, the more I saw the pieces of me I gave away without thinking twice, the words "I love you" that I repeated more than meant. Truth was that I did love him, but not the same way he loved me.

"Zoey, answer me."

I'm so sorry for letting it get this far. "Maybe, you should go."

"Maybe, you should give me answers," he blurted, "Did you give up on us before I did?"

"I—wait, what?"

He realized his mistake too late, but didn't seem to regret it. Instead, he tried, in vain, to clarify himself: "I didn't sleep with her consciously. I swear to God, I didn't. But, it was almost like—" his thoughts fell and reached me.

"It was almost like I wasn't there, like you were single. Like you were free to do whatever you wanted. So, what I'm getting is that you could've stopped but you didn't."

I should've been angry, but I wasn't. James's girlfriend, the one he dated for two years, had a small voice; one of simple disappointment. She was quieted down, for good.

"I told you," I was crying, but of sheer release. Not from him, not from our relationship; but of the person I was while with him. I was in love with the happiness he gave me, of settling for the comfort, while I should've been concentrating on being on fire. I should've figured myself out before trying to figure him out. "We're better off apart. You really should go though," I laughed, "my family's in there, and I kind of haven't seen them in a while."

He wasn't a part of it, not anymore. He nodded and left without a second glance, taking away all the ties between us. Perhaps I was a little cruel and heartless for letting go of someone I'd envisioned growing old with so easily, but right now? I got my heart back, and no one treated it better than I did.

- - -

During most of the significant years of my life, I'd never had a father. He was erased from the good memories, vividly present in childhood memories that made me cry more than a kid should, and scribble over his overly tall stick figure in drawings. Even my last name was changed; I was raised with a mother with enough strength and love to give me all the pillars necessary to love myself and the world around me.

The first man to make me believe that not all boys were a copy of my father and that sometimes, people simply take the wrong roads was Walters. He told me to always see the good in people, to help them make choices that won't hurt anyone at all. I learned to sympathize with the villains in movies and books, even if they're created to be hated. I saw the weakness in their eyes, their true, misguided motives: the love they've lost, the daughter they've had to give up, their humanity ripped away.

Sitting in front of him as he stared into my eyes with zero recollection of the endless lessons he taught me caused me nothing less than heart-wrenching pain. His laughter lines faded into his skin, carrying a lifetime of hope. White hair creating a cloud over his head, eyes void of life; I felt as if the color inside of him had been sucked out.

He sat on the couch, accompanied by Bea, who was knitting Christmas presents for her son's family. I arrived more than half an hour ago, with no intention of trying to remind him anything. He glanced at me every now and then, but all I was doing was watching an old show with him. It was better than not getting to see him at all. I pretended to be a friend of Bea's; waiting for her to finish knitting to talk about "inviting her to my mother's wedding". It was the best I could come up with in a few hours. It was better for him to retain small pieces of information than trying to remember it.

"You know," he spoke up, curiosity sparked, "you have very nice eyes."

I smiled, "thank you."

"Tell me, uh—"

"Zoey."

"Zoey," he nodded. "Have you ever been to Paris? It's a very beautiful city. You look a little like one of those Parisian women."

Bea looked up, hands still moving. They'd gone to Paris the same summer I delivered mail with Nico.

"No, but I have Quebecois ancestors. Maybe that's it," I shrugged. "Did you ever live in Paris? I've always wanted to go visit."

"Oh, no!" he chuckled, as if the idea was implausible. He hadn't spoken at all for a half hour, and now a particular memory revisited him. "I do love everything about it. It's a little poetic, isn't it? The scenery, alone, is breathtaking. God, I've always felt as if it's the kind of city that has some kind of essence. Like it gives people an old soul, you know?"

I didn't know. "Yeah."

"Yeah," his voice became very small, and the light in his eyes was now gone. He looked up to the TV screen and frowned. "What is that?"

Bea named the show and he stayed blank. "Do you want me to change it, Harry?"

"No, it's fine. I'll just go with Martin to the park, we'll play soccer. You know how much he loves it," he smiled to her and stood up, grunting at the pain in his hip. He called out onto his son's name—the same son that was in his late thirties and living in Australia with HIS own family—and looked at his wife when he got no response.

She was already on her feet, patting his shoulder. Just as I thought she'd panic, the practiced response came to her, and I almost believed her: "he's not here right now, honey. He's in Australia, remember? Look, right here."

She guided him to the shelf of family photos and pointed to the ones with Martin in them. "This is Susan, his wife. And his children, see? Our grandchildren. Louis and Margo. These are our grandchildren. You held baby Louis and Margo in your arms."

"My grandchildren," he mumbled. "Really?"

"Your grandchildren. They've grown, you know," she showed him more pictures, "see? This is Louis at his first soccer game. And Margo with Martin. Aren't they beautiful?"

"They're very beautiful," he looked away. "Why don't you come along for a walk with me?"

If he was conscious, he would've known that her knee had gone bad months ago. Walking around the house was a chore, but going out for a walk in chilly weather was a burden. Words of invitation to come with me were on the tip of my tongue, but Walter's impending disappointment could've caused him to become upset.

"I can't, I'm sorry. Do you want to go with Zoey?"

He looked at me and shook his head, "Zoey who? You're just getting rid of me like this? Bea, I don't understand why you can't come with me. You used to like summer."

It wasn't summer, though.

"We're in December, sweetheart. Look," she opened the curtains enough for him to see.

He took a deep breath and shook his head, "you just don't want to come with me. It's that damned work of yours, isn't it? You've been distant and you know it. Coming home late, barely even taking care of Martin. You're a teacher, Bea. You don't have to stay and help out with every after school activity. Take care of your family, at least."

This was the moment in which I should've left; I was intruding on their personal life.

"Harry, I'm sorry. I'll take a vacation, okay? I'll stay with you for as long as you need. I'm always here for you, you know that. I love you," she said shakily. I was confused; why did she stop reminding him of his grandkids and the fact that his son was far away?

He nodded, "I do too. I'm sorry for being upset. You love your job."

"For you, I'd give up my job; I'd give up the world. You are my world," she smiled, and he squeezed her hand. "How about I bring you some warm milk and you can read a little?"

"Thank you," he kissed the temple of her head, and sat in her place, in a white rocking chair. She carried her knitting kit and grabbed my hand, led me to the kitchen.

"I think you should go," she said, taking out a pot and the milk container. "He's in a good mood today. I don't want you to risk turning that around."

"Are you saying I'm going to ruin his mood?" I answered, carefully choosing my words. "Bea, I can introduce myself again. And he and I can talk."

"He won't talk about Paris again, Zoey. He's okay, for once. Just, please, let him be. Come back later. Sometimes he doesn't even remember me at all. Let me savor these moments with him, before he forgets me completely."

I gulped. "Okay. Fine."

He cried out: "I can't find my glasses."

I saw them on the coffee table earlier, so I rushed out to the living room before Bea could protest. I handed him the glasses and he smiled to me in gratitude.

"Thank you," he leaned back in the chair, looking at me through the round glasses. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Sometimes, I want to keep my wife all to myself. She's wonderful."

"Yeah, she really is," I said. "What are you reading? I'd love to add more books to my library."

He grinned, delighted with my interest. "It's, uh—" his fingers went over the cover, "a collection of poetry," he read. "It says that a bumble bee gave it to me."

He opened the book at the bookmark and squinted, "Pablo Neruda. Uhm, if you forget me. I want you to—" he rubbed his eyes under the glasses. He gripped the book tighter, "I can't—"

"Would you mind if I read it to you? I love that poem," I hadn't read that poem, not once. "Poems are like birds' songs, just without the melody, divided."

He handed me the book, "good words, kid." He had said them to me, once upon a time. He joined his hands together and waited for me to read, eager to listen.

"If you forget me," I began softly, "I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire; the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me, I shall stop loving you little by little."

I glanced up to him. His eyes were closed, and he slowly moved the chair. I thought he was being lulled to sleep, but the moment I stopped: he opened his eyes. I quickly continued reading, taking the time to read every word with the devotion and freedom it deserved. Bea leaned against the wall of the living room, listening intently and watching her husband fall in love with words.

It was then that I realized; it was okay to be in love with someone. The feeling of it, the rush, the idea that someday you will marry them. There are people who find eternal love, one that is ruthful and magical all at the same time. But there are others who prefer to fall in love with the world. They will take in every second and let there be sadness, because is there a world without sadness? Without heartbreak, without cruel souls? Sadness is the skyscraper that can be the highest point of a city, but with time, it will shrink into a decaying building, unable to shine with the higher skyscrapers of all that is good. Without that decaying building, the city wouldn't be the same.

Once I reached the ending, Walter didn't open his eyes anymore. He breathed in and out; unaware of the disease in his brain. "If each day, a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine."

In me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten.

- - -

SORRY FOR THE TARDINESS OF THIS CHAPTER BABES. I will officially be updating this story every Friday for the rest of the summer, until the first week of September.

I have a lot of things to say:

 1. The purpose of this chapter was to cut all ties with James, and for Zoey to get up on her own feet and realize she is happy without him. She's going to be just fine, without him. So, no, when Nico arrived to celebrate Christmas, she will NOT jump in his arms. She is happy, feliz, contente.

2. Playlist for this story is on my 8tracks, go find it on my profile:  yasthwriter. I'm too lazy to put the link on here haha, it's 4:30 a.m. This chapter is mainly unedited and kind of chaotic tbh but HEY don't judge me. It's a solid 5.5k words, I can't seem to write less now.

3. I HAVE REACHED A 100K FOLLOWERS. I'm very thankful for everyone who's ever supported me and I love you all so much. You're my rock and I'm so so glad to be on this site. Of course, sometimes there's the pressure of updating all the time, but I've grown to be okay with it. Thank you for being so damn lovely all the time. I'm not too sure of what to do as a "100k" celebration on wp, even though it's not that big of a deal, COMMENT SUGGESTIONS.

also: Orphan Black fans STAND UP that show is so good. To those who don't watch it, WATCH IT. It's honestly friggin wonderful. 

SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY.

love, yas