Act I.   /   02

Half daughter, half apology, all fire and the wrong kind of love.

Blythe Baird, If My Body Could Speak

🍸♟🗞

Maeve doesn't flinch when the elevator delivering her upstairs shudders to a halt and emits a high-pitched ding! that rattles around the base of her skull. She wipes her shaky palms on the knitted material of her black skirt, sticky with cold sweat. She's sure her face is blotchy and red, too, no thanks to the sudden drop in temperature. Fuck. She shrugs the thick, beige peacoat from her shoulders in hopes of looking less cold and tosses it over her arm, just as the elevator cage and door pulls open with a clatter. Maeve ignores the rapid beat of her heart.

Marcia catches her haphazardly adjusting the way her white blouse lays against her chest, but smiles nonetheless and says, "Maeve, bonjour."

She forces a smile on her lips and a bright lilt in her tone. She hopes the blouse is better. "Marcia. Hi."

Someone takes her coat and her eyes scan the room, discreet and desperate. She can get along with Marcia just fine. She always has. Still, she'd rather not do the whole 'hi how are you good how are you I'm well that's good oh yes that's good I really love this ___ oh thank you I love your ___ oh no thank you we'll have to catch up soon yes we will haha yes haha' thing. There are a number of things Maeve can do, but would rather not, and entertaining faux interest in her fathers most recent French wife is among the list. At least today she can blame it on the hangover.

Roman is occupying a corner with his somehow girlfriend Grace and her daughter, Isla, dangling awkwardly over a loveseat by the window and chattering away. Shiv is conversing with Tom and Connor outside the dining room, being prepared by the wait staff. Fuck, she thinks, mentally straining to telepathically call out for one of—any of—her siblings attention. Roman cranes his head in the slightest and she's shocked by her newfound powers. Maeve blinks rapidly, pretending she has something in her eye, believing he'll understand. She's right, and he does, but he shoots up his middle finger and turns his back towards her. Prick.

     "So nice of you to come."

Maeve blinks, a little stunned. As if it isn't her fathers birthday celebration. His eightieth, at that. "Yeah... Thank you for, uh, putting it all together. It looks nice. Really nice."

     "Merci."

She doesn't know how to respond. She nods, stiffly. "Mhm."

The stiff click of heels against the tile floor saves her. Shiv appears beside the two and gestures to Maeve, smiling placatingly. "Hey, can I...?

"Oh, sure," Maeve answers, not too quick, not too eager, and places a hand on her sisters shoulder.

"Of course," Marcia nods after her her.

Something pounds at Maeve's chest and it takes everything in her not to meet Marcia's eyes with a sharpened stare. 'YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER,' she wants to scream at her. Instead she smiles. Just smiles, nods and almost trips over her ankle when Shiv begins to guide her away.

It's the hangover, she thinks again.

"Thank you," Maeve exhales when they're out of earshot, into the living room.

"You looked like you'd suffered enough." Shiv smirks. She jerks her head back towards the foyer, "Besides..."

Tom is schmoozing with Marcia, still at the elevator, fingers pinching the purple fabric of her dress. She's either feeding him beautifully fabricated bullshit or is actually eager to talk about Milan Fashion Week, judging by the way she's grinning amidst their conversation. Maeve wrinkles her nose in distaste, only a little bitter.

"Figures." Maeve shrugs.

Shiv scowls. She crosses her arms over the her own blush colored blouse and sends Maeve a look that says 'Don't'. Maeve purses her lips, but understanding, nods.

"So, how's—" she begins, but is interrupted.

Maeve feels a jerk at the back of her head, a grip on a handful of her hair, and simultaneously, let's out a yelp at the same time as Shiv. She steps forward, almost bumping one of the tables with an antique lamp from Scotland, wrestling back her meticulously straightened hair into her own grasp and scowls. Shiv, on the other hand, rears her elbow back, emitting a sharp squeal of pain from the culprit, Roman, as she nails him directly in the ribs. He stumbles back a step and doubles over, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

"What the hell," Shiv growls, going for his shoulder with her fist.

"Ow—"

It feels like she's beyond aware of every hair follicle, pressing a gentle, cold, hand to her sensitive scalp. Maeve hisses, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you 12?"

Roman sucks at his teeth, gathering himself. Shiv stops pummeling him. Maeve's eyes shift back and forth. A few hardly wandering eyes avert their stare once the three recuperate.

"Jesus, sorry, okay?" He scoffs. "Just a wee bit of ol' fashion family fun. Fuckin' estrogen monsters."

Maeve shoves at his shoulder, lip jutted up in disgust.

There's a beat of silence. Roman stands in front of her, blinking, almost expectant. No, she thinks. No. Then, after another beat, she rolls her eyes and sighs, opening her arms. They hug, brief but gentle.

"Pilgrim chic," he comments, fondling the collar of her blouse.

Maeve sneers and turns to Shiv and they share the same embrace, only a little more rigid.

     "Where's Connor?" She asks, straightening her unconsciously slumped shoulders.

Roman points behind them, "Speak of Sir Wonder Bread of the West and he shall appear."

Maeve coughs down a laugh and demotes her smirk to a small grin.

Connor approaches with one even bigger, exclaiming, "Mae!"

She cringes at the nickname and rolls her eyes. (There's a split second where she feels sixteen, like she's returning home for holiday and he's picking her up from the all-girls school himself, waiting in the Hummer—because even though they are ugly and obnoxious, she said they were her favorite thing to ride in once when she was six—with a corny grin. Mae!) The hug he greets her with is the one with the most warmth behind it.

     "Look at you!" He says, placing a hand on each of her cheeks, then on each of her shoulders. "Wow."

Okay, she thinks, don't ruin it. Because she knows he's probably thinking baby sister, and she loathes the fact. It also hasn't been that long. She can't look that different. Right? Maeve wrinkles her nose, pushing her arms between his, and away. He chuckles, at least.

     "When, uh, when's Kenny getting here?" Connor asks, directed towards Maeve.

She frowns. "I don't know. Why are you asking me?"

He shrugs. She looks between Roman and Shiv. They do the same. She's beginning to really grow a distaste towards this whole 'what's going on with Kendall?' confrontation she's been facing lately. It makes her stomach ache, a little.

     "He might not even come." She says reluctantly, "Vaulter got... wacky. I don't know. Really."

Roman and Shiv share a look. Maeve knows well, too fucking well, that there's an insult writhing on her brothers slimy tongue. It's a matter of whether or not he'll spit it out. She stares at him, pointed, almost daring him too. He frowns, shrugs and looks at her as if to say, 'Who, me?'.

     "Irish Twin fucking freaks." She scowls.

Tom joins them after wrapping up his conversation with Marcia. Part of Maeve wonders if Shiv sent him over there to keep her busy so she could be rescued, but doesn't know if Shiv would actually do that. Maybe Tom had been annoying her, if that was the case. They embrace and it's a few seconds too long for her liking.

Idle chatter breaks out amongst them as they wait for the man of the hour. Alongside Tom, Maeve crawls into Shiv's corner. It's safest there. She collapses in a loveseat beside the window and crosses her ankles.

"How's your Senator lady?" Maeve asks, figuring it's neutral ground.

"Joyce." Shiv corrects.

"Mhm," She hums. "Lots of good campaign slogan opportunities with that name."

"ReJoyce!" Tom chimes.

Maeve nods, "See."

Shiv rolls her eyes. Tom drops a comedic wink in Maeve's direction and despite herself, she laughs a little.

They're an interesting couple. She thinks it every time she sees them together. The first time Shiv brought Tom home after half a summer abroad during a long summer weekend in Southampton, Maeve—albeit freshly twenty-one, bored, and a little malicious—thought it was some sort of cruel joke. Like Shiv had gotten stuck in an unreleased 2000's film from the Waystar production vault, lost a dare, and was compelled to fall in love with the fundamentally sweet but otherwise boring, midwestern boy to get back home, and he just somehow got stuck to the bottom of her shoe on her way out. She's not even sure they were an official thing, back then. She's is sure, though, that she spend that summer tossing back legal cocktails right and left, though, so.

Either way. There is something about them that works, obviously. Tom is about to give his girlfriend's father a few thousand dollar watch that he probably won't even wear.

Besides, Tom is nice, or at least scared enough of her not to be an asshole to her face. Maybe she does understand Shiv, a little.

     "Yeah," Shiv nods. "She's good."

     "Good."

They talk idly for a few more minutes. Maeve considers taking a moment for a cigarette, but just as she's about excuse herself, Marcia begins corralling everybody towards the elevator.

     Great. A surprise.

     "Oh, we're not surprising him, are we?" Roman asks, appearing between Maeve and Shiv as they follow Marcia. He tosses back a handful of tableside nuts. "Oh, he's going to love this. Think last time I surprised him, he took a swing at me."

Maeve frowns and slots herself in front of him, beside Shiv, while he steps back alongside Grace and Isla.

A wave of nausea crashes over her as they wait for the elevator to arrive, long and hungry. Her stomach is apparently an acrobat. It's the hangover. Her palms are slick with sweat again. She has no option but to fold them under her arms and try to smile. Just smile.

The door disappears into the wall and: "Surprise!"

As predicted, Logan Roy does not smile when greeted with his supposed loved ones. His mouth twitches and he shuffles into the room. However, he does have in tow a gangly set of limbs a held together by Target cologne and the straps of a weathered backpack. Three boys in a Nike windbreaker, the clumsy young man could be. Logan mutters a placating script of thanks and demands space. Marcia still follows close behind him, hand on his back, as they fall into line in the living room.

He greets Connor first. Then Roman, then Shiv, and finally, Maeve. She pretends she can't hear her heart thrumming in her ears as she faces him, head on. She doesn't know how long it's been since she's seen her dad. A couple months, at least. She stationed herself in Europe for a while after everything with Derek went down last year, which both men hated, but not enough to stop her.

"Maeve. Darling." He smiles, she mirrors it.

"Dad."

"You've been busy," he notes. His tone isn't flat, but it is indecipherable. "You should visit more."

They hug, briefly, but he settles and adjusts his hands on her shoulders comfortably. She swallows, hard, and hopes he doesn't notice. The mere twitch in his blink tells her that he does.

"I'm sorry," he says, "about your, uh, art thing falling through. Fuck 'em." He pauses and cocks his head to the side just a little. "Hey. Chin up."

Art thing. It makes the childish part of her feral. Her ribcage rattles, trying to contain it. Art thing, school thing, award thing, work thing, God, when she thinks too much about it her head aches. Nothing means anything to him, everything is just another obligation, another thing.

"Yeah." She nods, and changes the topic instantly, "Who's uh, the Triplet Tower?"

His hands drop back down to his side. "Oh, oh, everybody, this is... uh, Craig, by the way. Cousin Craig."

Craig waves awkwardly. Maeve is too busy thinking about how his hand seems to be the size of an entire continent when Shiv says, "Craig? It's Greg. No?"

Craig or Greg or whoever shuffles to the side. "Yeah. Greg." He almost knocks over a lampshade. "Oops — people sometimes, like, mistakenly call me Craig, too, so, I'll answer to both."

Maeve doesn't flinch when the elevator dings again. It interrupts Tom, this time, as he's presenting Logan with the gift he couldn't give a fuck about.

She glances into the foyer.

     "Kendall. You came?" Logan announces.

He walks into the room, all eyes on him, probably basking in the attention. He's obviously come from work, two phones hanging from his black sports coat and Frank trailing behind him, lingering as always. Something about the silence that falls over everyone as he enters itches at her.

Kendall greets everyone, short, brief, and impersonal. Business-casual. Maeve gets a pat on the back, a hey, and a noseful of his cologne-soaked collar. One of his phones is already buzzing when he pulls away. The other one starts, not long after.

     "This is important," Kendall excuses himself.

Maeve retreats into conversation with Grace. It's easy. They talk about fashion and mimosas and brunch and Maeve thinks about how it's nice to get alone with someone who's talking to her without an agenda. Still, boredom scrapes at her teeth as they talk. It's all just filler talk. She feels like Grace would disappear if she were to walk away. Isla is sweet, too. She likes Frozen, a lot, and she's one of the top readers in her class. It's strange to watch her interact with Roman, but only because he's surprisingly good with her. Better than her, less stiff and more natural. Maybe it's because he acts like a fucking child, himself. The fact still annoys her a little.

It leads her to the realization she's the only one here alone. Besides Connor and Cousin fucking Greg. God.

Just before lunch is served, Logan calls the children into the sitting room. Coincidentally, it's just as Rava shows up with Sophie and Iverson, and Kendall actually is attending to them. Two minutes, he says after Marcia calls for lunch in ten.

Connor falls in step with her and places a hand on her shoulder. She wants to shrug it off, but doesn't. Roman collapses on one of the suede chairs across the room. Maeve takes a seat across from him while the others settle for standing.

"Do you think he's gonna sacrifice one of us to Satan for eternal youth and never-ending wealth?" Roman asks after a few drawn out moments of silence.

Maeve sighs. "Or we'll all slice our palms and chant Latin while we bleed into an urn. Eighty forever."

"Octoginta," Connor chimes.

The doors slam behind him as Logan walks in. He tosses down five thick envelopes and shuffles to the center of the room. All five of them surround, compelled by his gravitational pull.

"So," he addresses, "on the family trust, which will decide the situation in the event of my unlikely demise, I'm going to add Marcia to myself and you five. And my seat also to go to her on my death."

Maeve blinks, but immediately puts together the pieces of some sort of power shift within the confines of the envelopes and her fathers words.

"What? Wait, that gives her double voting weight." Shiv says.

"Uh-huh," Logan confirms. "So, I have some paperwork—"

"Woah, woah, woah." Kendall drawls, "What? So Marcia will have two votes when you—"

"If he." Roman interjects.

"When he," Maeve corrects, unsympathetic.

Logan puts an end to the bickering as Roman and Kendall and Connor all jump in, "Kendall's already signed—"

Maeve grits her teeth. "Kendall? What the fuck?"

"Two votes? I don't think I was aware of that when—"

Roman shares a look with Maeve, then flips off Kendall. "Read the small print, asshole."

Maeve pulls the clipped document from her envelope and begins skimming it as fast as her eyes can. Marcia Roy. Logan Roy. Connor, Kendall, Roman, Siobhan, Maeve Roy. Fund. Board. Chair. Assets. Finances. Investments. Beneficiaries. Will. The words all come across as a blur, all meaning the same thing—she is losing something.

Shiv says she'll have to talk to her lawyers. There's a hum of agreement among the room, save for Kendall, who's wide eyes are searching the room incredulously.

"This is the present I really want," Logan states. "So, by 4:00. Good?"

It'll take until 4:00 to read this entire fucking thing, she thinks, but nods anyways, still skimming.

"Oh, also," he continues, "I already mentioned to Kendall. Despite the chatter and all things considered, I'm gonna give it a couple years."

"As in?"

"I'll stay in situ. As chairman, CEO, head of the firm."

The room falls silent. Kendall's face absolutely falls in every sense of the word, along with his entire body. His throat restricts, veins straining for air at the surface of his neck. His lips remain pressed in a thin line but his eyes almost blacken, sinking deep into their sockets. Maeve feels her own stomach knot and thinks Kendall might actually implode. The other three share a look, watching their father step carefully cruel on their brother.

Kendall stutters, short syllables long and hard. The only actual words to come out are 'you' and 'what'. Each each sharply punctuated.

"I just said, son, or were you not listening as usual?" Logan's words send a collective chill through the room. Kendall shrinks. "It's no big deal. I'm staying on. We can discuss the details. We can announce you were in pole position, pending events, a move up or whatever."

Maeve and Roman share a long, blown-eyed stare. 'Wow,' he mouths. She watches painfully as his lips screw upwards.

""Pending events"?"

Logan ignores him, smiles, and says, "Okay, come on, let's eat."

And just like that, just like always, he's gone. Leaving them alone, doors slamming behind his retreating figure.

Kendall calls out pathetically, "Dad, wait,"

The doors are closed.

Roman immediately erupts into laughter. He guffaws, "Oh, fuck."

Kendall points a rage-loaded finger towards him. "I don't know what you're fucking laughing about! Fuck. What the fuck. I mean he can't just... Right? He's going to blow the firms credibility."

"I don't know..." Maeve shrugs. "Wasn't coronation day today? Or soon? Like, did he even have a statement drafted? A press release scheduled?"

He shakes his head, "No. You don't... you don't fuckin' know anything... Because... because did he look OK to you?"

"You're delusional," she scoffs

"Oh, come on." Shiv rolls her eyes, "Ken, this is typical Dad."

And it is. To change his mind last minute, for his final word to be absolute, no matter the consequences. To leave without listening. Kendall looks absolutely dumbfounded, eyes wide and in a state of alarm. A deer who was a little too late in the headlights.

Connor leaves, proclaiming he is water, he flows, and that whatever they say goes. Maeve looks around the room. She folds her arms across her chest, digesting the last five minutes.

"This doesn't stand, right?"

Shiv shrugs. Maeve frowns, "The fuck are we supposed to do, Ken?"

"I can't... I can't fucking believe this." Kendall exclaims, crumbling his envelope in a white-knuckled fist. "Are you serious? This is mine. I've got big shit going on that's going to fix—"

Maeve rolls her eyes, making sure her scoff is audible. "Okay, Mother Mary, don't get all fucking self-righteous."

"Maeve, what is wrong with you?"

"Don't yell at me," she snaps.

"I'm not—" he does soften his voice, just a little, "I'm not fucking yelling at you I'm just telling you there's no way you can agree to this or think it's a good fucking idea!"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

"Whatever," he repeats, mockingly. "Whatever! Because everything can just be whatever, all the time!"

"Fuck you, Kendall!" Maeve finally exclaims.

"Ugh," Roman groans. "Now you've pissed her off."

She let's our a frustrated groan before shoving her envelope under her arm and turning on her heel, towards the door. Kendall tells her to stop, but she pulls the wooden doors open and allows them to slam behind her, anyways, not even caring about the attention it draws.

She needs a cigarette; she wants a line.

Maeve makes a beeline for the terrace. Nobody is there, given the windy, overcast conditions. Still, it's the bright kind of overcast. The kind where the clouds smother the sun, suffocating it. Almost allowing to to shine. Giving it false hope. She doesn't smoke. She just stands out there, letting the bitter wind drive it's invisible force into her cheeks.

She has learned that when Kendall gets like this (entitled and power hungry and all edgy), it's best to just fucking leave.

Five minutes pass, maybe.

From inside, she hears her fathers loud, booming voice roar, "Lunch!"

She shuffles back inside, because she doesn't need Marcia or anyone else corralling her. She doesn't need anyone watching her.

There's a seating plan, apparently. Handcrafted by Marcia. Maeve finds herself placed across from Shiv, between Connor and Rava, sat beside Kendall, who doesn't show up until the food has already begun being served. She's grateful not to be taking the brunt of their father, sat at the head of the table.

They toast to Logan, and for the rest of lunch, Maeve doesn't utter a word unless spoken to. Instead, she watches Greg manhandle his wine glass and paw at the stem awkwardly, and tunes into the idle chatter, trying to find little discrepancies or pick out features she hasn't caught before on everybody's faces. By the time everyone is finished eating, her salad has been haphazardly tossed around, her grilled salmon is merely picked at, and she's drank three glasses of water.

Meals like these—at tables so long you can't see half the guests where the food is catered and you can tell it's driven across the city and everybody is always on the offense—make Maeve feel little again. Like she's about to be sent to bed so the grown-ups can talk. It almost makes the half-empty glass of wine in front of her exhilarating, like she's not supposed to have it and she'll have to sneak it up to her room to finish it later. She protests the nostalgic weight by grabbing the glass and downing its remains.

After lunch, they're airlifted by helicopters to one of Waystar's many state greenway parks for The Game—a family softball tradition that's somehow managed to follow them for years.

When they land, Logan pulls Shiv off to the side. Maeve can't help but stare.

Kendall must notice, because he approaches her, silently. "What are they talking about?"

     "Jesus—" Maeve jumps. "Don't fucking do that, man."

     "What do you think he's asking her?" Kendall rephrases. "About the trust?"

She narrows her eyes. "We're over here. They're over there. I don't fucking know."

Kendall shrugs. "You used to be able to read lips."

Maeve crosses her arms over her chest and frowns. She watches her father lean closer towards her sister, like he's whispering a secret. A secret so secret it still has to be kept hush, even without anybody nearing a 10 foot radius of them. What could Shiv need to know that she doesn't?

Kendall suddenly states, "It's wrong. Like, this whole thing. It's wrong."

     "So?" She plucks the ragged grey beanie from his. Her lips are pressed in a flat, unamused line. "This is wrong, too. What are you gonna do about it? Sign another trust?"

He snatches the worn piece of college memorabilia back and shoves it in his coat. "I'm gonna talk to Rome and Shiv," he explains. "But, full block. Shiv comes in, coronation plan's a go again, we distribute control. Smooth. That's what we do."

Maeve doesn't look at him. The offer—because it's hardly a fucking plan—makes her shift uneasily. She had been okay with working under Kendall. Those had been the rumors. She was fine with them. But he's still Kendall, he's still her brother, and especially now... it all just feels weird. She reminds herself it doesn't really matter. Right now, her job is just a job. It's all credibility. She doesn't want to get stuck.

     "Should I feel privy to this hack of a plan?"

He scoffs, "Hey. You're smart. Act like it."

She is so fucking smart. So smart it apparently needs to be reinforced over and over and over. And everyone needs to tell her, like she won't know it if they don't. Maybe it's supposed to be an honor or some sort, though it feels more like a reprimand.

She leaves him at that and wanders towards the tent serving drinks. Just a coffee. Thanks.

The game begins, Rava batting first. Maeve's eyes flit between the chaos on the diamond field and the triangular clusterfuck that is Kendall trying to enlist Shiv and Roman. She shakes her head, trying to fight the magnetic pull of their conversation.

However, her solitude is brief.

Logan catches her eye from where he's sitting at the edge of the field. An indecipherable string of curses leaves her mouth, but her legs reluctantly carry her toward her beckoning father. He's comfortably reclined with a mug of cider. Maeve opts for standing and shoves her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. The material itches between her fingers.

"So." Logan looks at her, "Let's talk about you."

"Me?"

He states, "You've tried on a couple outfits." Then he pauses before asking, "Getting time decide which one suits you best, no?"

Maeve frowns. It's not the first time within the past year this topic has been broached. Less with him, and more with Karolina. What are you thinking next? Where will this lead? Marketing or PR or tech or—She's sure none of it is without his agenda, though.

He also adds, though, "You know, there will still be some... readjustments. Room for changes, after the trust goes through."

It's an invitation to negotiation. She raises a brow.
Okay...

It is important to understand that Maeve has always been a little bit aimless. There's no way around the truth. Perhaps a side effect of having almost everything she could ever need handed to her on a silver platter for her entire life, it's just become difficult to truly set find something worth setting her sights on and fighting for. If she hasn't had to, why would she want to?

     "Well, I'd rather kill myself than go into finance," she states. She laughs, "And media is a hot mess, so, no. Marketing was... comfortable."

He hums. "Okay. Throw your dart."

     "President. No inauguration."

     "VP."

Maeve narrows her eyes, "And I want a board seat. Kendall and Roman both—"

     "Alright," Logan nods after mulling it over. "Okay. And on the trust? You'll sign?"

She glances back towards Kendall, whom Shiv and Roman—with his middle finger up—are retreating from. Hm.

What is her intuition worth if she denies it?

     "Sure."

From where he's sitting and she's standing, he wraps an arm around her elbow, squeezing lightly. In confirmation of their deal, she assumes. Maeve tightens her grip on her styrofoam coffee cup as she begins to walk away.

Something compels her to turn back, still. "It's still Kendall, though, Dad. Isn't it?"

Logan doesn't answer. Not verbally, at least. If the slight tilt of his head or the quiver at the corner of his mouth is anything, she doesn't know what. Familiar, maybe. Yes and no. It's something that will replay in her mind for weeks, though. That, she knows.

Then, "I always value your opinion, Maeve. You know that."

She nods in acknowledgement and continues away before she has the opportunity to say something else stupid.

I always value your opinion. You know that.

By the end of the game, Maeve is exhausted. Her skin feels paper-thin and she wants nothing more than to sink into her mattress, a clean and thoughtless canvas.

There is a certain adrenaline the Roy family name entails. The purr of their capital revving engine, the snake eating itself in the middle and the knifed entry wound at the end.

It's one of the only things Maeve knows. She feels it when she watches Roman rip up a million dollar check in the face of a pitiful eight year old boy and his parents for his own pleasure, and she especially feels it when she watches her father keel over in the helicopter back into the city. She doesn't blink once, eyes blown wide and excited as his heart almost gives out.

It's a reminder of something real.

🍸♟️🗞️

a/n here we go baby also sorry for this hack of an ending umm i just had to cut it somewhere 🤓 also proofread but forgive any mistakes pls i'm high