Leaving the graveyard, Dipper stormed ahead, his body language a tightly wound spring ready to snap. He didn't say a word, but his frustration was palpable, written into every stiff movement of his body. His arms swung with jerky, restless energy, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His steps were quick and uneven, each one hitting the ground with a little too much force, like he was trying to stomp out his frustration with every stride. He didn't even glance back at Eliot, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

It was almost funny, the way he carried himself, like a toddler denied their favorite candy, his emotions spilling out of him in a way that felt too big for his small frame to contain. There was a sharpness to his movements, a determined rhythm that screamed how badly he wanted to get away from the graveyard—and maybe from the sour feeling of failure lingering in the air around him. Dipper's shoulders were hunched, his whole body taut with unspoken frustration, as though the weight of everything unsaid was pressing down on him. He wasn't just angry; he was seething, simmering in the kind of anger that came from disappointment, from wanting something so badly and watching it slip through your fingers.

Eliot trailed behind, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze bouncing between the uneven ground and Dipper's rigid back. He wasn't entirely sure what to say, if anything at all. He could feel the tension radiating off Dipper like heat from a fire, and he didn't want to make it worse. But he got it—he really did. The disappointment, the gnawing hunger for validation, the desperate need to prove yourself right when everyone else thought you were just chasing shadows. It wasn't just about being correct; it was about being seen, about not being dismissed as the one who always took things too seriously or believed too easily.

It was like they'd been handed pieces of a puzzle, but none of them fit together, the jagged edges refusing to align no matter how hard they tried. Every strange moment, every unsettling coincidence, felt like a piece of the picture they were trying to form, but the overall image stayed maddeningly out of focus, just beyond their grasp. Almost evidence, but not quite. Eliot felt the weight of that almost in his chest, a hollow sort of frustration that was difficult to shake. It was as if the universe was mocking them, dangling answers just close enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. Too many weird moments stacked on top of each other, too many things that didn't make sense, and yet none of it was solid enough to hold onto.

It felt like trying to catch smoke, the way every clue slipped through their fingers before they could pin it down. And Dipper—Eliot could tell how much Dipper wanted to be right, not just to prove Mabel wrong, but to prove himself to someone. To the world, maybe. Or to himself. Eliot wondered if Dipper ever felt the same way he did—like he needed to prove that he wasn't just some kid who didn't belong, who didn't fit, who wasn't taken seriously. Maybe that was why he didn't say anything. Because, in a way, he and Dipper weren't all that different.

Eliot sighed, his foot idly nudging a stray pebble down the path, watching as it bounced and skittered out of sight. He didn't usually spend much time analyzing other people—it was easier to keep his head down, stay out of the way—but Dipper was different. There was something about him that got under Eliot's skin in a way he couldn't quite figure out. He'd never admit it out loud, but he admired Dipper. He admired the way he seemed so sure of himself, even when the odds were stacked against him. That drive, that determination to push forward no matter how many times he stumbled—it was rare, and Eliot knew it. Dipper believed in himself in a way Eliot never had the courage to.

But as much as he admired it, he couldn't help but wonder how exhausting it must be. Always fighting, always having to prove something, to carve out space in a world that didn't seem to want to give him any. It wasn't just about proving Norman was weird or dangerous—it was about proving himself. And that was the part Eliot understood too well. He kicked at another pebble, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and frowned.

Eliot knew what it felt like to be underestimated, to be dismissed before you even had the chance to explain yourself. He'd felt it every time his dad waved him off with some dismissive remark or the kids at school whispered behind his back. That constant fight to be taken seriously, to not just fade into the background or be treated like you didn't matter—it was exhausting. Eliot didn't know how Dipper kept going, how he kept that fire burning when the world seemed so intent on smothering it.

And yet, maybe that's what made Dipper stand out. His willingness to keep fighting even when it hurt, even when no one was listening. Eliot felt a pang of guilt for doubting him earlier, for wishing they could just drop this whole thing and leave the graveyard behind. Because, deep down, he knew Dipper wasn't just chasing answers about Norman—he was chasing something bigger. Something Eliot wasn't sure he could name, but he could feel it in the way Dipper's shoulders stayed squared, even when everything seemed to be falling apart. It was the kind of strength Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever have, and he hated how much that stung.

It wasn't like Eliot didn't understand. He understood all too well. His life felt like one endless battle against people who never even tried to understand him, let alone see him for who he really was. It was exhausting, carrying the weight of everyone else's expectations—or lack of them. His dad had long since made up his mind about him, branding him as nothing more than a failure, a son who would never live up to the rigid mold he'd been trying to force Eliot into since he could remember. Every disapproving glance, every heavy sigh, every lecture about how Eliot needed to be "saved" only deepened the canyon between them. It wasn't just disappointment—it was rejection, an unspoken message that Eliot wasn't enough, and maybe he never would be.

The church wasn't any better. They didn't see a kid trying to figure himself out—they saw a project, a sinner in desperate need of saving. He'd lost count of how many sermons he'd sat through, each one dripping with thinly veiled condemnation that seemed aimed directly at him. The whispers from the congregation, the pitying looks, the way people avoided his eyes while they talked about sin as if it were some tangible stain on his soul—it was suffocating. Eliot wasn't a person to them; he was a warning, a lesson, a lost sheep that needed to be brought back into the fold.

School, if possible, was even worse. The teachers had written him off years ago. To them, he was a lost cause, a kid who didn't try hard enough or couldn't keep up. They didn't care about the reasons behind his struggles, the nights he stayed up too late because his dad had dragged him to some church event, or the mornings he showed up with barely any sleep because the nightmares wouldn't let him rest. To them, he was just another problem they didn't have the patience to fix.

And the other kids? They didn't see Eliot at all—not really. He wasn't a person to them; he was a target. An easy one. Someone they could tease, shove, or humiliate without fear of consequence. He was the butt of their jokes, the one they could point to and feel better about themselves. They never wondered how it felt to be on the other side of their laughter, never thought twice about the scars their words and actions left behind.

Eliot couldn't count the number of times he'd wanted to scream, to grab them all by the shoulders and shake them, to force them to see him—really see him. But what would be the point? They'd already decided who he was, and no amount of shouting or fighting would change their minds. He was trapped, stuck in the version of himself they'd all created, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free from it. The failure. The sinner. The lost cause. The target.

It was exhausting, trying to hold onto a sense of self when the world around him was so determined to tear it away. Sometimes, he wasn't even sure who he was anymore. Was he the person they all thought he was? Or was he someone else entirely—someone he hadn't even figured out yet? The worst part was, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Because what if they were right? What if all he was, all he ever would be, was exactly what they saw?

And then there was the graveyard. The place where all those battles seemed to converge, where the weight of his father's world pressed down on him like a stone slab. Every time Eliot stepped foot there, it was like walking into a suffocating fog—a mix of grief, dread, and something else he couldn't quite name. His dad always preached about death like it was some great, noble thing. A transition. A gateway to salvation. A part of God's divine plan. Eliot could practically hear his father's voice now, deep and commanding, telling the grieving families that their loved ones were in a better place, that this was all part of something bigger, something holy. But Eliot thought it all sounded like brainwashing.

How could anyone celebrate this? The rows of gravestones, each one a monument to a life that had ended. The cold, lifeless bodies lying beneath the ground, robbed of everything that once made them human. The hollow-eyed mourners clutching tissues, clinging to scraps of hope his father handed them in the form of Bible verses and rehearsed platitudes. His father's sermons might comfort some, but to Eliot, they just felt hollow. Empty words meant to plaster over wounds that would never truly heal. How could his dad stand there, so composed, so sure of his own righteousness, while people cried their hearts out in front of him?

Eliot couldn't buy into the charade. The way his dad spoke, as though the hole in the ground was some kind of holy destination, felt like the worst kind of lie. It wasn't just the dead who suffered, he thought. It was the people they left behind, the ones who had to keep living with the aftermath. The ones who had to go on pretending that the person who had died was in a better place, while their own lives were fractured and hollowed out in ways that could never be repaired. His dad's words made it sound so clean, so orderly—like death was just the next chapter in a story. But Eliot had seen the reality too many times to believe it. Death was messy and ugly, and it didn't care how good or faithful you were. It took everyone in the end.

He thought about all the funerals he'd stood through, watching grieving families nod along to his father's words, clinging to the hope that there was something bigger, something better waiting for their loved ones. Eliot wanted to believe it, too, sometimes. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all brainwashing—a way to make people feel better about something that would never make sense. He hated how easily his dad could deliver those lines, as if death was just another Sunday sermon. He hated the way people ate it up because they were desperate for meaning, for reassurance, for something that would make the crushing finality of it all seem bearable.

The graveyard wasn't salvation. It wasn't holy or sacred or noble. To Eliot, it was just emptiness. A place where everything felt wrong. The air there always seemed heavier, colder, like it was weighed down by all the grief and loss it had absorbed over the years. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was oppressive, ringing in his ears like an accusation. The rows of headstones stretched out like an endless sea, each one a reminder that life didn't stop for anyone. People died. They were put in the ground. And the world kept turning, whether you were ready for it or not.

And the bodies—God, the bodies. He'd seen more of them than any teenager should ever have to. Young, old, every age in between. It didn't matter. Death didn't discriminate. He could still remember the first time his father had taken him to help with a funeral preparation, standing over a pale, lifeless form that had once been a person, trying not to gag from the smell of embalming fluid and decay. His dad had called it "a valuable lesson," but all Eliot could think about was how wrong it all felt. The stiff gray skin, the emptiness in their faces—it was disgusting. Not just in a physical way, but in a deep, soul-crushing way that made his stomach churn and his hands shake.

The nightmares that followed weren't any better. Dreams where the corpses would open their eyes and stare at him, their mouths moving to speak but no sound coming out. Dreams where he was the one being lowered into the ground, dirt piling up on top of him as he screamed for someone to stop. It had been months since the last funeral he'd been forced to help with, but the memories were still fresh, like open wounds that refused to heal.

And yet, his dad expected him to see it all as some kind of divine calling. A chance to serve God, to help others in their time of need. Eliot didn't see anything divine about it. He didn't feel closer to God standing in that graveyard. If anything, it made him question everything even more. How could a loving God allow so much pain? How could anyone look at death and see something worth celebrating? His dad's sermons were just stories—stories people clung to because the alternative was too terrifying to face. But Eliot couldn't make himself believe them, no matter how much his dad insisted he should.

The graveyard wasn't just a place. It was a reminder. A reminder of how small and fragile life was, and how little control he had over anything. It was where his father's world of faith and rules clashed with Eliot's growing doubts. It was where he felt the weight of everything he didn't understand. And no matter how much he tried to avoid it, it always seemed to pull him back, like some cruel, unrelenting force that refused to let him go.

Eliot shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his stomach twisting at the memory of that freshly dug grave. It wasn't even filled yet, but he could still feel its weight pressing on him, a heavy reminder of all the times he'd been in that exact spot, helping his dad prepare for another funeral. It wasn't just a hole in the ground—it was a symbol of everything Eliot hated about his life. The smell of fresh dirt mixed with faint traces of decay made his stomach churn, a scent so ingrained in his memory it felt like it had taken root in his brain.

The bodies weren't the kind you'd see in movies or on TV—this was real. Gray and waxy, drained of anything remotely human, their presence always lingered like a shadow over him. Even when he wasn't at the graveyard, the memories of those lifeless faces would creep into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. The smell of embalming fluid and stale flowers was always the worst. It would hit him out of nowhere, like it was stuck in his nose, a phantom odor he couldn't scrub away no matter how hard he tried.

He hated the graveyard. Hated what it represented, what it forced him to face. And most of all, he hated the way it made him feel—small, powerless, and unbearably human.

But what scared Eliot the most was the thought of how death wasn't just the end—it was the seal on a life that might never have truly been lived. How many of those people in the caskets had spent their days living for someone else? Following rules that weren't their own, playing parts that had been handed to them without question? Eliot had seen it too often: lives defined by obligation, by expectations they never asked for, by dreams they'd been too afraid or too restricted to chase. And then, just like that, it was over. They were gone, and all that was left behind was a legacy of other people's choices.

That was what terrified Eliot the most. The idea that his life might not be his own. That he'd spend years following his father's rules, doing what was expected of him, trying to fit into a mold that felt too tight, too stifling. And then one day, poof. It would be over. He'd end up in the same graveyard, his body lowered into the earth, and all he'd have to look back on would be a life lived for everyone but himself. A life where every decision had been dictated by someone else's beliefs, someone else's expectations. And for what? To end up just like the people his father preached over, with nothing but hollow reassurances and a grave to show for it?

The thought made his chest tighten, a cold ache blooming somewhere deep inside him. What was the point of it all if it just ended like that? If all he'd ever be was a reflection of what other people wanted him to be? He hated the idea of his father's voice echoing over his grave one day, delivering those same tired words about salvation and divine plans. He hated the idea of leaving behind nothing but a legacy of following rules, of living small, of never breaking free.

Eliot's hands clenched into fists in his pockets as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He didn't want to end up like the people in those caskets. He didn't want to spend his life being molded and controlled, only to have it all mean nothing in the end. But what choice did he have? How could he break free from a system that had been built around him his whole life, from a father who seemed to believe so deeply in everything Eliot couldn't?

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. They wouldn't help him now. But even as he walked, the echoes of his father's sermons, the memory of those lifeless bodies, and the crushing fear of his own future lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind.

How could anyone truly believe that this was part of some divine plan? That this gaping hole in the ground, this lifeless body in a box, was what God wanted? Eliot didn't buy it for a second. To him, it all felt like a lie, a convenient script to pacify people who were desperate for answers. He couldn't stand the way his dad spoke about death like it was beautiful, like it was something to aspire to. It wasn't a gift; it was a punishment. It was messy and unfair and impossibly cruel, and no amount of preaching could make it anything else.

Eliot's dad called it a transition, a stepping stone to a better place, but all Eliot could see was the finality of it. The absolute nothingness that came afterward. The silence. The stillness. There was no comfort in that. No salvation. Just an empty casket, a grieving family, and a hole in the ground waiting to swallow it all up. And yet his dad stood there, week after week, delivering the same hollow words, trying to make people believe there was meaning in the chaos. To Eliot, it felt like the cruelest kind of brainwashing—convincing people that the worst thing imaginable was somehow part of a loving God's plan.

Eliot's jaw tightened as he forced himself to look ahead, to focus on Dipper instead of letting his thoughts drag him further into that dark, suffocating spiral. He could feel the weight of it—the crushing, constant pressure to do something, anything, but instead he was stuck in this limbo, walking beside someone who at least had a direction. Dipper had a purpose. Dipper was doing something. Even if that something was tracking down some weird, probably-not-human guy his sister was crushing on, at least it wasn't nothing. At least Dipper had a mission, a goal, a reason to keep moving forward. It was so much more than Eliot could say for himself.

He tried to steady his breath, his heart. Eliot didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know where he was headed or even why he was here. There was no grand plan for him. No direction that seemed to lead anywhere worth going. He felt like he was stuck in a fog, trying to take steps forward, but never really getting anywhere. Maybe he had come along because it was easier than staying behind. Easier than sitting at home in the silence, where his thoughts would drown him in a way that felt too real, too heavy. When he was alone, his mind would twist itself into knots—thoughts of his father's words, of the suffocating weight of expectations, of everything he hadn't done and everything he was too afraid to do.

Being with Dipper, being outside, felt like a temporary escape, even if the mystery they were chasing didn't seem to make sense. At least it was something. At least he wasn't trapped in the quiet, watching the hours crawl by, wondering if his life would ever add up to anything worth remembering.

Eliot couldn't shake the feeling that his life had always been just one step out of his control, like he was a passenger in his own story, being carried along by a current he couldn't see or understand. No matter how hard he tried to hold on, to grip the edges of his life with both hands and steer it in the direction he wanted, it always slipped away from him. It was like the world was unfolding around him—people moving through their lives, finding their purpose, figuring things out—and there he was, just standing on the sidelines, watching it all happen without ever feeling like he was a part of it. It was a constant fight to keep up, but no matter how fast he ran, the distance between him and everything else seemed to grow wider.

The more Eliot thought about it, the clearer it became that so much of his fear, his overwhelming sense of anxiety, stemmed from this feeling of being powerless. It wasn't just about the things he couldn't control—death, time, other people's expectations—it was the nagging sense that he was, at his core, just a reaction to everything around him. The choices he made, the things he did, they all felt like they were coming from a place of defense, a response to something happening to him, instead of being the result of some plan or intention of his own. It was like his entire existence had been shaped by outside forces, and he was just trying to play catch-up, trying to fit into the roles that had been handed to him without ever being asked what he wanted.

He couldn't stop the inevitable march of time, couldn't slow it down or push it forward. He couldn't change the direction in which his life was heading, even if he wanted to. Every day felt like the same monotonous thing—wake up, go through the motions, get through the day. It was all one long blur, a string of moments that never quite added up to anything more meaningful. And that realization—that he was powerless against the most fundamental aspects of existence—chilled him to the bone. It was a kind of emptiness that he couldn't escape, a constant low hum of dread in the back of his mind. The thought that nothing he did would ever change the course of his life, that he couldn't control even the smallest parts of his existence, made him feel small, insignificant. Like a leaf caught in the wind, tossed around without any hope of grounding. The more he tried to fight against it, the more it felt like the wind was picking up, pulling him in directions he couldn't understand or anticipate. And it terrified him—more than anything else ever had—that no matter what, he would never be able to make his life his own.

Death, he knew, was the ultimate loss of control. No matter how much he tried to manage his life, no matter how many plans he made or how tightly he tried to grip the reins, death was something no one could outrun. It didn't care about good intentions or careful planning. One day, everything—every little piece of his world—would simply stop, and there was nothing anyone could do to delay it. Nothing anyone could say or do would stop it. The thought of it made his skin crawl, an unsettling shiver creeping up his spine, because it wasn't just the idea of dying that scared him. It was the finality of it. The thought that one day, the world would keep spinning, but he wouldn't be there to see it. There would be no more chances, no more opportunities to change things, to fix the mistakes he'd made or to embrace the things he should have.

That finality was the most terrifying part. There were no do-overs, no chance to turn back the clock, no ability to rewrite the script. When it came time for his life to end, there would be no more time left to try again. Everything would be lost, erased. The things that had meant the most, the things he regretted not doing, all of it would disappear in an instant. He'd never get a second chance to fix the things he wished he'd done differently or say the things he never had the courage to say. All the messes, the broken pieces of his life, would be left behind, incomplete, like a puzzle with missing parts. The thought of that helplessness—the idea that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it or to change the way things would end—chilled him to his core. It was that helplessness, that utter lack of power in the face of something so inevitable, that really terrified him. It was the knowledge that, despite all his efforts to control his world, there was one thing that he could never manage: the end.

The graveyard, in a strange way, was a symbol of everything he couldn't control. It wasn't just a place where bodies were buried; it was a place where time itself seemed to hang heavy in the air, a constant reminder of what had already passed and what was inevitable. It stood as a silent witness to the fragility of life, to the relentless march of time that no one could escape. Every weathered headstone, every chipped marker on the graves, seemed to speak of lives that had once been full of moments—joy, pain, love, loss—but were now reduced to names and dates etched into stone. It reminded him that no matter how much people fought to cling to life, no matter how tightly they tried to hold onto their fleeting moments, time didn't care. It kept moving, sweeping everything along with it, leaving behind nothing but empty space and silence.

It was the same with the people who had made assumptions about him, with the expectations that had been thrust upon him since he could remember. His dad, his teachers, the people who passed through his life, each one had their own ideas about what he should be, what he was meant to do, who he was supposed to become. They painted him with broad strokes, outlined his life in ways he never had a chance to define for himself. There was no room for him to figure it out on his own, no space to make mistakes or change his path without fear of disappointing someone. His father saw him as a disappointment, the church saw him as lost, and his teachers saw him as another kid who wouldn't amount to anything. None of them saw him for who he really was, or even allowed him the chance to discover that for himself. Just like the graves, his life felt predetermined, as if the decisions had already been made, the course already set before he even had a chance to consider who he wanted to be. And that made him feel like he was suffocating, trapped in a box that wasn't of his making.

In that sense, the graveyard wasn't just a place of death—it was a reminder of how little power anyone truly had over their own existence. How, despite all the striving, the pushing, the trying to fit into the spaces that others carved out for him, he was still subject to forces beyond his control. He couldn't escape it. Not the expectations. Not the pressure. Not the inevitability of time slipping through his fingers.

The weight of all of it—the dead bodies, the looming future, the pressure to live up to someone else's version of who he should be—crushed him, settling deep in his chest like a heavy, suffocating stone. It wasn't just the literal dead he had seen, it was the metaphorical death of all the things he could never grasp—freedom, identity, purpose. Every part of his life seemed dictated by someone else's hand, shaped by the expectations of his father, the church, the teachers who wrote him off as nothing but a lost cause. The longer he tried to fight against that current, the more it felt like he was suffocating under the weight of their assumptions. His sense of self was like a puzzle with too many missing pieces, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite make the pieces fit.

He felt small in the face of it all. Powerless. As if the world was so vast, so sprawling, that there was no place for him to leave any mark, no place for him to find any kind of meaning. He wasn't a person, not really—not to anyone who mattered. He was just a leaf caught in an endless current, drifting along, with no control over where it would take him. Every step he took felt like it was leading him nowhere, every choice feeling more like a reaction to someone else's demands than a decision made from his own desires or beliefs. The harder he tried to control the direction of his life, the more it slipped through his fingers like sand, faster and faster, until he couldn't hold onto anything at all. Every attempt to change his trajectory only seemed to push him further away from the life he thought he should be living.

And it wasn't just death that scared him. Sure, death was terrifying—its finality, its certainty—but what terrified him more was the helplessness that came with it. The knowledge that, no matter how hard he tried to fight, he would always be at the mercy of forces outside of his control. Time marched forward without care, sweeping everything in its path, dragging him along with it. The expectations of others felt like shackles, chaining him to a future he didn't want but could never escape. Life, death, time—these things were bigger than him, more powerful than anything he could ever hope to be. They made him feel insignificant, like a grain of sand lost in the vastness of the ocean. Nothing he did seemed to matter. He was just a speck in a world that didn't care. A puppet, his strings pulled by forces he couldn't see, couldn't touch, and certainly couldn't control. And that made him feel like he wasn't living at all. Like everything he did was a feeble attempt to matter, to leave something behind, but all of it was futile. He would never be enough. He would never be in control. And that was the part that made him feel most empty—more than death itself.

Eliot glanced at Dipper's back again, watching his steps grow more determined, more focused. The tension in his shoulders, the clenched fists that said he was all in. Eliot couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that kind of certainty about anything. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to know what he wanted, to chase it with that unyielding belief that it was worth something. Dipper had that. He had a purpose, even if it was about something as strange as a guy who probably didn't even belong in this world. Eliot wished he could say the same for himself.

"Hey," Dipper's voice cut through the fog of Eliot's thoughts, sharp and clipped. The sound of it snapped him out of his daze, pulling him back to the present. "You coming, or what?"

Eliot blinked, a small rush of confusion sweeping through him as he realized how far behind he had fallen. His eyes flickered to Dipper, who had already picked up his pace, waiting for him like he was trying to drag him back to reality. Eliot cursed under his breath, quickening his steps to catch up. He fell in line beside Dipper, trying to ignore the heaviness that had settled in his chest.

"Yeah, I'm coming," Eliot mumbled, the words coming out more sharply than he intended, as if to shake off the weight of everything that had been pressing down on him.

Dipper glanced over at him then, his expression softening just slightly, the concern in his eyes breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. "You okay?" he asked, the words tentative, but still direct.

Eliot felt a flicker of hesitation. The automatic "I'm fine" was right there, ready to spill out, the one he always fell back on because it was easier than explaining how not fine he really was. But he held it back, this time forcing himself to just breathe. The words seemed so meaningless sometimes, like a broken record, a lie wrapped in a few simple syllables. Instead, he just nodded, offering a faint, barely-there smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes.

"Yeah," he said again, quieter this time, his voice almost lost to the wind. "I'm okay." The words felt hollow in his mouth, but he kept his face neutral, hoping Dipper wouldn't see right through him.

Dipper didn't press. He could've—Eliot was pretty sure he was the kind of guy who could see through most people's walls. But for whatever reason, Dipper didn't. He simply nodded, falling into the same rhythm as before, his footsteps steady and purposeful. Eliot was grateful for that, for the space Dipper gave him, for the unspoken understanding that sometimes you didn't have to force people to spill everything.

Being around Dipper and Mabel—and, strangely enough, even Norman—was a strange kind of comfort, though Eliot couldn't quite explain why. It wasn't like they had rolled out the welcome mat for him or even gone out of their way to make him feel included. Most of the time, he felt like he was just hovering on the edge of things, a spare part that didn't quite fit but wasn't entirely useless either. And yet, despite that, there was something about their presence that anchored him, like he'd stumbled into a gravity he didn't know he needed.

It wasn't just their energy—it was the way they tackled life head-on, like every step they took had some kind of unspoken purpose. Dipper's obsessive drive, Mabel's unshakable sense of wonder, even Norman's eerie, otherworldly composure—it all contrasted so sharply with the aimlessness Eliot had been dragging around for as long as he could remember. They were so certain, or at least they pretended to be. And even if it was just an act, it was a good one. It made Eliot feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't entirely lost.

There was something comforting in the way they existed, something that made Eliot feel less like a ghost haunting his own life. It wasn't that they made him forget his emptiness or his doubts—it was more like they made the weight of it bearable. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he was completely invisible. Being around them didn't erase the loneliness that had been gnawing at him for years, but it muted it, turned it down to a dull hum instead of a deafening roar.

And yet, Eliot couldn't shake the strangeness of it all. This wasn't his world. He didn't belong here, not really. He wasn't like Dipper with his relentless determination or Mabel with her bright-eyed belief in the impossible. He was just... Eliot. Directionless, uncertain, a patchwork of contradictions. And still, being here—being with them—felt better than being alone. It wasn't logical, but maybe not everything had to be. Maybe some things just were.

It was odd, though, because the more Eliot thought about it, the more it highlighted just how isolated he'd been. He'd spent so much of his life fading into the background, trying to make himself invisible, like a shadow that no one would notice. It was safer that way—or at least, that's what he told himself. But invisibility wasn't as easy as it sounded. No matter how hard he tried to blend in, there was always someone ready to push him further into the margins, as if his mere existence was too much of an inconvenience. Teachers who sighed when he spoke up, classmates who looked through him like he wasn't even there. His dad, who never stopped trying to cram him into the mold of someone he could never be. Isolation wasn't just a state of being; it was a constant, exhausting effort to stay out of everyone's way while being reminded at every turn how much he didn't belong.

But now, here he was, trailing after Dipper, Mabel, and Norman, somehow part of this ragtag group. He wasn't sure how it had happened or if it even made sense, but it felt... familiar. Or maybe it almost felt familiar, like the echo of a memory he couldn't quite reach. There was something about the dynamic, about the way they each fit together in their own odd, imperfect way, that stirred something deep in him. It wasn't like he truly believed he was part of it—part of them—but the idea tugged at him, faint and bittersweet.

Had he ever felt this way before? He thought back to the fleeting connections he'd had in the past, the rare moments when he'd felt less alone. There'd been someone, hadn't there? A friend, or at least he thought so. It was hard to tell if his mind was conjuring up some half-forgotten memory or if he was just fooling himself, desperate to believe he hadn't always been this detached, this disconnected. He wanted to remember what it was like to belong somewhere, to someone, but the details were blurry, like a dream fading the moment you woke up.

And yet, as much as he wanted to trust this feeling—this fragile, almost-familiar sense of comfort—he couldn't help but question it. Was it real, or was it just another illusion his mind was clinging to, desperate to stave off the emptiness? What if this connection, this sense of being tethered to something, was just a temporary reprieve from the isolation he'd always known? What if he was just fooling himself into believing he was part of something, only to be cast out again when they realized he didn't belong?

The thought scared him, more than he wanted to admit. Because if this wasn't real—if this feeling of familiarity and comfort turned out to be just another lie—what did that leave him with? Nothing but the same isolation he'd spent his whole life trying to escape.

Was he just imagining it? Was his mind playing tricks on him, desperately conjuring up this sense of belonging because the alternative—the crushing loneliness—was too unbearable to face? Eliot found himself questioning everything, like a small crack opening up in his chest. The thought that he might be fabricating this comfort, weaving a thread of connection that didn't exist, made his stomach churn. It was almost as if he needed to believe he wasn't alone, that he hadn't spent so many years drifting through life without a tether, without anyone really caring whether he was there or not. But what if this was all just a desperate attempt to patch together something that wasn't real?

He thought back to a time when he'd felt something like this before—something that might have been a connection. There had been someone, hadn't there? A friend, someone he'd spent hours with, someone who had made him feel seen, even if only for a brief time. Noah. But had it really been that simple? Had Noah really been his friend, or had he built up that memory into something bigger than it ever was?

The more Eliot tried to remember, the blurrier everything became. The edges of the memory were soft, like trying to hold onto the fading threads of a dream after waking up. He could almost hear Noah's voice, clear and easy, the way he'd always made Eliot feel like he wasn't just a background character in his own life. But the harder he tried to grasp onto that feeling, the more it slipped away, like sand between his fingers. The memory twisted, morphed into something unfamiliar, and Eliot couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that maybe he'd just imagined it all. Maybe his mind had constructed this version of Noah, this version of friendship, because it was easier to believe in the illusion than face the emptiness.

Had it ever been real at all? Or had he convinced himself it was something deeper, something more meaningful than it had ever been? The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. And that's when it hit him—what if this was just how his brain worked, tricking him into thinking he belonged, that he was part of something? What if the only reason he felt this pull toward Dipper, Mabel, and even Norman, was because he was desperate for it to be true? Desperate to escape the ache of loneliness that had been his constant companion for so long.

He didn't know anymore. Everything felt uncertain, and the doubts wormed their way into his thoughts, making him wonder if anything—any connection, any sense of belonging—was truly real.

And then there was his mom, or at least the idea of her. Not a memory, really—more like a concept, something he could almost touch but never quite grasp. It was a shadow, a faint imprint in the back of his mind, like the ghost of warmth he thought she might've once brought into his life. But was that real? Could it have been? Every time he tried to picture her face, it was like trying to remember a dream from long ago, slipping away just as he thought he had it. Her voice—was there a softness to it, a melody he could hold on to? No. It was all a blur. He could only remember the space she'd left behind, the hollow air around him where her presence should've been. She was just absence, an open wound he didn't know how to heal, no matter how hard he tried.

Her absence wasn't something concrete. It wasn't the loss of a mother he could mourn. It was the loss of a presence that never quite existed. A void that was so big, so unfilled, it sometimes made him wonder if it would swallow him whole one day. And what if it wasn't just her that was missing, but the idea of her? The version of a mother he had built in his mind, a mother who was kind and warm and there for him. What if that, too, was a fabrication?

What if all of this—the feeling he had now, this strange comfort of being around Dipper and Mabel—was just another illusion his mind had created to protect him from the truth? Maybe this sense of belonging wasn't real either, just another figment of his desperate need to feel connected to something, someone, anything. He couldn't escape the nagging doubt that he'd built his own little world of comfort and safety, layering illusion on top of illusion, until he couldn't tell where the real world ended and the one he'd created for himself began.

The thought was unsettling. Was this what he'd become? Someone who couldn't even trust the things he felt, because they were all distorted by the need for something he'd never truly had? Would he ever find a way out of this fog, or was he doomed to live in a life full of half-formed ideas, never fully realized?

He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek as he quickened his pace to keep up. His feet moved faster than his mind, but the thoughts kept circling, relentless and sharp. It doesn't matter, he told himself, trying to push the doubts down as if they were something small he could just ignore. It's not like I'll ever figure it out. The words were meant to be reassuring, but they only felt hollow, like a fragile mantra he repeated to drown out the growing noise in his head. The truth was, he had no clue why he was here, walking beside Dipper and Mabel, following their easy conversations as if they were meant for him too. He didn't know if he belonged with them, or if he was just tagging along because the alternative was sitting in his room, staring at the same familiar cracks in the ceiling, letting his thoughts close in on him like the walls of a prison.

He felt small, insignificant in this sea of motion, and the loneliness was suffocating. He tried to ignore the weight of it, tried to pretend he was just part of the group, just another one of the faces in the crowd, but the feeling of being an outsider never went away. It lingered, clinging to him like a second skin he couldn't shed, no matter how much he wished for it. Did they even want him here? Did they care if he was around, or was he just some weird extra—a background character in their story that no one had the heart to get rid of? Was he just here by default, not because he was wanted but because no one knew how to send him away without feeling guilty?

The thought made him feel sick, like his chest was slowly being crushed by something too heavy to hold. He wasn't sure what scared him more—the idea that he was invisible to them or the creeping fear that maybe they didn't even care enough to notice he was there at all. Would they even miss him if he disappeared? Would it matter to them? Or was he just... passing through, a shadow among the living, leaving no mark behind, not even a memory? The uncertainty churned inside him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Sometimes Eliot thought he was a hollow shell, incapable of feeling anything real, as if his emotions had been drained out of him, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. It was as though he were walking through life as a ghost—aware of the world around him but not truly a part of it, disconnected from the people, the places, the things that should have mattered. The quiet in his mind was deafening, and every day felt like he was just going through the motions, performing a role he didn't remember agreeing to. He thought maybe this was who he was—someone who had learned to shut off his emotions, to become numb so the world wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe it was easier that way, maybe it was safer.

But then, on the other hand, there were moments when it was the complete opposite. He'd feel a rush of emotion, like an uncontrollable flood breaking through the walls he'd spent so long building. It wasn't just sadness or anger—it was everything all at once. Hope, fear, frustration, longing, and something else that he couldn't even name. All of it came crashing down on him, flooding his chest until it felt like he was drowning, his breath caught in his throat, his heart racing out of control. It was overwhelming, suffocating, and he didn't know how to stop it. His mind spun in every direction, desperately trying to find something solid to cling to, but everything felt slippery, like trying to hold water in his hands.

He didn't know which version of himself was real—the person who felt nothing or the one who felt everything. Both seemed equally distant, equally impossible to reconcile. What if both were true? What if he wasn't just numb or just consumed by emotion but both at once, shifting between the two extremes depending on the day, the moment, the people around him? What if neither version of him was real at all? What if he was just some patchwork mess of contradictions—half-built, incomplete, constantly shifting, never quite settling into one thing long enough to feel solid? The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He didn't know who he was, and the not knowing scared him. It left him feeling like he was drifting in a sea of uncertainty, too lost to find his way to the shore, too broken to piece himself together again.

He glanced up at Dipper's back, at the hunched line of his shoulders, and tried to shake the thought off. Now wasn't the time to get lost in his own head. But even as he walked, even as the silence stretched between them, that familiar ache in his chest lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of their footsteps mixing with the distant rustling of leaves. The graveyard faded into the distance behind them, like an old memory slipping further away, but the weight of it still lingered in the air. Eliot didn't look back. He didn't need to. The image of that freshly dug grave, the hollow emptiness it represented, was already burned into his mind. It always was, no matter how far he walked or how much time passed. The graveyard was a place that stayed with him, even when he was far from it, even when he tried to leave it behind. It was in his blood, in his bones. He could feel it every time he let himself think about it too long.

For a moment, as they walked, Eliot tried to focus on the present, on the steady rhythm of his feet, on the quiet buzz of the world around him. But the weight was still there, thick and suffocating, a constant reminder that some things you couldn't outrun. Not for long.

They finally arrived back at the shack, the air between them heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. The quiet seemed to stretch endlessly, broken only by the faint creak of the attic stairs as they ascended. Each step echoed in the stillness of the house, the sound brittle, almost fragile, like it might shatter under the strain of their unspoken thoughts. The night felt colder inside than it had outside, the walls pressing in as if the house itself could feel the tension radiating from them.

At the top of the stairs, Dipper reached the door to the twins' room and pushed it open without hesitation. His movements were stiff and methodical, as if his body were running on autopilot while his mind churned somewhere far away. He didn't look back at Eliot, didn't pause or say anything. Instead, he moved with a quiet kind of determination, heading straight for his desk as though it were the only solid thing in a world that suddenly felt too chaotic to navigate. His shoulders were still rigid, carrying the remnants of frustration that hadn't quite dissipated during the walk back.

Eliot stopped just inside the doorway, hovering there like he wasn't sure if he belonged in the room at all. His eyes flicked around, taking in the mismatched chaos of the twins' shared space—the scattered papers, the faint glow of string lights draped across the ceiling—but his attention kept snapping back to Dipper. There was something unnerving about the way Dipper moved, so focused and deliberate, yet so detached. It was as though the act of walking to his desk and flipping open his journal was the only thing grounding him in the moment.

Eliot's gaze followed Dipper as he reached for the journal with a kind of sharp precision, his fingers flipping through its pages in rapid, almost frantic succession. The faint rustle of paper was the only sound in the room now, a quiet rhythm that somehow amplified the silence. Dipper didn't say a word, didn't glance up, didn't even seem to notice Eliot standing there. It was like he'd closed himself off entirely, retreating into the pages of the journal as if he could find answers there that would make everything else disappear.

Eliot shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. He wanted to say something—to ask if Dipper was okay, to break the oppressive silence that seemed to fill every corner of the room—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The words felt stuck, caught somewhere in the back of his throat. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching Dipper from a distance, feeling the weight of his own uncertainty settle like a stone in his chest.

Eliot lingered by the doorway, his feet planted like they'd grown roots, though every instinct told him to leave. His hands stayed shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his fingers fidgeting against the lining as if searching for something to hold onto. He wasn't sure whether he should step into the room or stay back, unsure if Dipper even noticed—or wanted—his presence. There was a strange pull in the air, an unspoken tension that made Eliot feel both like an intruder and someone who was meant to witness this moment.

His eyes stayed fixed on Dipper, tracking his every movement. The way Dipper's shoulders stayed taut and his jaw clenched made it clear that he was running on sheer willpower, holding himself together by a thread. Eliot recognized the look—not just frustration, but that deeper kind of determination that came when someone was trying to drown out everything else just to focus on the one thing they thought might keep them afloat. It was unsettling to watch, not because it was unfamiliar, but because Eliot saw too much of himself in it.

For a brief moment, Eliot considered turning around. He could leave, retreat down the stairs, and pretend he'd never been there. He didn't owe Dipper anything—not an explanation, not his company, nothing. But just as the thought crossed his mind, something made him hesitate. It wasn't guilt exactly, and it wasn't pity either. It was the realization that Dipper, in his own way, was just as alone as Eliot was. And maybe, just maybe, being here—even silently, even awkwardly—might mean something.

Still, Eliot felt the familiar tug of doubt creeping in, whispering in the back of his mind that he didn't belong here, that this wasn't his place. He wasn't a part of whatever mission Dipper was on, wasn't part of this weird, chaotic family dynamic. But even as those thoughts surfaced, he couldn't seem to convince himself to leave. Something about Dipper's intensity, the quiet fire in his movements, kept him rooted in place. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was a kind of respect. Or maybe it was just the smallest sliver of hope that standing there meant he wasn't completely alone either.

At the desk, Dipper pulled out his journal, the battered leather cover creaking faintly as he opened it. The edges were frayed and softened from years of obsessive use, the pages warped slightly where ink had bled through in moments of hurried desperation. He flipped through it with an almost frantic precision, his fingers moving so quickly they barely seemed to touch the paper. His muttering was a constant undercurrent, too quiet and fragmented for Eliot to understand, but the tension in Dipper's voice said enough. Every word seemed to stick in his throat, heavy with a mixture of frustration and determination.

Dipper's face was a study in sharp contrasts—his brows drawn tight, his jaw clenched so hard Eliot half-expected him to crack a tooth. His lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, but his eyes... his eyes were alive with something raw and unrelenting, darting from one line of text to the next like they were trying to outrun his own thoughts. It was clear that he wasn't just reading; he was scouring, searching for answers he wasn't even sure existed.

The journal wasn't just a tool—it was his lifeline. To anyone else, it might've looked like an old book, a relic of someone else's obsession. But to Dipper, it was everything. It was the map he used to navigate the chaos around him, the thing that gave shape to a world that otherwise felt too big, too strange, too uncontrollable. Watching him now, Eliot couldn't help but feel like he was witnessing something deeply personal, like the journal wasn't just a collection of knowledge but a piece of Dipper himself, laid bare and vulnerable.

The way Dipper's hand tightened around the edge of the journal, fingers digging into the leather as if trying to ground himself, made Eliot's chest tighten. It was like watching someone try to hold the world together with their bare hands, pouring every ounce of themselves into something just to keep it from slipping away. Eliot could see the cracks forming, the barely-contained storm behind Dipper's movements, and for the first time, he wondered if all of this—the chase, the research, the relentless need to find the truth—was as much about finding answers as it was about holding himself together.

Eliot leaned against the doorframe, his arms loosely crossed over his chest as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The room was cloaked in a stillness that felt more like pressure than peace, the kind of silence that crawled under your skin and made you hyper-aware of every small sound. The faint shff-shff of pages turning and the scratch of Dipper's pencil against the paper filled the space like a clock ticking down to something inevitable. Each sound felt sharp and deliberate, like Dipper was trying to carve out some semblance of control in a world that constantly defied it.

Eliot's gaze lingered on Dipper. He wasn't just focusing—it was something heavier, something Eliot knew all too well. The act of doing, of moving, of putting yourself into a task with such intensity that it blocked out everything else. Eliot recognized it because he'd done it himself a hundred times, whether it was pacing his room, biting his nails until they bled, or scribbling meaningless lines in a notebook just to drown out the noise in his head.

He could see the strain in Dipper's posture, the way his body betrayed the mental tug-of-war he was fighting. His movements, precise as they were, had a mechanical quality to them, like a wind-up toy just barely holding its rhythm. Eliot wondered if Dipper even realized it—if he knew how close he seemed to unraveling, or if he'd just buried himself so deeply in the work that he couldn't see anything else.

A pang of something Eliot didn't fully understand settled in his chest. Sympathy, maybe, or just the quiet realization that they weren't so different after all. The need to do something, anything, to stop yourself from spiraling was universal, wasn't it? A human instinct. But watching it unfold in someone else, seeing that raw edge of desperation Dipper was trying so hard to mask, made Eliot feel like he was intruding on something private. And yet, he couldn't look away. Something about the scene—about Dipper's intensity, his silent determination—made Eliot feel like he should say something, even though the words wouldn't come.

Still, Eliot didn't speak. He stood rooted in place, the weight of indecision pressing down on him as he watched Dipper pour himself into the journal with a single-minded focus. He couldn't tell if Dipper needed someone to talk to or just someone to occupy the same space, to share the silence without intruding on it. Eliot didn't know which role to play—didn't even know if he could. What could he possibly say that wouldn't feel hollow? The truth was, he'd been where Dipper was now. He'd felt that same suffocating pressure, that desperate need to make sense of something that refused to fit neatly into place. But no one had ever said anything to him when he needed it most. No one had stepped in to break the silence. So how was he supposed to know what to say now?

The room itself seemed to mirror Dipper's internal chaos—its cluttered surface littered with fragments of thought, like a snapshot of a mind stretched too thin. Eliot's gaze wandered to the desk, taking in the scattered papers, hastily written notes, and crumpled sketches that looked like they'd been abandoned in frustration. Everything about it was haphazard yet deliberate, as if each misplaced scrap of paper held its own importance. The journal, though, stood out amidst the mess. Its edges were frayed, its spine worn from being opened and closed countless times, a tangible testament to Dipper's relentless determination.

Eliot's eyes traced the movements of Dipper's hands as he gripped the pencil with a force that bordered on excessive. His knuckles were pale, the tension radiating from his fingers to his hunched shoulders, which seemed to fold inward under the invisible weight he carried. Eliot knew that weight—knew how it pressed against your chest, how it made your thoughts feel heavy and slow even as your body raced to keep up. He recognized the way Dipper's posture seemed to collapse in on itself, like he was building a wall around his vulnerability, a defense mechanism Eliot had perfected in his own way.

For a fleeting moment, Eliot thought about stepping forward, about saying something—anything—to pierce the stillness. But his tongue felt heavy, tied down by uncertainty and doubt. He didn't want to interrupt, didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing and shattering whatever fragile rhythm Dipper had found in his work. Instead, he stayed where he was, hands shoved deeper into his jacket pockets, his back pressed lightly against the doorframe. Maybe silence was what Dipper needed. Or maybe Eliot was just afraid to confront the rawness in front of him, afraid of how much it reminded him of himself.

Eliot opened his mouth, then shut it again, the words slipping away before they could fully form. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something important, but every attempt to step forward left him unsure of his footing. Dipper was so completely consumed, his attention narrowed to the journal in front of him, his pencil flying across the page with a quiet urgency that made the room feel even smaller. Eliot shifted his weight, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath him the only sound he dared to add to the silence. For a moment, it felt like he wasn't just an intruder in Dipper's space but in the very act of his thinking.

It was strange, though—watching someone so immersed, so locked into their purpose, made Eliot feel a pang of something he couldn't quite name. Jealousy? Admiration? Maybe both. There was a kind of steadiness to Dipper's intensity, a certainty in the way his hands moved, even when frustration visibly pulled at his features. Eliot couldn't help but envy it. The sheer drive to focus on something, to give it all your attention and let it anchor you. At least Dipper had something to hold onto, even if it was born out of confusion and anger.

Eliot's own thoughts felt like they were made of smoke, impossible to grasp or pin down. He thought about the strange twist of events that had led him here, about the things they'd seen that made his stomach churn with unease. But while he wrestled with the enormity of it all, Dipper had plunged headfirst into it, chasing after answers like they were the only thing keeping him upright. And maybe they were.

At least Dipper knew what he was after. Even if it was something as bizarre and intangible as the truth behind what they'd witnessed, it gave him direction. Eliot didn't have that—not really. He didn't know what he was chasing, didn't even know if he was chasing anything at all. He felt unmoored, like a ship drifting without a compass, while Dipper had latched onto this one thread of certainty and refused to let go. Eliot envied that determination, even if he didn't fully understand it. Even if it made him feel like the outsider in the room.

The journal's pages fluttered as Dipper flipped to another section, the sound slicing through the heavy stillness of the room like a razor-thin crack in glass. It was a small, sharp noise, but it carried a strange weight, filling the air with a tension that Eliot could almost feel pressing against his chest. He didn't move, didn't even shift his stance, as if any sudden motion might upset the delicate balance of the moment. Dipper's focus was so intense, so singular, that Eliot almost felt like he was intruding just by standing there, breathing the same air.

Eliot's hesitation turned into a kind of still vigilance, his eyes tracing the rapid movements of Dipper's hands as they turned the journal's pages, then returned to jot down notes with an almost feverish determination. He could see the strain in the lines of Dipper's shoulders, the way they hunched slightly forward as if shielding him from an unseen weight. There was something fragile in the way Dipper moved, a quiet desperation disguised as focus, like he was gripping tightly to a thread of control that might snap at any moment.

And yet, Eliot stayed. Not because he thought Dipper needed him—he wasn't even sure Dipper was aware of him—but because leaving felt wrong somehow. He didn't know what to say, didn't even know if words would help, but he knew what it felt like to stand on the edge of unraveling and have no one there. So he lingered, his presence quiet, almost invisible, hovering in the doorway like a shadow just outside the frame.

The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, but Eliot didn't dare break it. Dipper looked like he was barely holding himself together, every sharp page turn, every scribbled note, a visible effort to keep his emotions in check. Eliot's chest tightened at the sight, an unfamiliar pang of empathy stirring in him. This wasn't just frustration—this was something deeper, heavier, and Eliot felt like a trespasser in Dipper's unspoken struggle.

He waited, his feet planted firmly on the threshold. He told himself he was giving Dipper space, giving him the time he clearly needed to work through whatever was storming inside him. But a small part of him—one he didn't want to admit to—stayed because he wanted to be there when Dipper finally did speak. Not to pry or push, but because, deep down, Eliot knew what it felt like to choke on your own silence, wishing someone would notice but not knowing how to ask.

Eliot's fingers were curling and uncurling in his pockets in a way that betrayed his nervous energy. Each shift of his weight, each subtle movement, seemed amplified in the stillness of the room, as if the air itself was too thick to breathe. He could feel the pressure of the silence pushing in from all sides, suffocating him, wrapping around his chest like an invisible vise. He hadn't meant to let it stretch on this long, hadn't meant to make the space between them feel so unbearably vast. But something about Dipper's intensity—the quiet tension in his posture, the way his focus was so sharp and consuming—made Eliot hesitant, like any wrong word or misplaced gesture might be the thing to break the fragile moment.

Dipper was still at his desk, absorbed in his journal, but Eliot could sense the invisible walls between them closing in. It wasn't just the silence. It was the weight of unspoken thoughts, questions hanging in the air, things neither of them dared to voice out loud. Eliot's eyes flicked briefly to Dipper's profile, watching the way he scribbled into the pages, his movements precise and almost mechanical, as if he was trying to put everything in his head down on paper before it slipped away. His concentration was so deep, so desperate, that it made Eliot feel like an intruder just standing there, unsure of how to navigate the tension that filled every inch of space.

For a moment, Eliot thought about leaving, about retreating from the quiet pressure, but his feet felt heavy, rooted to the floor. It wasn't just that he didn't want to disturb Dipper. He didn't know where to go. The uncertainty in his mind was growing like a storm cloud, and he didn't have the strength to chase it away by himself.

Finally, the words came out, small and tentative, but the weight of them felt like a rupture in the quiet. "So... what now?"

The question felt like a bridge between the two of them, a tentative attempt to make sense of the chaos that had settled in the room. Eliot hadn't meant for it to sound as loaded as it did, but his voice carried a weight that seemed to slice through the thick silence, demanding something more than just a response. It was like a crack in the dam, letting everything build up and spill over, even though he hadn't meant to let it happen. The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension, as though the question wasn't just about the next step, but about everything they had been avoiding, everything that had led them here.

Eliot could feel Dipper's eyes on him before he even looked up, the weight of his gaze a silent pressure that made the air around him feel heavier, denser. There was something sharp about the way Dipper was watching him, like he was waiting for Eliot to reveal something more—something he wasn't sure he wanted to share. The silence between them deepened in those moments, stretching out longer than it should have, and Eliot shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of how exposed he felt under Dipper's focused gaze. It wasn't anger or frustration in Dipper's expression, but a kind of quiet urgency, as if Eliot's words had pulled him out of his intense concentration, forcing him to confront the very real question that had been hanging in the air.

Eliot cleared his throat, feeling his heart beat a little faster, his palms suddenly sweaty in the stillness. He couldn't help it—his mind was already racing ahead, imagining all the ways the conversation could go wrong, all the ways he might have just overstepped. But despite the discomfort, he didn't regret asking. Not yet. What else could he do? Pretend everything was fine? Stay silent and wait for Dipper to lead the way? The question was there, a thread they both had to follow, whether they were ready for it or not. And Eliot, for all his doubts, knew they had to face it—together.

Dipper didn't immediately speak, his pencil still hovering over the journal for a moment before he slowly set it down. His movements were slower now, more deliberate, like he was processing the question in a way that made him pause, reconsidering the gravity of it. Every inch of him seemed to stiffen, as though the weight of the moment was finally settling on his shoulders. He seemed to hold his breath, caught between the question Eliot had asked and the uncertainty it brought with it. The tension between them thickened, making the silence stretch a little longer than it probably should have, but neither of them moved.

When Dipper finally turned to face Eliot, there was a slight softening in his expression, the sharp edge of his frustration dulling just a fraction, replaced by a quiet resolve that had always been lurking just beneath the surface. It wasn't a look of relief or understanding—it was more like acceptance. As if, in that moment, he was beginning to come to terms with something he'd been avoiding. Dipper lifted his cap with a slight, almost nervous motion, running a hand through his hair before quickly putting it back in place. His fingers brushed over the fabric of the cap like it was some sort of comfort, a familiar habit to help ground himself. He exhaled a long breath, slow and deliberate, like he'd been holding it for far too long.

The room seemed to quiet even more, the sound of Dipper's exhale lingering in the air, carrying the weight of everything that had led them to this point. Eliot didn't know if he was waiting for something more, or if he was simply holding his breath right along with Dipper, trying to make sense of the words that would follow. Dipper seemed like he was getting ready to say something, but he lingered there for a moment, his eyes flicking between the journal and Eliot, as if trying to find the right words to bridge the gap between them. It was clear that, despite all the intensity and focus he had poured into his research, the question Eliot had asked wasn't something Dipper could just rush into answering. It was something bigger than that. Something that would change everything. And in that silence, Eliot couldn't help but feel like the moment had shifted, that it wasn't just about what came next—it was about what they were both willing to face.

"We need to show this to Mabel," Dipper said, his voice steady, but there was a raw urgency beneath it, a determination that cut through the quiet room. "Tell her the truth. She deserves to know."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, like there was no room for doubt or debate. They felt like a line that had already been drawn in the sand, a decision that had been made without hesitation. Eliot felt the impact of it like a punch to the gut. His instinct was to nod, to agree, to fall in line with Dipper's confidence, but something inside him—something that had been brewing under the surface since they'd first stumbled into this mess—held him back. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn't come. Instead, he found himself frozen, caught in the weight of Dipper's tone, the certainty behind it.

It wasn't just what Dipper had said, but the way he had said it. There was a finality to it, a sense that this was already decided, like there was no room for second thoughts or hesitation. The way Dipper spoke made it seem like everything was in motion, and the only thing left to do was follow. That sense of determination, of absolute resolve, hung in the air like a heavy fog that Eliot couldn't shake off. He stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the thought that maybe he was the only one left questioning it.

The weight of the moment settled on him again, the uncertainty he'd been carrying pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe. He didn't want to question Dipper, didn't want to seem like he was doubting him when this felt so important, when Mabel deserved to know the truth, whatever that truth was. But the nagging voice in his head wouldn't stop. What if they were wrong? What if rushing in like this was the wrong move? The room suddenly felt smaller, the space between him and Dipper suddenly vast, filled with so many things unsaid.

Eliot swallowed hard, forcing himself to break the silence, even though the words didn't come easily. He knew what he needed to say, but it felt like it would be a betrayal of something, some unspoken understanding between them. It felt like questioning Dipper's judgment, which he didn't want to do. But the fear that had been clawing at him since they'd discovered whatever it was that was stalking them refused to stay quiet any longer.

He wanted to speak, but all that came out was a sigh, a deep, frustrated breath that barely made a sound. The weight of everything—the truth, the fear, the uncertainty—was too much to carry without saying something, anything. But for a moment, Eliot remained silent, unsure of how to voice the doubts that had begun to gnaw at him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. His gaze dropped to the floor for a second, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts, but the weight of the tension in the room made it difficult to focus. "God. For a second I was scared you were going to suggest we kill Norman." He chuckled nervously, the sound too forced, trying to make light of the situation when there was nothing light about it. "Listen, I get it, but..."

He hesitated, the words feeling like they didn't belong in the room, like they would shatter the fragile control Dipper was clinging to. The stillness in the air made everything feel even more fragile, as if the wrong word, the wrong tone, could undo all the careful balance Dipper had worked to maintain. Eliot swallowed hard, his hands tightening around his elbows as he searched for a way to voice what had been gnawing at him since the first moment they'd gotten caught up in this mess.

"We don't really have evidence, do we?" he continued, the question hanging heavy between them. "Just a bunch of weird coincidences and gut feelings." It wasn't that he doubted Dipper—it wasn't that at all. But everything about the situation was messy, unclear, and, despite all their digging, the proof still felt like a mirage that they couldn't quite reach.

He stopped, letting the words linger, like a weight in the air. He could feel the tension rising in his chest, like his own words might suffocate him if he didn't get them out. His heart pounded in his ears, and he wasn't sure if it was fear, doubt, or something else entirely. He finally spoke again, quieter this time, a little more hesitant, as if testing the waters. "What if we're wrong?" The thought of it struck him harder than he expected. "What if... what if this just hurts her for no reason?" His voice caught, the gravity of the situation pulling him down. "She's not going to believe or understand you like I do."

The words felt like they took everything out of him, as if laying out his doubts made them more real, more dangerous. Eliot knew Mabel was Dipper's sister, that she trusted him, but there was something about this entire situation—the strange occurrences, the dark atmosphere—something that made him worry about how she'd handle the truth. How would she react if they told her? Would it tear her apart? Would she even believe them, or would she write it off as paranoia?

He was quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch out, unsure of how Dipper might respond. The vulnerability in the room felt suffocating, and Eliot couldn't help but wonder if he had just overstepped—if his words would do more harm than good. But he couldn't ignore the fear that had taken root in his chest, the feeling that they were rushing headlong into something without a clear plan, without something solid to back them up.

The question hung there, lingering like a storm cloud waiting to break, and Eliot instantly regretted how it sounded. His voice had been careful, tentative, like he was testing the waters, unsure of how Dipper would respond. He hadn't meant for it to sound like doubt, but it had come out that way anyway. He didn't want to be the skeptic, didn't want to be the one who added more weight to a situation already bogged down by uncertainty. The last thing he wanted was to be the one to shatter Dipper's fragile resolve. But the feeling gnawed at him—the fear that they might be rushing headlong into something that could cause more harm than good.

Dipper's jaw tightened, and for a moment, Eliot braced for a sharp retort, the kind that might cut through the tension like a knife. He half-expected Dipper to lash out in frustration, to call him naïve, or worse, to accuse him of not understanding the urgency of what they were dealing with. But Dipper didn't snap. He didn't lash out. Instead, he let out a long, slow breath, the sound escaping him like a quiet surrender.

The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, just slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off the weight of something heavy. His eyes flickered to the floor for a moment, deep in thought, as though measuring the words he was about to say, considering how much to reveal, how much to hold back. When he looked up again, his gaze was steady, the sharp edge of his frustration softened but not gone. There was a quiet intensity in his eyes that caught Eliot off guard, and for a second, it felt like the weight of everything they were carrying—everything they were trying to uncover—had landed squarely on Dipper's shoulders.

"I know it's not much, but it's enough to prove that something's off," Dipper said, his voice steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that made the words feel even heavier. "She needs to hear this, Eliot. If we wait for solid evidence, it might be too late."

The finality in his tone was unmistakable. There was no room for further discussion, no hesitation, just a quiet certainty that made Eliot feel both relieved and unsettled at the same time. It was clear Dipper had made up his mind, and there was no going back from this. But Eliot couldn't help the sense of doubt that still lingered. He looked into Dipper's eyes, trying to find something—some flicker of uncertainty, some crack in the armor—but there was nothing. Just the same determined focus he had seen earlier, the kind that seemed to drive Dipper through every challenge they faced. It was almost as if he had already accepted whatever consequences might come from this decision, and he was moving forward with the single-mindedness of someone who knew that doing nothing was worse than making the wrong choice.

But Eliot wasn't sure. Part of him still wasn't sure. The words hung in the air between them, as if they were waiting for something else to fill the space—a decision, a conclusion, or maybe just a simple agreement that everything would be okay. But the doubt still sat heavy in his chest, and the weight of it was almost unbearable.

The flicker of doubt in Dipper's eyes was there, buried beneath layers of stubborn determination, but it was still there, a shadow of uncertainty that he was doing everything to hide. Eliot could see it—could see the weight of what Dipper was carrying, the unspoken fear that if they didn't act now, it might be too late to protect Mabel from whatever danger was looming just beyond their reach. It was a quiet thing, that doubt, but it was no less present for how well Dipper tried to hide it. Dipper was doing his best to project confidence, to convince himself that the path he was about to choose was the right one, but Eliot knew him too well to miss the cracks in his armor.

Eliot shifted on his feet again, his thoughts swirling in a way that left him feeling disoriented, unsure of where his mind ended and his fears began. He wanted to believe Dipper, wanted to trust that this was the right thing to do, that they had no other choice but to face the truth head-on. But the more he thought about it, the more his doubt gnawed at him. What if they were wrong? What if all the strange occurrences, all the signs they had pieced together, weren't enough to make the case? What if they were simply jumping at shadows, fueled by paranoia and fear rather than concrete facts? The fear of being wrong grew stronger with every passing second, as if the very air around him was thickening with the weight of their uncertainty.

And it wasn't just the fear of being wrong that clung to him. It was the fear of causing harm when all they had were gut feelings, pieces of a puzzle that they couldn't yet put together. Eliot couldn't shake the nagging feeling that if they misstepped, it wouldn't just be Mabel's trust on the line—it would be something bigger. Something more fragile. What if they lost the connection they had, the fragile thread that had held them together through everything else? The thought of losing that, of shattering the bond they'd built through shared experiences and struggles, made his stomach twist in knots. It was one thing to risk his own sense of security, but to put Mabel—someone he cared for so much—through the ringer because of a feeling that might not even be right? He wasn't sure if he could live with that.

He swallowed hard, the weight of his own uncertainty pressing down on him, and finally, the words escaped his lips. "What if we're just making it worse?" Eliot murmured, almost to himself, but loud enough for Dipper to hear. The question felt hollow, a faint echo of the doubt that reverberated in his chest, but it lingered between them, unanswered, as if the truth of it was too painful to confront. It was a raw thing, that fear, and it was gnawing at him from the inside out. Could they really be sure? Or was this all just an elaborate misinterpretation of the chaos surrounding them? The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of what neither of them wanted to admit.

As Dipper spoke, Eliot felt like he was standing on uneven ground, caught between two warring instincts. On one hand, he couldn't help but admire Dipper's conviction. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself in moments like this, his sheer determination cutting through the fog of uncertainty like a beacon. Dipper wasn't afraid to act, to make a decision even when he didn't have all the answers, and Eliot envied that in a way he couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just the confidence—it was the clarity, the sense of purpose that seemed to drive him forward no matter how unsure the path ahead might be. That kind of resolve was rare, and Eliot couldn't help but feel a pang of inadequacy as he stood there, unsure of what to say or do.

But on the other hand, there was a gnawing fear in Eliot's chest, a weight pressing down on him with every word Dipper said. It wasn't just doubt—it was the deep, unshakable fear of being wrong. Of making things worse. Of breaking something that couldn't be fixed. Eliot's thoughts spiraled as he tried to reconcile the admiration he felt for Dipper's boldness with the growing unease that had been clawing at him since this all began. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, a heavy knot of apprehension that refused to loosen.

He watched Dipper's face as he spoke, the urgency etched into every line of his expression, the way his eyes burned with an intensity that made it hard to look away. It wasn't just determination—it was desperation, a kind of unrelenting need to act, to fix whatever was broken before it was too late. Eliot could see it in the way Dipper's hands gripped the edges of the journal, his fingers curling into the worn leather like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. And yet, as much as Eliot wanted to match that conviction, to let Dipper's certainty sweep him up and drown out his own doubts, he couldn't ignore the knot of unease twisting in his chest.

"Dipper really believes this," Eliot thought, the words circling in his mind like a mantra, both a reassurance and a warning. "But what if he's wrong?" The question lingered, unspoken but suffocating, tightening its grip with every second that passed. The idea of it—of being wrong, of misjudging the situation, of watching everything unravel—felt unbearable. And worse still was the thought of Mabel caught in the crossfire, dragged into a storm she didn't ask for and couldn't possibly be prepared to face.

Eliot hated himself for thinking it, for letting doubt creep into a moment when Dipper needed his support. But no matter how much he tried to shake it, the fear wouldn't leave. It clung to him, heavy and insistent, reminding him of all the ways this could go wrong. Of all the ways they could end up hurting the one person they both wanted to protect.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong here, that he had somehow wandered into a story he was never meant to be part of. This wasn't his fight—it never had been. He wasn't the kind of person who stepped into the center of someone else's crisis, who carried the weight of decisions that could change everything for someone else. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of it all, feeling like a misplaced puzzle piece in a picture far too complex for him to see clearly.

The weight of the situation pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting, like the air in the room had grown thicker with every passing second. He hated it—the uncertainty, the feeling of being swept up in something so much larger than himself, with no way to know if the choices they made would lead to something good or to ruin. And as much as he wanted to back out, to say that this wasn't his responsibility, there was something anchoring him to the moment. Maybe it was the way Dipper's voice carried so much conviction, so much belief, even in the face of doubt. Or maybe it was the nagging thought that, like it or not, he was already part of this, and walking away would only make things worse.

He felt like a bystander caught in the crossfire of a battle he didn't understand, dragged into a story that didn't belong to him. And yet, no matter how much he wrestled with the urge to step back, to retreat to the safety of the sidelines, he couldn't bring himself to leave. Something about the weight of Dipper's words, the gravity of the moment, rooted him to the spot, making it impossible to walk away.

Eliot clenched his fists tighter, the sharp press of his nails against his palms grounding him, though it did little to quiet the storm in his head. He hated himself for thinking like this—for feeling like he didn't belong, like he was some passive observer trapped in someone else's story. He could almost hear his father's voice ringing in his ears, sharp and condemning: "Weakness is a choice, Eliot. If you can't stand up, then you're nothing." It made his stomach twist, that familiar knot of shame and anger tightening until it felt like he couldn't breathe. Those words had been a mantra in his childhood, carved into him until they became a part of his bones, a constant reminder that his doubts, his hesitations, were failures. You're nothing if you can't carry your own weight, his father had drilled into him. The world will see you as weak. You will always be a sinner, and sin is what keeps you chained.

And yet, here he was, standing in the Mystery Shack, surrounded by people who had been kinder to him in a few short days than his own father had been in years. Dipper, Mabel, even Stan in his gruff, unpredictable way—they had accepted him without question, without conditions. For the first time, he'd felt like he could take a breath without the weight of someone's expectations crushing him. The Shack had become a refuge, a place where he could exist without constantly having to measure up to someone else's impossible standards. But that old voice, his father's voice, was never too far behind.

So why did he feel like this? Like a trespasser on sacred ground, like an intruder in a life that wasn't his? He hated the way the thoughts crept in, uninvited and venomous, whispering that he didn't deserve to be here. That he was a coward, just like his father had always said. The words of weakness, of sin, of being unworthy, they were like an infection—slowly seeping into his bones, poisoning his thoughts, twisting the good things he'd found here into something filthy and undeserving. It was as if his father's brainwashing had gotten so deep, so ingrained in him, that even when he was standing in a place of safety, he could still feel the gnawing weight of those beliefs dragging him down.

His mind raced back to his life in the church—the suffocating rituals, the unyielding expectations. There was no room for error there, no room for freedom, only rules and guilt. His father's constant refrain, You are nothing without discipline, echoed in his head like a broken record. He had spent so many years conforming, trying to be the son his father wanted, believing that his worth was tied to his ability to be strong and steadfast, to never show weakness.

But now, when the first real opportunity to break free had been handed to him—when the Shack and the people here had offered him a chance at something different, something lighter—he could feel those same old words resurfacing, breaking through his defenses. It was like the moment he stepped outside the walls of the church, the moment he thought he could escape it all, the poison of those years was starting to crawl back up inside of him. The beliefs, the shame, the pressure—it was all starting to eat away at him, piece by piece, like it had been lying dormant inside him, waiting for the first sign of vulnerability to strike.

The more he thought about it, the more it felt like his father's lessons were embedded into the very core of him. The guilt. The fear. The relentless need to conform. They were rising to the surface now, poisoning his thoughts, warping his sense of self. Even in the place where he'd felt most free, even in the middle of a situation that wasn't his fight to begin with, the weight of his past was bearing down on him. Who am I, really, if I can't trust myself?

The Shack had offered him freedom—real freedom—and the people here had given him something he hadn't dared hope for: a sense of belonging. So why was it so easy to fall back into old patterns, to feel like a bystander instead of a part of something? Why couldn't he shake the weight of his own self-doubt, even now, when the stakes were so much higher than just him? His mind spiraled, trapped between the desire to be who he was now, free from the church's grip, and the sinking sensation that he was still chained to his past, to the person he'd been raised to be. The truth was that those chains were still a part of him, still tightening their hold, even when he tried so hard to escape them.

Finally, Eliot broke the silence, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own uncertainty softening his tone. "I get that she needs to know, but... maybe there's a way to do it without dropping all of this on her at once. Maybe we start small. See how she reacts." His words felt hesitant, like they didn't quite belong in the air between them, like he was speaking out of turn, betraying some unspoken rule that Dipper had set. But he couldn't keep them inside any longer, couldn't keep pretending that he wasn't torn by the enormity of it all.

It wasn't that he didn't believe Dipper—he did. He saw the fire in his eyes, the way Dipper was so sure of what needed to be done. Eliot respected that kind of certainty, even if it made him uncomfortable. It was just that, in this moment, he couldn't shake the feeling that things were spiraling out of control. He didn't trust the situation. They were balancing on the edge of something massive, something that could unravel at any moment. And the more he thought about it, the more it felt like they were walking a tightrope with no safety net. One wrong move, one misstep, and they'd all fall, with no way of knowing what the consequences would be.

The idea of telling Mabel everything, all at once, felt too final, too much. Maybe it was because he'd seen the way she trusted them, how her world was still intact, a fragile thing that he didn't want to shatter. Eliot could imagine the look on her face, the confusion, the hurt, the way she might close herself off from them if they pushed too hard, too fast. He didn't want to be the one who did that. He didn't want to break something that could never be fixed.

He could feel his own anxiety building, a knot tightening in his stomach, and he found himself shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to dispel the tension, but it wouldn't go away. He couldn't ignore the worry gnawing at him, the thought that maybe, just maybe, they were making a mistake. Maybe they weren't ready for this. Maybe Mabel wasn't ready for the truth, at least not all of it. It wasn't about protecting her—it was about trying to understand how to get her to see what they had to say without losing everything they had built in the process. Because in the end, what was more important? The truth, or the people they loved?

Dipper frowned, the crease in his brow deepening as he considered Eliot's suggestion. It was clear he wasn't thrilled with the idea, and Eliot braced himself for the argument he expected, the kind that might spiral into something more heated. But instead of immediately dismissing the suggestion outright, Dipper did something Eliot hadn't anticipated. He let out a frustrated sigh, slumping back in his chair, the weight of the decision hanging visibly on his shoulders. His fingers ran through his hair, messing it up as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to process everything that was happening.

"And what if starting small isn't enough?" Dipper's words were careful, but his voice carried a tightness that spoke volumes. There was a kind of rawness in the way he spoke, a vulnerability that he usually kept hidden beneath layers of stubborn resolve. "What if we wait, and he does something—something we can't undo?" His voice trembled, just slightly, as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. The question hung in the air between them, thick with an unspoken dread, a kind of dark possibility neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Eliot felt it, the shift in the atmosphere, the heaviness of Dipper's fears sinking in. Dipper's gaze was locked on him, searching, questioning, and for a moment, Eliot wondered if he could see the doubt that still lingered in his own eyes. Dipper's words seemed to slice through the room, dragging a heavy silence with them. What if waiting wasn't enough? What if they did nothing and it was too late to fix whatever damage had been done? The thought was paralyzing, and Eliot could feel his own fears begin to mirror Dipper's, spreading like a quiet panic inside him.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the weight of Dipper's fear left him momentarily speechless. It was like the air had thickened, every word now carrying more consequence than before. The dread that Dipper had voiced so openly seemed to settle in the room, casting a shadow over the moment, one neither of them wanted to face but couldn't avoid.

Eliot didn't respond right away. The silence between them stretched thin, like a taut wire about to snap under the pressure. He could feel the tension in the air, vibrating with the weight of their unspoken fears. Dipper, unwilling to let the silence linger, turned back to his journal, his pencil scratching across the paper in sharp, rapid movements. The sound of it filled the room, harsh and rhythmic, like a ticking clock counting down to something neither of them wanted to face. Eliot watched, his gaze flickering briefly over Dipper's hunched form before he looked away, unable to focus on the writing, the frenzied lines that seemed to mirror the chaos in his mind.

With a slow exhale, Eliot finally let the tension spill out of him. He sank down onto the edge of Mabel's bed, the familiar comfort of the space doing little to ease the tightening in his chest. His hands fell to his knees, fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of his jeans as his gaze dropped to the floor. It was easier to focus on something solid, something simple. But his mind didn't follow suit. It raced, a whirlwind of doubts and questions, each one more insistent than the last, louder in its urgency. What if they were wrong? What if this entire situation was one big mistake? What if they misjudged everything, and it all fell apart? What if, in their desperation to act, they ended up doing the one thing they'd been trying to avoid: hurting Mabel?

The thought gnawed at him, a bitter taste that lingered in the back of his throat. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to take the leap or step back. Every instinct told him to protect Mabel, to shield her from whatever was coming, but what if his actions only made things worse? What if he was overthinking it? What if—

The silence between them was suffocating, thick enough to feel like it had weight, pressing in from every side. It was broken only by the sharp scratch of Dipper's pencil against the paper, each stroke a reminder of the tension that hung in the air. Eliot's breathing was uneven, the sound of it filling the space between them like an uninvited guest, something he couldn't silence. His chest felt tight, like he couldn't take in enough air, each breath a struggle against the growing pressure. The weight of the situation pressed down on them both, a heavy, unrelenting force, and Eliot couldn't seem to shake the sense that it was too much—too big for him, too important. It was like they were standing on the edge of something, and the fall could be devastating, but neither of them knew what would happen if they stepped forward.

Eliot wanted to say something—anything—to cut through the tension, to offer reassurance or even come up with a plan that felt safe. But the words wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat, too heavy to be spoken, as if he were waiting for something, some sign that would tell him the right thing to do. But there was nothing. Nothing but the steady rhythm of Dipper's pencil and the weight of their shared uncertainty. He sat there, still and quiet, staring at the floor, his thoughts spinning in a chaotic tangle. Every time he thought he might get a grip on one of them, it slipped away again, leaving him more lost than before.

And still, the question remained, like an unanswered prayer lodged somewhere deep inside him. Quiet but insistent, it echoed over and over, looping through his mind with a kind of relentless urgency. What now? What was the right move? What was the next step in this strange, terrifying dance they were caught up in? Eliot didn't have the answer, and that uncertainty felt like it was eating him from the inside, gnawing away at whatever confidence he had left.

The sound of quick, heavy steps on the stairs jolted Eliot out of his spiraling thoughts, each thud rattling against the uneasy silence that had settled over the room. His eyes snapped to Dipper, whose pencil froze mid-stroke, the repetitive scratching sound halting so abruptly that the quiet felt deafening in its wake. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locking like they were both waiting for the other to do something. The air between them seemed to shift, growing heavier with every passing second, the shared tension thick and unyielding, pressing against them like an invisible force. It wasn't just the sound of footsteps—it was the reminder that time was running out.

The noise on the stairs felt sharp, electric, as if it had cracked through the fragile stillness they'd been clinging to. Eliot could feel his pulse quicken, the moment unraveling too fast for him to keep up. His chest tightened, the pressure in the room magnifying the doubts that had been gnawing at him. The footsteps were closer now, echoing through the thin walls, and it felt as if they were counting down to something neither of them could stop.

Eliot's lips parted, a question forming on the edge of his tongue, but the words died before they could take shape. His mind raced for something—anything—to say, but his voice refused to come. He didn't know how to navigate this moment, didn't know how to meet the determination in Dipper's eyes without faltering. Before he could muster the courage to speak, Dipper moved first.

Dipper nodded—not to Eliot, but to himself, the motion small but deliberate, like a soldier bracing for battle. His jaw clenched for a brief second before he exhaled, his expression hardening into something resolute. "We're telling her," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable. There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for argument. It was a statement, not a suggestion, as though saying it aloud made it the only possible course of action.

The certainty in Dipper's voice hit Eliot like a wave. He felt rooted to the spot, torn between the urge to protest and the understanding that there was no stopping this now. Dipper had made up his mind, and Eliot could see it in the way his shoulders squared, in the set of his jaw, in the unwavering look in his eyes. This wasn't a moment for doubt—it was a moment for action.

Eliot hesitated, standing frozen for a second, his feet rooted to the floor as his mind scrambled to catch up. The sharp determination in Dipper's voice still echoed in his ears, but the sudden burst of energy from the other side of the door shattered any chance to process it. Almost instinctively, he stepped back from the doorframe, his movements stiff and hesitant, as if unsure whether he should be bracing for impact or staying out of the way. He barely managed to clear the path before the door swung open with an almost theatrical force, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud that echoed through the room.

Mabel practically exploded into the space like a human firework, a whirlwind of color, sound, and uncontainable energy. Her bright, glittery sweater caught what little light there was, casting playful reflections as she twirled into the center of the room with her signature dramatic flair. She spun once, twice, her arms outstretched like she was soaking up an imaginary spotlight, before landing squarely in front of them with a grin so wide it looked like it might take over her whole face.

"Helloooo!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying the kind of exuberance that demanded attention, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as she threw her arms out in greeting. Her presence filled every corner of the room, leaving no room for the tension that had settled between Eliot and Dipper just moments before. The sheer joy radiating from her felt like a stark contrast to the weight they had both been carrying.

Her sparkling eyes darted between the two of them, brimming with an infectious happiness that made it impossible not to notice the rosy flush on her cheeks and the bounce in her step. She came to a sudden stop, planting her hands on her hips in a pose that was both triumphant and expectant, her grin widening as she tilted her head. "Guess who just had the best date ever?" she announced, her voice rising into a singsong cadence as though her excitement couldn't be contained.

Her gaze lingered on Eliot for just a moment longer than Dipper, her expression practically begging for an enthusiastic response to her question. But Eliot, still reeling from the sharp shift in mood, could only muster a faint, uncertain smile in return. The disparity between her carefree joy and the heavy, unspoken truth hanging in the air made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Mabel seemed so genuinely happy, so light and unburdened, and the idea of piercing that bubble of bliss with the accusations Dipper was about to bring up made Eliot's throat tighten.

"I'll give you a hint!" Mabel continued, completely unfazed by their silence, taking it as encouragement rather than hesitation. She clasped her hands together, her fingers wiggling excitedly as she rocked back and forth on her heels, her whole body practically vibrating with giddy energy. It was like she physically couldn't contain her excitement, like every ounce of happiness bubbling up inside her had to be released in one explosive burst of words.

"Norman is, like, so cute and silly! We even held hands, you guys! Held. Hands!" She emphasized each word with exaggerated gestures, pressing both hands against her cheeks before dramatically clasping them over her heart. "And—oh my gosh—he paid for my food! Like, no hesitation, just swooped in with his mysterious, gentlemanly ways and—boom!—covered the whole meal! Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?"

She giggled, a light, airy sound so full of unfiltered joy that it was almost painful to hear. It was pure Mabel—so effortlessly happy, so wrapped up in the dreamy haze of a perfect date that she hadn't even noticed the tension in the room. But Eliot noticed.

He glanced at Dipper, searching for some kind of reassurance, but Dipper's expression remained unreadable. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, somewhere between concern and unwavering resolve. There was a tightness around his mouth, subtle but unmistakable, like he was already bracing himself for what came next. The shift in the air was almost imperceptible, but Eliot felt it, a slow, creeping weight settling into his chest.

Mabel's so happy. His throat tightened. She's not going to like this.

"Mabel."

Dipper's voice cut through the room, not loud or sharp, but firm enough to make her pause mid-thought, her mouth still half-open like she was about to keep talking. His tone wasn't scolding, but it carried a weight that immediately shifted the atmosphere. The excited energy that had been bouncing off the walls just moments ago seemed to still, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

Slowly, deliberately, Dipper stood from his chair, the journal now forgotten on the desk behind him. He turned to face Mabel fully, his shoulders squared, his stance solid—like he was bracing for impact, for an argument he didn't want to have but knew was inevitable.

Mabel blinked, the bright smile still on her face but faltering just slightly, her eyes scanning his face as if trying to read whatever was behind his serious expression. She tilted her head, a flicker of confusion crossing her features.

"What's up, bro-bro?" she asked, her voice still light, but now tinged with curiosity.

Dipper inhaled, steadying himself. "We've got to talk about Norman," he said, each word deliberate, measured—like he was carefully laying them down so they wouldn't shatter on impact.

But even as he spoke, Eliot could already see the shift in Mabel's expression, the way her excitement dimmed just a little, like a shadow creeping in at the edges. The room, once so full of her energy, now felt poised on the edge of something else entirely.

Mabel, still glowing with happiness, twirled on her heel and skipped across the room, her every movement radiating the kind of unfiltered joy that made it seem like nothing in the world could touch her. The air around her felt lighter, almost shimmering with the warmth of her excitement, a stark contrast to the heavy stillness that had settled between Eliot and Dipper. She hummed a cheerful little tune, something soft and aimless, as she reached her desk, completely oblivious to the way both of them had tensed.

She picked up a brush and ran it through her long brown hair, slow and methodical, as if savoring every second of her own happiness. There was a dreamy quality to her expression, her eyes distant but shining, her lips still curled into a small, contented smile. It was like she was lost in a fairytale, wrapped up so completely in the afterglow of her perfect date that she couldn't even begin to imagine that something might be wrong.

Eliot's stomach twisted.

She's so happy.

The words circled in his mind, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn't shake. He couldn't stop staring at her, at the way her entire being radiated pure, unfiltered joy. It wasn't the over-the-top, exaggerated excitement she sometimes performed for laughs—it was real. Genuine. She meant it. She had felt something tonight, something she had clearly been hoping for, and now, they were about to take that away from her.

She's finally having the kind of romance she's always dreamed about, and we're about to ruin it for her.

It felt cruel.

And yet, Eliot forced himself to remember that Dipper wasn't doing this to be cruel. This wasn't about ruining Mabel's happiness just for the sake of it—it wasn't about control or jealousy or anything petty. It was about something deeper, something that ran through Dipper's core like an unshakable instinct. He was her brother. He was looking out for her, trying to protect her from something he saw as a threat. And that had to count for something, right?

Eliot clenched his jaw, his arms crossing over his chest as he tried to steady himself. He didn't have siblings. He had no real point of reference for what it was supposed to feel like—the instinct to shield someone who had been by your side for as long as you could remember, to step in when you thought they were in danger, even if they didn't see it. But if he did have a sibling, he figured he'd probably feel the same way. He wouldn't want them dating some weirdo either.

And yet, as soon as the thought settled, doubt curled in his stomach. Was Norman really that bad? Sure, there was something off about him—Eliot could admit that much—but was it really enough to justify this? He didn't know. And maybe that was what bothered him the most.

Eliot hesitated, his thoughts circling like vultures, picking apart every angle of the situation but never landing on a clear answer. Was Norman really that bad? Sure, the guy was... strange, unusual in a way Eliot couldn't quite put his finger on. There was something about him that didn't sit right, something that set off an instinctual unease deep in Eliot's gut. But was that really a crime? Was it enough to justify what they were about to do?

Norman hadn't hurt Mabel. He hadn't belittled her or made her feel small. If anything, he'd been the perfect gentleman—polite, attentive, thoughtful. He'd paid for her food, held her hand, made her feel special. That wasn't exactly common. It wasn't easy to find someone who treated you like you were the most important person in the world. Shouldn't that count for something?

And besides—this was Gravity Falls. Nothing about this town was normal. It was a place where the strange and the inexplicable weren't just present; they were expected. The entire town was a collection of oddballs, weirdos, and mysteries that had no business existing anywhere else. Eliot had never felt like he belonged anywhere before. Not in the church. Not in his father's world. But here, surrounded by chaos, he finally did.

So what if Norman was a little unusual? Didn't that just mean he fit in?

Eliot exhaled sharply, forcing the breath out as if it might take his doubts with it. But the uncertainty gnawed at him, sinking its teeth in deep, refusing to let go. He didn't want to doubt Dipper. He trusted him. Dipper wasn't reckless—he was sharp, observant, and stubborn in a way that usually meant he was right. Eliot had seen it in him from the start, the way he latched onto something and refused to let go until he uncovered the truth. And Eliot knew what that felt like—to believe in something so deeply, so completely, that it felt impossible for anyone else to see what you saw.

He'd been there. He was there.

It was lonely. It was isolating.

The last thing Eliot wanted was to make Dipper feel like he was standing alone in this.

But it was so hard.

No matter how much he turned it over in his head, no matter how many ways he tried to rationalize it, the truth remained the same: there was no outcome where both of the twins walked away from this unscathed. One of them was going to end up hurt. One of them was going to feel betrayed, let down, blindsided. There was no way around it.

And it wasn't Eliot's decision to make.

He was just an outsider here.

A bystander who had somehow, against all odds, been welcomed into this strange, messy, wonderful little family. A guest in the world the Pines twins had built for themselves. And that was the problem, wasn't it? It wasn't his world. He didn't get to decide what was right or wrong for them. He didn't get to pick sides. He didn't want to pick sides.

All he could do was stand here, caught in the middle, and try—desperately, helplessly—to support them both.

"Isn't he the best?" Mabel asked, her voice practically bubbling with enthusiasm as she put the brush down, her grin stretching wide across her face. She turned toward Dipper and Eliot, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement, waiting for their reaction. Eliot, caught off guard by her energy, tried his best to return a genuine smile, but it felt stiff and forced on his face. His mind was still tangled up in everything, but he didn't want to spoil her happiness. Not now.

"Check out this giant smooch mark he gave me!" she continued, her hands dramatically pointing to her cheek like it was some kind of trophy she was proudly presenting to them. She tilted her head, sweeping her long brown locks aside in a fluid motion, revealing a mark on her cheek that immediately caught both Dipper and Eliot off guard.

It was a deep, purplish-red bruise that covered almost the entire expanse of her cheek. The shape was unmistakable—a large, hickey-like imprint, so bold and glaring that it looked as though someone had taken her whole face in their mouth and sucked on it. The sight was so jarring, so out of place with Mabel's usual sweetness and joy, that it was almost impossible to take in all at once.

At the sight of it, Dipper's eyes went wide. His brows shot up in shock, and he instinctively jumped back as if the mark was somehow contagious, like it might spread onto him if he got too close. He looked at it with a mix of disbelief and something darker, likely his brain running through a thousand wild scenarios that included Norman in the most ridiculous and terrifying light. He probably thought it was yet another sign that Norman was some kind of monster—or worse, that he had tried to eat her.

Eliot, on the other hand, was struggling to suppress an involuntary laugh. He could feel his face twitching as he tried to maintain a serious expression. The image of Norman pressing his lips to Mabel's cheek so fiercely, leaving behind a mark that was too absurd to be real, was almost too much. He could picture it so vividly now—Norman's overzealous, awkward attempt at affection—and the mental image was a bizarre mix of funny and unsettling. It was a sight so ridiculous that, for a moment, Eliot couldn't even bring himself to be concerned. It was hard to take the situation seriously when the evidence was so... well, strange.

But there was no denying it—there was something off about that mark, something that made the air in the room feel thicker, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for someone to speak. Mabel, oblivious to the unease swirling around her, smiled proudly, completely unbothered.

At the sight of their faces—Dipper's stunned expression and Eliot's barely-contained chuckles—Mabel couldn't hold back anymore. She burst into laughter, the sound coming out in a high-pitched, almost musical burst that seemed to fill every corner of the room. It was a laugh that was infectious in its pure joy, and for a moment, Eliot forgot about the tension, the uncertainty. It was Mabel. Always so full of life, so carefree.

"Gullible," she teased between giggles, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she looked at her brother and Eliot. Her eyes danced with playful humor, but she was trying, in vain, to hold it all in. The corners of her mouth twitched, the effort to keep her composure only making her laugh harder. She raised an eyebrow, her expression turning almost smug. "It was just an accident with the leaf blower."

Eliot's shoulders shook with the effort of not laughing out loud. He could feel the laughter bubbling up in his chest, but he had to stop himself. The whole thing was just too Mabel—it was exactly the sort of thing she would find herself in. A random, completely absurd accident involving a leaf blower, of all things, that ended up giving her a mark on her face that looked like it belonged in a cheesy teen movie. And the way Dipper had reacted, practically jumping out of his skin, made it all the more hilarious.

But looking over at Dipper, Eliot could see the brief flash of annoyance on his face. It was almost imperceptible, but the way Dipper's eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of confusion and irritation told Eliot everything. He could tell Dipper wasn't exactly thrilled to be the butt of Mabel's prank, even if it was a harmless one. There was something about the way Dipper cared so deeply, how seriously he took everything, that made him so easy to fool. He wasn't used to Mabel pulling something like this on him, and it left him looking slightly flustered, still unsure whether to laugh or scold her for scaring him.

But Eliot couldn't help it. The moment was too funny. He glanced back at Mabel, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and his lips quirked into a reluctant smile. The absurdity of it all hit him then—the way Mabel, in all her vibrant energy, could pull something like this off so effortlessly. He knew she wasn't trying to be mean, just her usual self, finding humor in the little things. But it also made him realize just how much he had come to expect this from her—spontaneity, unpredictability, the constant blur of energy that kept everyone around her on their toes.

"That was fun," Mabel said with a casual shrug of her shoulders, still chuckling softly to herself as she leaned against the desk. She seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that she had made her brother—and Eliot—freak out for a second. The memory of it clearly entertained her, and she couldn't help but laugh at the situation all over again.

Dipper's expression shifted almost instantly, the remnants of his brief amusement vanishing as he fell back into his usual serious demeanor. His posture straightened, his brows knit together in concentration, and when he turned to look at Eliot, it wasn't just a glance—it was a signal. This is it. We're doing this now.

Eliot barely had time to process the silent message before an uneasy knot formed in his stomach. Oh no.

This was going to ruin everything.

Mabel was so happy, practically glowing with excitement over her date, and now they were about to drop something on her that would turn that joy into confusion—or worse, anger. She wasn't going to take this well.

Dipper sighed, the shift in his demeanor subtle but telling. The sharp edge of urgency softened into something more concerned, more careful. He wasn't launching straight into accusations—he was worried. His body language said it all: the slight furrow in his brow, the way he held himself just a little bit tenser than before, the crease forming beneath his tired eyes. This wasn't just some hunch to him. He believed this. And, more than anything, he was trying to protect her.

"Mabel, listen," Dipper said, raising a hand slightly, his voice calmer now but firm.

Eliot hesitated, standing stiffly at his side, hands flexing at his sides, unsure of what to do. They hadn't planned this out, hadn't gone over how they were going to tell Mabel or prepared for how she might react. There had been no conversation about possible outcomes, no discussion about how to soften the blow. And now that they were standing here, on the verge of saying something that would inevitably upset her, Eliot felt the weight of it pressing down on him.

Mabel is going to be mad.

Mad at Dipper.

Mad at him.

And the last thing Eliot wanted was to be the one to take away her happiness.

"Mabel—" Eliot started, his voice quiet, uncertain. His hand twitched at his side before he lifted it slightly, reaching out like he might be able to physically stop whatever was about to happen. But he didn't know what to say, and before he could figure it out, Dipper had already made up his mind.

Dipper didn't stop.

Didn't hesitate.

Didn't second-guess himself.

His determination overrode everything else.

Instead of answering, he reached into the inside pocket of his vest, his fingers fumbling for something as he kept his eyes locked on Mabel. His expression hardened, not in anger but in certainty. Eliot could see it now—the unwavering belief that drove Dipper forward, the same conviction that had made him chase mysteries and put himself in danger time and time again.

"I'm trying to tell you," Dipper said carefully, his voice edged with urgency but not aggression, "that Norman isn't what he seems."

His fingers finally found what he was looking for.

With a practiced motion, he pulled out the journal.

The moment it left his pocket, the air in the room shifted.

The deep red cover, worn at the edges from use, caught the soft afternoon light seeping in through the window. The golden six-fingered hand embedded in its surface gleamed, almost like it was demanding attention, a silent force of authority in the space between them.

Mabel's entire demeanor changed in an instant.

Her bright, carefree energy froze, her body going rigid as her wide eyes locked onto the book. For a second, she just stared, the excitement from before suspended in the air like an unfinished thought. And then, in one dramatic motion, she gasped—loud and exaggerated, like something straight out of a soap opera. Her hands flew up to her mouth, covering it in shock as her gaze darted around the room like she expected someone to be watching. Then, with an almost conspiratorial air, she cupped one hand around her mouth and leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"You think he might be a vampire?"

Eliot blinked.

Dipper stared.

The tension that had been so thick it was almost suffocating wobbled, teetering on the edge of absurdity as Mabel's whisper filled the silence.

Of course that was her first thought.

Of course her mind jumped straight to vampires.

Eliot had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Because, really, what else could they expect from Mabel?

Dipper, on the other hand, looked exasperated. Not surprised—because at this point, he knew exactly how his sister's mind worked—but definitely exasperated. His eyes flicked down at the journal in his hands, then back up to her, as if trying to figure out how to redirect this into something serious again.

Because for Dipper, this was serious.

And they were just getting started.

"That would be so awesome!" Mabel practically vibrated with excitement, her entire body nearly shaking with the sheer force of her enthusiasm. Her eyes, already wide, somehow managed to grow even wider, catching the light in a way that made them almost sparkle. The idea of Norman being a vampire wasn't horrifying to her—it was thrilling. She gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together like she was about to start planning an entire future with her maybe-vampire boyfriend.

Dipper, however, was having none of it.

"Guess again, sister," he deadpanned, his voice almost monotone as he reached for the journal. Without hesitation, he flipped it open to a marked page and shoved it right next to her face.

"Sha-bam!"

The sudden sound effect caught Eliot off guard, and for a split second, he almost laughed. There was something oddly adorable about how determined Dipper was, how he threw in his own dramatic flair despite being so intensely serious about this whole thing. It was like he couldn't help himself.

Mabel, on the other hand, had an entirely different reaction.

"AHH!" she shrieked, practically flinging herself backward as if the book had personally lunged at her. Her face twisted into an expression of pure disgust—nose scrunched, eyes squeezed shut, mouth twisted like she had just licked a battery. She recoiled so hard she almost lost her balance, flailing for a second before steadying herself with a hand on her desk.

Eliot glanced at the journal, finally catching a glimpse of the page Dipper had so dramatically revealed.

Gnomes.

It was gnomes.

A picture of a little bearded creature with sharp teeth stared back at him, accompanied by hastily scrawled notes and warnings about their tendency to form massive swarms. Eliot stared at it for a second, then had to physically stop himself from laughing.

Because, really—imagine. Imagine if Norman wasn't a vampire or a ghost or some other sinister supernatural being but just an oversized gnome. Or worse—what if he was a pile of gnomes? Just a bunch of tiny weird old men stacked on top of each other in a trench coat, pretending to be a boy.

Gravity Falls was strange, but was it that strange?

Eliot kind of hoped so.

Dipper, realizing his mistake, let out a small, frustrated noise and immediately started flipping through the pages, his fingers moving quickly as he searched for the actual entry he wanted.

Mabel, still recovering from her gnome-related trauma, took a second to blink in confusion. "Uh... what was that?"

"Nothing," Dipper muttered, focused on the book. Then, after a few more frantic page turns, his expression lit up in triumph. He found it.

With renewed confidence, he spun the journal around again, this time making extra sure he had the right page.

"Sha-bam!" he declared, just as dramatically as before.

But this time, Mabel's reaction was different.

She didn't scream. She didn't recoil. She didn't flinch.

She just... stared.

Her brows furrowed, her lips pressing together into a tight line as her eyes flicked over the page. The exaggerated excitement from before dimmed, replaced by something much more controlled.

Eliot swallowed, already anticipating what was coming next.

"A zombie?" she asked, her voice flat, like she was waiting for the punchline of a joke she wasn't finding funny.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as if she was giving Dipper one last chance to explain himself before she really got annoyed.

"That is not funny, Dipper," she said, her tone shifting from disbelief to irritation.

And then, before Eliot could even open his mouth to say a single word, Mabel's sharp gaze snapped to him.

The sudden shift made him freeze.

She didn't say anything—not yet—but the look she gave him was very clear. It wasn't just Dipper she was upset with.

It was both of them.

Eliot suddenly felt very, very trapped.

"I'm not joking!" Dipper's voice cracked slightly as he burst out, his frustration spilling over in a way that made Eliot's chest tighten. He shoved the journal aside, barely paying attention to where it landed. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and he started pacing in frantic circles, like his thoughts were too tangled to sit still.

"Listen—" He tried again, his tone urgent, his words stumbling over themselves. "Listen, me and Eliot followed you two around all day. He's really weird! Right, Eliot?"

Dipper stopped abruptly, turning to face him, his brows raised in expectation.

And suddenly, Eliot felt like he was standing under a spotlight.

Both twins were looking at him. Waiting.

Expecting.

The weight of it made his stomach twist.

He hesitated, the air thick with unspoken tension. He could feel Mabel's eyes on him, hopeful, trusting. And Dipper's—sharp, searching, desperate for validation.

His throat went dry. He wanted to look up, wanted to meet their gazes, but something in him refused. Instead, he let his head dip down, eyes fixed on the floor.

And then—slowly, reluctantly—he nodded.

Mabel sucked in a quiet breath.

It was such a small sound, barely more than a hitch in her throat, but Eliot felt it. Like a needle pricking at his skin.

Dipper, satisfied with his answer, didn't even notice. He was already moving again, caught up in his unraveling train of thought.

"And it just all adds up," Dipper pressed on, his voice gaining momentum. "The bleeding. The limp." He spun around, pointing directly at Mabel now, his eyes wide with urgency. "He never blinks!" His voice practically cracked at the end, like he couldn't believe she wasn't seeing what he was seeing. "Have you noticed that?"

Mabel crossed her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Maybe he's blinking when you're blinking."

Her tone was light, teasing—but there was an edge to it, a quiet please stop woven beneath the humor.

Dipper groaned, running both hands down his face in pure frustration.

"Mabel, remember what the book said about Gravity Falls?" His voice had lowered now, steady but firm. His expression hardened, and for a second, he almost glanced at Eliot—but at the last second, he stopped himself.

Eliot noticed.

"Trust no one," Dipper quoted, his voice dropping into something almost ominous.

Mabel's shoulders tensed—but then, to Eliot's surprise, she let out a soft, almost exasperated laugh.

She smiled. Not her usual bright, excited smile, but something smaller. Sadder.

She pointed at herself. "What about me, huh?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "Why can't you trust me?"

Dipper faltered.

She stepped closer, searching his face, as if trying to make him see her. "And Eliot? Do you not trust him? He's from Gravity Falls!"

For the first time, Mabel turned to Eliot for support.

And then—Dipper hesitated.

He hesitated just long enough for Mabel's expression to shift, her brows pinching together.

Just long enough for Eliot to realize exactly what that silence meant.

Dipper didn't trust him.

Eliot blinked.

Something strange and unfamiliar coiled in his chest, an emotion he couldn't quite name.

He had expected Mabel to be upset. That was inevitable. But for some reason, this—Dipper not trusting him—was what left him feeling the most unsteady.

He wasn't sure why.

Maybe it was because, despite everything, despite the weirdness and the danger and the fact that they had only known each other for a short time, Eliot had trusted Dipper.

He had believed in him.

And yet—when Dipper finally did glance in his direction, it was quick, fleeting.

Ashamed.

He couldn't look at him.

And that, more than anything, was what hurt.

Even Mabel seemed surprised, her brows knitting together as she turned back to her brother. "Dipper..."

But Eliot barely heard her.

Because he was still standing there, still reeling from the realization that he didn't know what he was feeling.

Maybe it was disappointment.

Maybe it was something else.

Either way, he understood.

Because trust wasn't something easily given.

And apparently, Dipper hadn't given his yet.

Dipper, maybe ashamed, maybe just overwhelmed, furrowed his brows, his expression tightening as he grabbed Mabel's shoulders with urgency.

"Mabel! He's going to eat your brain!"

Mabel let out an exasperated sigh and roughly brushed his hands off her. She didn't hesitate, didn't pause to think, just turned sharply toward Eliot, her eyes ablaze with frustration.

"First of all," she snapped, her voice biting, "what's actually weird is that you two are creeps—following me and my boyfriend around like a couple of paranoid weirdos!"

Eliot barely had time to process the sting of that before she kept going, her words sharp as daggers, each one aimed directly at him.

"Dipper's always been like this, but you?" Her eyes locked onto him, hard and unrelenting. "I expected better from you, Eliot. Why are you feeding into his delusions when he doesn't even trust you?"

Something inside Eliot recoiled.

It hit him fast, like the crack of a whip—sharp, sudden, painful.

He flinched.

Not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice, but inside, it was like his entire body tensed, his heart locking up in his chest.

He hated being scolded.

He always had. Whether it was his dad, his teachers, anyone, it made his skin crawl, his stomach tighten, his pulse stutter. He had spent his whole life avoiding it—keeping his head down, staying out of trouble, doing whatever it took to not be the one who got yelled at.

And yet here he was, standing there, taking it.

And the worst part?

She said it.

The thing he had been trying so hard to ignore, to shove down, to not care about.

That Dipper didn't trust him.

That all of this, every second of it, had been pointless.

Because no matter how much they had been through together, no matter how much he had thought, just maybe, that he was finally part of something—he wasn't.

They were nothing.

None of it had meant anything.

Mabel didn't even stop to notice the way he stiffened, the way his expression barely held itself together. She had already turned back to Dipper, her fury undeterred.

"And guess what?" She announced, voice dripping with defiance. "Norman and I are going on a date at five o'clock."

Dipper's face drained of color.

His mouth parted slightly, his eyes going wide, his entire posture shifting as he leaned back, looking completely thrown by her words.

Eliot, meanwhile, felt himself sinking deeper.

"And I'm gonna be adorable—" Mabel jabbed a finger into Dipper's chest, forcing him to stumble slightly.

"And he's gonna look dreamy—" She turned, and before Eliot could react, her finger jabbed into his chest.

Pain shot through his ribs, sharp and immediate.

He barely stopped himself from wincing.

Ah. Right. The bruises.

For a second, it was almost a relief—something physical, something real, something he could focus on instead of the suffocating numbness swallowing him whole.

But it wasn't enough.

Because inside, that ache was still there.

That stupid, unbearable ache.

It shouldn't bother him that Dipper didn't trust him.

It shouldn't matter.

It was obvious now—glaringly, painfully obvious—that Eliot had been stupid to think, even for a second, that maybe he had found something real. That maybe, for once, he had found people who trusted him.

But he had thought it.

And now, standing here, he didn't know what hurt worse—the fact that he had been wrong, or the fact that he had been so desperate to be right.

Dipper and Eliot instinctively stepped back as Mabel grew more agitated, her frustration bubbling over, her words cutting through the air with an intensity that neither of them could push back against.

Dipper tried.

He tried to stop her, tried to reason with her, tried desperately to get her to listen.

But she was already done.

"And I'm not gonna let you—" she pointed at Dipper, voice rising, "or you—" she turned to Eliot, "ruin it with one of your crazy conspiracies!"

And then—

SLAM.

The door shut in their faces.

Just like that, she was gone.

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

Dipper exhaled, long and slow, disappointment clear on his face. "Oh..." He let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. His voice had lost its previous sharpness. Now, it just sounded tired.

He turned to Eliot, still looking for answers. "What are we gonna do?"

But Eliot wasn't there.

Not really.

His mind was distant, spiraling, pulling him deeper and deeper into thoughts he couldn't stop.

His heartbeat felt wrong—too fast, too slow, both at the same time.

His hands clenched and unclenched, restless, twitching, needing something to hold onto but finding nothing.

Why?

Why did this trust thing mean so much to him?

It wasn't like Dipper had done anything.

Dipper hadn't hurt him. Dipper hadn't betrayed him.

So why did it sting like this?

Why did it feel like something inside him had cracked, like something fragile had been held out in front of him, just long enough for him to believe it was real, only to be snatched away?

Why did it feel so... familiar?

And worse—why did that terrify him?

He wanted to brush it off. To shrug, to say, whatever, doesn't matter, to act like it didn't get to him.

But it did.

And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, no matter how many times he told himself it was fine, the truth still clawed its way to the surface.

It wasn't fine.

Because the bitter reality was, Eliot had wanted to be trusted.

And now, standing here, staring at the door Mabel had slammed in their faces, he wasn't sure which hurt worse—

The fact that Dipper didn't trust him.

Or the fact that, deep down, he had never really expected him to.