Three weeks later.

"Hey, Jackass! The last of your shit's finally here, where do you want it?" Rachel yelled across the apartment, a large box in her arms. She could barely see over the top of it & had almost run into approximately three different walls on her way from the door to the spare room, where Jackson had been storing boxes as they arrived from Beacon Hills. It was meant to be an office of sorts, but the teen had denied ever having use for an office, and chose to fill the room with boxes of everything shipped from his old home in Beacon to his new place in London, England.

The boxes had been showing up at random times, mostly throughout the week though one had arrived at midnight; Rachel chose not to question it. Express delivery was something she'd never come to know, as her only possessions were able to fit within a single suitcase (or backpack if necessary, but she preferred the suitcase after meeting Lydia & her shopping obsession). As much as she'd been expecting Jackson to only have a select few of outrageously expensive items, he'd ended up having over ten boxes packed full; all of which had gotten split up along the way.

The first three to arrive had consisted of his closet; the next four being lacrosse junk, kitchen junk. video game junk & random junk from his room. The two that followed had been smaller furniture, lamps & such; whilst the last, the one Jackson had repeatedly told her was not coming, was one he suspected to be from his parents. She could tell he was hoping for an expensive gift, but Rachel had a theory of her own— she had yet to discover anything family related, and she hoped to hell this last box would be loaded with photos she'd be able to spend her last few days in London making fun of.

To ensure Jackson would go about his werewolf life in another country safely & without harming anyone on his first full moon as an actual werewolf, Rachel had persuaded Derek to let her go with Jackson for the summer. Er, half the summer, that is. One month in London— no Beacon Hills drama, no Allison & Scott relationship drama & most definitely no Kanima drama. She hoped. The full moon had been yesterday, and with Derek's instructions (he'd explained to the beta multiple times how to refrain from killing anyone; but Rachel had insisted on going, regardless of how clear Derek had been) Jackson had been completely fine. The only time he'd seemed even remotely mad was when she turned off the football game to watch Pretty Little Liars, but he'd gotten used to it. He wouldn't admit it, but the show wasn't seeming as horrible as it had when he'd first watched it— unwillingly, of course.

Her days in London had been surprisingly well. Though they were most often spent with Jackass Whittemore fighting over what to watch on television or the fact that neither of them knew how to cook (Jackson was accustomed to the rich life, whilst Rachel lived off cereal, Doritos & store bought subs), they were far better than anything Beacon Hills had to offer, or so she'd been told by Stiles. According to him, as soon as she & Jackson had left, it reverted to it's usual eerie calm. He & Scott practiced lacrosse almost daily; Scott whined about not being able to contact Allison & Derek ignored them. The usual.

Rachel texted Stiles almost every day. They never talked about much & their conversations frequently consisted of merely one-word messages, but it was something to do; something other than sitting & waiting for something to happen. Derek texted once per week, like clockwork, with the same message "still fine." If she chose to respond, he would always read it within minutes, but never reply. It didn't bother her— he'd always been that way, and she knew it was better not to push him to change.

She had yet to talk to Isaac since leaving. The day she left, he'd been busy with Derek & presumably Peter as well— she'd talked to him on the phone for a minute at the airport, where he'd said a quick goodbye & assured her all was fine, and that Derek simply wanted help with fixing something at the house. Rachel knew it was complete & utter bullshit, but as they'd announced that her & Jackson's flight was boarding, she chose to end it on a good note with a simply goodbye before hanging up. They'd agreed to talk again later; whether it be by phone call or text, neither cared. She knew something was important to keep them there; but she also trusted that if it was serious enough, they'd tell her.

Since the day before boarding the plane, he had yet to text or call her. In his defence, she had yet to do either as well; but after a midnight call with a half-asleep Stiles, she decided she was better off not to— if he wanted to talk to her, he would call. Stiles had reassured her there was nothing going on that he knew of, and as far as she could tell, he was being honest. Or he just really wanted her to shut up so he could sleep. Either way, it had worked; nothing was wrong in Beacon Hills, Isaac totally didn't lie to her just so she'd leave & Derek totally wasn't in on it too.

"Spare room!" Jackson shouted from his room, the sound of movement soon echoing through the large apartment as he lazily walked out, spotting the brunette just as she bumped into the corner of a wall. "Daydreaming about your boyfriend again?"

"I told you, I was fully conscious & asking for an opinion. And we're not dating— not even remotely close to it." Rachel snapped in response, her eyes narrowing at the boy. "Do you listen in on all of my calls?"

"Only the ones that happen at 2am when I'm trying to sleep."

"Well, maybe if you stopped staying at the coffee shop until midnight flirting with that little blonde barista, you'd be asleep before two." The reflector grumbled, turning into the spare room & setting the box on a desk (also known as the only piece of furniture occupying the room aside from cardboard boxes). "Are you gonna come see what's in here, or am I gonna dig through this alone?"

Jackson rolled his eyes, following her into the room. Rachel, as usual, ignored him & turned her attention back to the box; which she now noticed was labelled "fragile." It was probably something along the lines of sports trophies, a lamp or a last-minute gift from his parents; but she still liked to hope it would be an album of embarrassing elementary school photos. He had absolutely nothing pertaining to his family or early life in the new apartment— the only picture he had was a weird painting Rachel had found in a shop & bought during their first week there. She wasn't entirely sure of what it was, the scribble on the back said it was a beach, but Jackson claimed it was an acid trip gone horribly wrong, but nonetheless, it was not to be moved. Ever.

Without it, the room looked like a staged apartment ready to be shown to filthy rich buyers, not Jackson's new home for who the hell knew how long. Even if he didn't like it or feel at home, she still believed he should make the place at least look like a home. Whether that be with crappy art or family photos, Rachel did her best with what she had to work with, just as she'd done at the old ratty warehouse back in Beacon Hills.

"Are you going to open the box, or are you going to continue staring at it & daydreaming about your not-boyfriend?" Jackson questioned, smiling smugly as he leaned on the desk. "

"I'm gonna throw you out a window in a minute." She responded, flicking out a set of claws & cutting the tape off the box so it was able to be opened. As soon as she'd managed to cut away enough to pull he cardboard open without making a mess of it's contents, the claws were quickly replaced by her normal fingernails, void of any coloured polish for the longest time in awhile.

"What's in it?" Jackson asked, leaning over the box just as Rachel folded it open. The question was rather pointless, being that he knew before she did. "Packing peanuts?"

"Oh hell yeah." Rachel muttered, grabbing a handful of the styrofoam pieces & throwing them at him. She was expecting him to throw even more at her in return, but instead he just looked at her with an unamused expression. "You're redefining the word "buzzkill," I swear."

"What are you, twelve?"

"I'm convinced your only joy in life was watching Scott & Stiles fail at lacrosse, and now that you're away from them, you're condemned to eternal misery." Rachel teased, throwing another handful of packing peanuts at him. "Either that, or you're still mad about the Porsche."

"What kind of shipping company can't give me a hundred percent guarantee that the stupid ship won't sink on it's way over? Or a guarantee that some asshat won't scratch the paint?" Jackson grumbled, definitely still mad about the Porsche. Since the company was unable to provide a guarantee that his precious car would arrive in London a hundred percent unharmed, Jackson had chosen not to have it shipped & instead left in Beacon, until he eventually returned for it or found a better shipping company.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."

"No you won't."

Rachel shrugged, choosing not to respond a she returned to tossing handfuls of styrofoam pieces out of the box & onto the floor, also managing to hit Jackson a few more times in the process. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't been purposely aiming to hit him— how did he not love packing peanuts? If she, one of Beacon's greatest buzzkills, was able to make room for them in her cold dead heart, then so could he. "I still can't believe you don't love packing peanuts. My sister & I used to go completely nuts whenever we got a package full of them. I'd gather up a big bunch & throw them at her all at once & then run away—"

She stopped for a moment, brows furrowing as a sharp pain formed in the back of her skull. It was as though she'd been hit by a brick (or slammed against a brick wall) without ever leaving the room, and lasted no more than thirty seconds; but it was enough to cause the brunette to wince at it's intensity. Jackson notice the minute she stopped talking, although he didn't seem to concerned; nothing really seemed to alarm him anymore, not since becoming a werewolf.

"You good?" Jackson asked, more than likely only curious of whether or not she was going to drop dead.

"Yeah, great— just a random, inexplicable pain in the back of my head. The usual." Rachel scoffed, rolling her eyes. This wasn't the first time it had happened— an inexplicable pain that seemed to appear & disappear out of absolutely nowhere. It wasn't horribly frequent, but since she'd first arrived in London, this had to have been the fourth time she was experiencing it. The occurrences were only a few seconds, but they were enough to make her curious of what was causing them; she planned to ask Deaton if it had to do with her abilities once she was back in Beacon Hills.

It wouldn't surprise her if it did. In fact, the only reason she wasn't going off the rails freaking out about it was the fact that she'd convinced herself it was just her abilities being weird; as they had been her entire life. No one even knew how she became a reflector to begin with & she doubted anyone ever would, but she was okay with that— she learned to accept it, just as she was now learning to accept that thirty-second headaches were now a part of her life.

"You're still cleaning all of this up." Jackson informed, taking one of the styrofoam pieces & throwing it at her. Only when it bounced off her forehead did he stifle a laugh at the unamused expression forming on her face. "Now who's the buzzkill?"

She pretended to think for a moment before answering. "Still you."

The brunette smiled, turning back to the box & brushing off the previous events— there had to be more than just packing peanuts inside it, and she wasn't about to put off finding out for another five minutes. She could "clean up" the packing peanuts later, (and by clean up, she meant carry them all to Jackson's room & stuff them in his pillowcase) right now, they had one final box to unpack. Whilst she dug away at he remaining pieces of styrofoam, Jackson reached past her & removed the first item visible at the bottom of the box; a small table lamp. As soon as he held the damn thing up with a huge grin, she wanted to punch him.

"Told you it'd be a lamp." He mused, setting the aforementioned object down on the table beside him. "Everyone gets a lamp as a housewarming gift."

Rachel shot a glare at him, returning to the box; it was too damn heavy to be filled with just a lamp & styrofoam— there was something else at the bottom, and she was willing to bet by it's book-like shape that it was a photo album. She brushed a few more pieces from it's surface, revealing a small piece of note paper taped to it's cover. She carefully removed the note, studying its words before reading them aloud. "Jackson, we know you hate pictures but we couldn't let you leave without at least a few. Please keep this. Love, Mom & Dad."

"Don't say it."

"Oh hell yes." She shrieked, taking the album from the box. "Hell to the freaking yes! There better be embarrassing baby pictures & ugly school photos in here or I swear, Whittemore."

"Unfortunate." He faked a frown. "I don't have ugly school photos."

"I'll be the judge of that." Rachel stated, hurrying out to the main living room part of the apartment & flopping onto the couch. She set the book on the coffee table, adjusting a pillow behind her head where a broken spring was— she'd broken the couch the third time she jumped on it & still had yet to tell Jackson (and she wasn't planning on ever doing so) —before reaching for the album once more.

Jackson followed after her, scoffing upon seeing that she was laying across the couch the way she always did, taking every last bit of space without any consideration. As per the norm, he didn't bother with asking her to move & simply went ahead & moved her, resulting in Rachel growling lowly at him; which, as always, was ignored as he sat down beside her. He hated photographs, but if she was going to go through an album made up by his parents, (and she sure as hell was) he was mildly curious to see what they'd filled it with.

Not a second after Rachel had opened the album, the sound of high-pitched laughter filled the apartment. Not the typical laugh he'd hear whenever she had succeeded in pulling a childish prank on him, or when she turned off his favourite sport to watch Pretty Little Liars— this was like she'd just seen the funniest thing on the face of the Earth. Rachel was damn sure she had, too.

"What?" Jackson questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion at the girl who was now near crying from laughing so hard.

"Second grade– picture day– oh my god." She stuttered, turning the book towards Jackson so he could see the front page photo; a picture of himself at the age of seven, looking adorable for picture day & actually smiling. "You were so adorable!"

"Adorable is funny?"

"When it's you, of course." Rachel answered, pausing to catch her breath as she finally stopped laughing. "You look so happy with your little glasses & ugly blazer, oh my god we need to get a frame for this. How did they get you to smile so realistically? Was someone hitting Scott with a lacrosse stick behind the camera?"

"My parents bought me one of those stupid kid-sized cars." Jackson shrugged, ignoring her comment about the blazer— he never really liked it, but it was designer & made all the other kids jealous. "Flip to the next page, I think there's a class photo. You've gotta see McCall."

The brunette did as instructed & soon erupted into yet another fit of laughter, not only at Scott but at Stiles, who she quickly noticed beside him. The students were lined up on short bleachers in three rows, allowing everyone in the class to fit into one photo. Jackson was behind the two aforementioned boys, smiling just as he was in his individual photo, only with a faint evil glint in his eyes, the one Rachel had grown to know very well. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing." Jackson chuckled, obviously lying. "Just dropped a spider down the back of his shirt right before they took the photo."

"That's horrible!" Rachel gaped, knowing she'd more than likely kill him if he ever did it to her. She hated spiders. Everyone hated spiders. They were creepy, crawly & anything with eight legs needed to stay at least eight metres away from her at all times. "Stiles saw you do it, didn't he?"

"The look on his face says it all." The teen wolf grinned, still remembering the day & how Scott had ran out just seconds after the photo was taken, Stiles hesitantly following. All three had ended up in detention, but it had most definitely been worth it to have the moment forever frozen in a photo (even if he did hate pictures). "Next few pages are probably the same. Skip ahead a few & you might find the freshman year lacrosse team photo— screwed with McCall in that, too."

Rachel rolled her eyes, flipping quickly through a few pages that looked relatively similar to the first two. She continued on, until she got to one that seemed to differ from the others; it was Jackson with a group of friends. "What's this?"

"My tenth birthday party." He responded, seeming uninterested in the image.

Rachel, however, was very interested. She recognized certain people immediately— one being Lydia in a bright pink dress, her strawberry blonde hair tied back with a matching ribbon, & the other being Danny, seated next to Jackson at a picnic table in what she believed to be the Whittemore's backyard. Most of the others were irrelevant members of the lacrosse team, ones she'd never taken the time to learn the names of.

Except one.

She noticed him almost instantly but had to look again to realize where she recognized him from. He looked almost the same as when she'd seen him, only in this photo a purple bruise underlined his left eye. He was seated at the picnic table, across from Jackson & Danny— but while the aforementioned two looked to be happily laughing, (more than likely at the future lacrosse player sprawled out on the grass) the boy across from them looked sad.

It was the boy she'd seen in the shadows at Lydia's party; the one who seemed to disappear into thin air. His curly blonde hair was far less dishevelled than it had been when she'd seen him, and he wasn't crying, but she knew the resemblance was undeniable. There was no doubt in her mind that it was the same person; sitting there like a lost puppy at Jackson Whittemore's tenth birthday party, looking as though he were slowly dying inside.

"Who is this?" Rachel asked, pointing at the boy in the picture. Though she wouldn't admit it to herself, she already knew the answer she was going to receive. She'd known for a long time, subconsciously, but she never wanted to accept it— she never wanted to revisit that day & remember. She'd spent so many months, so many years forcing the memories away; not just of that day but of every day leading up to it & the weeks afterward. She didn't want to remember yet another promise she'd broken, and she sure as hell didn't want to sift through all the horrible memories she'd worked so hard to bury.

No matter how hard she tried to act clueless, a small part of her knew who he was & always would. Rachel didn't just forget people— she forced herself to forget them & anything else associated with that day. It was her instinct, the only way she knew how to protect herself from the endless pain of constantly reliving everything. She buried it— beneath anger, overconfidence, & whatever else it took to keep away the past that was rapidly catching up with her. Unfortunately, that only worked for so long. She could try to keep it going. She could tell Jackson to never mind the question, flip to the next page & continue on with her day, pretending she didn't know. As hard as it would be, keeping her mind occupied with stupid games on her phone & re-runs of television she didn't even like, she could do it.

But she didn't want to. Even if she did live by the infamous Alison DiLaurentis quote, "if you ignore it, it will go away" she'd come to learn it was only a matter of time before whatever was ignored made its way back. Things didn't stay buried forever; whether those things be memories, secrets, or her uncle (who she still wanted dead)— they came back to haunt her, and if she didn't deal with them sooner rather than later, she'd drive herself insane simply trying to avoid them. She buried her problems for nearly seven years, and now it was time to face the fact that another one of them was back, and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Him?" Jackson questioned, & Rachel nodded. "That's Isaac. I didn't invite him, my mom did— something about thinking we'd be good friends if I stopped ignoring him 'cause he's weird. Didn't work."

Knowing Rachel, facing that problem was going to take a lot longer than expected.

⠀⠀⠀⠀↻

THE END | UNEDITED.

i really didn't think i was going to cry bc i wasn't tearing up or anything but oh look here i am, with my eyes doing the watery thing. this is it, guys, unspoken is officially over. finished. complete. i have been waiting so long for this moment & i'm so goddamn happy. i love you all so freaking much & i want to say a huge thank you for 2,000 followers! also, happy valentine's day!! (technically it's february 15 now, since it's 3:20am but just ignore my lateness)

one more part will be uploaded into this book with the name of the sequel, so don't delete it from your library just yet! that part will be up tomorrow as right now it's taking 99.9% of my self control not to stop in the middle of this & go watch the markiplier video i've been waiting all day for. once again, i love you all, we finally made it. sequel in the morning.

for the last time in here.. comment opinions?