A Night With Sherlock Holmes
A Night with Sherlock Holmes
Paring: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) X Reader
Summary: Reflecting on your time with Sherlock Holmes as he plays his violin deep into the somber night leads to a few realisations.
Warnings: None
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Gracefully the sun descended down the murky blue sky, travelling with a never-ending burst of bright colour around its powerful body. As it exited the now empty canvas of the darkest shades of blue, a sense of lethargy encompassing its movements as if hanging so high above had drained all of its energy, it passed on its reign to its considerably smaller partner—the moon and its massive army of sparkly, blinking stars. The buildings of London cowered under a thick shadow of gloom, and the moon's white light miserly illuminated the occasional window or passerby. The restrictive view I was presented with of the outside world through my sharp-cornered window wasn't much to keep my attention at nightfall; when the ever-busy human race collectively packed away into their abodes, the long-winding roads of London experienced nothing but isolation from the rickety vehicles for the first time, and when the only living being garnering the spotlight of the street lights were squeaky rats.
However, I needn't worry, as I always had Sherlock to make my boring, sleepless nights worthwhile.
Unlike the rest of the population, Sherlock functioned uniquely. While the average adult might find himself occupied by a heavy load of work during the day, burdened by the clutches of financial stability, like I found myself reviewing and organising shelves upon shelves of books and archives, Sherlock never bothered with money. In fact, he conducted his job free of cost, without any expectations of receiving something in return because the immense satisfaction he experienced merely by taking part in the mind games that his job presented him with were returns enough.
When deconstructing the sometimes complex logical reasonings, sometimes baffling — to Sherlock, trifling — emotions behind brutal crimes, one might picture chaos and panic; an urgency to not waste time for danger could be thrust upon you at any moment. Taking one look at Sherlock would certainly ruin that weirdly picturesque image.
I distinctly remember the case of the mysterious chain of supposed suicides or "Study in Pink", as our fellow companion John Watson had titled it in his blog; victims consuming the exact same pill seemingly with no reason to end their lives nor any apparent connection with each other. Clues weren't adding up, the only leads we had were dead ends, and John's features were corrupted by worry as he entered the room we occupied; he appeared as though he had seen a ghost (which later we found out was actually not a ghost but Sherlock's brother, Mycroft). The atmosphere was tense, but amidst the room existed a presence that stood in complete contrast. Sherlock — oh, Sherlock — laid horizontally inclined on his well-loved, dented couch, tightly wrapped in his blue night robe, and pale bony hands pressed together under his chin. His being emulated a sense of level-headedness, composure and cool - eyes shut, mouth slightly hung open, and body still as a statue. At the time, I admired and admittedly envied his attitude towards stressful situations that he displayed constantly. But, the passage of time taught me that I had just fallen into the illusion that he was this perfect, mystical, awe-inducing kind of being, as one might get the impression of upon first meeting him. Spending a little more time with him, however, can show you a lot of fine details that previously went undisclosed. Like the uneven furrow of his eyes-brows when he stared off into space and the off-beat tick of his fingers upon paper as he went over case reports.
How much ever Sherlock might not show it (saying it was a whole other matter), his mind was forever running miles faster than anyone could even comprehend, only visible to the naked eye through small signs of physical reactions like these. His brain was a machine, efficient and observant to the highest degree. But unfortunately, the comparison could be drawn further. He was cold and soulless, seemingly made of scratch-less metal. His words were prone to the blunt, the straightforward, and the truth. And these tendencies frequently kept contact away — if there was one thing I learnt in my time with him, it was that people loathed being presented with an honest reflection of themselves.
Despite this, Sherlock was still undeniably human. However deep one may have to peel off the layers of his skin to come across it, there was undoubtedly pulsing flesh, hot red blood and a beating heart underneath that façade of impassiveness. And this heart, like any other creature, yearned for something Sherlock would label a major flaw in human patchwork. It yearned for passion — In whatever form it may be derived, even if he didn't realise it himself.
For instance, as he stood staring at the same window I was gazing through moments ago, inspecting the bland atmosphere, a set empty of actors, his long fingers delicately held a bow, dragging it across the strings of his violin. With each movement, with each pull or push of the strings, he created a melody velvety smooth, and he and I bathed in its depth. The notes he played were the only trace of life in the air, for we were nothing but objects in its presence, invisible artists hiding behind the awe-inspiring art. That was the passion Sherlock allowed himself to absorb — the kind that spoke for itself and connected souls in ways no words nor actions could. At first, I used to believe that it wasn't particularly his fault if no one was around long enough to realise this, to realise how Sherlock worked. But looking back, perhaps it was Sherlock himself who didn't allow anyone to do so.
I clutched the fluffy blanket tighter around me, folding my knees towards myself in order to maximise comfort on the sofa I occupied. Memory betrayed me as I tried to recall the day's events, draping a cloud of fog over the images of what were supposed to be work, faces, and... I couldn't swat the white mist away. It always was the case during the night, more specifically when I was joined by the company of Sherlock in the living room. It was like the past blurred itself just so that the present could be ever-clear and sharp. I usually gave in, deciding to take in as much as I could of these moments that littered my life sparingly.
The clock ticked away in the background, its repetitive beat further making me over-conscious of the now. Dragging my lidded eyes away from the monotone city sights out the window, I glanced across the extinguished fireplace, the unlit lamp sitting on top of it, the rotten, yellowing figure of Sherlock's skull right beside it — teeth gleaming under the moonlight — and then the dark kitchen. Followed the door that led past it, an imaginary image of me walking through the hallway to the room at the far end, and finally, John lying somewhat peacefully under the sheets, deep breaths echoing along the walls.
John was never a witness to our nightly sessions. The retired soldier, traumatised by but yet incredibly drawn to the war, the battle, and the chaos, was one to surprisingly follow the average human sleep schedule. It was shocking, really, how he was never woken up by the striking sounds of Sherlock's violin despite having a keen sense for noise. But sometimes, I had the innate feeling that he intentionally ignored it. I was glad he did, though, because how much ever affection I held for the man, he was the kind of person inclined to overthink, doubt, and suspicion. These three words were perfectly apt to describe Sherlock as well, but John's were a slightly varied nuance.
While Sherlock utilised his skill to question everything for his own benefit, John, nine times out of ten, sabotaged himself while doing so — erupting unnecessary worry and distress. A comforting, borderline pin-drop silence like the one settled in the atmosphere as Sherlock ended the piece (an untitled, self-composed one), and slid his pearl blue irises to latch onto mine would only encompass John in discomfort. The anxious aura radiated by his presence would then shatter the calm so intricately constructed by the mutual understanding between Sherlock and me.
It sounds too dramatic, too hyperbolic, I'm well aware, but no other means could convey how meaningful these overnight hours were to me and my sanity in this dying world. I would really like it if John continued to remain oblivious to them. Or pretend oblivious, I suppose.
Sherlock gingerly placed his violin on the couch beside him.
"The only time I can think is when the rest of London wasn't— too occupied by sleep." He spit the word like it was poison on his tongue. "Why is that not surprising in the slightest?"
I let his words hang in the air, pondering his question. Sherlock often found himself susceptible to the meaningless, unimportant thoughts of those around him. It was like he could hear them out loud, like he could read minds. However, such supernatural diction might be disapproved of by Sherlock.
In his own words, 'trivial expressions depicting stress, confusion, ignorance and whatever definable emotion you can think of on people's faces are nothing but translations of inner feelings and thoughts.' And Sherlock being the ever-observant and present person he was, was even more exposed to these signals than the average person — disrupting him from continuing his original train of thought.
He did, although, also confide in me that for people like Anderson, whose idiocy plagued the very world around them, signals weren't required to get the gist of whatever nonsense was going through the pea brain of theirs.
"I'm going to assume that I am exempt from this rest of London you speak of?"
A side-eye; not a trace of hesitance in his voice. "Obviously."
"Hm."
Sherlock went back to analysing whatever he could of the scenery outside. I went back to analysing him. It was a past-time I took part in often, sometimes hours passing by before the bubble around me popped, dropping me harshly back into reality.
It has occurred to me here and there that I may be in love with this man.
Love. Even muttering the word under my breath felt unfamiliar to me, a person who never really cared about fleeting emotions like those.
But it had to be love. Because surely— surely, no one spent as much time as I did picturing Sherlock and his tall frame playing the violin with such grace and care just as he was moments ago — his elegant movements like that of a lily swaying in the wind. Surely, no one understood the sensation that took over my being when his eyes settled on me with such intention and purpose, whether I was looking or not. No one endlessly wondered about what may be running through his one heck of a brain as he deduced a man's whole life story by a mark on the cuff of his shirt— God.
God.
Consciously thinking about Sherlock made me put into picture how much of a miracle he actually was. What I was capable of imagining had to be just a fraction of what he was capable of doing. I loved knowing that he was somewhere above all of us. I loved it.
Sherlock was an enigma, and if it was my life purpose to try and understand him completely, I would certainly do so. Whether what I felt for Sherlock was true love (if that even existed) or a manic obsession of sorts, whether Sherlock even felt anything in return, for I never considered what his opinions of me could be, whether he was even aware of the intensity of the spell he put me under—it didn't matter— I would stick with him.
It was only when my eyes caught the rectangular sheet of light draping over the couches, the books, the papers, and the mess of the living room, that I came to realise that it was the dawn of the new day already.
I stood up unsteadily, cloth-covered feet coming in contact with the carpeted ground, the soft thump of the thick blanket falling behind me onto the floor. My body wobbled as I moved forward towards the window where Sherlock also stood—his position altering between the window and the sofa opposite mine throughout the night. Goosebumps instantly arose across the bare skin of my arms and legs, and I shivered. But I didn't think the physical reactions were caused by the chilly wind.
The early spurts of yellow spread along the horizon like watercolour, rapidly claiming domain in the sky. Soon, the golden sun followed, its body obstructed by the buildings around. I squinted my eyes as I accidentally stared straight at it, but I couldn't look away—the celestial body marked the end of my shared solitude with Sherlock, but it did so mesmerisingly, glowing brightly and ejecting rays on earth, pumping life into the cement. The only sight that could beat the magnificence of the sun, unfortunately, was standing right beside me, and so I eventually found myself staring at sherlock's marble-carved face instead, a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his pale blush pink lips as he marvelled at the sight in front of him.
It seems as though even Sherlock, the ever-placid Sherlock himself, couldn't resist the delicious temptations of nature — the ultimate source that manifested passion within him. The kind that spoke for itself.
As Sherlock tentatively reached out the fingertips of his hand to garner the attention of my own, slowly swinging them to give me momentary but frequent contact, I thought about how one man – and a man he only was – altered my life entirely in the span of months, making my old life seem discoloured and pointless compared to what I was blessed with now. My undefinable feelings towards Sherlock would only grow as time passed, and even if I lose him — I will try my hardest not to, in the first place — I would not mourn. Instead, I would be thankful that I got a chance to have him in my life. I would be satisfied knowing that a person like him walked the earth.
The sun rose higher and higher, and at the distinct voice of John Watson questioning our presence out in the open at such ungodly hours, Sherlock's hand left mine.
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Don't Cry, Baby | College AU | Chapter 1
Paring: Rafe Cameron X Reader
Summary: Growing up in a sheltered family, safe and secure amongst people you could trust was, according to you, heaven, despite how some tend to doubt its consequences. But you did not expect your safe bubble to pop so suddenly when you entered college - the atmosphere so dazzlingly stark, that it was proving to be a difficult challenge to navigate around. Especially when one of the students gets painfully curious about the new girl.
Warnings: Talks about sex, swearing, drugs, possible smut.
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"So you've never had sex."
My jaw hung open at his bluntness, eyes gauging him from my position on the rough bed as I looked up at his tall frame. I quickly shook away my telling expression, however, loosening the grip on my ankles; the surprise I felt was immense but Rafe didn't have to know that.
How the conversation slid its way onto the topic of sex wasn't clear to me. I suppose Rafe was the first to impose the subject, something about Kelce and his new girlfriend, but then the questions were being thrown at me, while I unsuspectingly debated which outfit to wear, my limited selection sprawled across my bed.
My attempts to answer them euphemistically, I had to admit, were a bit suspicious, and it was no time before Rafe began to catch on to the implications of my tone. Now that the truth was out in the open, something shifted in his eyes, and his speech transformed entirely. I had only known Rafe for a few days, having met him in the hallway of our dorms, but he was never so daring in our increasingly longer interactions, nor so friendly like he was and continued to be in our current one.
I certainly did not expect us to get close enough to talk about sex (something I had only shyly whispered about with girl friends in high school) but everything in this new college environment was taking me aback—especially their…. openness, I guess, was the appropriate word. I was also familiar with their weird fascination with virgins, which is why…..
Shrugging in false casualty, I squeaked out uneasily, "Yes."
Rafe paced up and down my humble room, his body comically large in its small confines, and looked at me with narrowed eyes, hand running through his blonde hair that shone alluringly under the window's sunlight. Even though he tried his hardest not to show it, behind his look of suspicion, I could sense a whole lot of amusement. And the smirk gracing his lips when I interrupted his attempt to speak just made it plain obvious.
"You promised." I warned, referring to his words that assured me of no mockery after I answered his question, or rather, observation.
"I wasn't gonna tease."
I scoffed, disbelieving. "You were!"
"No, actually. I was simply going to ask," He paused, building up the tension that only I was feeling, as he walked closer to where I sat on the bed. With a mischievous grin, he continued, "if you'd ever watched porn."
"Why are we having this conversation again?" I groaned, falling back on the bed. The evening was visibly disappearing behind the window, and instead of heading out for a friend's birthday party, as we were supposed to, I was stuck in my dorm with Rafe for some reason. I didn't even remember why he was in here in the first place instead of getting ready too. Just a comment about how he 'didn't need to'.
"Answer the question."
"Can't we do this after Ruby's party?" My words came out whiny and childish, and I mentally slapped myself for acting like this in front of a practical stranger and so hurriedly sat up straight. Ruby was another friend I made, our meeting occurring at the end of my first ever lecture. Approaching me with a dazzling smile, she was sensitive enough to my anxiety and bought me a cup of coffee, in her own words, as a peace treaty. A few days later, an e-invite to her birthday was sitting in my unread messages. Gazing at Rafe's uncharacteristically curious face, I was reminded of something he had said earlier when I asked him for a ride to the party to which he apparently was also invited. "Weren't you gonna ask her out?"
"What?"
"Ruby. You said you were gonna ask her out." I quickly checked the clock on my bedside table for the time and hustled out of bed with a gasp, mind half on settling with a dress choice and half on the memory of Rafe leaning against his doorframe a few hours ago, chest puffed out, and voice breezy as he announced his intentions to woo Ruby. It felt odd in the moment but then led to an uncomfortable train of thought that if Rafe, who had been established as The Man on campus by everyone I talked to, was interested in Ruby, then she must have been The Woman of the campus. The queen bee, if you will. The uncomfortable factor lent itself to my ultimate insignificance in the grand scheme of things, but that was a heavy topic to uncover.
Rafe remained silent for a bit, seemingly just as contemplative as I was, blankly watching me run around the room as I struggled to assemble a pretty outfit. I was confused about how Rafe, a guy who always looks like he has somewhere more important to be, could stand so stubbornly in my dorm, of all things. There was something off about that image.
I heard him draw a sharp breath before repeating, "Have you or have you not watched porn?"
Baffled at his ignorance, I gave him the harshest look I could muster, but it ended up infused with hesitance. His lips curled into that familiar, teasing smirk he had begun to give me these days when I passed him on my way to lectures, saw him at restaurants, or, most commonly, bumped into him in the dormitory hallways. My friendly wave was only ever reciprocated through a smirk or a grin, his friends chuckling mockingly at my small display. But none was as cunning as it was today, as he eagerly dug to learn more intimate details about my life.
"Rafe, seriously, Is-it-really-that-big-of-a-deal-if-I-haven't? And can you stop pacing? It's making me anxious..."
He did stop, but I didn't think it was because I said so.
"No… fucking way. Are you kidding?"
"See, this is why I don't say this sort of stuff! Because you- all of you react like this!" Having been done with this interaction, I walked over to the attached bathroom, a random blue outfit in my hands.
Behind me, I could still sense Rafe drenched in confusion. I turned on the bedside lamp.
"But…. why?"
"'Why' what?"
"You haven't fucked anyone, you haven't watched porn, and you flinch at the topic of it as if it physically fucking hurts you…. You're not a prude, are you?" He spit the word like it was poison, and my head snapped to him, feeling a rush of offence flow through me, even though the label might have been accurate. I did not appreciate the connotations it held. "I don't think I've ever heard you swear either."
Overwhelmed at his examination, my breathing quickened. Why did he say all of it like it was a bad thing? Was it a bad thing?
My eyes unconsciously trained onto Rafe's lips when he stepped forward; they were a striking shade of pink, complementary to his blue eyes, as they moved, forming condescending strings of words that went through one ear and out the other. I couldn't get myself to focus when put under his bright flashlight, and I began to wonder if this was really how friends spoke to each other in this place.
"Get out."
He looked pleasantly surprised at the authority in my tone. To be honest, I was surprised too. "You're telling me to 'get out'?"
Sparing him an apprehensive glance, I repeated. "G-get out."
When silence followed, I thought he'd finally listen to me for the first time in his life. But then a hand placed itself on my bare shoulder, and I shuddered, attempting to shrug it off immediately. He didn't budge, firmly digging his fingers into my skin as he looked down on me. I persisted in my struggle to escape his grasp.
"Stop moving. Why are you acting like a brat all of a sudden, hm?"
I slowly tilted my head to look at him, my short-lived resolve crumbling at the intensity of his close proximity and eyes embarrassingly growing moist at his comments. Thankfully, Rafe didn't notice.
"I-i'm not."
Under the dim lighting, he reached behind me with his long arm towards the bed, the collar of his polo shirt brushing against my skin. I was practically trapped between him and the bed and looked sideways at the window instead, trying to control my discomfort. When he returned from his excursion, I saw him fingering the fabric of a white dress I purposefully chose to ignore earlier—the material a little too sheer for my liking, a little too thin. But it seemed to have caught Rafe's attention because he pushed it into my chest and snatched away the one in my hands.
"Wear that one and meet me downstairs."
"...I don't want to wear it, though."
"Did I ask?" He said, annoyed, waving his arm at my small room, my mess of an outfit, my behaviour. When he put distance between us by taking two large backward steps, I thought he was finally leaving. And he did. For a second. Before I could wipe my glistening eyes, Rafe popped his head back through the door. "Also, a 19 year old who hasn't watched porn is rare as fuck." He nodded as if telling a universal truth. "Sure, there are plenty of virgins on campus, but no porn?" He whistled mockingly, and I wished he left me alone already, biting back words that I knew would worsen the situation. "That's a whole new league. Consider yourself lucky you've told me first, ‘cause people are gonna mess with you."
"And you aren't?"
Rafe chuckled, but I continued.
"...Sex—" I looked away, feeling the need to defend myself. "Sex is… scary, okay?"
Rafe couldn't have looked more amused.
"What did you just say?" He re-entered the room, pushing fallen strands of his hair back into its slick style, and I sighed. I just drew him back in.
"Forget it."
"Aw," He laughed boisterously, and I shook, startled at the low edge to his chuckles. He was enjoying this (?). "Does the idea of a good fuck scare you? Such a poor little girl…"
I was mortified. How was this the same person I was talking to a couple hours ago? "Stop it."
"Have you ever even seen a cock in your life?" His palm slid down to his shorts, and assuming—quite understandably, I would think—that it was to demonstrate his question, I covered my eyes with my palms, letting out a flustered 'Ah!'.
"Oh my fucking god."
If I thought he was chuckling earlier, he was dying of laughter when I opened my eyes—hand clutching his stomach and everything. It turns out he was merely adjusting his shorts, but he didn't bother clarifying the unsaid question, preferring the alternative. It was infuriating. But I didn't understand how to let him know that when my very existence seemed to have become a piece of entertainment to him.
"Okay, I've had enough of you." The sun was falling lower and lower out the window, the room darker and darker; I was clearly going to be late to the party and lose one of the only kind people I had met here— all because of Rafe- a name that was starting to sound more rough in my head, the 'r' more sinister. "Just get out of here and take me to the goddamn party. Or I'll just ask someone else."
"Whoa, calm down baby." He replied, only barely recovering from his fit.
"Don't talk like that."
"Like what? Call you 'baby'? Do you prefer 'princess'? Little baby princess that can't handle a little dick-talk?" Rafe grinned wolfishly. "And who are you gonna ask anyway? You're not exactly flooded with options. Ruby is at the party, that small girl- what's her name- Maria something, I bet she isn't even invited— and oh my god, I'd rather kill myself than let you ask that new friend of yours. Heyward."
His detailed knowledge of my only acquaintances was disturbing, but that feeling was suppressed by the fact that he was right. I didn't even have Pope's number. God, this man had just dropped too many things at once, and I needed to get myself alone if I wanted to form a single sensible thought. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to follow an impulse for the first time, a bold one too.
I, uh, pushed Rafe out of my room and slammed the door in his face.
"Hey!" He banged his fist on the wood.
I said nothing.
"....Be down in two. I'm gonna leave you here if you're any later!" I wanted to scream in his face that he was the reason why we were late, but I remained silent. "bitch."
I knew he was only saying it to rile me up, but nevertheless, I wiped the tear that threatened to roll down my cheek, undressing to put on the dress Rafe chose. It was my sister's, one that she threw in my luggage as a joke. A mockery of what could be because she knew I would never wear it.
I traced the shimmering jewels on its surface and scoffed. When I exited the room and locked it, I thought of my sister's disbelief if she was here, watching me walk out into public, uncomfortable in white.
I quickly hurried down the staircase but stopped in my tracks when I saw Rafe conversing with a small portion of his usually massive friend group, the rest having already left for the party.
Rafe hadn't changed except for a cap resting backwards on his head. Beside him, I recognised Topper and Kelce, but there were a few other guys that looked unfamiliar. A couple of girls huddled by him too, dressed in cute outfits, lips covered in pretty lip gloss, and hair done perfectly.
Jealousy was a feeling I had harboured way too much during high school and I had vowed to quit that habit in college but as I walked towards Rafe, face slightly ducked down, I was ashamed that jealous was exactly what I was, insecure about my ill-fitting clothes, my highly fluctuating emotional state. Something that was sure to be a bother to everyone around me, if it bothered Rafe.
It was perhaps stupid of me that I was still allowing said man to take me to the party despite his invasive behaviour from earlier, but it would be worse if I took back my request, surely sounding like an absolute coward who couldn't handle a little intensity. And this place was all about intensity, excess.
When I reached the crowd, a silence fell over the atmosphere, and I cringed. Rafe glanced at me fleetingly before sharing loud, obnoxious goodbyes with his friends, who were subjecting him to questioning looks regarding my presence. But I hadn't noticed his second glance, which stayed on me comparatively longer.
"C'mon, baby."
Not wanting to embarrass myself further, I didn't reprimand him for his choice of nickname and hopped into his massive truck standing still under the young night. Chapter 2
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ A/N: Editing this mess made me realise that I am an overthinker to such a degree that its seeping into every character I write. LIKE THIS WOMAN IS SWITCHING THOUGHTS EVERY TWO SECONDS. Anyways, do comment your thoughts! And any direction you would like this series to go (cuz i dont have a plan YIKES).
Don't Cry, Baby | College AU | Chapter 2
Paring: Rafe Cameron X Reader
Summary: Growing up in a sheltered family, safe and secure amongst people you could trust was, according to you, heaven, despite how some tend to doubt its consequences. But you did not expect your safe bubble to pop so suddenly when you entered college - the atmosphere so dazzlingly stark, that it was proving to be a difficult challenge to navigate around. Especially when one of the students gets painfully curious about the new girl.
Warnings: Talks about sex, swearing, drugs, possible smut. slowburn (ig ???) Song rec: Pacify Her - Melanie Martinez Chapter 1, Chapter 2
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"You'll be okay if I leave you for a bit, yeah? Little princess won't get too scared?"
"No."
I had given up on my attempts to get Rafe to quit his tone a long time ago, bitterly realising that there was no point. Rafe knew that too, and so I had to face his smirk one more time before he entered the house, almost immediately disappearing into the packed crowd that I could only get a gist of through the french windows. A second later, a wave of cheers erupted from inside, and I imagined Rafe standing at the centre of it, playing the party like it was his personal guitar.
His stubbornness was truly a force to be reckoned with, and glad I didn't have to experience it again till the end of the night, I, too, pushed open the door and joined the masses.
Ruby didn't live in the college dormitories like most of us, but I didn't expect her abode to be, well, practically a mansion. The three-story building sat in a prime location right beside a beautiful view of the beach, and I seriously debated just strolling by the pretty shores after finding out that this was not the kind of party I assumed it to be. Credit for that idea can be given to the stench of alcohol suffocating the atmosphere and the dress-code-breaking outfits people were wearing. Or, more accurately, not wearing. Men were shirtless, women were barely covered by tiny pieces of cloth, and my cheeks were blazing hot upon being forced to witness such a mass display of skin.
I was somewhat grateful that Rafe had convinced me to drop the blue frock in favour of the one currently hanging on my body because I would have looked like a literal child if I hadn't already. Perhaps he knew how intense the party was going to be, and this was his way of giving a heads-up.
As I walked tentatively, my hands held a small gift bag, an even smaller box resting inside it, covered with gorgeous wrapping paper and topped with a perfect bow- technique I had mastered through years of gifting experience with friends. I also got to use my calligraphy skills; stapled to the bag was a little note card containing handwritten birthday wishes carefully written in ink.
Back in his truck, Rafe had stared and scoffed when he noticed me hugging the bag close to my chest as we drove, throwing one of his comments that I didn't bother remembering. But I didn't let it deter me. Who doesn't appreciate a well-wrapped gift?
My excitement was boundless when the necklace had arrived last night in all its intricate glory. Just in time, too. There weren't any good jewellery stores on the island, so instead, I rang up my mum to buy one back at home from a trusted store I regularly visited. As I walked deeper into the fiesta, I was giddy hoping Ruby would like what I chose for her.
But she was nowhere to be seen.
Music boomed from the speakers set up in one corner of the house, but the way it echoed created the impression of it hitting me from all directions. Chatter and conversation accompanied the explicit songs, and I noticed a group of people on the far right dancing to the catchy beats. Finding a cosy position against a wall near the kitchen, I watched them move mindlessly with a hint of a smile despite being slightly dizzy by the sensory overload. The yellow lighting was beautiful, though, and reminded me of home, a place I missed more and more with time.
As I bobbed my head subtly to the pop music in the background (more like foreground), quickly looking away when a couple on the dance floor got a little too handsy, my gaze settled on a weird sight. Between the shadowy, sweaty crowds, a pair of girls stood, their mouths moving obnoxiously as if whisper-shouting to each other. I didn't pay them much mind. But then their gazes—so intense, they felt piercing—landed on me, and I tensed.
They got closer.
Pivoting to my right, I tried to change positions, but a guy with a muscular build bumped into me, and I recoiled, clutching my shoulder in pain- the same one Rafe's fingers had dug into.
"Ow…"
"Hey, you! You okay?" It was the tallest of the two girls, now merely a couple feet away from me. I nodded hesitantly, looking between their faces. The other girl smiled and reached out to take my hand, but I resisted. "We're not gonna hurt you, bunny."
Bunny? My eyebrows furrowed. Was that the impression I gave to people? A pathetic, stupid, little animal that runs away as soon as you approach it? Well… that was exactly what I was about to do….
"I'm Jenny Marlow," said the tall one, tightening her long bleach-blonde ponytail. Jenny had a very sharp-edged look to her—angular jaw, deep-set eyes, pointy eyebrows—and I got the feeling that she didn't really like me. Gesturing to the brunette beside her, she then introduced. "This is Margo. We're Ruby's close friends."
I returned my name.
"Ooo pretty," Said Margo, but Jenny didn't comment, still staring straight at me. It was not a comfortable feeling, being subject to her cold gaze, something I couldn't help but compare to Rafe's. At least his had life behind them.
I still hadn't understood their intentions, so remained quiet; a good enough hint, I hoped, for them to reveal them.
"You looked lonely." Jenny stated blankly, "So we wanted to invite you back to our table."
I was about to reject the offer, but then she mentioned that Ruby will be joining them soon.
"Where is she, by the way?" Margo asked Jenny, taking the words right out of my mouth.
"Still getting ready upstairs. Go fetch her; I'll take the little bunny over here to the others." Oh, so the nickname's gonna stick. Wonderful.
"But—"
Jenny glared at her.
"Fine."
"Let's go." Jenny grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards her as she began walking, confidently striding through the masses, the clicking of her heels audible despite the noise. Her grip was tight—fingers sure to bruise my skin—and her pull was demanding, to the level that I found it hard to stop tripping over nothing. At one point, my gift bag dropped onto the floor, and I bent over to pick it up, tugging at Jenny's hand to signal a stop.
She turned around, her eyebrows knitted with distasteful animosity, and when I stood back straight, I couldn't help but ask nervously, "Why are you being so harsh?"
"You brought her a gift?" She said instead, sneering at the sparkly bag and ignoring my question. She chuckled. "Did you get her a pack of crayons? How cute. You do know she can afford everything, right?"
For a second, I really believed everyone in this place was living in a different universe. In the bag was a birthday gift– what was so wrong with a birthday gift?! Should I have just shown up with nothing?!
"Look at this, guys." Jenny snatched the bag from my hands when we reached a couch, large and semi-circle in shape, jiggling it mockingly away from my grasp. Bottles of alcohol littered the table in front of it—some half-filled, most empty—and food was messily strewn about. At least six people were lounging around it, and, drawn to Jenny's voice, they paused their conversation to scrutinise me, their collective gaze a silent judgement. "This girly over here wrapped this little present all by herself— oh, and what does this say?" She spotted the handwritten card, "'Happy Birthday Ruby! Hope you have a great time turning 20'." The pitch of her voice rose, I assumed, to mimic my own. But that wasn't even how I sounded.
A smattering of weak chuckles erupted from the table, a few aws, and I loathed both.
The thumping of my heart sped up as a sudden wave of sadness washed over me, aligning itself with the pounding beats of the music. The thought that maybe I indeed was out of place—a bunny amongst- amongst… wolves—was frightening. Nothing had ever made me feel this way before. Back at home, no one would even dare to try.
A deep voice cut through the atmosphere. Deep and commanding, somewhat soothing to the ear.
"Leave her alone, Jen." It said, and silence fell.
Grateful at the intervention, I gave the mystery man a quiver of a smile, his dark features draped in a shadow, and retrieved my bag, passing Jenny an unfriendly look instead. Without a single glance my way, she seated herself on the couch, and I followed suit, trying to convince myself that I could put up with this for one night. Everything would go back to normal in the morning when my lectures began.
"More importantly," Started another girl, bringing me out of my wandering thoughts. Sunglasses hanging precariously on the tip of her nose, she waved her palm back and forth as if that would entirely dissipate the established tension, continuing, "Do tell us why we saw you standing on the porch with Rafe motherfucking Cameron by your side."
The silence this time around was merely a poor imitation of suspense. She had delivered the sentence as if it was supposed to hit a nerve, and surveying the curiosity on everyone's faces (even Jenny's), I couldn't understand why they were so fixated on Rafe's presence. Nor did I know why people liked him. Surely, they witnessed the same kind of behaviour that I did. Nevertheless, I fed them an answer.
"His dorm room is next to mine. I asked him for a ride."
"You asked Rafe for a ride?" Jenny scoffed, looking me up and down. I could recognise a bitter edge to her tone. "And he gave you one?"
I parted my lips, thinking of a way to reply, but thankfully, something else took up the table's attention before I had to, the silence bursting into a chorus of cheers. I clutched the gift bag close to myself.
"I'm selling 2 for 50, dickheads."
"Don't sell cocaine on my fucking birthday, Rafe!"
In tow with the dialogue entered the birthday girl herself, Rafe's arm draped across her shoulder as they staggered towards us. When Ruby's appearance became clearer, I found myself doing a double take.
Ruby was just so…. objectively, gorgeous. Cherry-red tinted lips, flawless makeup, dark hair cascading down her pale complexion. All tied together in her birthday special: a wine-red silk dress—
Wait, my eyes widened, cocaine?
My gaze snapped to the tall man hanging all over her, only to notice the hint of a subtle mess in Rafe's appearance. His blue eyes were blown out, his forehead glistened with sweat, and his hair was no longer in place, strands of it haphazardly falling over his eyebrows instead. No way….
"If it isn't Kildare king and queen!" Said the mystery man sarcastically, who had quickly introduced himself to me as Ryan when I sat down.
"Or more like boyfriend and girlfriend?" Suggested the sunglasses lady and Rafe laughed, tugging Ruby closer into his chest, who giggled affectionately.
"Shut the fuck up."
I shifted my attention to Ruby when she addressed me, quickly moving on from the gnawing revelation that Rafe had done what he told me he would. And his concerning alleged drug intake. I did not have any reason to care, and so I wouldn't.
"I'm so glad you came!"
I passed her a shy smile, still not over her kind demeanour that was so contrasting to everyone else's. "Happy birthday, Ruby."
Upon following Ruby's gaze, Rafe found himself connecting his eyes with me. He grunted with a twitch of his eyelid. "There you are."
Choking on a random—unsanitised, I added in my head—drink from the wooden surface, he squeezed through the multitude of folded legs and the edge of the table, skipping the empty space beside Jenny (whose first ever friendly smile morphed into a frown) and collapsed beside me, manspreading into my personal space. Ruby had no option but to awkwardly follow him from the other end. I sighed.
"You both know each other?" Ruby questioned as she adjusted her dress, a slight disbelief in her voice, and I returned a dismissive yes, hating being asked variations of the same question over and over again. I was pleased that Rafe didn't bother adding to my response, engaged in… staring… at my… shoulder? Perplexed, I tilted my head down to see the small, flowy sleeve of my dress sliding off my skin. I hastily pulled it back up, sparing Rafe a wary glance.
As I passed Ruby the gift bag, I hoped for the excitement I harboured from earlier to return and brighten me up again.
"Oh, you didn't have to!"
I waved her off silently, observing Rafe fall back into a lazy grin as he watched Ruby read the card to herself, a flash of recognition sparking in his eyes. Unwrapping his arm from Ruby's waist, he toyed with a colourful piece of tissue I had filled up the bag with, and intensely focused on Ruby's reaction to the necklace, I jolted in my seat when he threw it in my face.
"This is so pretty!"
Ruby's comment of appreciation whizzed right past my head, lost in a one-sided glaring competition with Rafe as he donned an exaggerated smirk, clearly under the influence of something. Let me enjoy the stupid moment, god!
"I'm glad you like it."
When all the girls on the table gave nods of approval too, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the jewellery, I emulated a whimsical grin, bashful at their appraisal. At Least I could win their acceptance in some way. And surprise, surprise! It all went crashing down when Rafe chuckled disparagingly, at the gift itself or at my reaction, I didn't know.
Ruby smacked him in the chest, "You didn't even give me a gift, moron."
"Oh, you want a gift?" He raised his eyebrows, eyes glinting, pivoting his neck that was angled towards me to face Ruby, "Follow me upstairs, and I'll give you the biggest fucking gift of your life."
"Yeah?" Ruby's pale cheeks went red, her eyelashes fluttering. I caught Ryan's eyes from across the table, communicating my confusion, but he merely smiled. What was happening?
"Yeah– baby." My eyes snapped to him, and at his clenching jaw, I could tell he felt my gaze. For some reason, it was odd to hear him use the pet name with someone else and in a manner that wasn't belittling. It made my annoyance at it seem insignificant, silly, because it didn't matter much anyway.
"Get a room. Jesus."
"Let's play spin the bottle. Maybe that'll be a good outlet for this." Added the sunglasses lady smugly.
"Don't tell me it's gonna be crazy like last time." Ruby said, sounding disapproving from the outside, but I could sense a certain anticipation from her. She was still looking at Rafe intently, but he had already moved on.
"Oh, you betcha." Said man tensed beside me. "Everyone's in, right?"
Agreeing nods followed.
"What about you, bunny?" Jenny said, sliding into the conversation after an extended period of silence. And— was I dreaming, or was that a genuine smile?
"Uh–Sure, yeah." I smiled toothily. The game was the last thing on my mind as I replied to her, more fixated on the fact that she may be starting to like me. I didn't want to have to put up with her unsolicited hatred.
Rafe chuckled nervously, a gritty laugh that lacked any humour. He rubbed his nose before bending down, face close to my neck, lips brushing my ear. "… it's not the kind of spin the bottle you probably think it is, princess."
"I don't care."
He grunted. I moved away. He followed. "It's the cock-sucking kind."
I drew a sharp breath. What did that even mean?
"Wha— I- I don't care."
"Oh really?" He turned his body fully towards me this time, leaning forward and getting closer to my face, prompting me to recall a similar image from a couple hours ago. Even though there were people around, my shoulders stiffened, his proximity forcing me to put my eyes right on him despite trying to avert them. "So that whining baby back in your dorm was your twin?"
I didn't deny it. But I had to just stay calm. Just stay calm.
"You know…" His voice fell by an octave. "I can just tell them that you're a virgin, and they'll immediately stop if you're uncomfortable. I know sex is so scary to you." Rafe's tone somehow managed to merge concern with condescension, but the latter trumped in my head. It didn't make sense for him to show concern.
He opened his mouth, going to do exactly what his words suggested, and I grabbed his wrist in a panic, desperation hopefully obvious in my eyes (the tears, not so much). Ryan seemed to like me, Jenny just smiled at me; things were going good. I was slowly blending in with the group, and his announcement would ruin it- it would ruin it all. Like Rafe said. I wasn't ready for that.
"Rafe, please. Don't."
"You're begging now?" He whispered, looking down at where my fingers wrapped right below his intimidatingly larger palm.
"If I have to," I whispered back genuinely, and he smirked, a deep chuckle escaping him. My head gently swayed side to side, so utterly baffled at his reaction. "Do you have something against me?"
"You're adorable."
I gritted my teeth, fighting off tears. Don't cry. Don't make it worse.
"Stop this. Just answer my question straight. You wouldn't be treating me this way if you didn't."
"I'm just teasing you, princess."
"Don't. Let me play this stupid game. Let me be normal—"
"Bunny and Ryan, eh?"
What?
Jenny's voice, coupled with a chorus of unenthusiastic 'ooo's, broke us out of our bubble of back and forths, and when I dragged my gaze away from Rafe, sweeping it towards the crowd that I had forgotten about for a good minute, I saw the head of a glass bottle waver tauntingly. It was pointed towards me.
"I dare you," 'Pleased' couldn't even begin to describe the look on Jenny's face, "To suck off Ryan."
"...."
Rafe's gaze pierced into my profile. My mind blanked.
"Maybe don't scare her off, Jenny." Ryan attempted to interject, sensing the tension. Scare me off—I wanted to cry so badly—like a little bunny.
"Ry, we don't play easy here. You know that."
"You really don't have to, y'know—
"Does everybody do it?" My voice was small.
"Of course they do, they're not pussies."
Staring straight ahead, I stood up, and they all looked at me. Me and my ill-fitting clothes.
"Then I'll do it."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, you're gonna do it?" Rafe suddenly blurted, sitting up in his seat. There was a newfound surprise on his face as if coming out of a trance. As if not expecting me to ever comply.
"Do you even know how?" He spat.
I shook my head no.
"Then what the fuck do you think you're doing? Don't fucking go." Rafe was being anything but subtle now, and I couldn't bear the awkward looks we were getting. He held onto my wrist, right where Jenny had put her mark, and I hissed.
"Rafe? Why are you acting so weirdly? You've never had a problem with the game before."
"Babe, what's going on….?"
Rafe didn't acknowledge Jenny or Ruby, and I didn't acknowledge him.
I snatched my hand away from Rafe, albeit with resistance from both ends. I stood beside Ryan as he got up too, a little confused, a little eager. He led me through the crowd in the hunt for an empty room, placing a hand on my lower waist. I flinched. He hovered his hand instead.
Ryan was saying something, but I could barely focus.
"It's probably just the cocaine." Were the last words that reached me from the group before the loud music, louder when you were in the middle of the party, took over. *ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
A/N: idk whats going on anymore. but who cares. Once again, feel free to comment your thoughts! Taglist: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @angelofcigs
𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter eight
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.9k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, swearing, tashi recovering from her injury, mentions of bad relationship with mother, description of emotional breakdown, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: prepare yourselves for some serious angst (sorry in advance) 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭
𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋’𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋. 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟔:𝟎𝟎𝐏𝐌.
As you stepped into the stands, the sudden applause and cheers were almost deafening. Your presence electrified the entire area because of how unexpected your appearance was. Nobody thought Y/N Y/L/N would be at the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger, even as an audience member. Fans jumped to their feet, cheering your name and rushing over to meet you in a frenzy of excitement, not believing their luck. Having anticipated this reaction, some of the security from the venue stepped in as you smiled and waved at your fans. Camera flashes lit up the space once you acknowledged them, no doubt sending tweets and texting friends about your surprise arrival.
You had grown accustomed to this reaction whenever you were the player or spectator at tennis games but still found it surreal. Even though you knew this reaction would happen, you couldn’t shake the oddity of being the subject of such intense wonder. It wasn’t that the adoration was unwelcome; it was just hard to reconcile that affection with the image you had of yourself. Seeing fans leap to their feet, shouting your name, you couldn’t help but feel a bit detached, as if observing someone else through their eyes.
In recent years, you hadn’t been in the public eye as much. This was different from your early twenties when you had no problem galavanting through any city with your friends and being pictured going out for meals with other tennis players or celebrities. Lately, you preferred to live out of the limelight and settle into your life.
People scrambled to get closer, phones raised high to snap pictures or record videos, hoping to capture a piece of the unforgettable moment of meeting you, the number one female tennis player in the world. The energy in the air was almost tangible, a thrilling mix of admiration and exhilaration that swept through the stands like a tidal wave. You willingly posed for pictures with fans and signed anything from tennis balls to phone cases, reminding you of the days you dreamt about meeting your favourite tennis players.
“Excuse me, Miss Y/L/N?” A woman in slacks and a button-up shirt approached you, her eyes wide with starstruck awe. “I’m a reporter for The New Rochelle Press and was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?” You nodded. “What brings you to the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger?”
You smiled, your amusement evident in the crinkle of your eyes and the slight tilt of your lips. “What sort of readers does The New Rochelle Press target?” you wondered. “If I swear, will you have to censor it?” When the reporter shook her head, you declared, “An old friend once said that all we want is to watch some good fucking tennis. That’s what I’m expecting today.”
The woman’s pen travelled swiftly across her small notepad, pleased with your answer. “Do you have any predictions about the match, considering you were romantically linked with Zweig and went to Stanford with Donaldson?”
You almost laughed at her wording. Romantically linked sounded like journalistic lingo for “Everyone in the world speculated that you and Patrick dated but we have no real evidence.”
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
When you and Patrick first started dating, you were in your early twenties and didn’t care about what people said about you. Even as up-and-coming professional tennis players, the two of you would go on dates and get photographed kissing and hugging in public without a care in the world. You were dating so publicly that the first time you won a major grand slam, you kissed him in front of all the cameras recording this historic moment in your career.
You and Patrick weren’t just romantically linked; you were the tennis world’s favourite couple at the time.
“I think both players are going to surprise us today. I never know what to expect from them,” you said honestly. “It’s been many years since they were matched up and I look forward to seeing their performances.”
“And how are you feeling in the weeks leading up to the US Open? Certain that you’ll be securing your twentieth grand slam title?”
Your gaze lingered on the journalist for a moment, a silent acknowledgement of her astute question, before you responded with a thoughtful and measured answer, “I’m confident in my preparation and am looking forward to the challenge. I’m competing to win, and I believe I have what it takes to do so.”
“Thank you so much for your time, and good luck,” the reporter said when she was done copying down your answer. “Off the record, I’m totally rooting for you,” she added before excusing herself.
After taking a few more pictures, you eventually reached your seat beside Tashi. Your former best friend nodded in greeting, leaving her sunglasses on as she observed Art as he entered the court.
A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she remarked, “This feels like déjà vu.” Her eyes flickered with a mix of nostalgia and curiosity, as if she were unravelling a familiar puzzle.
“How so?” you questioned.
Tashi looked at her husband as he and Patrick entered the court. Art and Patrick had their eyes locked onto you with unwavering focus. Their expressions were a mix of resolve and intensity, each step bringing them closer with a shared purpose. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation as Art and Patrick approached, their determination clear in every movement. You looked between them, feeling the weight of their combined attention, and braced yourself for what was to come.
“It’s like they’re playing for your number all over again,” Tasha declared. If you had been looking at her, you would have seen the pleased smirk on her face.
You were right, everyone in the audience was about to watch some good fucking tennis.
𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟖, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕. 𝟕:𝟑𝟔𝐏𝐌.
The last six months had been the most daunting of your life.
After her surgery, it took Tashi about two weeks before she was able to start gentle physical therapy to regain her range of motion. Tashi being Tashi wanted to go all out, but you and the rest of her medical team ensured she didn’t push herself too hard. Once she was enough to start strengthening her knee, it was harder than ever to help her stay on track. Tashi would get frustrated that she wasn’t progressing as quickly as she wanted, which meant pushing herself too far and nearly injuring herself all over again.
Three months after surgery, she was allowed to start jogging. The first time the two of you went for a light jog around campus in June during finals week ended in relieved tears from both of you, and you remembered feeling more proud of your best friend than ever before.
Six months after surgery, Tashi’s medical team cleared her to return to tennis practice. With a knee brace, she could practise non-contact drills and test whether her knee could handle the demands of tennis or not.
A week into your second year at Stanford, Tashi was determined to improve enough to join the tennis team for off-season training and games.
Last year, the women’s team won the championships without her, and being front-and-centre – like Tashi usually was – was new for you. You had dominated the court like never before. Your serves were sharper, finding the corners with a precision that left your opponents scrambling. Your groundstrokes gained power and accuracy, and your improved footwork and agility allowed you to return every ball your opponents sent. It was like playing with a wall; you always returned the ball no matter what. This effortless, flawless style had caught the attention of spectators, who marvelled at your playing style and acknowledged you as a force to be reckoned with.
Now more than ever, everyone wanted you to go pro.
On the first day of the fall quarter, your coaches called you into their office. When you took a seat, they handed you a thick stack of papers, declaring that it was your exclusive endorsement contract offer from Nike. You still remembered how your heart raced as you held the contract in your hands, a testament to your hard work and dedication over the last nineteen years. Flashes of excitement mingled with apprehension as you considered the implications of such a significant opportunity. Thoughts of endorsement deals and global exposure danced through your mind, but so did the pressures and responsibilities that came with them.
Something in the back of your mind protested, Danger, danger! You never wanted to go pro!
Ever since you were a little girl, you remembered thinking you could do anything but this, anything but pursue the dream your mother forced on you. You remembered the literal blood, sweat, and tears that came with training and how you felt so alone before you met Tashi. You always believed the life of a professional tennis player was miserable and not worth the painstaking effort it took to be successful.
But that felt like a lifetime ago, especially after what happened to Tashi. Her injury had been a wake-up call, reminding you how lucky you were to pursue a sport you were naturally gifted in and had worked extremely hard to dominate. After all, you would be lucky to have Nike’s endorsement and full financial support for your budding career. You wondered if you would regret turning down Nike, regret a life that you clearly deserved and were starting to enjoy.
Even without Tashi by your side, you loved playing tennis at Stanford last season. You had never imagined that you could actually enjoy tennis. But your coaches cared about and believed in you, something you never received from your team in high school. Playing tennis at Stanford wasn’t a miserable life but one of fulfilment and community.
It made you cautiously optimistic about going pro.
You told Art the news the second you returned from your meeting. His reaction made you excited for the opportunity. He had yelled, swept you off your feet, and spun you around in a whirlwind of joy and celebration. His eyes sparkled with pride and admiration as he lifted you, your laughter echoing through your new dorm. You couldn’t contain your happiness, honoured to have been offered the contract and proud of yourself for working so hard. Wrapping your arms around his neck as he spun you, you felt weightless for the first time in months.
When you finally came to a gentle stop, Art held you close and reminded you how much you deserved it. His voice was filled with genuine awe.
Four days later, you were at the tennis centre with Art and Tashi, helping her practice as she wore her knee brace.
You noticed the subtle changes in your best friend’s demeanour as you practised on the court together. Her usually fluid movements were hesitant, and her usually powerful volleys lacked their usual speed and precision. There was a quiet determination tinged with frustration in her eyes as she struggled to regain her form. Despite Tashi’s efforts to stay focused, you sensed her growing frustration each time you and Art sent the ball her way.
Tashi returned each ball and called, “Stop going easy on me.”
You and Art shared a nervous look on the other side of the net. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. When Tashi had frustrated outbursts, you were usually on the receiving end of her harsh words.
“We’re not,” Art said, glancing back at Tashi.
“We’re just warming up,” you added, giving your best friend a reassuring smile.
She rolled her eyes, and you tried not to take it personally. You knew by Tashi’s clenched jaw and furrowed brows that every shot weighed heavily on her. She had been playing tennis all her life; she knew what it felt like when she was doing it right. Ever since her injury, everything felt off. Her body wasn’t cooperating the way it used to. Any words of encouragement and support you offered were overshadowed by her constant setbacks.
Tashi wanted to return to her peak performance, but you all knew it would be a long road ahead.
Everyone walked behind the baseline and Art served the ball to Tashi. He and Tashi returned it once each before Tashi lobbed it over the fence in frustration, urging, “Hit the ball!”
“Tashi–”
“–Actually fucking hit the ball,” Tashi interrupted, approaching the net and pointing at Art with her racket.
Art smiled, trying to placate her. “Come on.”
You tried to calm her down. “Don’t yell at him, Tashi. We’re just starting slow so that–”
“–So that what, Y/I?” Tashi demanded. “You’re not my fucking doctor or my fucking physical therapist, I don’t need you constantly reminding me of my limitations, okay?” She pointed at her knee brace. “Trust me, I already have enough reminders.”
You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you paused, fighting back tears stinging your eyes. Despite your best efforts, the unintended harshness from Tashi struck a deep chord, leaving you overwhelmed. It had been six long months of your best friend lashing out when she was frustrated and angry, and while you understood where she was coming from, it didn’t hurt any less.
The fact that your tennis career was flourishing as Tashi struggled was painful for you too, not just Tashi.
“She’s trying to help,” Art defended you. “She’s your best friend, Tashi, she’s not reminding you of your limitations.”
Tashi threw her hands up. “You afraid you’re gonna hurt me?” she asked, looking between you and Art. When the both of you said nothing, she nodded and said, “Pussies.” When she turned around to leave, you inhaled sharply and shut your eyes.
Art noticed your distress immediately, his expression softening with concern as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close in a reassuring embrace.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said kindly. You leaned into him, finding comfort in his familiar embrace. The last six months had been crazy, and there was no way you would have gotten through them without him. “Maybe we’re being a little too controlling?”
You shook your head. “This is our plan. Tennis is everything to her, we’ve talked about what I should do if she ever gets injured and how I should handle it for years now. I’m just following the plan we made.”
“I don’t know if it’s working, angel,” Art said softly. “This is… it’s killing her.”
“I know it’s killing her, Art. I go back to my room after every session and cry my eyes out because I know that it’s not working out the way any of us want it to,” you pointed out, pulling away. “I know how bad this is. But I owe it to her to try my hardest to help her recover. Because if she’s going to be forced give up the thing she loves more than anything, I want to be sure it’s her only choice.”
Art’s heart sank as he watched tears well up in your eyes. Every shaky exhale that escaped your lips was like a dagger to his chest, twisting deeper with his inability to comfort you.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Art acknowledged. He wanted nothing more than to take away your and Tashi’s pain, but all he could do was hold you tightly, wishing he could make everything right.
“I have to go, I have a paper due tomorrow that I’ve been putting off,” you recalled, checking the time on Art’s watch. “Keep practising with her. Please. Tell her to come to my dorm when you’re done so we can stretch together.”
“Whatever you want,” Art promised, kissing the side of your head and taking the tennis ball you passed him.
As Art and Tashi kept playing together, you grabbed your tennis bag and retreated to your room.
In your second year, you and Tashi were no longer in the same residence hall, but you were less than a ten-minute walk apart, so you still got to spend time together. You opted for a double room and had a roommate this time. The two of you were getting along really well and even had a few classes together. Your halves of the room were separated by a door, providing plenty of privacy.
When you returned, your roommate was still out. You took a shower and changed before opening your laptop to get started on your paper.
Less than an hour later, Tashi let herself into your room with an expression you had never seen before.
“T? What happened?” you asked, getting up to unroll your yoga mats so you could stretch together.
“Don’t,” Tashi said, motioning to the mats and shaking her head. She paced back and forth, clenching her fists tightly, trying to rein in her anger before it consumed her. “I can’t do that shit right now.”
You paused, agreeing, “Okay.” Watching cautiously, you tried not to say anything that might exacerbate the situation. “What’s wrong? Did you get hurt? I can get some ice from–”
“I’m never going to play tennis again,” Tashi declared. You knew she would never say the words aloud unless she was sure they were true. “Not well enough to play professionally anyway. Patrick was right, I wasted my time playing Sally Fucking Country Club from Pepperdine instead of going pro. It’s too late now, my knee’s fucked and it’s never going to heal enough for me to be as good as I used to be.” As you absorbed the crushing news, a wave of emotions washed over Tashi’s face. Initially, disbelief and denial flickered in her eyes, followed by a deep-seated acceptance that settled like a heavy weight on her shoulders. “I’m done, it’s all over.”
Tears welled in her eyes as Tashi grappled with letting go of her lifelong dream. You approached her, gently taking her hand.
“I’m so sorry… You’ll figure this out, I promise. You can find a new dream,” you assured Tashi as you teared up. Despite your overwhelming sadness, you fought to suppress your emotions for Tashi’s sake. As you hugged her, you struggled to keep your composure, grief threatening to spill over. There was nothing you could say that would help her. Taking deep breaths, you rubbed Tashi’s back and felt her shoulders shake with oncoming sobs. “I’ll help you. We’ll find a new dream together. I’ve got you, T.”
Scoffing, Tashi pulled away and rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie. Her eyes were getting red, and her hair was falling from its updo. You had never seen Tashi so frazzled. Without her hoodie covering her forearms, the friendship bracelets you made her over the last few months were visible. The most recent one said 6 MONTHS RECOVERED with little hearts. Overwhelmed by her realisation that day, Tashi wrenched the bracelets from her wrist and threw them on the ground as you watched.
“I’m so over this shit,” Tashi declared, snapping the elastic of one of the bracelets and sending the beads tumbling across the hardwood floor of your dorm. “These bracelets you make because you think they keep us close are so childish, I can’t do this anymore! You’ll help me find a new dream? Fuck you!” Your heart sank as your best friend’s venomous words cut through the air, each hitting you like a physical blow. “All this bullshit about dreams–all you ever talk about is avoiding your mother’s dreams and here you are, playing tennis and loving it. I have real problems to worry about, and you clearly don’t!”
You stood frozen, your eyes wide with hurt and disbelief, unable to comprehend the sudden hostility. The sting of betrayal washed over you, leaving your chest tight and your throat dry. You blinked back tears, trying to maintain your composure in the face of Tashi’s unexpected and painful anger.
You swallowed. “I have real problems too, T,” you defended yourself, your voice coming out softer than you intended. Things had been worse than ever between your parents, and your grades had suffered with how much time you dedicated to helping Tashi. Perhaps these issues didn’t seem as big as hers, but they were real. “I’ve been putting my own problems aside for half a year so I can be there for you. Just because you never see me struggle doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.” You stared at Tashi as she fumed silently. “You’re my best friend, you’ve been my priority. But I do have problems.”
“What problems?” Tashi challenged you. “A Nike contract? Do you seriously think that’s a problem and not a fucking miracle?”
You shut your eyes tightly, a deep dread washing over you like a cold wave. “Who told you?” you asked, opening your eyes and meeting Tashi’s infuriated gaze.
“Art,” she explained. Tashi practically spat his name, like she couldn’t believe your boyfriend had shared the news with her. “Of course, he didn’t realise he was telling me because he thought I already knew. I just stood there like an idiot listening to him go on and on about what an amazing opportunity this is for you and how you earned it. God, I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension!”
Your shoulders stiffened, and you crossed your arms tightly across your chest, feeling an instinctive need to protect yourself. “I did earn it, Tashi. I’ve never played better and Nike has been paying attention to me for over two years,” you pointed out. Tashi’s eyes narrowed as you spoke, every nerve on high alert, ready to defend against any attack. “Just forget about it, it doesn’t even matter. I’m probably not going to take the deal anyway since I’m still on the fence about going pro.”
Tashi’s face was hot with frustration. She clenched her fists tightly, her anger simmering beneath the surface, ready to erupt. “Of course, you should go pro. With me out of the way, it’s the perfect time,” Tashi declared.
“Now wait a second–”
“–I mean, I know being my lackey has been pretty fulfilling for you for the past five years but you’re going to have to start living your own life eventually,” she added.
You took a deep breath. “I know you’re upset right now so I think we should stop before you say something you’ll regret,” you suggested calmly. “It’s been a hard six months, we don’t need to do this right now.”
“You think this is the first time I’ve had these thoughts?” Tashi argued, raising an eyebrow. “Wake up, Y/N! You’re the new me, you completely replaced me and took over my life!”
“No, I haven’t,” you vehemently denied. “The only thing that’s changed about my life is that I actually enjoy playing tennis now! I still have the same plans for the future, I’m probably going to–”
“–What the fuck are you going to do with your life if you don’t go pro, Y/N?” Tashi exclaimed loudly. “Marry Art and not become a tennis player just in case you turn out like your mom? I hate to break it to you, but it’s more likely than you think, given your inability to think for yourself.” Tashi’s words cut through you like shards of glass, each one leaving a stinging wound in its wake. You felt as if your heart was being twisted and contorted, the pain spreading with every cruel syllable. “All you’re going to do is play housewife, have some kids who you’ll hate, and then force them to play tennis so they can have the career you never did. Sound familiar?”
The sting of her remarks lingered, embedding themselves deep within you.
Tears streamed down your face as you struggled to speak, your voice trembling with every word. “Do you really mean that or are you just saying that because you know it’ll hurt me?” you choked out, the pain in your chest growing with each repressed sob. Your heart felt like it was breaking, shattered by the friend you had trusted more than anyone.
Tashi retorted, “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters, Tashi!” you shouted. “You’re going through what I can only imagine is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to go through, and I can forgive you if you’re lashing out because you’re frustrated and scared. God knows I’ve forgiven you for hurting me these last few months.” Tashi’s eyes bore into yours with an unyielding intensity, unwavering and resolute. The sheer determination in her gaze was almost palpable, daring you to challenge her resolve. “But if you really mean that, if you truly believe those words after everything we’ve been through together, then I don’t know what that means for our friendship,” you explained.
Tashi’s relentless stare conveyed a silent but powerful message: she would not back down, no matter what. “I mean it. You’re going to be fucking miserable, and you’re going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you,” she declared. “Sometimes, I hate you too.” Her words were like barbed arrows, piercing deep with every sentence. “I'm done. I feel like I don’t even recognise you, and I don’t want any part of your new life.”
You nodded, resigned to the fact that Tashi had harboured these thoughts about you for the last few months. Every time you skipped out on an opportunity to meet with friends or visit your dad in favour of staying on campus to help Tashi felt like a waste. You had done those things for your best friend and sacrificed your own mental health and happiness because you thought Tashi was worth it.
Now, all you could do was wonder if she would have done the same for you.
For the last five years, you were under the impression that you had forged a genuine friendship based on mutual trust and respect. Sure, tennis was one of the many bonds that tied the two of you together, but it wasn’t the only one. You thought that nothing would change if you stopped playing tennis. Tashi would go on to be the champion she was born to be, and you would pursue a life outside of the sport.
Now, you knew your friendship only worked when she was the one with a future in tennis. She had to be the winner; she had to be the one making all the decisions. Tashi was happy for you to quit as long as it meant she had her career ahead of her, but it didn’t work for her when it was the other way around.
“What happened in the last six months?” you wondered, feeling helpless. It felt like the ground was crumbling beneath you, the world tilting off its axis. “What happened to being soulmates, and invisible strings, and living the rest of our lives together? Do you really mean to tell me that you’re done with it all? With me?”
“I’m beyond done,” Tashi insisted. “You know, I came to Stanford with you because I knew you’d realise how much you want to go pro. If I had known this is how things would turn out, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Maybe you should have seen it coming. The signs had been there all along. Your once effortless conversations had become strained, silences growing longer and more uncomfortable. The laughter you used to share felt distant, replaced by curt exchanges and forced smiles during physical therapy. Deep down, you noticed the cracks forming, but you never believed they could actually shatter your bond. Even in your wildest fears, you couldn’t fathom a life without Tashi.
Now, faced with the harsh reality, you felt an overwhelming regret and sorrow for not recognising how fragile your friendship had become.
“Then I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought,” you said sadly, sniffling as you stifled your cries. The last thing you wanted was to give Tashi the satisfaction of seeing you fall apart.
Your best friend didn’t even look sorry. “I guess not.” Tashi made her way to the door, reaching for the handle before you called her name.
“If this really is the end of our friendship then I should tell you something,” you admitted, swallowing as you calmed your racing heart. “We always said we don’t have any secrets, but I do. If we’re really done, then you should know the truth.”
“What truth is that?” Tashi replied, sounding disinterested.
As you stood nervously before your friend, you felt the weight of your secret pressing on your chest. You thought you would take this one to the grave, especially considering you had never considered pursuing a professional tennis career. But now, more than ever, you wanted to hurt Tashi how she had hurt you. You knew you would never be able to say the same cruel things she said to you, but this secret was the closest you could get.
After all, what hurts more than the truth?
“For the last five years, I’ve been letting you win.”
You never got to see or hear her reaction. She paused, her shoulders tensing for a moment, before leaving your room and slamming the door shut behind her.
When Tashi left, you felt an indescribable pain as you thought of all the things she had said to you. Tears streamed down your face as you grabbed a framed photo from your desk and hurled it across the room, the glass shattering against the wall. Sobs wracked your body. You felt restless and anguished, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
Your room, newly decorated as you had only been living in it for a week, felt like a shrine to Tashi all of a sudden.
Every corner of your room seemed to hold a piece of her, haunting you with memories. The wall was lined with photos of you together, your smiling faces now a cruel reminder of what was lost. Beyoncé concert tickets were pinned to a corkboard, reminding you of an endless night of laughter and singing that neither of you would ever forget. Your bookshelf held novels you had swapped, each one inscribed with heartfelt messages that now stung with bitter irony.
On your dresser, bottles of skincare products you had picked out together stood like silent witnesses to your shared routines. Friendship bracelets, more than you could possibly count, were on display in a mason jar sitting beside some lilies Art bought you yesterday. Even your laptop and stationary were painful reminders of the bond that had once seemed unbreakable, reminding you of the back-to-school shopping you and Tashi had splurged on before starting at Stanford.
Your room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison filled with echoes of laughter that had turned into cries for help.
Collapsed onto your bed, you clutched your pillow tightly as if it could absorb the heartache. The betrayal cut deep, leaving you feeling raw and exposed, as if your chest had been torn open. The loss of your best friend felt like losing a part of yourself, a wound that no amount of tears or rage could heal. Reaching for your phone, you dialled Art’s number and held the receiver to your ear.
“I need you,” you said in a hoarse voice.
It took him less than two minutes for him to arrive. He sprinted from his dorm, nearly knocking over students on his path from his residence hall to yours, and dropped everything to check on you. Even though you always comforted each other, you had never called him like that. Usually, you complained about whatever was bothering you before asking if he had the time to come over. This was different.
The front door of your dorm opened into your roommate’s half of the room. You had to enter her room to get to the door that led to yours. In a rush, Art knocked twice before letting himself in. Your roommate, who got back a few minutes ago and overheard you crying in your room, met Art’s gaze with wide, concerned eyes.
“Come in, come in,” she ushered him in. “Go check on her.”
“Thank you,” Art said hurriedly before opening the door to your room and shutting it behind him. “Angel…” He found you amid your heartache, tears streaming down your cheeks as you clung to the pillow. Art rushed to your side, pulling you into his arms.
“T-Tashi,” you sobbed, burying your face in his hoodie-clad chest when he kicked off his shoes and got into bed with you. His hands gently stroked your hair as you cried. “She said I’m just like my mom, and that she hates me and– and–”
“Hey, it’s okay, take a deep breath,” Art advised you, trying to stay calm as he watched you panic.
No matter how many comforting words he whispered, telling you it was okay to cry, that he was there for you, you didn’t calm down. Art didn’t know what to do. You were his true north, the unwavering point on his compass that guided him through everything life sent his way. His hoodie grew damp from your tears, but he didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he tightened his embrace and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Art vowed to be your guiding star, leading you forward no matter how lost you felt.
From: ynln@stanford.edu To: pzweig88@gmail.com Date: October 20, 2007 Subject: Attempt #12 at getting a sign of life
Dear Patrick,
Attempt number twelve! I miss you. Please write back to me.
I know you’re reading my emails. You can just hit that little arrow that says reply and tell me you’re alive so I can stop worrying. You may be asking yourself how I know you’re reading the emails, and the answer is that I know you, Pat.
Please tell me you’re okay. Or tell me that everything sucks if that’s more accurate.
Today is my and Art’s one-year anniversary, and I feel awful. He’s been so good to me since everything happened with Tashi, and I just know he wants to do something adventurous and romantic to celebrate, because he’s Art, and he’s amazing. But it hurts to get out of bed these days. I don’t feel like celebrating and I definitely don’t feel like being happy.
Is that crazy? I almost want to live in this sadness just a little while longer. It makes me feel close to her somehow. If I can still feel hurt, then I’m still connected to the last time I saw her.
No matter how much she hurt me, she was my best friend for so long. Her absence left a void I don’t know how to fill. Even my happiest memories of her hurt to think about. Everything is tinged with sadness.
Sometimes, I find myself reaching for the phone to text her, only to remember that she hates me and never wants to see me again.
I hate that I smashed that framed photo of us. It was from the day we met, and we looked so happy. What did those little girls do to deserve my anger?
Everything hurts, Pat. I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep holding on to Art for dear life because I don’t want to hurt him. Tell me what to do. Tell me, and I’ll listen. Tell me that you’re okay. Just say something. Anything. Please.
I really miss you. Please write back.
Love, Y/N
From: pzweig88@gmail.com To: ynln@stanford.edu Date: October 21, 2007 Subject: RE: Attempt #12 at getting a sign of life
Y/N,
I miss you too. Happy anniversary.
Patrick
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: how are we doing?? did you see the reader’s big secret coming? i alluded to it in chapter one in the vaguest way ever: “This was one of your favourite moments in tennis: the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation when nobody knew how the match would play out. Not you, though. You always knew.”
“Picture a place which from the very beginning drew the pioneers, the poets, the painters, and the players of our dramatic imagination to delight and enthrall us. Picture a place where wonder, invention, and vision collide in an endless and panoramic technicolor to raise us out of our ordinary. A place which dares us, for however brief a moment, to dream with such audacious ambition and act with such singular purpose that you could become part of its fabric forever. Picture that and then act.” - Leicester Square (2019)
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