Insane - Blog Posts

Jonas Vingegaard & Wout van Aert ‹ Tour de France 2022 - Stage 11 › 📸 by Charly Lopez

May I have this dance?

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.”

Sad and depressed but still serving cunt?? Your body is too tea for the fia baby boy

AstonMartinF1 Home Grid

traditional art yuki!! don’t mind the lopsidedness i was doodling during a work meeting 🧍🏽‍♀️

Charles Leclerc | Scuderia Ferrari & Max Verstappen | Red Bull ❤️💙

Producer