#authors with depression | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thebibliosphere · 1 year

Text

So, I've been getting a few "hey, so now you're fixed, you're going to write books faster now, right?" type messages, and hmmm. That's a loaded word right there. "Fixed."

Yeah, not too keen on that word.

What I assume these people mean to do is congratulate me on finding out a major cause of distress and illness in my life and offer well wishes for my continued relief and recovery. I assume that's what was really meant. But just to entertain the first part of that ask, no, I am not "fixed."

There is no "fixing" the kind of chronic illness or disabilities I have. My ailments are genetic and lifelong, and if you're new here, newly diagnosed at the start of the pandemic, so my treatment thus far has been limited. Most of it is things I have pieced together myself.

That I've been able to do anything over the last year when I suffered 215+ migraine days on top of the connective tissue disorder I have, and the other condition that causes spontaneous anaphylaxis--not to mention the unmedicated ADHD I cannot treat with meds (yet)--is nothing short of miraculous.

So, now that my migraines are improving thanks to finding out I have binocular vision disorder on top of all the other stuff, will I be writing books faster?

I can only hope so.

But I also cannot say, "yes, absolutely, one book a year from here on out," because I just do not have the physical and mental capacity to guarantee that. Nor am I going to inflict that kind of mental and physical torture on myself (again) because it's the exact kind of thing that causes my health to crash and burn. And here's the thing:

Every time I burn myself out. Every time I push myself too far to keep up, it takes longer and longer to recover. The harder I push myself, the fewer books I will produce. That's the truth of it.

So I get it, it's frustrating. You want more of the fun thing (and thank you so much for loving what I do!), but you'll have to bear with me a little bit longer.

I am finding my stride as a multiply disabled creator, and I've spent the last two years untangling the guilt and imposter syndrome I experience over being "popular" but not being well enough to produce work at the same pace as everyone else around me.

I have worked out a system that I hope will be sustainable instead of leading to the continuous cycle of burnout I was trapped in for 10+ years as an editor. I have safety nets and supports in place that I didn't have before, and hopefully, those will help too. Time will tell.

Am I excited to get back to work? Absolutely. I'm ecstatic at the prospect of having fewer migraine days and more coherent brain days. But I'm also going to take my time to enjoy the process as well. I'd like to enjoy the things I write too. And I hope you can appreciate that.

So thank you for understanding, and for your patience. If you decide you can't wait, I'll understand. But please don't send authors, even able-bodied, neurotypical ones, messages like that. It's unkind. And I don't think any of you mean to be unkind.

#personal #author stuff #I really hope this doesn't come off as nasty #but the word 'fixed' is making the depression gremlins rabid #and I needed to say something

1K notes · View notes

cherri-ying · 6 days

Text

Sing for me, little Nightingale (Yan! Scaramouche x Reader)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56024689

Felines are deserving of their accolades. Merit embodies their nimble spines and ductile limbs; bodies like pliable sand, threading their way through knots, twists, cavities and labyrinths. The prince of the hunt flexes and swipes his talons and his prey are swift to falter, their necks wringed and their spines contorted in ways that are unnatural to their physicality.

“I’ve got you now.”

At times, though, even a cat doesn't remain undefeated.

“How stupid are you to think that a cheap disguise would work against me?” He almost sounds amused, his words an arctic hiss against your ear. Reaching up, Scaramouche claws at the thick cloak that veils your face and tears it to your shoulders. Your hair is quick to mime the departed elements, hanging in disarray across your face. A mantilla of unkempt tresses, veiling whatever thoughts sketch your visage.

The Balladeer regards the sight of your person with a sort of contemptuous delight. Forcefully knelt at his feet with your wrists bound behind you and your head drooped in defeat—or in pensiveness. It's a shame Zapolyarny is so devoid of windows. What light finds it's way into these all-too familiar stone chambers is too sparse to see what expression you're making.

“Well? Say something. Or have I rendered you incapable of speech?”

Tentatively—begrudgingly—you tip your head back, back, back until your irises lock with the hypnotic indigo tinctures belonging to the predator who leers dauntingly above you. Locks of such a hue that only you could wear part like the red sea, revealing a thin, perhaps solemn, ambiguous smile—the last expression the harbinger could anticipate. Or desire.

“Thwarted again, hm?” You chuckle and it sounds like frost, “and I even took extensive measures to conceal my tracks. No good?”

“Failures are bound to repeat themselves.” Scaramouche doesn't nuisance himself with that syrupy facade he wears to rope his targets right between his molars. Malice is a noisome stench in the air as he adds, “This is the seventh time I’ve had to retrieve you. I'd figure you’d have learned your lesson by now, but time after time you insist on making yourself a burden to fetch.”

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” You maintain that strange curve on your plush lips. It’s difficult to tell what you're thinking, or feeling.

“‘No harm’, yet you delude yourself into believing that a time would come when you could successfully evade me. I wonder how long it’ll take until those dreams of yours crumble and die.”

“You know, there’s a word for what you are,” you state after a thoughtful pause. “I think it’s called: overbearing.”

What a strange person, with a strange smile. Normally, Scaramouche would meet such defiance by smiting his poor victim to dust within the blink of an eye. In your displays of resolve, though, the invincible harbinger finds himself crouching to your level, trailing a slender hand against your windpipe. How easily he could squeeze the life from your throat until you begs for reprieve; choke you of your indignation. Instead, he allows it to linger there without purpose, applying no pressure, grasping nothing.

“And there’s a word for what you are.” He nearly whispers. Difficult. Stubborn. Irrevocably his. “Irrational, when I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you, is to offer me your complete submission.”

“Even though I’d sooner offer my life than yield to you?” A new tone makes itself heard in your cadence. Such words, such simple, few words, reveal what lingers beneath your otherwise indifferent facade.

Sagacious. Provocative. Challenging.

Of course, you're testing the boundaries of Scaramouche's resolve, as he does with yours. Suddenly, the atmosphere is taut and palpable with tension for what may become of the future.

Sly, sly little songbird.

Something most unanticipated happens, and you reveal your hands, which you freed from their binds. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise Scaramouche, what with your prowess in the art of escape, but regardless your smile stretches in the presence of the astonishment that lifts his eyebrows and makes his eyes flash white, if only briefly. You take your time observing such a paltry display of rare, raw, emotion, how it shapes the contours of his features at the command of your actions. And gently, you take his hand that graces your throat and tenderly place it on your cheek.

"Ah... You've always been this way, haven't you, Kunikuzushi? Since the very day fate first connected your eyes to mine? " You slant your head into his cold hand with all the fragility of a shedding lotus petal descending into a reservoir, resting your cheek against his cold, liquid touch. Although, the action is far from affectionate. Rather, it's reminiscent of a sort of obstinacy, wearing the facade of love.

"You pine for my heart like you're starved for my flesh.” You take his hand and pass it through your cloak, poising it on your chest, right above your pumping heart.

"But... Perhaps I have no heart to offer you. What then? What will you do when you realize, there is no flesh to pick from my bones? No heart beneath my ribs?"

Scaramouche trudges through your words, running them across his mind. No plausible answer makes itself seen. He relinquishes his hand from your chest.

A cat may not have wings, but it is unrelenting.

“If you have no heart…” He murmurs, before smiling a bitter smile, “Then I’ll make you learn how to love.” how to love him. “I’ll create a heart in the shape of my love, and then I’ll take it. By force if I must.”

"You're willing to create something, just to seize and destroy it..." His words taste like blood upon your tongue. Strange. Carrying pleasantry and uncanniness in a sordid congruence. your lips falter from their smile.

"What a rotten soul you have... When will you realize that your avarice will be your demise?"

A wry, perhaps relenting chuckle emerges from your throat. Then you sigh.

"Perhaps we were made for each other." “

Then why do you run from me? Why do you fight, when you’re meant to be mine?” He asks, vehement, pertinacious.

"But that is where you're mistaken, Scaramouche. You see—” You direct your pointer finger to his chest, resting it in the junction between his collarbones.

“—You're tenacious in pursuing me. But I'm," You points at herself, "Tenacious in avoiding you. We are made for each other like the same ends of two magnets. The same, yet destined to be apart."

There it is, another one of your challenging remarks. The chirping nightingale wriggles free and unfurls it's wings, just as the cat thinks the bird is trapped beneath its paws. And oh, how infuriating, how exhilarating you are. Hatred is a simmering tempest that ignites the harbinger's temper. He despises how affixed he is to you, to the thought of trapping you beneath his claws, only for you to fly free and rejoice your liberation in song. It's petty. It's pathetic. It's irresistible. The Balladeer scoffs.

“Is this all just a game of push and pull to you? Just how long are you willing to avoid me?”

“How long are you willing to pursue me?”

“Until you submit to me.”

“Then, until you set me free.”

Scaramouche can only watch as you put on your hideous, inhuman, anomalistic smile. Fine, then. If nothing else, he’ll build you a gilded cage to lure you into a golden prison disguised as a paradise. He’ll rip your wings from your body, flesh and bone marrow hanging in loose tendrils, so to erase all notions of flying free from your unreadable mind that he tends to make his possession, until you’re bleeding so sweetly beneath his claws. His beautiful songbird, who sings in the shape of his love.

Because you were made for him. He, the heartless one, who wishes for a heart. For your heart, which you are't willing to offer. Which you wish you never had.

You’re the only one to believe he still has a soul. That he ever had one, rotten as it may be.

Scaramouche cannot let that go. Regardless of how many times you flee from his talons, he will find you and chase you to the very ends of this earth.

Fly away, little singing nightingale.

79 notes · View notes

inthecarpets · 29 days

Text

Shuro/Toshiro is just some guy and i love how he represents different worldview, culture and perspectives.

It might look silly from outside but he's quite a romanticisation of a warrior. The one he loves is dead -> He can't eat nor sleep nor think about anything else. It's the "it's romantic-tragic to suffer". "It's romantic and honorable to do only rightful things and show self restraint". And it's a cultural must for him to be polite and speak in most nonforward way.

It gives an interesting contrast to most of people around Laios, who don't care as much about what's honorable, rightful or polite.

#it brings the thought of 'there is no time to be depressed' or 'everyone is depressed in different ways'#also #it makes me wonder if Toshiro is in some ways created to critique nonforward speech of Japan. Him finally talking in honesty with Laios #and the words Laios spoke #and stuff.#really makes me think given author's depiction of autism -/characters leaning towards the spectrum #Dungeon Meshi #nonspoilery #carpet talks #Shuro #shuro dungeon meshi #Dungeon Meshi toshiro #Toshiro Nakamoto #dungeon meshi shuro #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon

66 notes · View notes

kaylinamaes · 3 months

Text

I have an awful habit of leaving things unfinished.

I don’t know if that’s a trait I picked up from my childhood but my projects always end off a cliff. I used to send my writing to friends, excited to show new updates or how much more had been written since the last, and they’d groan playfully, saying they wanted more and to keep going. But once I get that first impression and validation I no longer want to continue. Someone has seen my work and now it’s spoiled. I’m still proud of it, but not enough to finish, not enough to finish the story that I think about when I’m alone in bed. I’m the same with projects. If I don’t finish in one sitting I won’t allow myself to go back to it.

There’s a quote that’s like: I am a mess of unfinished words, of half strung sentences. I am an empty paragraph, a half cleaned kitchen. I am an unfinished love song, a letter that was never sent. I am half worked on and I am waiting for a sculptor to come and sculpt me. A painter to paint over me. I am waiting for someone to take care of me.

I am waiting for someone to move the pen in my hand and finish the rest of my letter. I am waiting for someone to walk with me to the post office and mail my letter. I am waiting for someone to sing my half finished song and to write the last word in my unfinished chapter. I am waiting for someone to complete all of me that is so incomplete.

I think that’s me

#my writing #writing #romance quotes #love quotes #author #prose #literature #depression #writers block #guilt #motivation #art #book #books #booklr #what is wrong with me

73 notes · View notes

todaysdocument · 7 months

Text

"The Glandon family around the fireplace in their home at Bridges Chapel near Loydston[sic], Tennessee. Glandon's wife plays both the guitar and the organ."

Record Group 142: Records of the Tennessee Valley Authority Series: Lewis Hine Photographs for the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA)

This black and white photograph shows a family consisting of a mother, father, two boys, and a girl. The parents sit in unmatched wooden chairs. To the left of the fireplace, the mother sits playing a guitar. The father sits to the right holding a fireplace poker. One boy sits on the floor holding a small black dog. The girl sits next to him on the wide planked wooden floor. A pile of kindling is between them. The other boy stands behind his father’s chair. The stone fireplace has a roaring fire in it. The mantel is covered with photographs and prints. Fabric or paper covers the walls. On the far left a bureau of drawers with a mirror is visible. On the far right, there is a neatly made bed.

#archivesgov #October 31 #1933 #1930s #tennessee valley authority #Loyston #great depression

123 notes · View notes

missinyouiskillingme · 2 years

Text

What if you find your soul mate... at the wrong time?

Lauren Kate, Passion

2K notes · View notes

mikakuna · 4 months

Text

sometimes i'll be thinking about writing a fic about jason going through like rlly horrible things because i like causing myself and my fav character pain and then i'm like. wait. this already happened in canon.

oh i wanted to write a scene about bruce physically abusing his child to the point where he could literally not walk for a month? it already happened 👍

oh i wanted to write something where bruce and jason get into an argument about killing the joker and bruce throws a batarang at his neck and saves the joker, thereby potentially killing his son? canon covered it 👍

oh and what about jason and bruce being so toxic that bruce brings him to the place he got murdered and then beats tf out of him in said place? ohhh it happened in the comics? 👍

wait but what about a scene where like hmm bruce is so desperate to save his son from being a murderer that he violates his autonomy and essentially mind breaks him? doesn't that idea feel like a Dark Bruce Wayne fic? idkkkk that seems super interesting to explore and especially bc it'd be sooo #hurt no comfort on jason's behalf- WHAT? dc already has a scene like that???!?! 👍

dc is legit just writing ao3 fics

#except jason ao3 authors are so much better #why does this boy have such a.... whump backstory #he has went through fuck all #i don't even need to make an au fic to make shit a bit more sad #like his canon story is already so fucking depressing #jason todd #jason peter todd #batman #bruce wayne #red hood #dc

93 notes · View notes

thepersonalwords · 7 months

Quote

You get depressed because you know that you're not what you should be.

Marilyn Manson

#Marilyn Manson #thepersonalwords #depression #quotes #literature #life quotes #author quotes #prose #lit #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #writing inspiration #poets on tumblr

141 notes · View notes

devilsskettle · 17 days

Text

i think some of the popularity that meta horror has garnered is a little bit disingenuous tbqh even though i do like some of the movies that have come out of the subgenre, people don’t realize that the foundation of the slasher genre was established in the 60s/70s and a lot of the 80s movies that have become so classic were already riffing off of the tropes established by those movies before full fledged meta took off. the idea to make friday the 13th was sparked by the commercial success of halloween. the original script for slumber party massacre was a parody of the genre and the movie retains much of that humor which is referential to past slashers by nature. + it intentionally uses typical slasher tropes around gender and sexuality to bring forward the concerns of teenage girls. is that not something that meta horror is frequently touted as doing? child’s play is like a slasher, “except —” which is what a lot of meta horror comedies do now (“slasher except it’s a possessed doll” is not that far off from “slasher except it’s freaky friday” and whatnot). this isn’t to say that scream isn’t foundational to what the slasher genre evolved into or that contemporary meta slashers aren’t doing something interesting but i also think they tend to lean towards cynicism towards the movies they’re deriving their themes from + they’re not even as different as they think they are from “classic” 80s movies that already are borrowing from classic slashers which in turn borrowed from even older horror (for example, in halloween, laurie is watching the thing from another world from the 50s which was adapted into the now classic john carpenter’s the thing in the 80s). and of course many of these older horror movies were adapted from literature which also inspired more literature. like the shelley/byron/polidori scary story writing contest is now legendary but also you don’t get the shining without the haunting of hill house (and you don’t get the haunting of hill house without turn of the screw, for example) and the shining is probably one of the most referenced movies by other media of all time. horror has always been an intertextual genre let’s stop pretending it didn’t become “self aware” until 1996

#+ scream used a framework for examining slasher tropes outlined in men women and chainsaws in 1992 #bringing the term ‘final girl’ + the ‘rules’ of slasher movies into pop culture #so not only is it working from the canon of slasher movies that already exists #but it also is looking at this academic text that establishes a credible film + gender studies lens for the slasher genre #omg not to mention what the author has to say about slasher-adjacent movies that are critically acclaimed #— movies that use a slasher framework for the plot that address similar themes #but distance themselves by making the violence + resolution of conflict less direct #(i.e. moving the conflict from the physical to the psychological) for example silence of the lambs is one movie she cites #making similar themes + similar conflicts more palatable to a wider audience #which is like the opposite response of meta slasher to the classic slasher canon #i guess if you want to make a slasher movie that isn’t really a slasher movie you have two options — lean into it or lean away from it lol #anyway all this is to say. idk whatever i’m bored + too depressed to get up and do anything productive rn #anyway. count how many times i say ‘for example’ in this post

28 notes · View notes

drarrily-we-row-along · 1 year

Text

(I Won't) Run Away

Draco was really nervous. He had a thousand tells for nervous gestures and his anxiety really got to Harry; it made Harry's heart beat a little too fast, made his palms sweat just a little. He couldn't really manage it.

"Hey," Harry said, tapping his forefinger against Draco's, "you still with me?"

Draco turned to look at him, "Yeah. Sorry," he said, "just a little preoccupied."

"With what?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice level as he took another sip of his drink, watching Draco and trying to read into his very soul.

He opened his mouth and said, "Marry me?" And the words seemed to surprise Draco as much as they surprised Harry, if the shocked raise of his eyebrows and open mouth were anything to go by.

Harry froze, his drink part of the way back to the bar, and stared uncomprehendingly at Draco. "What?"

Draco swallowed before seeming to work himself up again, "I love you," he said softly. "I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?"

How had this gotten this far? This relationship was supposed to have been easy, no strings attached. And they'd started going out together for food, and occasionally slept in the same bed, but it wasn't supposed to have come to this. "No," Harry said sharply, too sharply, as he staggered off of the bar stool. "You can't mean that."

And before Draco could get even another word out of his mouth, Harry was fleeing the bar, leaving his drink half drunk, and Draco sitting there staring at him like he'd crucio'd him.

They'd picked a bar close to Draco's house and Harry found himself pacing on the sidewalk outside of the house. He couldn't just leave. Not without some sort of explanation. He owed Draco that much, owed him the words he should have said in the beginning. This was never meant to last. Harry wasn't allowed to have people to keep.

He collapsed on the front steps and put his head in his hands, giving himself permission to feel all of the grief and fear raging through his chest.

He could feel Draco's magic before he could see or hear him, his magical signature always tasted like honey on Harry's tongue and smelled like flowers covered in morning dew in the summer. He ached with it.

Draco stopped a few feet away and Harry looked up at him. "Sorry," Harry croaked. "Godric, Draco, I'm so sorry that I left," he said as honestly as he could.

"I'm just surprised that you're here, to be honest," he replied uncertainly.

Harry nodded miserably, "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Draco sat down next to him on the step, "Do you want to tell me why you're here?"

"Because I love you," he whispered helplessly.

He frowned, "That was a terribly strange response to give to someone you love for asking you to continue loving them."

He shook his head, "Don't you see?" he asked him, because he had to know the truth, he had to see the way that Harry poisoned everything he touched. "Everyone I love ends up dead," he whispered. "You're so much safer if I don't love you, if you don't love me."

"Harry-"

"I'm serious, Draco!" he protested. "Everyone who loves me is forced to die to protect me. And I should have known better," he continued. "Once this was more than just a casual fling, I should have ended it." He shook his head, burying his face in his hands, "In the end everyone either leaves or gets taken from me."

He was quiet for a minute and Harry wondered if Draco was trying to figure out how to tell him to leave. But he surprised him when he started, "My mum and dad weren't an arranged marriage," he said apropos to nothing. "Which is pretty uncommon in pureblood circles."

"Okay?" Harry said, confused by the left hand turn Draco was taking.

He gazed up at the stars as he continued, "they were on the cusp of a war, as well you know," he said, "and in the retelling of their story, my mother always quoted what he said to her the night that he proposed."

Harry gazed at him quizzically, tilting his head as he listened and trying to figure out how this was related.

"He told her, 'I'm not the wisest man that you'll meet. And I'm not a hero; I won't be the one saving the day.'"

"Very romantic," Harry said.

Draco shook his head, "Listen," he chastised gently. "'But,' he told her, 'if you say yes to marrying me, I promise to always stay. No matter what comes, I won't run away.'"

He hummed, uncertain what he was supposed to say about this story, but wanting Draco to continue.

"I was, as you can probably imagine, a strange child. I had a wild imagination and it made for some pretty awful nightmares and thus some very difficult bedtimes," he said.

Harry hummed sympathetically, on the rare occasion that one of them slept over at the other's house, they had witnessed what some of the nightmares looked like.

"My mum used to climb into bed with me," he said, smiling a little at the memory, "and she'd always promise the same thing, that she wasn't going to leave me, that no matter what she had to do, nothing was going to happen to me."

"That's sweet," Harry murmured, allowing the familiar melancholic ache of wishing his parents had been alive while he was small to fill his chest.

He nodded and continued, "When I got older, when Voldemort came back, my parents were terrified. But it was still the thing that they promised me; they might not always be the smartest person in the room, they might not be the bravest, and they probably weren't going to play the hero. But no matter what, we always stay together; none of us run away. We protect ourselves and we protect each other. That's what a family does."

Harry nodded slowly, "I'm glad that you had that."

"Me too," Draco agreed, "for all that not running was difficult, I was glad to have their love and support." He took Harry's hand in his and moved so that he was kneeling in front of the other man, looking up at him.

"Draco," Harry whispered, eyes filling with tears, "Don't."

He squeezed his hands, "This is either the bravest or stupidest thing I've ever done," he said, laughing nervously, his hands trembling where they held Harry's. "Maybe both."

"Draco," he said, voice catching on his tears.

"I may not be the wisest man you'll ever meet," he started. "And I probably won't be a hero that swoops in at the last moment and saves the day. But Harry," he said softly, bringing the other man's hand to his mouth and pressing kisses to his knuckles, "I promise to always stay. I promise that no matter what happens, I won't run away."

"I-"

"I know," he continued, "that you think you're better off alone. I know that you are afraid, and rightly so, of the pain and suffering that love has caused you. But I don't want to live my life without you by my side, and," he took a deep breath and braced himself, "I don't think that you want to live without me either."

"Of course I don't," Harry whispered. "I love you."

"Marry me?" he asked again. "It's okay to be afraid," he added, "But I can only prove that I'm not going anywhere if you let me."

And really, he couldn't even imagine his life without the other man at this point. When he thought of his future, the one constant was Draco Malfoy. He wanted a future with him so badly that he felt like it took up all of the space in his chest when he allowed himself to think about it. "Are you sure you want me?" he asked softly.

Draco laughed and Harry watched as two tears slipped down his cheeks, "Harry," he said, "don't be ridiculous. Of course I want you."

"You're in for a lifetime of reassuring me," he said. "I'm a lot-"

"I want you," Draco said. "You're not hard to love."

His eyes filled again with tears that spilled over as he choked on a sob, his heart cracking open.

Draco leaned up and pulled Harry into his arms, "Oh, darling," he whispered, kissing his temple as he held him and rocked him like he was small. "You're not hard to love," he repeated, "Loving you doesn't cost me a lot; it costs me nothing compared to what loving you gives me," he added. “I fall more in love with you every day, every piece of yourself that you give me. I love all of you.”

"Draco," Harry cried, his fingers curling in the other man's jumper. "I love you," he managed. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, if you'll still have me."

With a little laugh that sounded like part of a sob, Draco nodded, "yes," he murmured. "Yes, of course I'll have you."

"You're going to have to tell me that a lot," he said, pulling back so that he could search Draco's eyes, "that you aren't going anywhere, that nothing will take you from me."

Nodding, Draco said, "Malfoys are remarkably like cockroaches, we're very good at surviving things that we aren't supposed to. I'm not going anywhere, love," he promised.

"Okay," he whispered, not really sure he believed him but willing to let him prove it.

"Come inside," Draco offered softly. "Let me be with you, let me hold you," he murmured, kissing Harry's cheek. "Let me love you."

He nodded and let Draco lead him inside, let him whisper his promises into his skin. Harry allowed him to see all of him, his fears and his vulnerability. And he let Draco stay.

He continued to let Draco stay, let Draco have all of him, until the day that they both died.

------------------

Read more of my fics inspired by songs, if you'd like.

#the author is not dead #she's just been struggling with anxiety and depression lately #drarry #love #soft #fluff #hurt/comfort #healing #proposal #happy ending- I promise #fics inspired by songs #Run Away by Ben Platt is a vibe #<3 #this feels a little rough but it's good to be writing again.#making promises

298 notes · View notes