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i-need-an-adult-help · 1 year

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Julie is related to Caleb Covington. Hear me out

You may read the title and go… “wtf is she on??” and I would totally agree with you if I wasn’t awake at 2 am while writing this.

Now, I have heard a few theories that Alex is related to Caleb, but I decided to go in a different direction. An odd direction to be sure, but oh well.

Introduction

Caleb Covington is a man—a ghost of the roaring twenties. He’s shown to have his name and face on his very own poster, hyping up a show of his from 1921 with a very ugly moustache. We can easily predict that this man was alive in the twenties and probably died in the twenties, too.

And as we can seen in the above image… he seemed to be married.

Not much is known about Julie’s ancestry, apart from the fact that her mother‘s name was Rose, she was a big fan of Dahlias, and that she had a band called the Rose & the Petal Pushers but decided to quit the limelight in favour of becoming a piano teacher. We also know that on Julies mother’s side of the family, they speak with Spanish accents, meaning that they come from a dominantly Spanish speaking place. Personally, I believe that they come from Puerto Rico. I will touch on this later.

Start of the theory

When I was re-watching Julie and the Phantoms for the third time, I noticed that in episode six, when Julie was going through her mother’s clothes for the first time, I noticed that inside the box there was a picture of a Dahlia and the date “1892”. Call me crazy, but this was around the time that Caleb was alive, no? This box, I believe, belonged to Rose’s grandmother, Dahlia, when she was alive in the early 1900s. It could have been received as a birthday gift when she was born (or at least that’s my theory).

Julie’s family seems to have a bit of a track record of naming their first born daughter’s after flowers. While Julie’s name may not be a species of flower, it is actually a type of flower; ‘Julie One’ is actually a type of Dahlia I found while searching up ‘Julie’ and ‘Dahlia’.

Even Julie’s aunt, Victoria, is named after a flower, the Victoria Amazonia, or the Amazon water lily. It’s found off the coast of South America. The water Lily has strong connections to rebirth and resurrection.

Here’s the information I found on the ‘Julie One’ Dahlia: https://www.gardenersworld.com/plants/dahlia-julie-one/

My guess is that Rose looked up to her grandmother, Dahlia, for being a stage performer that her mother was not (as julie’s grandmother—or grandfather—has yet to seem relevant). In respect of her grandmother birthing her love of the Dahlia, she decided to name her daughter after her in hopes that she too would be a great performer; ‘Julie One Dahlia’.

Fun fact

Now, fun fact, Dahlias originate from both Mexico and Guatemala and were first bred in the 1800s. I believe that this is actually symbolism for where Julie’s family first came from. That her (great)grandmother came from either Mexico or Guatemala (we’re going with Puerto Rico for now, as that’s what I says on the box) and has to immigrate to America.

But how would she have been able to do this?

Answer! Her mentor, Caleb Covington.

Caleb dissing

Now, call me crazy, but Caleb doesn’t seem to be the nicest man. The “Caleb and Willie” relationship seems to be some sort of a mentorship. Currently, we are able to deduct that he has Willie under his wing… for price; he seems to be teaching Willie all the tricks that he wishes to know in exchange for (what has been theorised to be) a little bit of his soul in order to make sure that Caleb always has power.

Back to theory

What if, when Caleb was alive, he was able to use his reputation to get Dahlia over the border… in exchange for her hand in marriage?

I’ve been able to deduce the approximate birthdates for the entire Julie family tree. Caleb was approximately born in 1882 if he died at the age of 46 in 1928. If Dahlia was born in 1892, then they had a 10 year age gap (which wasn’t bad for the time). Personally, I think that Caleb may have died in the early 1930s, as the style of song he sings is swing, which wasn’t invented until the early 1930s, with the first swing-styled song being made in 1931. I’m not going to be going into this though.

Edit: something I only noticed after writing this is that in episode five, at eight minutes and seven seconds (8:07), there’s a woman who Caleb addressees as “my darling”, and asks her where’s she’s been, talking about her dress. She seems to be of Spanish decent and could be said to look an awful lot like Rose. Could this woman be Dahlia?

Be gay, do crime

Anyway, of course, I’ve seen the theory that Caleb is gay, and I do actually wholeheartedly believe in it. At the time, being gay was much less accepted than it was these days, Celebrities would often marry into heterosexual relationships, called a “beard”, in order to seem straight. Dahlia’s cost for getting over the border could have been that she had to be Caleb’s beard.

Outside of their beard relationship, though, Caleb would’ve been her mentor, teaching her about music and dance of the time. This is how she became such a great performer.

Sorry

I’ve almost come close to the end of this rant that I’m pinning as a theory, so just stick around for a little while longer.

I believe that the reason why Caleb died, is because he was out of practice after the birth of either his daughter or son, in approximately 1927/1928. If he never had a child during his time alive, people would start to suspect that he’s gay, as at the time, it was very common to have lots of children. They instead only decided on having a child very late in their “relationship”.

Personally, I would say that his child would’ve been a boy if Rose was to be born in the mid-late 1970s making her 17-21 in 1995. If Dahlia and Caleb‘s child was born in 1928, then in approximately 1976, the child would have been 48–a valid age for male child making.

I swear I’m not crazy

Lastly, why am I so insistent on the fact that Caleb is related to Julie? Well, it’s been very unexplained how Julie is able to see the band members and make them visible. And, even though the band members have barely even met Rose (Julie’s mother), they seem to be connected to her somehow. Maybe everything is connected through Caleb? After all [SPOILER], when the band members were put under the spell by Caleb (that could only be undone by Caleb), Julie managed to break the spell just by wanting to hard enough. How is this possible?

Conclusion

So many questions, so few answers. This is why we need a season two of the show. By clicking on the link below, you can see ways to help Julie and the Phantoms come back to Netflix! Help our questions be answered!

Also, do everything you can to save Julie and the Phantoms: https://savejulieandthephantoms.com

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I didn’t read over this, if it doesn’t make sense, that’s not my problem :D

#jatp #jatp caleb #jatp julie #jatp caleb covington #jatp theory #jatp theories #jatp caleb theory #Caleb jatp #julie jatp #julie and the phantoms #julie and the fat ones #julie and the himbos #Caleb Covington #julie molina #rose molina #julie and the phantoms theory #julie and the phantoms theories

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i-need-an-adult-help · 2 years

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————————|| A Stranger Passing By

Todoroki x fem!Reader

Angsty college AU

Y/N has lived a life where she always preferred the sadder ending over one with unrealistic love and happiness. Everyday, she’d trudge her way to the old, sage armchair under the light of the broken window and read there. Alone. But maybe not as alone as she thought.

She has to go soon. Might as well make her time worth while.

Hurt very little comfort, angst, reader death, fluff if you squint and are also very blind, that’s basically it :D

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Y/N walked along the student-filled halls, gentle chatter wafting through the air. Footsteps paced around her, each person that passed by with a gleeful smile on their lips.

A heavy sigh lifted itself from her throat, arms carefully tightening around the red and black book within her grasp, securing the words of knowledge written on its white-lined pages. A black bag was slung over her right shoulder as she walked, not caring each time she stumbled or tripped, eyes only glued to the tiled floor.

Reading was how she disassociated herself from the world, pretending that the charming royalty and cheery people were all of whom she had known herself. Tales of true love and happy endings were only fairytale.

She knew that.

And that's where the disassociation stopped.

The library of the university was often a place she visited in her spare time. Away from classes and the problems of the world, Y/N often found herself nestled within the safety of shelves—of books, and of articles written by authors and scholars who once roamed these halls.

A small nook was where she normally sat, a worn, sage-coloured armchair with scratches and crevices interwoven within the surface laying under a broken window. Stark-old floorboards cried whenever somebody walked near her, dusty cobwebs and rusty nails adhered to the wall beside.

Suffice to all that, she still found the area rather comforting to spend her time in; it felt like home.

Her hand flipped the page.

'Mine has been a life of much shame,' she read. 'I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human be—" her train of thought was cut off.

"Excuse me, but what book do you have there?"

Y/N flicked a jaded eye from the ink on the page, back still remaining hunched as she leaned over the book, [h/c] hair partially blocking her view of the boy in front of her.

"'No Longer Human' - Osamu Dazai," she spoke, tilting the book's cover to his eye's view, watching him read the title to reaffirm her words.

The boy nodded briefly, “Thought so.”

She went back to ignoring him.

Y/N put the book carefully back on her knee, rereading through the paragraph she had already skimmed over before he bothered her.

A moment of silence passed through them, leaves 'tatting' at the broken window as she continued to read, eyes tracing along one line and moving to the next.

'I can't even guess myself wha—"

He spoke.

"Is it any good?" he asked her, seeming persistent to bug her into talking.

She sighed once again, eyes closing before she nodded her head and went back to reading, planning on ignoring any further advance he made.

Y/N has read this book a million times. Sure. She knows the tale better than the back of her hand. She loves this story; it's . . . realistic. The tale of a man experiencing life and grief as it is—ending the tale on more of a despairing note than anything other.

The boy who had come still had not left. Maybe her sense of time was off. Had it only been a few seconds? She doubted he would stand there any longer than necessary.

The book she held faintly 'clapped' shut, her eyes quickly reverting to his face as he emptily looked out the window.

"Why are you still here?" Y/N asked him, hands folded atop the book, "Nowhere else to be?"

He shrugged his shoulders, still seeming to trace something out the window with his gaze. "I see you reading that book a lot. I wanted to know why you liked it so much."

Now that she had had a good look at his face, he did seem rather familiar. White and red hair lay upon his head, grey and brown irises glowing in the mellow sunlight as he looked blankly away. She couldn’t place where she knew him.

Y/N cocked a brow at his question, a small grin finding its way to her [s/c] lips. "Why I like it so much?"

The boy nodded, folding his arms over his chest. "My mother said it was her father's favourite book; apparently, I'm a lot like him. I thought I'd give it a try."

"And you want to know if it's your sort of genre?"

He nodded once more, finally looking away from the window and into her gaze, cheeks vaguely a-flush. "If you wouldn't mind telling me something about it."

Y/N rested her elbow on her knee—face on her palm, thought overcoming her features as she yawned into her hand.

"The reason why I like it is because it's realistic," she said to him, coming down from her yawn, "from the problems, to the characters, from the characters, to the ending."

Her face cringed at an upcoming thought. "Fairytales aren't my favourite things," she paused, rethinking her words, "...true love doesn't just fall from the sky; things don't often have happy endings."

"He ends it on a melancholy note, reflecting on the differences he could have made, the actions he regrets, and all the misery he could have saved himself from."

"That's realistic."

The boy took on a look of bewilderment as he tilted his head. "Realism, huh?" A moment of thought passed through his face before he asked a question once again.

"Why aren't happy endings realistic to you?"

Y/N shrugged, not really listening to the question he had proposed as she rested her head on the clothed skin of her shoulder.

She had a perfectly good response, of course, but why bother burdening him with something he never asked to know?

It’s nothing important, anyway.

"Hey . . . may I borrow that book?" he queried, "once you're done with it, of course."

Y/N’s eyes looked down to the book as she lifted it slightly to her eyes. “Borrow it?” she spoke aloud, redrawing the cover with her gaze. She looked up at him with a grin on her face.

“Sure. Why not?”

And that's how they met.

In the nook of a university library by the old armchair with crevices and scratches—within the dust and the cobwebs that decorated it . . . he asked her for a favour.

A regular thing, it may seem, but she never caught his name; she never even asked.

Every day or so for nearly two years, the boy would come in and see her in the same armchair, reading a book under the light of the broken window.

He always asked her what she was reading, she always gave him curt replies, trying to lose his interest in the matter . . . looking back, she never wanted him to leave.

They repeatedly traded books, leaving them on the chair for each other to find, little post-it notes with snarky or witty remarks written on the paper when neither were around.

When they both found themselves in the nook, they often sat together in a comfortable silence, books in their hands and eyes reading over the words. Conversations were occasionally exchanged, dreams and aspirations being discussed by one another.

They grew close—despite neither having asked for a name. A kindred spirit, maybe? The natural connection between two broken souls was a possibility.

He didn't know . . . neither did she.

His nickname for her was 'Ms. Realistic'. She would've chosen something other, but it'll do. She didn't despise it, or anything. Y/N had one for him too, after all.

Over the year, they grew closer as strangers and something more. As friends.

Y/N grew more and more tired, not being able to remain awake in a constant focus, yet not being able to fall asleep. Her muscles spasmed; she felt hot when it was cold; her mother wasn't there, she heard her anyway...

it'd been like this for a while.

She’d known what was going on for almost three years, now. She just refused to speak up.

The page flipped in her fingers, falling to the other side of her book as she continued to trace along the lines. The light from the window shone in, illuminating the white pages as she quietly read in her place.

Pale curtains fluttered into the room with the crack in the lonely window, uplifting the small piles of dust laying scattered in the room.

The words were blurrier than normal. Who knows if she's reading what's really on the page?

"Ms...

....L/N?"

The girl looked up from her page, meeting the eyes of her doctor who stood by the doorway. "Yes?" she responded, the book still open in her palms.

Y/N had changed over the past few years; bags becoming more prominent under her eyes and harder for her to carry. Her hair was often a mess and her face was worn and tired-looking.

The boy sometimes asked of her appearance, she brushed him off with a simple shrug and a wave of her hand . . . not that he ever bought that she was fine.

The doctor tilted her head, eyes swirling with pity and grief as she dramatically sighed. Y/N was sure she'd seen it before; regifted pity was all she was receiving.

The doctor wandered further into the room, sitting on a chair beside the patient's bed. "Most patients . . . unfortunately don't live through FFI, as there is no wa—"

Y/N sighed, already expecting the news. She clapped her book shut, cutting the other woman off.

"How long do I have left?"

The doctor let out a small breath of air. "You've been living with it for so long; a few weeks, I'd say. If you'd like, we could call your family to begin—"

"I don't have any family."

Y/N paused, biting her lip in annoyance as more pity became noticeable in her doctor's eyes. "Am I still able to leave the hospital?" she asked, subtle yet desperate hope falling into her voice.

The other woman nodded. "As long as an escort is present."

Y/N huffed. "It's not like I can fall asleep..." she grumbled, facing the small window in the wall.

"We can't be here for too long," the man spoke, hand resting on her shoulder as they looked up at the old building. "You need to get back to the hospital for your checkups—"

The girl shrugged his shoulder off. "I'm dying—soon, at that. What's the point?" she asked, feet slowly bringing her to the library doors.

As they entered the library, the familiar quiet and gentle warmth filled her fatigued mind with a fuzzy chill, the feeling of home finally returning from when she had left. She'd missed this. Everything about it.

Not listening to the complaints of the escort behind her, she slowly ambled through the walls of old books, the smell overwhelming her senses.

The sound of a pages turning alerted her, the floorboards she recognised squeaking under her shoe-covered feet as she took steps towards her nook.

'No longer human'

He wasn’t there.

The book she had leant the boy sat on the chair, the red, a bright contrast to the musty green of the old armchair. A note sat on the book, white paper stuck to the cover.

Her tired face formed a faint smile at the sight, slowly halting in her tracks to admire what sat.

He had left the book for her to find, knowing she would eventually return to her nook in the corner by the dust and the cobwebs and the old nails in the wall.

It was only diminutive happiness she had experienced—short and merely a speck in the ever-moving world. The boy wouldn't miss her; he didn't even know her name.

Why was she here?

The smile on Y/N's face slowly faded at the thought, pace quickening as she ran over to grab the note off the book, tearing it from the cover.

'I haven't seen you in a while, Ms. Realistic. Thought I might give you this back for when you return.

Also, you were right, the sombre ending was far more realistic than a fairytale love. Happiness doesn't prevail, does it?

I never really believed it did, to be frank. In the end, I just wanted to speak with you—learn about you, I guess. You intrigued me.

I suppose I didn't really do that, did I? I still call you 'Ms. Realistic', after all.

I won't be returning for a couple weeks, though; I'm visiting my mother in hospital a couple towns out of here (did I mention she was doing better?).

See you later. I have a book you might like :)

- Two-toned.'

She stared down at the note in her hands, facial muscles remaining inexpressive at the well-thought out message.

‘See you later.’

‘Later.’

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

One by one, tears fell from her eyes, slipping down her cheeks and curling on the tip of her lips, mouth sitting partially agaped.

The piece of paper started to dampen with her leaking tears, the sheet quivering in her fingers as she reread and reread the blurry words that had been stained by her tears.

Her muscles strained as she tried to stop herself from ripping it to shreds, as she tried to stop herself from screaming at herself for all she’d done.

An epiphany had befallen on her, striking her mind white with the lack of thought; she refused to think—to acknowledge it.

Y/N’s lips quivered as the note sat within her trembling fingers, hot water dripping down her cheeks, running to her chin and falling to the ink on the paper. She could only attempt to blink away the tears as she stared blankly at the white sheet.

Her legs trembled before buckling under her weight, a feeling of faintness coming to her mind, weakness taking over her body.

Abruptly, a choked sob tore from her throat, creating a ripple in the library's silence with her sickening cries of sadness.

After all the time she’d spent with him,

After every pain and struggle she’d shared with him—him doing the same in return,

After everything…

She’d never know who he was; he’d only ever remain a stranger passing by.

She would never know his name—the name of the boy who saved her life when she was stuck in an awful loop of despairing loneliness...

knowing she was to die.

Y/N could never see him again; she could never relay her problems or wishes to him ever again; she could never tell him of her wish to stay.

Who could they have become to each other if she had had longer on this earth? If in another universe she had had the chance to live longer, what could have become of that passing stranger?

The words began to imbue on the page, swirling in and around on the white paper—the sheet pulling apart and piecing together as she attempted to blink away the tears.

Maybe it was another delusion of hers, telling her the mistakes she had made and the actions she would regret.

Telling her how she could have saved herself from the misery of loss—loosing something she never had.

She could no longer tell the difference between the real and fake.

And what was the point in trying?

"Ms. L/N? We need to be heading off soon. Are you ready to . . . leave?" The man stopped at the sight of her.

Her face was rifled with raw emotion, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes as she hugged her arms to her chest.

Her mouth was open, it hung there like it was unable to close, horrid cries of anguish tearing from her throat.

"T-the last I'll ever see of him is a book," she cried, doubling over her own body in an attempt to conceal her dignity, her choked-out sobs still breaking her words. "A b-bloody book!"

The note wasn't real.

It was just an illusion of her broken mind.

Todoroki placed his hand on the door, pushing open the heavy wooden surface to enter into the book haven. It'd been four weeks since he'd seen Ms. Realistic sitting in her armchair, not a note or a book to alert him of her presence.

He wandered through the walls of bookcases, hand tracing over the dusty, leather covers, pulling some out to admire the pictures that decorated the old material.

The floorboards began to creak as he made his way closer to the nook, hoping that the mystery girl had left a new recommendation . . . or anything.

He'd grown fond of her, despite only calling her a half-hearted nickname. The way she smiled as he tried to argue with her pessimistic view on life, the way she giggled uncharacteristically while reading his wit-filled retorts on the sticky bits of paper.

Maybe he should ask for her name—tell her his.

As the chair came into view, all he saw was a blue post-it note atop of a red and black-covered book resting under the light of the broken window.

'Keep it. Please.

- Y/N'

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Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!! :DD

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