#it only pilots his body. hes still conscious but he cant move himself

[mantleoflight]

As the ship, (Fastion suspected it belonged to Darius' Father or the father's friend), approached the Tower landing zone, Fastion busied himself speaking to a cluster of concerned voices over the radio. Well, Branson did most of the talking and supplemented what the poor ghost was trying to convey in his panicked squeaks. Echo had handled piloting and she set the ship down with such a gentle touch that he barely felt it settle against the tarmac.

Fastion stood from his seat then and gestured for her to intercept the crowd of medics gathered outside and took himself back to the crew quarters. "Darius." He murmured and stopped in the doorway. His friend was huddled about the body of the brother. Mathafew was just as much an adult as the rest of them, but he was small and it gave the impression of youth, and with Darius huddled about him, it also spoke of frailty.

"There's healers outside." He said pointedly and then waited a moment before adding, "They alerted this world's Baribus also. His ghost is here, and he likely is also. They're going to want him." He wasn't certain if the boy was conscious or not- rather hoped that he wasnt in case this went poorly.

Already he wasn't certain whether to encourage this attachment that Darius had or caution against it in case some catastrophe happened in this world also. But, his short piece said, the weapon moved back out of the doorway so that Darius would hopefully take the boy out to the medics otherwise they'd have to come in and take what Darius refused to hand over.

@sundanceofapache

It was a mess. The mission, their fireteam, the whole thing. Still, being the more experienced of their crew, Salem and Echo managed to calm the tide of people wanting to get in and help. So many people, so many thoughts, there was no way Mathafew was ready for so many people at once.

"Easy there! Only a few at a time! Medics only!" she shouted before spotting the grim figure of Baribus Thatch. He marched his way up, his features set like the grim reaper itself as he stepped onto the gangplank.

"Where are they?" he asked, his voice cold and forceful. "Where is my son?"

Stoat appeared beside his head, a little cloud of pixels dissipating behind him. "He wants to know where Mathafew is," he said helpfully, looking over at Echo.

Echo looked at the two and canted her head. "Which means you're probably his dad, right? Hunter, Baribus Thatch?"

"Yes," Baribus replied briskly. "Now where is my son?"

Echo looked over as Salem glanced up the gangway. "He's this way," she said, waving him along as she jogged up the gangplank. "You're not going to like what you see, but he's alive."

She led him through the ship and to the cramped crew quarters of her ship. It was lucky she'd recently gotten an upgrade or she never would've been able to transport them all. With a few taps on a wall keypad, the door to the ship's quarters opened, revealing the three figures of Fastion, Darius, and Mathafew inside.

Echo frowned and led Baribus in, glancing back at him uncertainly. "Salem did his best to fix him up... but Warlock Light can't do much for fixing things after a psychic attack..."

A chill entered the room, weighing the air heavily as Baribus stepped inside. His golden green eyes took in the scene like a hawk surveying the horizon. It seemed they had just finished talking as the Titan turned to leave and found him standing there. Baribus didn't recognize him, most likely a new light caught in the frenzy of the mission. The second he recognized, though only by his jacket and armaments, was the one who helped Mathafew bring him back.

He didn't spare a glance for either of them though, his focus drawn to Mathafew, curled up in the man's arms like a child in the throes of a night terror. His expression softened as he knelt down, reaching over to stroke his son's hair. "Oh, Mathafew," he said gently.

"He can't walk," the young man murmured softly. "We didn't know the Egregore would affect him like this..."

"It's a psychic fungus that feeds on death," the hunter said darkly, "your commanders should have known better."

The other man's jaw clenched at his words but he didn't say anything. Instead, he kept his gaze on Mathafew, pointedly avoiding looking at the stony-faced hunter. Gently, Baribus slipped his hands around Mathafew, as if to pull him away, but he seemed to hold fast, pulling himself closer to Darius if possible. Perplexed, he loosened his grip.

"You must've had quite the impression on him," Baribus said, his tone soft and quiet as he too gazed at Mathafew. "I've never seen him hold onto anyone like that besides me."

"I had a little brother before I came to the tower," the young man said softly. "I guess you could say we connected over that..."

Baribus frowned and ran his thumb over Mathafew's brow. He could sense the man was dodging his statement, or the implications of it anyway. Before he could say anything, the young man leaned forward and whispered to the young psychic.

"Mathafew," he said, his voice soft and gentle. "Mathafew, it's alright. It's okay to let go."

To the hunter's astonishment, his son obeyed, his fingers slowly uncurling from the young man's clothes. In moments, Mathafew released the young man, allowing himself to be pulled into Baribus' arms. Stunned, the hunter looked down at him and then at the young man beside him. Now that he saw him properly, he couldn't help seeing the remarkable resemblances Mathafew had told him about. The narrow eyes, long nose, and contour of his cheeks. Yet there were other traits, one's so familiar yet he couldn't put a name to them.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

The young man pursed his lips, his uncertainty plain on his face. "I'm..." he paused, struggling to find his words, before heaving a sigh and shaking his head. "I have so many answers to that question, so many things to say that could explain..." He closed his eyes, grimacing as he fought with the pain of his decisions. "I an anomaly. You could say I'm like the Stranger on Europa... Someone from a different timeline, who came to make sure this one didn't end up like theirs. Like mine..." The young man looked away, his expression so much like the hunter's when he brooded on thoughts he didn't want to voice. Vague, roundabout, not wanting to confront whatever it was that tied them to this supposed time traveler...

Baribus hardened his gaze. "Your name," he said sternly, drawing up the young man's gaze. "Tell me your name and if we have qualms as what I suppose we do, considering how you hedge yourself, we'll say no more of it."

The young man blinked at him as if he'd grown two heads, but quickly regained his composure.

"Darius," the young man replied hesitantly. "My name is Darius."

Baribus felt his shoulders fall.

Darius. His Darius. his young, bright-eyed lad who caught fish to show his mother. His spry, dark-haired son, who ran amongst the tide pools, kicking up water while chasing crabs and sea birds, whose long nose and blue eyes looked just like his while his cheeks, chin, and raven hair looked just like his mother's.

"Darius?" he asked, reaching for the young man, his throat strained and dry. "My Darius?"

The expression on the young man's face lit up, recognition breaking through his nervous facade like sunlight through clouds. In an instant, Baribus had him by the shoulder and pulled him in for a tight hug which was returned with equal fervor. His boy, his son, his sea skipper lad, was returned to him!

#Darius #Darius Lieur #Darius Thatch #Baribus #Baribus Thatch #Mathafew #Mathafew Thatch #Fastion #Reunion

[karkatvantasistrans]

Be Jade, one year into your journey

You are now Jade Harley.

There is something your ship keeps coming into contact with out here.

There aren’t dream bubbles, per se, or any other passing ships, but there is…static. Patches of which you run though, in the din of quiet during your hours alone, where you can hear the conversations, feel them, filling up your thoughts and flickering along the few screens pinned across your room, then they are gone.

The moments after they go are too lonely to stand.

[You can also read this fanfic chapter on my ao3, here!]

Rose: Indulge in embarrassingly domestic shenanigans

Easing yourselves into the midnight hours, you and Kanaya are lazily taking in the calming sensory hum of the TV you’ve both parked yourselves in front of. Her head on your shoulder and your arm wrapped lazily around her wrist, she watches the monochrome humans from your film repertoire moving across the screen. She rarely drinks with you, but an uncharacteristic glass of wine is perched in her hand, falling absentmindedly from side to side as she stares down the vaseline-smooth face of the female lead.

“I don’t understand the central conflict of this movie,” she confesses, unashamed, un-self conscious, hair on the back of her head shifting gently along your chest as she speaks.

“If the human protagonist is "barren” I’d assume she was devoid of organs, is the central horror at her persistent existence? What’s the meaning of her being killed so early?“ Her fingers wind idly around a strand of your hair as she keeps her eyes focused on the screen, trying to absorb it through the few translation errors.

"In a sense, you’re not wrong, actually,” You muse, the sip from your glass staying somewhat reasonable as you mull over the concept. Picture childlessness hollowing someone out, trace the etymology along its roots as far as your mind can see,

“It means she can’t have children.” You clarify, and watch the top of Kanaya’s head for signs of shock. When all you receive is a dutiful “hmm”, you can’t resist the urge to up the ante, if only just a little.

“Humans grow their children inside their bodies, you know.”

This elicits a much more entertaining response, as Kanaya hums an “ah” before abruptly launching herself up beside you.

“You’re serious about this?” You feel a shit-eating grin light up your face.

“Ah! I can’t believe we never covered this before!” You laugh, hand finding your collarbone as her face shifts into contemplative horror.

“I sort-of thought you had me beat on the grim horrors of our respective societies! The birds and bees may as well be alternian demons, hm?” Her face shifts to visibly frustrated as you take another light sip, smiling at her over the rim of your glass.

“It’s interesting in a way, actually, how these things come together – oh, but that might be a bad example,” as you catch yourself about to tap her stomach, “so I won’t tie too many things together. Just, imagine you had to carry around the contents of those pails in your stomach! Our children don’t have quite as many feet, but they’re still very much alive inside, able to move and interact with the inside of you – it’s almost like a cocoon, actually! Just carried around with you wherever you go for, what’s the equivalent? A third of a sweep? I can’t believe you didn’t know this! Ecto-siblings notwithstanding, all humans are grown inside a human body. Doesn’t that add up to some of the most sublime body horror you’ve ever considered?” Prideful, grinning, your glass sloshes around dangerously as you explain the most exciting fundamentals of motherhood to her. The look she returns to you is bemused.

“I know you’re not joking about this, you’re showing your hand far too much for this to be an act,” she smiles, thumb hitting the corner of your grin softly.

“But if your hope is to overwhelm me with this revelation, I have to tell you that we have discussed this before, if only in passing.”

“Ah, how unfortunate. Although there’s plenty of detail we could delve into if you’re invested in a pairing of historical horror with our movie night.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have a particularly gratifying response,” Her tone is apologetic as she throws you a soft small, eyebrows hitched up towards her hairline.

“After all, you were barely reactive when I shared our planet’s history of lusii implantation with you. I’d hoped trolls piloting their lusii from the confines of their skin might be at least somewhat tantalizing when I shared it with you.”

A jolt, excited, runs through your stomach. You don’t remember that conversation at all. If there’s some genetic experimentation of that level in Alternian history, you cant wait to –

Hold on.

“Kanaya…I don’t suppose you would be fucking with me, would you?”

The smile she gives you is electric.

“You are an absolute specimen of shitbastardry.” You cajole, thumb running sentimentally over her lip, onto her jaw.

“I knew I hadn’t told you that before.”

Her laugh is bright, sending a flicker of feeling over your chest, and you bury your head into her lap.

When she bends down, the you feel the smile on her lips as it plays into your own. You taste the warm joy of her face and of her arms around you and wonder, just once, if a storm always has to come after the calm.

Be Kanaya Maryam

Curiosity gets the best of you after the third week.

Shifting behind you as you walk, your skirt’s cool embrace on your calves reminds you with each step: this is a form of betrayal.

There is a sharp clatter, a booming note in the air, and a rip of green through the air as soon as you enter. Dave’s chest is heaving above him, electric smile playing over Terezi’s fangs as the corners of Dave’s mouth betray the ghost of enjoyment stirring in his shaking frame. He bounces, quick, back onto his feet as he narrowly avoids a clap of energy from Vriska’s corner of the room. Karkat’s eyes register you, only for a moment, as he darts behind Dave in the opposite direction, hand lightly sitting over the small of his back.

You try to sink, inconspicuous, into the least hectic corner of the block as you watch the arching lights and colours split through the air. Light, Time and Mind dye the room a sharp lilac before the rip of Blood pulls over the ceiling, cooling the energy under the metal rafters. You can taste the energy in the room, the ripping muscle and slap of sweat prickling over your tongue, so you dutifully close your mouth.

Terezi blurs over your eyes, cane slapping the backs of Karkat’s legs as they join, arms crossed over one another as their fraymotif spirals out of them, hemophobic harmony roaring over their heads and colliding, loudly, with the back wall. Karkat’s aspect shoots up your nose, over your tonsils, into the skin beneath your molars, as you watch Vriska spinning webs of light at his and Terezi’s feet. Terezi’s cane deflects it deftly while Karkat ops to absorb the psychic buckshot. Vriska’s training model has stayed the same, predictably, with the leftmost wall serving as a stand-in for your future assailants while your meteor mates take turns trying to disrupt each others’ concentration. It’s evolved, however, in terms of co-ordination and power. You are surprised to see the ease with which Dave hunches down in front of Vriska, palm to the floor, as their combined efforts shoot up and down the wall, pulling it in and out of its own history until its least fortunate iteration is exposed. Dave’s contribution falters for only a moment as he blocks a wave of green peeling towards Vriska’s shoulder. The complimenting attack on Dave is re-routed, predictably, by luck alone.

A stray bolt of energy ricochets off the wall by your head, and Karkat catches himself before he verbalizes an apology.

Vriska doesn’t need to hear it to know it, though.

Lucky, lucky.

“Kanaya!” She sings, and the shot of energy by your head is fully intentional on the second iteration.

“Oh. Hey.” Is Dave’s subdued contribution. Terezi waves deliriously, excitement still bouncing over her face.

“Come to re-join the winning team?” Vriska flashes her teeth, hugged tight on both sides by smearing blue lipstick. Her hair clings, wet, over her face as he grins through her ragged breaths, lightly shaking arms.

“Separate approaches to practicing don’t make us enemies, Vriska.” You remind her, eyebrow pulling upwards to communicate your immediate impatience. She willfully ignores it, places it on a long list of social cues she refuses to be bogged down by.

“Exactly! So what’s the harm in getting a little practice time in with both team leaders? Nothing wrong with co-ordinating training strategies!”

“I just came to watch.” Your feet, all of a sudden, feel comically stubborn in their planted spot on the ground.

“You won’t know what you’re even watching if you won’t get in the thick of it! You should be happy I’m encouraging your meddlesomeness for once, this is right up your alley, Maryam!” The hand she slaps onto yiur shoulder is a little too eager, a lot too forceful. Dave’s frown at her back is subtle, but present.

You realize, belatedly, that Karkat and Terezi do not look at each other outside the thick of battle, as Vriska’s hand curls around your wrist.

“Come on, Kanaya, it would mean a lot to us if we could see what you were working on with Lalonde!” Her eyebrows fly upwards, your heart sings. The next note she speaks is low: only for you,

“I promise I trust Rose’s careful guidance. I just want to see how you’re doing.”

But the show of her leaning into your neck is for everyone,

“…Alright,” you concede, Vriska too hot on your neck, too urgent to put up resistances against any longer. The feeling when she pulls back again, triumphant, is all too familiar.

All too red.

=>

Your feet planted firmly in the center of the room, you feel the need to clear your throat before whipping your entirely non-verbal attack at the wall before you.

Your palms and fingertips hum as the walls around you glisten under the beam of your skin. Dave’s attacks are precise, but un-malicious as they hit your sides, glancing off and downwards as your aspect fills the space of their intended targets. The sphere encasing you sends a rumble over your skin with each spark, and you are only vaguely aware of the way the wall flexes under its own mass. Dave’s time powers are capable of restoring the space, as you all have seen countless times at this point, but the growl of the harbinger’s crescendo twists fear into your core nonetheless. It’s a motif you hadn’t been able to practice with Rose, and the relentless use of your other powers echoes in the back of your mind as the new precedent for your expulsion of energy.

The room vibrates around you, metal sheets and fastens swelling, until a deadly quiet slips over your heads.

Dave almost misses the moment when it flies apart.

Running the wall back through echelons of time, Dave stands, legs baring down under him as he calculates, spins his hands, rewinds flying chunks of metal careening towards his matesprit’s face. Vriska cackles distantly and you’re sure you hear the click of her phone’s camera behind you. You pull your influence up and under Dave’s, the element pulsing under your palms as you heal the space, restore it back to its essential nature. Dave’s shoulders are rattling around his ears as he pulls air in through his open mouth, exhaling with a quake of pressure. You can feel the uneven lighting on your face, morphing over you in kaleidoscopic splotches.

“…Holy shit, Kanaya.” Is Dave’s conclusion after witnessing your contribution. The hand he claps onto your shoulder is still lightly vibrating as he adds, “That was fucking crazy.”

The smile you return is as self-effacing as you can manage, and Vriska and Terezi bound towards you with an energy you could only describe as jubilant. Karkat tries and fails not to look horrified.

“I knew we could trust you to bring something exciting back with you! I’m always telling these two,” she gestures wildly towards Karkat and Terezi, “that their lack of god tiering doesn’t mean they can half-ass their contributions! And if this isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is!”

You hear Dave protest, lightly, that they never argued that point with her. She pretends not to hear him.

“Now,” she says, grin cemented to her face through every syllable,

“Let’s find out if you can actually keep up with us.”

=>

There is some running and dodging involved when you first hit the floor in your re-integration to group training. Vriska, unsurprisingly, focuses most of her efforts on disrupting you as your feet launch you forward, sideways among the chaos of the group. It takes only a moment for you to remember the rhythm, the feel of this group dynamic, and you disrupt the space beside her just enough to make her stumble. Her laugh echoes across the room as she singes the bottom of Dave’s cape with a hot flash of light, and his is the pair of eyes yours meets first across the floor.

His path towards you is deliberate, complex, as he zig-zags across the field of colour and into the space beside you. You are already bracing yourself, setting your shoulders as he loops behind you, unsure reassurance of his hand softly on your neck. The space-time convulsion of the wall is tidier than your solitary initiative, and Dave’s weeks of practice give him the foresight to counter the onslaught of incoming attacks that you miss. Only one burst of colour gets through – Karkat’s – and it grazes over your cheek as you focus with Dave on spinning you immobile adversary into a junction of time and space where it was the most vulnerable, the least safe to inhabit. You stop only when the foundation starts to shake.

When Vriska lines her eyes up with yours later, her hand lacks the nervous professionalism of Dave’s, snaking over your back with calculated closeness. What rockets through your body isn’t black this time, but crimson, and you only feel the guilt hours later in your room: in soft, gentle waves.

Be Past Rose

You are twelve when she gets in her second car crash.

Shaken, bandage over nose, but fundamentally undisturbed, she sits with her friends in the living room once she’s finally discharged from the hospital. She regales them over coffee, or tea, it isn’t important; the important thing is the fact that she has a slight slur to her speech, one more trip to the “powder room” than necessary, as she tells them all how scary, how unexpected it was, when she was driving routinely along and that driver came out of nowhere. They are nodding along, sympathetic and persecutory on her behalf, and they are buying it.

They are buying the idea that your sole guardian cares whether she lives or dies.

Be Jade Harley

You are now Jade Harley, and it is one month into your airship journey.

Your friends have just exploded.

You are limited in extremes as far as what you can do on this airship, what actions you can take affecting the alpha timelines, but you are desperate, and you are alone, and you are soaking, saturated, sodden down the front of your dress with tears.

Wet, wet, wet.

It takes a lot of communication through space, expanding and contracting forces only barely registering as “physical” for you to interact with your abandoned timeline. But it still glows in the distance behind you, your exit a fresh wound still festering on the horizon.

You taste blood on your teeth when you finally reach the span of your phone’s radius back just far enough.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

-̸̡̻̲̣̫̓̓͂̍͋̽̔̈͐̈́͌͒͘͝-̷̢̢̥͍̬̖̞̣͕̝̯̥̟̭̇̃ ̶̰͖̲̖͔̙̙͖̝̋̇̈́ ̵͈̫̳͉͉̱̥̳̺͉̩͍̬̆̕j̶̨̙̥͖͓͎̯̜̹͕͋̅̇̔͛̓̈́͒̇̅̂̽̕͝á̶̡̱̝̗̟̐̑̈́d̷̨̨̘̩̝̣̙͉̖̖̳̗̼̆͑ě̸̤̐̽͒̅̍̌̏̉͌͒̅͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧̡̛͕͖͓͉̤̥̗̱͓̳͊̇̇͂͂̋̉̑̕̚ͅh̸̡̧̬̻͕͕͓̭̲̥̾̐͗͊͗ã̵̢̧̠̱̱̻̗͈̺̞̭̦͕̎͊̈͒̏̀̆̏͘̕̚͝ṛ̴̯̰̭̙͎̼̏̀̓̊̈́̽̃͗̈̾͑͝l̵̢͓͔̬̫̯̋͐͒̐͌̌͛̔̊̓͑͠ė̵̬͚̲̼͎͈̙̑̾̂͘ͅỳ̸̧̯͎̤͓̣̪̣̝͉͉̾͌̆͘͘͜ ̷̢̨͓̫̦̙͈͎͔̩̲͓́̎͜began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 0̶̧͖̪̼͓̯͇̩͐̀̽͘0̵͙̗̓͂̿͋͒̿:̵̢̪̠͍̺̈̈́͛̊0̶̧̳̹̩͓͍͕̺̼̩͍͆͒͜0̸̡̫̥̹̞̠͍̽̒ --

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

GG: rose!̷̮̙̤͈͊̅̒͋̈́̏͛̋̏͋!!

GG: rose i can’t h̴̞̳͌̀̀͛̐̍̑̂̂͋͘̚̚͜a̸̡̨̭̖͈̦͔̻̅̂̾͗̉̓́̆͗̔̍͘n̷̡͓̺̣͇̻͙̲̤͚̱̭̑̀d̸̡̢͈̯̺̦͎͕͕̻̩̐̅le this

GG: i can’t handle being alone for 3̵̫͇̤͕͍̘̪͚̜̠̮̤͙̉̇͐̅͘ fucking years

TT: What?

TT: Jade?

GG: i can’t handle it Rose

GG: daveş̶͈̝̙̳̘̥̜̱͊͒̽̆̈́̑̀̓̌̈́̈́̈́̅͗͘p̵̮̲̠̪͇̬̥̺͈̝͎͚̔̑̆̔̆͂̄̿r̸̨̢̛̲̞̫̙͍̜̎̄̇̃͋̓̆ǐ̵͖̲̼͔̫͕͇͙̙̐t̵̨̧̢̙̘͕͙̯͇̲̬͙͆̊̒̐͗̓͐̊͌̿̔͒̈͠ę̵̲̯̣͓̜͉̪͚͙̣͓̗̭͙̔̅ and john

GG: they just fucking exploded

GG: god i can’t

GG: i can’t be here alone!!!

TT: I don’t know how you can reach me Jade.

TT: But I’m here as long as you still can.

GG: rose I can s̸̡̡̩̩̱̔̽̚till s̷̞̳̣̟̱̱͎͊̽̎̎̿̒̑̇̚͘̚̚͜͜͝͝m̸̨̛̬͓͉͙͓͕̤̯͎͆̃̉̓̽ell them

GG: the whole planet

GG: just like that

GG: i̸̤̤̒̕t̷͓̱͈̐'̴̤̪̈s̸̫͆ ̴̯͍̩͆̃̀g̵͔͊̂̕ȏ̶͓̯̜ṇ̶͕͂́ḙ̸̜̍̕

GG: they’re ģ̷̛̞͚͒̑̽͑͒̈́̓̓̅̂̎̂̕͘̚ö̶̧̢̢̨̧͚̼̩͓̝̣̰̰̦̦̩͕̜̘̭͎̤̭̫̭͉̗̪̟̽͛͛̀͌̈́̇̅̎͂̊̅͒n̸̛̬̭̬̤̝͇̹͇͈͇̜͖̭̦̟͉̠̪̖͎̯̬̺͙̈́̉̇͆͌͛̈́̏̅̄̿̀̾̏͛̾͗̕͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅë̶̡̥̩͎̜̜̫̠̮͖̦̯̪̺́̓̆̃̉̉͛̏̈́̇͊̆̆̓̾̽͂̋͆̽̅̚͝͠

GG: I’m not going to fucking make this

GG: 3 fucking years

GG: i c̷̞͇̠̋a̸̡͓͙̓̚n’t

TT: Yes you can, Jade.

TT: You can.

TT: Not because it’s something any human could reasonably do.

TT: But for the alpha timeline to succeed, I know we need you.

TT: A jade, somewhere, needs to survive for the timeline to bear fruit.

TT:And I’d like it to be this one.

TT: So I can see you again.

GG: fuck!!!

GG: rose this is impossible

GG: it hurts s̴o̵ ̵m̴̡͙̈́̿̂û̶͎̥̒̍̃c̷̟̳̼̻̎̿͘h̵̲͇̗͆͘

GG: i’m so tired

GG: i’m tired of all of this h̸̭̬̫̟̳͓͉̟͈͛͌̏̓̐ą̸̡̥̦̯̳̪̞̫̫̮̠̘̝̖͇͍̯̠̠̗͕͙͖͎̮̱͙͇̩̱̙͙̭̳̝̟͓̯̳̈̋̈́͂̽̾̾̈́͘͠ͅp̴̢̡̡̨̛̭̟̹̲̗͓͉̱̜̙͉̗̹͓͎̩̺̞̘̹̖͕̜̰͙͎͓̘͚͖̳̀̽̄͗͗̒͐̆̄̃͆̄̏̇̀͠p̶̧̢̨͚̱͚̩͓͔͈̞̻̙͇̤͉̭̰̲̤̪͈͓͈̝͓͙̒̉̈́͋̽͆̑̆̎͐̾̈́̈́̏̆͂͒͋̏̋̐͋̏̔̂̀͐̚̕͘͘͝͝ë̵̡̨̞̜̼̙̱̺̲͓͇̪̯̭͈͚̫̱̘͇̜̺̼̻̜̪̦͚̤̻̞͈̭͕̝͗̌͗̀̈̑̆͝͝ͅn̸̨̥̩̟̟̂̋͐͂̎̓͊͐͆̔͐͐͊̐͋̐̈́͒̃̋͂̽͆̉̈̐̉̌̆̚̚̕͠͝͝i̸̛̬͔͓̔̉͗̄͛͑̐͂̎̒̎̎̂̈́̿̊̔̓̅̀̎͛̇̉̏̋̐̒͆̍̃̈́̈͂̃̚͘̕͠͝n̸̨̢̧̫̝̫̩̹̘̗͖̝͈͔̫̆͑g̸̢̩̳͔̼̻̱̪̺̪̓̌̊̈́͒͌̍̽̀͗̈͗̃̑̊̓̈͂̽͒̏̎͐̓̓̽̈͌͋̔̕̚͝͠͝ͅ

GG: we don’t fucking deserve this

TT: I know we don’t.

TT: Just.

TT: Please don’t be ashamed of anything you have to do to survive.

TT: We won’t judge you when we see you again. I promise.

TT: Okay?

GG: ok -̶̜̱̥̔̃͛̋͛̀͂̊̚͘+̶̨̳͉̻͑̄͂̚͘̚͝͝

GG: i love ÿ̸̨͚̖̦̝̀͌̃̔̄̊͂̍̍̂̑̂̍͗̆̊̚̕͝͝ou rose

The space between the words, between you and the timeline, is agonizing while you wait.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

TT: I love you too, Jade.

TT: I’m so sorry this had to happen.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

-̸̡̛͈̟̮̫͚̝̊̇̉̇̔̋͠͠͝-̶̖͎̼͚̖͕̣̩̉̈́͘ ̶̫̯̰͖̗̹̙̻̌͂͒̉̌̉̋͂͛͜J̸̧̤͙̹̪̑͐͋̕ͅǎ̸̡͓̜̔͂̂̑͘d̵̥͋͊̍̕e̷̢͍̦̦͈͆̆̿̕̕͝͠ ̴̧̯͍͇̏̃͜H̶̘͖̗̦̰̞̆̉̽̌͆a̸͙̿̄͑͜͝r̶̛̪̈̐͘͜l̸̛̳̩͇̪͔̩̠̺͇͆͌͂̈́̅͜͝ȩ̵̨̢̛̹̱̞̗̳̝̊͂͐̅̇̀̅͜y̶͉̥͍̥̲̎̿̐̒̅͋̃̕͜ ̸̨͉̄̎̏̓̒͘͝͠c̶͔͍̺̊̈ę̴͙͎̺͇̦̮̠̉̅̾̓̈ạ̴̢̢̘̹̮̣͍̠̖̇̄̇́̿̊͑͊͠s̴̖̜̤͚̈́̒͛̚͝e̵̢͉͖̥̬͕͆̈́͌̆̄̓͝d̵̛̲̀̄̌̅̎͐͐̊͜ ̷̨̙͚̈́̔͊̽͋͆p̷̡̻͎̰̫̝̣̺̫̣̿̽͂͆͂̍̐̕͠e̷͖̠̗̥̱͋̉̐̈́ͅş̸͓̤̙͈̆͑̍̎̈́͐͊̏͝ẗ̴͓͇̠̩̦̭́̿̀͌ȅ̸͍͇̗̟̼͉͆r̶̢̛͖̜̩͑̐̑͗̊͒͋̚i̵̱̯̣̔̄̎̔̽͗͘͘̕n̷̹̙̪͖͑ĝ̶̭͓̟̥͚͆͜ ̶̠̪̫̣̈̄̿̈̀͆̎̓͠t̵͍̱͔̙̝̣̼̓͑͌ȅ̶̲̥̞̆͂̈̚n̶̯̗̻̙̗̫̺̏̾t̸̨̻̳͛͗å̶̼̰̊̈́̄̕͝c̸͍͙̝̣̔̋̄̄̅̔ļ̷̥̥͙̜͉̦̤͍͎̈́̑̈́͌̎̌ë̵̲̣̞̤̪͔̼̗̞́Ţ̸͔̩͒́̔̌́͠ḩ̴̙̺̘̞̠͒̔͌͆̌̂͊͆̕e̷̡̢̨͖̣͙̳͍̚r̸̪̹̍̄͌̍ă̷̢̘̜̩͆͋̐́̋̕͝͝p̶̡͊̅͛͒̌̋̃͜͝͝ĭ̴͖͍̖͉̈́̒̚͜ͅs̴̘̫͎͈̯̠͋͂̀̈̉͝ͅẗ̸̳̥̕̚ ̶̛̣̗̥̈̌͐̂̽a̷͔̜͖̟͈̽̆̃̐̈́͒t̴̛̻̯͎͍̝̤͊͊̿̄̅̑͂͜ ̸̨̯̳͖̙̔̒̉̈́̈́̽͘͜0̶̡̠͖̩̳̝̟̺̓͒͝0̵̜̼̱̗̯̅͑̃͛̑͠:̶̟͉͚̻͛̋͋̾͠%̵̝̂̇͜&̸̢͚͔̹̞̘̩͗̉̈́̑̇͆͜-̸̨̛̯͉̃͛̒̕͘͝-̸͍̰̈̏̓́́

-̵̷̸̸̵̶̵̷̸̸̵̸̸̵̵̷̵̶̷̷̶̸̶̴̷̴̴̴̵̵̶̸̵̶̶̸̴̷̶̷̸̴̵̶̴̸̶̵̵̵̶̷̴̴̴̶̷̶̡̛͈̟̮̫͚̝̊̇̉̇̔̋͠͠͝-̷̷̸̶̸̷̴̸̷̴̸̸̸̷̵̷̴̸̶̸̴̴̴̴̵̸̸̶̶̷̸̴̵̸̴̴̴̶̵̴̖͎̼͚̖͕̣̩̉̈́͘ ̷̶̵̶̴̶̷̶̴̶̸̶̶̸̷̶̷̸̶̷̸̷̶̸̶̵̸̶̷̷̴̵̶̵̸̶̷̶̵̸̵̶̶̸̸̸̶̸̴̴̷̷̶̶̴̶̵̵̵̴̷̫̯̰͖̗̹̙̻̌͂͒̉̌̉̋͂͛͜J̵̴̶̸̸̸̵̸̵̷̷̶̵̶̷̵̶̶̸̷̶̵̶̸̴̷̷̸̸̵̴̷̸̷̵̴̸̧̤͙̹̪̑͐͋̕ͅǎ̶̶̴̸̶̶̶̴̶̵̸̷̶̷̵̷̸̸̶̸̷̷̸̵̴̵̸̸̵̷̶̸̶̵̸̷̸̡͓̜̔͂̂̑͘d̸̵̷̵̸̷̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̴̴̸̸̸̶̸̷̴̥͋͊̍̕ ̷e̴̶̵̷̸̵̸̵̷̶̸̷̸̴̸̷̷̶̴̵̷̵̵̵̶̸̴̴̸̷̴̴̴̸̵̸̵̶̸̸̴̵̶̢͍̦̦͈͆̆̿̕̕͝͠ ̸̷̴̴̶̶̷̷̷̶̸̵̴̶̵̷̷̶̸̷̷̵̸̴̴̷̷̵̧̯͍͇̏̃͜H̶̸̵̶̷̸̷̵̸̵̴̶̸̶̷̵̴̷̷̵̵̸̶̴̸̵̶̵̷̴̶̴̵̴̷̸̸̴̸̷̘͖̗̦̰̞̆̉̽̌͆a̶̷̴̸̴̶̶̶̴̷̵̵̵̶̸̸̵̴̵̴̴̵̴̷̵̸̶̶͙̿̄͑͜͝r̷̷̷̶̴̶̵̶̶̶̵̷̸̶̸̷̵̶̸̸̵̵̶̵̸̶̸̶̸̸̸̛̪̈̐͘͜l̶̵̷̸̵̵̶̴̶̵̸̴̴̶̴̸̷̷̶̴̷̶̸̷̵̸̴̸̶̶̶̵̷̴̴̶̶̶̷̴̴̶̸̸̷̸̷̴̶̶̴̶̵̶̷̴̴̸̷̵̴̛̳̩͇̪͔̩̠̺͇͆͌͂̈́̅͜͝ȩ̴̵̸̵̴̸̸̴̶̵̸̵̴̷̷̴̵̵̴̶̵̶̶̷̵̷̴̴̵̵̵̸̷̵̴̸̷̶̸̶̷̵̴̷̵̵̵̸̸̸̸̸̷̵̵̵̵̶̷̶̷̨̢̛̹̱̞̗̳̝̊͂͐̅̇̀̅͜ ̷-̸y̴̴̸̶̴̸̸̸̴̷̷̷̶̷̶̴̵̵̶̷̵̶̸̷̸̸̴̷̴̶̴̴̵̵̵̵̸̴̸̴̵̴̴̶̴̶̶̷̵̸̷̵͉̥͍̥̲̎̿̐̒̅͋̃̕͜ ̸̴̴̸̴̷̴̷̴̴̴̶̶̷̸̸̵̷̴̸̷̷̷̴̶̵̶̸̴̸̴̵̸̴̸̷̶̨͉̄̎̏̓̒͘͝͠c̶̴̶̶̴̸̴̵̸̸̷̷̶̴̴̶̵̵̸̷̸̸͔͍̺̊̈ę̴̸̴̴̶̵̷̷̶̶̸̴̷̸̵̸̴̶̵̶̶̷̴̴̷̸̷̶̶̴̷̷̷̷̵̸̴̶̴̶̴̸̴̸̸̷͙͎̺͇̦̮̠̉̅̾̓̈ạ̸̸̴̴̴̴̶̵̵̷̴̸̷̴̷̴̸̵̵̸̴̷̷̴̸̴̶̴̶̶̴̴̷̶̵̴̷̴̷̵̵̵̶̷̶̷̶̴̸̶̸̵̸̷̸̷̴̸̷̷̴̴̸̸̴̴̸̢̢̘̹̮̣͍̠̖̇̄̇́̿̊͑͊͠s̷̸̸̴̶̵̶̶̸̷̷̶̵̶̸̴̵̴̴̴̷̶̸̷̸̶̶̶̸̸̶̴̵̴̖̜̤͚̈́̒͛̚͝e̵̶̶̵̷̸̴̸̷̶̵̵̴̶̶̶̵̵̷̸̴̶̵̸̷̵̷̸̴̸̶̶̶̷̵̷̸̴̷̵̷̷̷̷̶̷̢͉͖̥̬͕͆̈́͌̆̄̓͝d̵̴̶̵̵̴̷̶̶̶̷̴̴̸̴̵̴̴̸̶̴̶̵̶̸̴̸̵̴̴̴̸̷̵̷̴̸̶̸̶̛̲̀̄̌̅̎͐͐̊͜ ̴̶̸̷̶̸̷̵̴̷̸̸̵̵̵̵̸̷̸̷̸̸̴̸̷̵̸̴̴̷̵̴̴̴̨̙͚̈́̔͊̽͋͆p̸̸̶̷̸̶̸̷̷̸̶̸̷̵̵̴̸̸̸̵̸̵̶̶̵̸̸̶̶̴̴̶̵̵̸̴̸̸̴̵̸̴̸̴̴̶̸̴̴̷̴̷̴̷̵̸̷̴̵̴̶̷̷̷̸̵̵̡̻͎̰̫̝̣̺̫̣̿̽͂͆͂̍̐̕͠e̸̷̵̷̵̴̷̸̴̴̷̴̷̸̶̴̵̸̶̵̷̵̷̶̶̸̴̶̷̷̸̸̷̶̵̶̷͖̠̗̥̱͋̉̐̈́ͅ-̸-̸ş̵̶̴̸̵̸̴̸̴̴̶̶̷̷̶̴̸̸̴̴̷̸̴̷̷̸̴̶̴̷̵̵̸̴̷̷̵̶̴̴̶̷̸̸̶̶̸̵̷͓̤̙͈̆͑̍̎̈́͐͊̏͝ẗ̸̵̶̴̵̷̶̸̵̶̷̴̶̷̷̶̸̴̵̴̸̵̴̷̵̴̸̵̸̷̸̸̵̶̸̶̷͓͇̠̩̦̭́̿̀͌ȅ̸̵̶̸̴̴̶̷̶̷̷̴̸̸̶̷̵̴̸̶̵̷̷̸̶̷̷̵̵̸̷̷̶̶͍͇̗̟̼͉͆r̶̸̸̶̸̴̴̶̷̵̶̵̷̵̵̸̸̷̷̸̶̶̸̷̷̶̸̵̶̸̴̸̴̵̸̴̵̵̶̵̴̴̵̷̶̸̢̛͖̜̩͑̐̑͗̊͒͋̚i̸̸̶̵̴̷̷̵̷̷̷̷̴̷̴̴̸̶̶̷̴̶̸̶̷̷̵̴̸̵̷̵̶̷̵̴̷̴̷̸̶̵̵̱̯̣̔̄̎̔̽͗͘͘̕n̶̵̶̷̸̴̸̷̷̶̵̴̵̷̵̶̴̴̴̶̴̸̹̙̪͖͑ĝ̷̶̴̶̸̵̵̷̶̸̵̴̶̸̷̵̴̶̴̸̵̸̷̶̵̴̴̸̶̴̵̭͓̟̥͚͆͜ ̴̶̵̶̸̵̷̶̸̶̵̷̶̶̷̷̶̸̵̷̵̷̷̸̵̸̶̶̶̵̷̸̴̵̸̶̵̵̶̶̶̸̵̶̵̴̸̷̶̠̪̫̣̈̄̿̈̀͆̎̓͠t̴̵̴̵̷̵̷̷̴̴̶̴̷̶̵̵̴̶̶̴̴̸̸̷̵̷̷̷̴̷̸̶̵̸̷̷̷͍̱͔̙̝̣̼̓͑͌ȅ̴̴̵̶̴̸̸̴̸̶̸̷̴̶̶̸̴̸̶̸̸̵̸̴̷̸̵̸̷̴̸̲̥̞̆͂̈̚n̷̸̴̶̷̸̶̶̶̴̵̴̵̶̷̸̴̸̵̷̴̶̵̶̵̴̴̶̵̸̷̶̸̴̯̗̻̙̗̫̺̏̾t̸̸̴̸̷̴̷̶̶̶̷̴̴̴̴̴̶̴̷̵̶̸̨̻̳͛͗-̵å̷̴̶̶̴̸̸̴̴̷̸̴̴̷̷̷̴̵̸̷̴̸̵̶̵̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̶̸̼̰̊̈́̄̕͝c̸̸̴̸̷̷̶̶̵̶̵̷̵̶̷̵̷̴̶̴̷̴̶̵̴̵̴̸̴̴̷̵̸̴̷̵̵̶̶̷͍͙̝̣̔̋̄̄̅̔ļ̵̵̴̷̸̴̶̶̷̷̸̵̵̸̸̸̷̴̵̵̴̷̵̵̷̸̶̷̷̵̶̴̶̷̸̷̴̸̸̶̷̵̵̴̶̵̴̴̸̴̷̷̵̷̵̶̵̷̥̥͙̜͉̦̤͍͎̈́̑̈́͌̎̌ë̴̷̴̵̶̸̸̵̵̵̵̴̶̸̴̷̴̷̴̶̸̶̸̴̶̷̶̶̷̶̷̶̶̶̸̴̸̲̣̞̤̪͔̼̗̞́Ţ̴̴̶̸̷̴̵̸̶̷̷̴̸̵̷̵̷̸̷̵̵̵̸̶̸̷̶̸̸̸̸̴̵̵͔̩͒́̔̌́͠ḩ̶̵̸̴̴̷̸̷̸̶̷̷̸̵̶̸̸̵̸̵̴̸̴̶̶̶̶̷̷̸̶̷̵̴̸̴̶̵̷̶̴̷̵̵̵̸̸̷̷̶̵̶̙̺̘̞̠͒̔͌͆̌̂͊͆̕e̴̵̷̷̴̶̵̵̴̵̸̴̵̴̶̵̵̵̵̵̶̶̸̴̵̴̷̴̸̶̶̴̴̴̡̢̨͖̣͙̳͍̚r̵̸̴̸̶̵̸̶̸̷̸̶̸̷̴̵̵̴̸̸̵̶̷̴̸̪̹̍̄͌̍ă̸̵̵̷̵̶̵̷̴̴̴̶̶̸̵̷̷̶̸̷̵̶̵̵̸̵̷̷̴̴̵̸̶̵̸̷̴̸̴̴̸̷̴̸̶̷̢̘̜̩͆͋̐́̋̕͝͝^̶p̸̶̴̶̴̸̸̷̷̶̵̵̴̵̵̵̴̶̶̷̵̵̷̶̴̶̵̸̶̷̴̵̵̶̶̷̶̷̷̵̡͊̅͛͒̌̋̃͜͝͝ĭ̸̶̸̴̶̷̸̴̶̸̵̷̶̵̸̶̷̸̸̷̵̶̴̴̵̸̴̴̷̷̷̸̴̶̴̵̶͖͍̖͉̈́̒̚͜ͅs̴̷̴̴̶̷̵̸̷̷̴̷̸̵̸̷̴̴̸̸̸̴̷̸̷̶̷̶̵̵̷̶̸̴̸̴̴̴̴̶̸̵̶̸̴̷̘̫͎͈̯̠͋͂̀̈̉͝ͅẗ̴̴̵̸̸̷̶̵̴̷̷̸̴̴̷̷̶̶̸̴̴̷̳̥̕̚ ̸̴̷̶̴̵̴̷̷̴̴̷̸̸̶̸̵̸̶̶̵̷̴̵̵̴̷̴̷̶̸̷̵̶̵̷̵̛̣̗̥̈̌͐̂̽a̵̴̶̷̷̵̶̸̶̸̵̷̴̶̶̵̵̷̵̵̸̷̶̵̵̶̴̸̶̵̶̴̵̵̷̵̷̴̵̵̶̸̷͔̜͖̟͈̽̆̃̐̈́͒t̶̵̸̴̶̴̵̴̶̴̷̸̴̸̴̷̶̸̸̴̶̸̵̸̷̴̷̷̸̸̵̴̷̵̶̶̵̶̵̵̸̶̷̴̴̵̴̸̷̸̵̷̛̻̯͎͍̝̤͊͊̿̄̅̑͂͜-̶ ̵̴̶̸̸̷̷̵̸̴̵̴̸̶̵̵̴̵̸̴̸̵̶̴̵̸̷̷̸̸̴̵̴̶̵̶̴̶̶̷̷̶̸̶̸̶̸̷̵̨̯̳͖̙̔̒̉̈́̈́̽͘͜0̶̶̴̶̸̴̸̵̷̴̵̶̷̵̴̸̷̷̵̴̷̸̷̶̶̶̷̶̴̵̸̴̸̷̸̶̶̶̵̶̡̠͖̩̳̝̟̺̓͒͝0̵̴̸̵̵̶̸̷̷̵̷̵̵̶̴̷̶̶̴̶̴̷̸̴̴̶̸̷̷̷̵̶̷̶̸̸̸̵̷̷̜̼̱̗̯̅͑̃͛̑͠:̴̵̷̶̷̴̸̵̷̷̵̸̴̸̴̸̵̶̷̶̸̴̸̷̴̶̶̶̶̴̴̵̵̴̟͉͚̻͛̋͋̾͠%̸̴̷̵̶̴̸̶̴̴̵̶̵̵̸̴̶̵̸̝̂̇͜&̸̶̸̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̵̷̴̴̸̶̶̸̵̶̴̷̵̷̶̸̴̵̵̸̵̴̴̷̶̷̴̵̶̵̸̷̷̴̷̷̶̷̶̢͚͔̹̞̘̩͗̉̈́̑̇͆͜-̴̴̵̸̴̶̷̶̷̴̴̶̸̶̴̴̶̸̷̸̵̴̴̶̵̷̸̶̷̸̵̸̵̸̴̴̴̸̷̷̨̛̯͉̃͛̒̕͘͝-̴̶̸̸̷̶̴̸̵̸̸̸̵̶̵̵̸̶̶̶̵̵̴̸̵̶̶̴͍̰̈̏̓́́

s̷̰̻̟͇̼͍̳̪̗̠̰̘̻͉̫͉̙̜̒̅̿́̄̆̊t̸͈̑͗͛͘e̷͔̟̘͚̜̚͜ŗ̵̛̳̀͊̇̂̈́͊͋̾̏͒̕͠͠į̸̢͖͎͓̙͇͓̽̉̆̅͂̐̓̀͛͆͗ͅṋ̸̆̈́̓̅̄̃̏̾̅̇̽̽͐͊̒͂̏͠ĝ̸̲̭̙̯͇̳̬͎̜̥̰̩̫̙̺͔͈͙ ̶̧̡̧̛̫̙͔̦̱̬͓̩̜̰̩̳̻̜̆̀́̅̒̑̄̄̊͑͗͘̚͜t̵͔̬͖̯̞̞̗̗͎̳̳̖͙́͒̋̓̑͑̚ͅȩ̶̢̲̥̮̘̭̱̰͖̙̹͙̙͕̤̞͐̉̓̊͂̓̾́͗̿̒̊̌̃̇̕͜͝͠n̶̢̦͖̺͕̖̻͖̤̩̥̍̋͂̐͒̋̂͌̈́͒͂͗͛͘͝͝t̸̰̅̃̒-̵̗̭̬̎͆̌̎̐͝a̸̧̡͕͓̠̱̼͖̣̞̫̣̻̖̲̎̅͑͗̔̒͆͜c̷̡͎̩͉̬͚̯͚̬̯̫̪̈́̇͐͋̿̆̋̇̓́̎̕l̴̨̡͓̬͕͓͙͇̥͇̫̞̬̭̭̦̐͊͗̓͊̾̓̅̃̄͊̈́͘͠e̵̳̯̫̦̖̺̣̺̠̰͍̣̝͕̰̜͗̋̊̃͛̉͗́̽̂̂͌̕ͅT̸̢̧̧̮̲̟͍̙͎̲͉̦̯̏͆̀h̵̨̨̩͙̺̗͖̯͙̜̘͚͓̲̝̜̔̊͂̓̊̏͝ȩ̷̧̳̜̬͙͎̖̙̩̲̹̃̆̑̎̆̇͜͝ͅȑ̶̕͝��̨̥̮̝̙̗̏͑͒̈̄͋̅̕a̸̧̨̭̰̠͖͈̖̠̤̖̘̖̯̣͊́͜^̶̢̥͎̪͓̲̙͇͎̖͖̯̯͕̰̗̑͌͜͝p̷̧̞̖̭̯̺̝̦̩̭̹̫̚͜͝i̶̧̟͓̿͋̎̾͛̉͂̾͊̈́̄͗s̸̻̣̞͖̖̾̆t̴͉̞͖̹̥̿͌͌͂̊͛̎͆̃͘͜͝͝ ̵̡̧̻͚̣͇̰̰͓̗̻̻͔̎͊̊ͅa̸̧̨̡̛̛̩̥̜̭̖͂̈́̄̍͗̑͗̍̈́̊t̷̨̥͙͕̞̲̟̦̫̐̏ͅ-̶̨̢̨̡̛̝̥͎͇͖̖̹̻͆̑̔͊̃̿͘͘͝ͅ ̶̠̼̺͔̘̗̬̑͗̈́̈̒͋͐̿͌̾̀͒̽̈́̍̇0̵̢͇͙̤͇̱̤̘̩̼̯̜̻̤̳̮͛̈̐̈̈́̀̈̈́͘͜0̵̡̬͉͙̭̟̔͒̋̿̾̋͆͐͐̃̈́̄̈́͘̚:̸̨̧̺̹͍̖͙̦̥̭̼̥̫̀̏̎̌̑̌̐͐̚͜͝%̵̻̺͉̈́̅̓̽̿͘&̶̡̖̪̯͍̪̮̽̿̋̈́̈́͆̕͘͝-̷̞̘̹̹̼͎͓̹͕͉̟͚͇̿̓̋́̓̎̽̈́̍͂̈̕̕͝͝͝-̷̡̦͇̝̣͓̱͔̮͓̺̍̄̏̓͋̈́͐͐͗͊̂͗̉͗̓ͅ

Ť̵̢̢̨̛̙̦̖̺̘̭̱̠̭̟̘̥̘͍̥̘̄̓͗̔̽͂̿̃̂̔̐̽̊̈́̋͛́̀̄̊̉͒͒̋͆̏̊͐̓͒͐̓̅̎̎̀̽̆̈́͘̚͘͘̚̕̕͜͝͝ẖ̸͈͕̞̞̹̓̅͆̃̽̑̒̿̎̍́̉͂̂̉̋̈́̈͋͆̍͆̽̿̍̑͊̈́̊̈́̃͐̍̆̚͘̕̚͜͠͠͝͠e̶̢̢̧̨̛͕͕̞̞̥̪̱̺̥̙̳̲̗̪̖͉̩̬̠̼̗͇͎̦̟͎͕͉̖̲̝̠̖̞̱̱̤̟͋̐̎̈́̄̎͋̉̑̈̌̉̄̑̏͛͑̎̎́͂͠ͅr̵̢̢̡̡̛̦̞̤̜͗͐͑̆̄̽͆̿̂͒̆͗̍̿̊̆̽̒̏̎̆̆̉̏̌̓̉́̋̚͘̚͝͝͠à̴̢̧̨̨̡̡̛̛͇̮̣̬̖̗͖̻͍̗̠̝̟̲̤̳͖͎̠̲͎͓̰͓̙̹̼͚̱͚͓͚̝̜̻̻̙̙͕̼̮̩͖̭̙͊̒̆̎͂̾̐̈́̎̓̄̇͑̈́̈́͆̿̄̾̃͗̿̏̑̒̑̔͆̉̊̔͘̚̚̚͘͘͠͝p̵̡̧̢̡̛̟̯͓̹̮̥̖̻̳̞̦̜̟̱̝͖̪͙͖̱̰̰̦̗͕̺̖̘̂͂͊̎̿̀̍͑͛̾̈́́́͋̒̃͆͐̅̍̂̍̎̊͊̎̔͂̿̑͂̂͋̒̌͆̇̓̆̿̎̌́̉̋͌̍̽̔̇́͗̌͂̆̍́̕͘̚͘͝͝͠͝͠í̷̢̢̢̨̧̧̡̜̝͍̤͍̪̖̭̥̩̜͈̬̖̣̭̜̗͉̙͕͔̥̗̥̼͙͈̞̮͔͔͙̲̩͔͕̮̼̮̦̦̝̭̱̩̜̗̞̥̺͇̭̂̈́̌͊̿̈͗͌̑͐̓͗̾̈́́̉͊̇͋̑̎̈́͘̕̕͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅteš̵̢̛̞̪̖̗̲͉͎͉̖̻̝͚͇̯̘̙͓̠͖̬͕̖̤̤̟͕̰̦̹̠̣̘̣̼̹̗̣̉͒̈́̉͆͂̔̈́̃͛͊̈́͋̾͛̄͂̐͆͑̋̌̓̏̍̎͋̌̈̐̎̄̎̈́̊̏̄̎̏͒͐̎̋̈̅̇̕̚͜͜͠͠͠͠ț̵̡̡̢̟͖̬̌̈́̃̿͑̓̂̿́͐̾̑͆̉̌̄̓́͆̈́̂̀̈́̏̿̔̇͜͝-̸̷̶̸̶̶̸̵̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̶̨̨̢̢̧̨̢̛̛͓͙̠̩͉̪̘̩͎͓̻͙͍͔̳͓̪͔͇͈̟͚̼̲̩͚̯͖͖̟͇̣̹͍̼̥̘̪̦̜̜̱̼̟̦͉̰̭̻͓͍̫̦͖̫̜̮̹̙̠̺̗͕̰͇̯͈͙͉͈͈̣͔̯͉̲̼͒̃̈́̑̆̌͐̈́̈́͗͒̓͆͛̓̾̊̎̇̂̈́͛̐̇̇̌͊̿̒͐̿̔͆͑̃͒̓̿̿̏͗̆̈́͐̅͑͌͌̽̉͒̾̉̐̄̓̑̌̌͌̍̚̕̚̚͘̕͘͝͠ͅͅͅ/̶̵̵̵̶̴̵̷̷̸̸̡̧̧̡̧̡̨̧̧̨̧̡̢̢̛̛̛̘͉͎̙̞͓͉͓̣̣̙̱̳̪̝̙͎͎̗̱̪̖͎̝̬̼͙̫̩̫̘̣͔̼̖͕̟̮̮̹̰͉̘͚͓̬̠̹̝̙̯̼̱̀͐̾̈́̈̋̏̓͐͊̄̒̀͌͒͊̈́̈́͒̓͆̐͑͌̽͑̀̌̔̑́͛̊̀̈́͒́̏̂͊̽̈́̐́͐͑̊̈́̕͘̕̚̚͜͝͝͠ͅ\̶̵̷̶̷̸̡̡̭̦̯̯̖̤̫̣̬͕͖̙͉͍͈͙͉̽̇̅̄̿̂̿̅̀̃̌̐̚̚̚̚͘͘͝͝͝

+̴̸̷̶̸̸̷̴̵̶̸̴̸̶̸̴̸̸̶̷̸̨̡̢̢̡̨̡̧̡̢̢̡̧̡̛̙͙̻̬̳͚̗̠̭͚̖͍̩̺̥̳̯̙̗̙̝̟͙̺̱͙̣̪̫̣̤̗̬͇͍̠͍͕͈̦̭̺̟͇̟̣͈̰̗͙͍̩̗̩͉̻̗̬̯̯͍̤͈̻̤̣͚̼̱̙̼̮̦͍̬̲̞̳̫̳̪̭̦͉̦̪̝̺̲̪͓̤͍͙͙̬̬̠̾̏́̉͗̍̈́̈́̀̈́́͒̽̊̑̈́͐̊͒̄̓̅̃̈́̑̈́̓̂͌̽̓̆̅̽̓͋̅̒̍͌͆̆͑̈̓͋̏̐̃̄̊̂͂͗͑̂̈́̓̐͆̄́͂̽̒̎̂͗́͐̅̄̈́̑̏̒̿̔̏̍͑̎̆͗̎̿͊̐̅͛̐̂͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅ|̶̴̴̵̷̸̶̷̷̶̷̶̴̷̷̷̸̴̧̢̢̧̛̛͕̤̪̫͈̖̘̺̱̳͓͍͍̱͈͇̺̖̫̖̯͎̜̳̲̞͙͇̹̣̯̰̹͎̙̭͎̝̜̭̤͍͔͈̤͓̤͖̬̙̱͍̠̳̼̱͉̲͖͕̖̼̰̩̫̜͍̬̬̦̞̹̲̞͕̮͖̜̈́̾̑̄̇̓̇̅͒̈́̇̀̈̐̂̄̏̃̂̈́̓̀̋́̇̈̄͋́͊͛̔̍̓͋͛̄̄̉̈́̓̎͗̏̍̆͐̎̍̊̾̅̏̓͛͒̈́̎̎̀̓̆̒͛̎̅́̽͂́̃͑̉́̊́̊̎̒̃̌͆̆́͑́̒͑̂͛̉̾̔͛̍͆͋̇͒̈́̇͑̃͐̐̐̑̍̃̐̚̕̚͘̕̚͜͠͝͠͠ͅͅ/̷̶̶̶̷̴̷̵̶̨̢̡̧̢̡̛̹̙͚͉̣̳͚̥̤͓̭̼͚͓̯̞̗̪̟̟̞̟̠͇̬͉͇̦̣̻͕͎̝̼̻̩̬͍͕͍̣̳̯̙͖̝̉̈́̓̃͛̃͊̀̋̃͐́̐̈́̾͆̔̈́̈́͒̓̈́̔̽̌̔̃͆̆͒̃̈́̆̇̎̽̊̓̽̓̽̋͌̄̍̿̕̕̚͜͜͠͝͠͠ͅ\̶̵̸̸̶̸̴̷̷̸̵̶̵̴̸̶̵̵̵̵̧̢̨̧̢̡̧̛̛͚̼̮͎̮̯̗̲̲̠̖͓͇̤͕̬̖̰͇̯̼̝̭̬̳͈̪̩̜͖̲͇̗̬̣̩̹̝̙͍̜͈̤̩͖͇̱͔̫̣̙̼͍̩͕̯̯̞͍̬̤̼͍̳̯̹͍͈͔͙̠̼̥̮̯̯̪̼̬̟̩̫̖͆̃́͗̔̊͆̂̽̊̓͑̓͋͌̓̋͊͂̎̿͋̊̏̓̈̓͛͑́̽̃̀̈́̽͛̿̅͛͑̊̽̾̄̿̍̓͑̂̃̍͑̏̒̾̉̆͊͑̇̽̊̄́͆̓̆͑̌̿͂͋̏̇͛̉̔̃̿̏͗͑̂̒̐͒̈́̌̽͌͌̏͗͗̚͘̚̕̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ|̴̶̶̶̵̸̵̶̷̵̧̡̧̨̟̬̪̭͚̞͇͉͍͇̣̹̲͈̲̖̞̹̤̠̥̥̜̫͙̗̙͈̬̫͇̝͔͎̟̹̠̮͌͛͑̅͒̇̄̏̽͆̂̿̿̑̈̃̇̂̐̔̆̒̈́̉̐͊̿̏͆͛̓͆̂́͒̏̈̃́̃͆͐͛͂̚̕͜͝͝^̸̴̴̶̵̷̸̷̵̵̷̨̧̢̧̨̢̨̧̛͙̦͓̻̳̫̘̞̺̺̠͍͉̭͉͖̗͉̼̳̖̲̹̝̫̳̟͖͇̼̗̼̘̘̜͖̣̲͚̺̤̭̞͓͈͙̝͇̬͐́̔̈̉̎̆̈́̃̈́͊͂̅̓͗̏͑̂̑̀̈́͗͛̏̾̂̈́̈́͛͂̏̏̾̂̅͛̏͑̄̂͋̏̾̾̿̐͌̔̍̂̄̈́͌̓̊͒̃̽̇͑̋͘̕͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅ_̷̵̴̵̴̴̸̷̡̨͈̜̗͎̩̖̗̖̠͓̗̹̠̭̗͎͈̟̺̫̹̝̝͕̟̦͕̣̯͕̠͍͉̮͚̳̩͚̮̲̜̤͍̲̫̓̋̒͗͗͆̔͛̓͌̉͋̍̃̐̎́̇̈̅͌͌̇̓͒͠ͅ-̴̶̶̷̵̴̴̴̸̶̴̨̨̧̢̨̧̛͈͙͍͎̬̪͎̺̩̰̣̝̯͉͚̯̪̼̬̪̤͔̳̥̫̪̙̬̰̰͔͖̬̜̪͇̜͓̲̙͍̗̟͖̟̱̭͉̯͚̖͉͙̣̟͈̞̮̣͖̤̟̥̭͎͔̬̞̃͋̾̃́͆̃̄̈́̑̈́̆̐̎̓̈̄̾͒̈́̓̍̐̃̂̔̓͊̃͊̏̌͛̄͊̈́̔͊̄̆̇͋̽̋͗̌̍͊̈́̌̆̃̿͛͘̕̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝+̸̷̷̸̵̸̵̸̧̧̡̧̛̩̙̪̻̰̬̟̟̭̹̘̭̱͙̭̳̘̠̗̳̞̫͕̟̦̖̟̥͕͈̲͂̉̆̄̎̋̊̒̎̂̉̂̍̽̾̂̒͆͊̃͊̈́̆̑̉̅̎̓̐̕͘͝͠͝ͅ

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

Buffered by a year on both sides, you are the only one she speaks these three words to.

You scream when you see your popped blood vessels in the mirror.

#rosemary #alcoholism #car crashes #death #gif #scribbles