never forget...
read again?
no you did not see me repost this, shh
hemlo!! thank ya'll so so much for enjoying this lil comic series!! i know it's been a year since the first part, but most importantly i finished it 💀✨️
every single tags ya'll leave on me posts and past questions i recieve about this au is super appreciated, they make me smile the widest you have no clue!! im just a lil mad at myself that i couldn't expand on this au more so yall could have had more crumbs. irl stuff happened + still getting the hang of drawing and socializing again after years of doing neither of those 😭
but still, im glad i could share this comfort comic i made for myself, and for you guys too. it's a pretty personal one despite the characters not being mine 😅 i hope that you can walk away from this story believing (entirely or not) that someone out there still thinks of you, whether they're from a late/absent loved one who still wants the best for you or a dear friend who will make room in their hearts for you. life will never not be hard, but if you keep them close to your heart, adulting will be bearable 🫂
thank you so much for reading 💕
629 notes
·
View notes
[edit: this is a bit outdated, now! You can read the full narrative of these events over here!]
The water between the Discovery Islands, off the coast of British Columbia, is perhaps the sleepiest, most uneventful little corner of the entire Pacific Ocean. It’s a perfect little cradle for the marine life that abundantly lives there. And so, when something peculiar does occur within the tranquil archipelago, it is never to be dismissed.
Which is why, when an enormous bubble that rose up from the depths between Vancouver Island and Quadra Island went wholly unreported, locals were easily persuaded into believing that their memories of the sudden tidal swel--which swallowed their shorelines in the middle of the night and claimed no victims--was a phenomenon of mass delusion.
With little to nothing in the way of consequence following that strange night, it was easy to fall back onto the knowledge that things such as tsunamis simply cannot occur in isolation among the dense cluster of quiet little islands. Magritte and Rafael, however, were not so unchanged by the events that took place.
Magritte remembers how the icey bite of the water numbed her oyster-torn palms. She remembers imagining the finger of a monkey paw curling when she finally got to see the dorsal fins of the orcas that everyone but her had been so fortunate to spot from the Smelt Bay shoreline. They were close enough to touch, but she could not bring up her arms. She remembers singing, in poorly ragged notes, to Orion who remained aloof and uncaring among the rest of the stars in the sky.
Whether Magritte’s memories of being swept out to sea that night are real or hallucinatory in nature, life in their little island cottage was never quite the same afterwards. Magritte had spent the following week in bed, recovering from a fever–and all the while, Rafael would frequently hear her calling his name in a hoarse, tired voice from the yard outside. Her silhouette could, for fleeting moments, be seen breaking up the moonlit boughs of the evergreen forest bordering the property. And, she would sing…a ragged, slightly nonsense song which sounded as though it had been composed as a futile weapon against a fading consciousness.
It should have been unnerving. In fact, it could have been wholly upsetting. Though it sounded perfectly like her, Magritte was not out there beckoning him. She was upstairs resting, safe and cozy. Still, the doppelganger called and crooned. It met Rafael’s consciousness not as an ill omen, but as a wandering curiosity. His name met him as an inquiry, the ragged singing as an attempt at conversation. He responded by leaving an offering of tea and cookies at the foot of the porch steps leading into the side yard, where thought he had occasionally caught a glimpse of her inconsistent contours against the foliage of the forest.
He didn’t wholly believe that the phantom Magritte outside actually existed. In the mornings, the mug of tea would be tipped over, and the cookies taken away by the local wildlife. But, that empty plate was encouragement enough for him to keep up the little ritual, at least until Magritte–the real Magritte–was back on her feet. And indeed, once Magritte had returned to her energetic self, the shadow of her that lurked by the treeline every night prior…fell silent and unseen.
Until Magritte invited it inside.
It did not speak, but held them with a swallowing gaze. So slender, so gentle mannered. It had approached Magritte with an armful of fish; an apology. Magritte invited it in, and Rafael prepared a late dinner for the three of them.
It became the new evening ritual; it would arrive at the cottage with a fresh haul from the sea, Magritte would invite it inside, Rafael would make dinner from whatever it had brought them. Each night, its appearance changed little by little into something less vaguely otherworldly. Or, perhaps, they were simply growing more familiar. It taught them the song that Magritte had sung to Orion (she had, herself, forgotten the lyrical genius of her delirium), and they recomposed it into a jovial, drunken shanty together. They introduced their peculiar houseguest to mp3s, fleece-lined sweaters, and strawberry rhubarb ice cream, and in exchange, it brought them uniquely shaped shells and foraged trinkets from the bay.
These nightly visitations continued until, at last, it–she adopted a name she had heard and liked; Cortes.
And, she stayed that night until morning, and until the morning after that, and the morning after that, and…so forth.
175 notes
·
View notes
Hi hello I just read your entire fanfic in like two sittings and I’m sobbing you’re an extremely talented writer my friend! Have you ever considered writing original novels and such? You’d totally kill in that part of the world! I’m not exaggerating this shit is perfect aaaaaaa
WEH thank you so much that is so sweet ;w;
45 notes
·
View notes