Chapter Text
Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I'm writing about them.
I am.
⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆ 𝒞𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓇 𝐵𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈 ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
"You've got to get back to writing, Alessia," Leila said, lifting her burger. Her light brown hair slipped over the rims of her glasses as she leaned forward, green eyes fixed on Alex. "It's what you love."
It's what you love.
Alex flinched at the sound of her full name. Nobody called her that except her mother when she was in trouble, or some employee reading it off a form. To her friends, she was always Alex. Alessia was too formal. Tonight it just reminded her of all the parts of herself she'd been failing.
The truth was, it used to be what she loved. Once upon a time, writing had been her sanctuary. Her escape. Her spark. Now? It made her physically ill.
Leila Greene—fair-skinned, always neat in her habits—exchanged a look with Naomi Castillo across the booth. Naomi was tan, her sleek black hair spilling over her shoulder as she sipped her soda.
The two of them had decided that regular Saturday night dinners at Chili's might somehow bring Alex back to life—shake loose whatever inspiration was buried under her burnout. Alex humored them, smiled, nodded, said she'd try.
She never did.
Because it wasn't just about motivation anymore. It was the nausea. The pounding headaches. The panic that came with opening a blank page. Writing had stopped feeling like art and started feeling like a trigger.
And no hobby should send you to the hospital.
"I will. I promise," Alex lied.
"Alex..." Naomi's voice interrupted, her dark eyes narrowing over the rim of her glass.
Alex didn't respond. She just reached for her rib, tearing into it like chewing could drown out the conversation. Naomi gave her one of those looks—the kind that said you can't charm your way out of this one.
Leila leaned in, eager to break the tension. "Just try. Do those quirky little rituals you always do—make tea, light a candle, put on your playlist. Just... see what happens."
Naomi added, gentler this time, "We all know you miss it."
She wasn't wrong. Alex did miss it.
At least, ....a little.
She missed how alive the words used to feel beneath her hands, how they carried her readers with them—made them laugh, or cry, or breathe a little easier. She used to pour her problems into her stories, let them spill out onto the page until they didn't make her upset anymore. Writing had been freedom. Now it was just a cage.
Her chest ached. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was too scared to admit how badly she wanted that spark back.
She set the rib down, wiped her honey-tan hands on a napkin, and finally looked at them both. "Okay," she said quietly, and this time she meant it. "I'll try."
Leila grinned. Naomi's expression softened ever so slightly, though her eyes still carried that edge of we'll make sure you do.
For the first time in months, Alex felt the tiniest flicker of something she hadn't let herself feel in a long time.
Hope.
The house was quiet when Alex got home—the familiar kind that meant everyone had slipped into their evening routines. The living room was neat but definitely lived in: a folded blanket sliding halfway off the couch, a stack of unopened mail on the table, and the faint sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen.
Her mom sat curled up on the couch in her robe, glasses perched low on her nose as she tapped away at a block-puzzle game on her phone. Every few seconds came a gentle ding, followed by an annoyed sigh or a satisfied hum. Beside her, her dad sat in his favorite recliner, half-watching the evening news with the sound just low enough that the anchors' voices blended into background noise.
"Hey, sweetheart," her mom said, not looking up. "How was Chili's?"
"Good," Alex said, shutting the door behind her and kicking off her sneakers. "Leila and Naomi staged another intervention."
Her dad muted the TV, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You in trouble?"
"Apparently," Alex said, dropping her bag on the counter. "They think I can just 'get back to writing' if I try hard enough. What am I supposed to do—pull a full-on Disney princess and sing to some woodland creatures until inspiration comes back?"
Her mom smiled faintly. "Maybe they just miss seeing you happy."
Alex didn't answer right away. The way her mom said it made her heart race a little. She brushed her wavy hair out of her face and stepped into the kitchen, pretending to be busy as she filled the kettle.
Her dad spoke up again. "How's the University of Washington application coming?"
"Almost done," Alex said, turning on the stove.
He nodded, satisfied. "Your sister loved it there."
"I know."
She didn't add that she missed her sister constantly—the way she used to fill the house with noise, blasting music while making pancakes at midnight, or showing Alex videos of dogs in Halloween costumes. The house had felt a little too quiet since she moved to Seattle. And even though her brother wasn't that far away, just a few hours over the state line, it wasn't the same.
The kettle started to thrum. Alex reached for her favorite mug—white with fading purple stars around the rim. The design was chipped in one spot, but that just made her love it more. She dropped in a peppermint tea bag and waited for the water to boil, drumming her fingers against the counter.
Her mom groaned suddenly from the living room. "Ugh, I almost cleared that level."
Her dad chuckled. "You've been saying that for three days."
"Three and a half," Alex called out, smiling faintly as the kettle began to whistle.
Her mom leaned around the couch arm, mock glaring. "Don't mock me, young lady. This takes skill and patience."
"Clearly," Alex said, pouring the steaming water into her mug.
Her mom smiled, setting her phone down. "You just like UW because their colors are purple."
Alex smirked, stirring her tea. "And? That's a completely valid reason."
Her dad shook his head as he reached for the remote once more. "At least she's honest."
She leaned against the counter, the warmth of the mug seeping into her hands. The sound of the TV, the occasional tap from her mom's phone—it was all so normal. So safe.
And yet something about the stillness of her life pressed, a reminder of how much had changed this past year. She'd graduated, watched her best friends scatter across new paths in life, and now she was supposed to just... move forward. Apply to college. Write again. Be fine.
The peppermint steam curled upward. She took a small sip, letting the warmth of the tea spread through her body.
She'd promised her friends she'd write.
It didn't have to be a masterpiece. Hell, it didn't even have to make sense. It just had to exist.
"Okay, Alex," she muttered to herself. "It's not that hard. One word. One sentence. Anything. Just... try."
"Don't stay up too late," her mom called from the couch.
"I won't," Alex lied, smiling to herself.
By the time Alex reached her room, the tea was lukewarm. Her world had shrunk down to four walls, the glow of her string lights, and the beat of her own thoughts.
She set her mug on her desk and flicked on her projector. A faint whir filled the room before the walls bloomed to life—Hogwarts at dusk, lanterns glowing along the castle bridge, snow beginning to fall. The soft crackle of a fireplace and the sound of music drifted from the YouTube ambience loop. It was her comfort scene. Her world.
She peeled off her jeans, trading them for her favorite pair of loose shorts, and tugged on an old Psych T-shirt—faded, soft, and about two wash cycles away from retirement.
Then came the candle. Tree Farm by Bath & Body Works.
The one that—annoyingly, embarrassingly—reminded her of him.
She flicked the lighter, watching the wick spark to life. The scent of pine needles, warm cedar, and just a hint of spiced apple filled her nostrils. It was comforting and nostalgic and stupidly sentimental all at once.
Her laptop sat on her desk, the silver lid catching a bit of the flickering light.
For a second, she just stared at it.
"Okay," she muttered, settling into her chair. "One word. One sentence. Anything."
She flipped it open. The glow of the screen washed across her face, and the cursor blinked on a blank document like it was mocking her.
The loop still played softly in the background. Alex tried to lose herself in it, to let the sound carry her back into the world she'd built.
And still—nothing.
Her chest felt tight again. She tried typing a line—deleted it. Typed another—deleted that too.
The words wouldn't come. Or maybe she just couldn't let them.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the mix of the peppermint tea and the pine candle. "Come on," she whispered. "You promised."
The cursor blinked again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, she opened an old folder—one she hadn't dared to touch in months. WIPs. Works in progress.
The digital graveyard.
Her eyes skimmed over the titles: Untitled Fic 2, Rewrite Please Work, Feldcroft Rewrite — Version 3.
She hovered over the last one. That was the story she'd abandoned mid-fight, right when she couldn't handle writing anymore.
Sebastian Sallow. Her problem child. Her muse. Her emotional support disaster.
She sighed and double-clicked.
The document opened, and there it was—her last line staring back at her:
"You don't get to decide who lives and dies, Sebastian."
Alex groaned softly. "Wow. Subtle. Nothing screams 'romance' like moral judgment and trauma."
She rubbed her eyes and reread what came before.
Two characters standing in the Undercroft, arguing about control, secrets, trust—classic her. She could practically hear his voice—the way she used to write him before everything felt forced.
She rested her chin on her hand, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
Okay, just finish the scene. Let them make up. Easy.
"Maybe I just wanted to protect you,"Sebastian said quietly, his jaw clenched.
Alex frowned. "Too melodramatic." She hit backspace until the words disappeared.
"You don't need to protect me," she typed instead. "You need to trust me."
Better. Cleaner. But still... wrong.
It read like someone pretending to know what love sounded like.
She let out another groan. "Why do I write like a teen therapy pamphlet?"
She leaned back, staring at the Hogwarts projection across her wall. Her tea had gone cold now. She picked up the mug, took a sip, and instantly regretted it. Bitter. Typical.
"Okay," she muttered. "Fine. If you can't fix it, break it."
Her fingers started moving again.
He turned away, his voice harsh now. "You'll never understand what it's like—watching everything you love slip away and not being able to stop it."
"You think you're the only one who's lost something?" she fired back. "You think pain makes you special?"
The words came faster.
She didn't stop to think.
Didn't stop to edit.
Didn't stop to breathe.
Her pulse quickened. Her throat ached. Somewhere in the middle of it, she forgot she was writing. She was just... feeling.
"You don't need saving, Sebastian. You need to stop pretending you're the only one broken."
The moment she typed it, her hands froze.
That wasn't dialogue anymore—it was her.
All of it.
She sat there, staring at the sentence until her eyes stung.
Maybe this was stupid. Maybe she was stupid. But for the first time in months, the ache in her chest had quieted—just a little.
She glanced at the clock. 1:07 a.m.
Her parents would kill her if they knew she was still awake.
The ambience went on, faint thunder rolling under piano notes. The candle had burned halfway down.
She skimmed the last few paragraphs, rereading bits she didn't hate. They weren't good, but they were something.
Maybe that was enough.
She slumped back in her chair, eyes heavy.
"I wrote," she whispered, almost laughing at the words. "You happy now, Leila? Naomi?"
She reached for her mug again, but her arm felt heavy. The screen blurred slightly—the kind of blur that came right before sleep but didn't feel like it yet.
She leaned forward, resting her cheek on her arm. The tea's peppermint scent was still mingling with the tree-farm candle, and she realized it felt like winter. Like Hogwarts in December.
She let her eyes close for just a second. Just one.
The music faded.
The candle flickered lower.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, the world went quiet.
"Don't you dare walk away from me!"
Alex's head jerked up, her heart slamming into her ribs.
The atmosphere wasn't cozy anymore—it was cold and musty, the kind of chill that smelled faintly of dust and rain. Her desk was gone. Her candle, gone. Instead, she stood in the very place she'd written about so many times—the Undercroft.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Her stomach dropped.
This clearly wasn't her room.
And standing across from her—
was Sebastian Sallow.
Her brain stuttered.
He looked exactly like she'd written him.
Maybe worse. (Better. Definitely worse).
Dark, messy hair framed his face, falling just enough to cast shadows over his eyes—brown, not plain brown, but deep, complicated, the kind of brown that looked almost gold when the light hit them. He was taller than she remembered writing him—and the faint freckles scattered across his nose and collarbone looked almost too human to belong to someone fictional.
He was angry. Beautiful and furious and so stupidly real.
"You can't keep doing this!" he snapped, stepping toward her. His voice filled the room and underneath it—something cracked. Something hurt.
Alex's breath caught. "Sebastian—"
"No, don't," he bit out. "Don't stand there acting like you understand what it's like."
This was the fight. Her fight. She'd just written this. But now it wasn't dialogue on a laptop screen. It was him. It was his voice.
"Sebastian, I'm not your enemy!" she said, voice shaking.
He let out a humorless laugh. "Could've fooled me."
"Stop twisting this!" she fired back. "You think I like watching you destroy yourself?"
He turned, and suddenly she could see every ounce of pain she'd ever poured into him staring right back at her. "You think I like it?" His voice cracked. "You think I wanted this—any of this? You think I asked to lose everything?"
She swallowed hard.
"I lost Anne!" His shout made her flinch. "I lost Solomon! And you—you stand there pretending you're different, but you're just like everyone else. You don't get it."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because she did get it.
Too much.
"You're not the only one who's lost someone," she whispered, but it came out more like a plea.
"Don't you dare compare your pain to mine!"
"You think pain makes you special? It doesn't!" Her voice trembled, heat rising to her face. "You don't get to use it as an excuse to keep breaking everything!"
Sebastian froze. The muscles in his jaw ticked. "You don't understand me at all."
"I understand too much!" she shouted, tears threatening to spill. "That's the problem! I know exactly what it's like—to lose everything and hate yourself for surviving it!"
It went quiet.
Sebastian's chest rose and fell rapidly. His voice dropped—sounding almost defeated. "You think you know me?"
He stepped closer—so close enough that she could now see the way the light hit the curve of his mouth when he clenched his jaw like that.
He was right there.
And that was the most terrifying part—because he wasn't supposed to be.
"You don't," he said softly. "You just think you do."
Her pulse fluttered so hard it hurt. Her thoughts tangled—part disbelief, part heartbreak, part whatever the fuck this was.
"I'm not doing this anymore," he muttered suddenly.
"Sebastian—wait—"
But he'd already turned away, brushing past her.
"Don't walk away from me!" she yelled after him.
He didn't stop.
"You always do this!" she shouted again, desperate, furious, and scared out of her mind. "You push people away and then act like you're the victim!"
That stopped him. Just for a second.
He turned his head. "At least I admit what I am."
And then he was gone, the door of the Undercroft loudly clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone.
Alex's knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, tears blurring the edges of her vision.
"What did I do?" she whispered, staring at the door.
But there was no answer.
Alex realized: this wasn't her imagination.
This wasn't fiction.
This was her story, and she was trapped inside it.