i'm feelin real emo over allydia after the last few eps so YOU'RE WELCOME WORLD
disclaimer
...
You love her. You don't think you can stop.
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there
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There must be something broken about you.
Your mother's taken to tucking you into bed at night again, a ritual abandoned when you were five and thought that monsters were illogical, unreal. You think she knows. You think that she can tell that yours is a different breed of grief—a savage, unforgiving breed, the grief of a love left in the dark.
Her hands are cool against your forehead but they do nothing about the constant aching of your bones. She pulls your covers up to your shoulders, to shield you from the boogeymen.
You can't tell her you love her, because people you love die. You can't tell her about Allison, because it will make it real. You can't tell her about the ache that wakes you at night, the phantom limb, the pain even when the wound should have numbed.
You think she knows.
"It'll be okay, Lydia," she promises, in that way that all mothers do. "And if it's not okay, it'll be better."
You think that she hopes it's true.
.
.
There are things worse than death.
It feels like a new wound when Scott writes her initials for Senior Scribe. There's a part of you that is sad. A part of you is angry. The largest part of you is resigned, because it was never your place. She was more to Scott than you ever were to her.
But still.
You see her ghost smiling at Scott as he caps his pen. You've seen her for months; she never seems to see you and the others never see her, and there's something exquisitely awful about loving someone who never sees you, about not being able to say a goddamn thing.
You say that she's still with you; watch the way the pack smiles ignorantly, watch as they assume you mean metaphorically. Watch her turn and disappear.
You wish you could follow.
.
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There is something intrinsically wrong about Parrish. He smiles freely and says your name gently, but his hands are still too wide, his skin to rough.
You'll kiss him anyway.
.
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There are some awful nights, when you smell her shampoo or feel a brush against the back of your hand.
The worst are when you feel nothing, when nostalgia tinges your memories and turns them into just that.
.
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There is nothing in the world that could make you forget her—
but.
But you're not grieving anymore—not in a way that is familiar to you, not in a way that kept you afloat. You have no reason to, when even Scott's life seems back in order.
He pulls you aside during one the pack nights, when Stiles has Malia, when Liam has Mason, when Scott has Kira, when all you have is an ache in your stomach and hands that had once fit perfectly in hers. You're not sure if they would, anymore.
"You loved her," he says matter of fact, his eyes soft and understanding.
"Of course I did." As if it's the most obvious thing. As if there were any way to orbit that close and not be pulled into her gravity.
"You can—," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's okay for you to move on, you know?"
It is not easy for him, you know. But it is different. He held her hand and kissed her and loved her in public and all you had were a few drunken kisses, a handful of I love you's that were never quite enough.
"I know," you say anyway, flipping back your hair, becoming the you that existed before Allison Argent ever came to Beacon Hills. "I am."
.
(the lie hurts your teeth. you smile anyway)
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here
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Here's the awful thing that comes with death—the not knowing.
Maybe there was a future for you two. Maybe one day, somewhere far away from Beacon Hills, from the heavy shadow of Death, looming around every corner—maybe you could have loved her properly. Maybe you would have gotten an apartment with her; maybe her toothbrush would have sat beside yours on the cramped bathroom counter. Maybe you would have been okay.
But maybe she didn't love you the same. Maybe you weren't pieces of a long forgotten puzzle; maybe you were meant to love each other, but never look back.
Death is not kind; Death does not give you the opportunity to ever find this out for yourself. You, of all people, should understand this—your kind has walked behind Death for eons, pacing out your steps so you are always a little too late to actually save anyone. Death picks its victim and all you can do is scream.
Death is a bitch.
But so are you.
.
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Here is what you'll do; it's easy, because you've been doing it your whole life.
You will play dumb. You will pretend like her loss doesn't burn you. You will act like stitches in your side don't pull and bite when you move, don't remind you of a love that will never leave you alone.
You will not move on. You will kiss Parrish and hold his too wide hand in your own, will pretend like they fit well.
You will not move on. You will fight the eventuality of time with every fiber of your being.
You will watch your pack go forward, leave you behind because they can't go back. You will stay with the Nemeton, will defend the territory with your last breath. The pack will scatter. At your core, you are all still just kids, itching to be free, to be independent. It is the natural order of the world, human or otherwise, but you've never been a thing of nature.
Time wants to dull the edges of your wound—
you won't let it.
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Here is what you can never tell the pack; you think that they won't look at you the same if you do.
You tried to bring her back. You tried so hard, tried every spell in every book. You still taste the ashes in your mouth. You were willing to do anything, to try anything, if it meant that she would breathe, if it meant that that wonderful heart would beat again.
But yours is a savage, primal magic, not meant to be tampered with.
Stiles found you bleeding from your eyes in the morning, sitting in front of her grave. You were not sure how long you'd been there. You're not sure how long you were willing to stay there.
.
(some bitter, brittle voice whispers forever, you stupid girl)
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somewhere in between
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You will die when you are twenty one.
You know it now—you can feel it in your blood, in your lungs, can feel Death sucking your marrow.
You will die when you are twenty one and you will be alone; the pack will have left you, or you will have forced them away. Your death will not be supernatural. You will be crossing the street, reckless with yourself in ways you never were with others, and you will not look before you cross.
The driver will not see you. You will not see the car.
It will be okay.
Allison, you think, will have waited.
No matter what else your demons tell you, you know, at the least, that she will have waited for you.
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(when you die and she comes for you, you think that this is your victory, your moving on. it is not a lie)
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fin