Hello, and welcome to this unstructured disaster of which I have the nerve to call a fanfiction!

Here's a little background on how this came to be: this was a story idea I had a loooooong time ago (3-ish years ago) that I found whilst organising all my documents into folders on my laptop. I decided, in honour of my younger self, to edit this and upload it here (seeing as I had writer's block for the last few days, I thought this would be a good idea to kick some inspiration back into myself!).

I don't know why in the world I wanted it to be non-linear, seeing as I despised writing things non-linearly simply because I wasn't good at it (I still amn't) and because I forget to tie everything else up in the end (heck, I don't even know if I've tied everything up in this), but even though I am no good at writing things non-linear, I decided I wanted to keep things as similar as possible. I even kept the summary the same as it was when I first wrote it! (Though it doesn't really fit, but meh).

Um, so yeah, you've been warned.

Behold, this train-wreck!

I wouldn't expect this too be fantabulous if I were you, but I would appreciate it if you left a review of your thoughts.

On to the story we go!

Edit (18/3/19): Just some minor changes


The Storms Named After Us


(175)

When Misty wakes, her heart is restless.

Sunlight filters through her window and diffuses across her room in a kaleidoscope of soft golds and pretty pinks, and she can hear the kricketunes chirp as spring breathes life into Cerulean.

(Spring, the season of new beginnings, the fresh start she needs to feel alive again— except Misty is sick of salvation and she doesn't want to move on.)

She pulls the curtains closed and trudges to the living room.

The world around her drowns out in the growl and click of the kettle, the grumble and swish of water as she brews herself a coffee; the clinking of metal against her cup, her sisters' chatter, the low murmurs of the television in the background.

She continues stirring her coffee. They're watching the news, supposedly. She's not really that interested, but—

—Misty looks up when she hears his name, and her heart is restless.

The Chosen One, smile light but eyes ablaze. Hero.

She spills the coffee over her arm but she doesn't care, desperately fumbling for the remote despite her sisters' complaints.

Blue meets brown, a world apart, and the TV screen zaps to black. Her heart is only heavier.

(Part of her still wonders if they're both waiting for a storm to come, to sweep them off their feet— but it's too late. It's always too late. There's nothing that their flames left untouched, and now they are both smouldering.)