There's a lot of description at first, but it gets better in the second part.

IMPORTANT: TW! Do NOT read if you want a happy ending, because this will not happen. This story is angst from the beginning to the end, with little islands of cute moments in between, but mostly ANGST.

Thank the beta for the absence of mistakes, blame me if there are some left behind.


The first story

There are two types of people in this world. Those who are alive and those who are not.

The distinction should be easy. Those who are alive breathe and live, while those who are not simply sleep forever under the ground. Those who are alive have a heartbeat, whereas those who are not have none. It really is a simple equation. If you are alive, you have a heartbeat. If you are not, you don't.

It is a simple, flawed equation.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people walk on Earth's surface perfectly healthy but without ever feeling truly alive.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people are immortalized long after their passing, their stories never forgotten by those who say their names every day.

It forgets the way thousands of people are dying at the very moment despite having a heartbeat in their chest.

It forgets that life needs death to exist and vice versa.

It forgets the way life is too often intimately intertwined with death.

It's loud.

Too loud. And the sun is bright. Too bright.

It blinds her.

It makes her narrow her eyes until she cannot see anything but a thin line of light coming from her computer screen. Her fingers brush the keyboard gently, performing a symphony as they assemble random letters and give them the power to access magical universes. The steady rhythm of the sound made by her actions echoes on the wall of her living room. She writes quickly without the need to glance down, keeping her eyes on her screen as words appear and characters are brought to life.

She barely takes a break to eat and drink, only leaving the comfort of her chair to rush to her bedroom when she cannot wait any longer. She brushes a lock of golden hair away from her face whenever one dares to block her view. She glances away one millisecond to note a detail she doesn't want to forget. She quickly directs her attention to her screen again.

She takes a pause. Something doesn't satisfy her. The words are not fluid anymore. They don't float peacefully on the blank sheet displayed by her screen, guided by the ryhthm of the story. They sink. They sink and break, and everything is a disaster. She reads a passage that she believes doesn't fit in anymore. She reads it a dozen times, with a different voice in her head every time. She selects the sentences and deletes them. The bottom of the page she is working on is empty again and she has no idea how to let her thoughts out. She looks out of the window, her blue eyes piercing through the orange glow of the sunset.

She used to be able to dream despite being wide awake, but recently, the words seem to have disappeared on her. Her mind is empty with a void of possibilities. She has run out of things to say, of stories to share, of doors to open. She saves her file and turns off her computer. She walks in the empty room and stares at the walls as if they held the secrets to unlocking more ideas. She finds none.

She falls on the couch and closes her eyes. She isn't tired, but she wants to sleep. Her previous sleepless nights are starting to weight on her mind and she can only blame her creativity for it. Her creativity and numerous phone calls from her very insistent friends. She should really stop seeing them. She has spent a tremendous amount of money on food and drinks for the poor college student that she is. Her bank account is reaching the level of no return and she would very much like to avoid it.

Her phone rings.

She lets it ring a few times before she answers. It must be eight o'clock. Raven always calls at eight o'clock with plans to rule the universe. Clarke has learned how to say no, but Raven never skips a day, and the blonde doesn't ask her to stop calling.

They are best friends. They have been ever since Raven's rocket accidentally collided into Clarke's plane during kindergarten playtime. They both had tried to get the other to surrender until they had teamed up to take down a boy's, whose name turned out to be Bellamy, truck. They have been inseparable ever since.

Clarke answers her phone and Raven automatically starts babbling about the important need to get out of her house. The artist stares at her blank canvas as her friend's voice fills her head with tales of adventures. She knows she won't be able to paint either. Her life has been grey for a while.

She absent-mindedly agrees to join Raven at a bar downtown. She closes the door behind her as she glances one more time at her computer. It doesn't matter how hard she wills it to, inspiration doesn't come.

She locks the door and jumps straight into her best friend's world for the night.

It isn't loud anymore. Silence rules as the obscurity of the night welcomes her.


It's quiet.

Too quiet. And the sky is dark. Too dark.

It blinds her.

It makes her open her eyes as wide as she possibly can until her pupils adapt to the newfound level of luminosity. Her fingers slam on the keyboard violently, repeatedly as she hopelessly tries to make coherent words appear on her screen. She is at war against technology and yet, she seeks to escape her broken reality through a better one made with zeroes and ones. The complete absence of sound coming from her computer tells her what she refuses to accept.

She doesn't even need to glance down to know that her beloved, devilish cat has, once again, tore her internet cable to death.

She grabs her slice of pizza and swallows half of it as she drowns her frustration with a bottle of water. She endlessly waits for a sign of life to appear. She shakes her head in resignation and doesn't bother pushing her hair away from her face. She looks away from the black screen and concentrates her attention on her phone. She might not have data, but she can still read whatever story she has saved in the past.

She doesn't stop once as she dives into the world of the chosen fiction. The words complete each other and every single detail is well thought out. She is surrounded by waves of emotions as the story unravels in her mind, every small piece of the puzzle coming together. She reads the same sentence a hundred times because its beauty cannot be fully grasped in a single try. She selects her favorite sentences and saves them in her soul. She reaches the bottom of the page and quickly slides her finger on her tactile screen to start again with a new sheet.

Not once do her emerald eyes dare to look away from a text full of the one subject she knows best: death.

She is wide awake in the middle of the night, but it feels like she is in a trance, dreaming with her eyes open as she absorbs the essence of the ink. Her mind is overwhelmed by this unknown author's universe. She travels through a thousand different realities within a few minutes and her head is heavy with the contents. She thanks the universe that she once saved this particular file. She finishes the story in one night and bounces off her chair to walk around in her apartment as if her energy couldn't stay in anymore. She loses that energy quickly and needs to steady her breathing more than once.

She falls on the couch and closes her eyes. She is exhausted, but she wants to stay awake as long as possible. She has been sleeping too much recently, spending days and nights in the comfort of her bed, and now she has finally found a decent reason to stay awake. She is buzzing from the creativity that emanates from her phone. She has not felt this way for a long time, trapping herself within the walls of her little castle. She has enough money to travel the world and discover the wonders of her planet, but she knows better than to spend it on those activities. Her bank account needs to remain full should her condition change drastically.

Her phone rings.

She lets it ring a few times before her caller gives up. It doesn't matter what time it is, whether it is the middle of the night or not, she never answers. She has learned to completely ignore any sound coming from her mobile device. She knows who is calling.

Her best friend. Anya has been her best friend ever since her grumpy aunt Indra introduced the two of them during a birthday party. They had immediately become close despite their slight age difference. They have been inseparable ever since.

Lexa ignores the beeping signaling her she has a voicemail. She knows she has many from Anya talking, screaming at her from the distance. She stares at the emptiness of her apartment as she imagines what today's life lesson could be. She knows she won't be able to listen to Anya's voice. She deletes the message only a few seconds after it was left.

She remains in the comfort of her home as she recalls the way bright colors shone through the darkness when the story had pierced through her armor. She glances at her dead computer, judging how long it would take to fix it. She doesn't want to wait.

She activates her mobile data and seeks a stranger's company.

She still believes it is pitch black outside and she doesn't notice the sun appearing on the horizon as she types a virtual message in a bottle.


The message flies through the air- invisible and inaudible. It reaches its destination quietly, without making a sound, without knowing it is about to change someone's destiny for the better or worse.

It is a wedding invitation, divorces papers, class notes, a love confession, a breaking up farewell. It is the acceptance letter to a prestigious program or a rejection that will affect someone's motivation more than it should have. It is a single word or a million sentences written carefully. It carries the ideas of one to another, fusing two visions into one, mixing universes together to create a whole new one. It breaks loneliness into pieces, eating it alive, letting it no chance to go on.

Written in the perfect way, it allows thoughts and feelings to be shared without ever opening one's mouth, but rather one's soul. It is the end and the beginning. It is the continuation of a relationship or the violent U-turn at the end of a road. It is the glue that holds two people together or an uncovered secret of a terrible betrayal.

It is a letter, a note, a paper airplane born from wires and flashing lights.

It will change your life.


Clarke is walking.

It is too early in the morning for her to take the bus unless she is ready to wait a long time. She refuses to wait and a mere one hour and a half later, she sees the familiar stairs leading to her apartement.

She unlocks her door and winces at the sound. Her head still hurts from the blasting music of the bar and her throat is hoarse from all the screaming she did. Her legs hurt from standing up too long and she wishes she could sit on the ground and remain there forever. Her feet are killing her. She still takes a well-deserved shower before crashing in her bed. Her worries have gone away, washed away by Raven's vivid enthusiasm.

Clarke closes her eyes and dreams.

She dreams her life isn't as colorless anymore. She dreams she is on the right side of the existence, in the land of the living, fully enjoying it rather than walking by everyone and everything. She dreams she has enough inspiration to write until her fingers cannot stay attached to her hands anymore. She dreams she has enough imagination to make those ideas come to life and take over reality. She dreams she is alive in a way she was a very long time ago.

Her father is there, smiling, laughing, real. He waves at her, begging her to join him. He yells. She cannot hear him. He is too far. She runs. He walks away. She runs faster. He is too far and she cannot reach him. She flies. She reaches him. He smiles. He smells of cologne and home. He takes her in his arms and makes her spin around like he used to when she was young. He doesn't just smell like home. He is home.

He opens his mouth to speak but Clarke doesn't hear a word. It doesn't matter. As long as he is here, it doesn't matter. He sings silent words and Clarke imagines them in her head, remembering his voice. He points towards the distance, the complete void of objects and gestures for Clarke to follow. She does. She follows wherever he goes.

And suddenly she is alone.

And suddenly he is nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, she jolts awake.

Her father is dead and she is alive.

She misses her dream immediately when she remembers where she is, alone in her bedroom, too old to be picked up by her father anymore. She lies awake, her eyes fixing the ceiling on which are glued fluorescent stars. They don't shine anymore. Clarke is rarely in her bedroom, preferring the huge window of her living room to surround her when she writes. She hasn't let them shine for a long time and she doesn't think she ever will again.

It is almost noon. She brings her attention back to her phone as she quickly goes through her emails and notices one in particular that comes from her blog, indicating she has a new personal message waiting to be read. It concerns an older post, something she had written a few months ago.

She enjoys posting some of her texts to the online community. She gets feedback and adjusts her art consequently if she judges it necessary. She does the same whenever she paints something she is proud of. The critics make her better.

She reads the first line, a lump forming in her throat as she notices the length of the message. It is longer than the many others she had received before. She doesn't know why she worries about it, but she feels this one, this specific bundle of words appearing out of nowhere, is different from the past ones.

Maybe it is because of its length.

Maybe it is because of its formal style that makes her wonder what this classy human being could ever want from her very normal ordinary self.

"Wanheda. I can only hope you will receive this message regarding an older post."

She is called Wanheda, a word she has invented, on the vast land of the Internet. She is the Commander of Death and her art reflects this side of her. She portrays death in all its forms, through the eyes of many, through a multitude of other colors than simply black. She shares her friend's' life and death with anecdotes and wise lessons. She illustrates the way death is part of the living world without life ever asking it to leave, the way it rules their universe with subtlety and grace, and the way it is feared by most.

She writes in black and white and paints with the colors of melancholia.

She owns death, even if it always wins in the end. She has accepted it and it shows through every sentence she writes.

"I know I am late to comment on this. I have been without the Internet for a few days. My cat thought my modem's cable would make a good toy. I fear he found it perfect for his taste as nothing is left but a disaster. Despite the flagrant absence of my dear friend Netflix, insomnia found me and I resorted to reading a story I had saved on my phone. It was yours. I finished it in one night."

She smirks at the thought of a cat being responsible for the discovery of her story. Out of the many reasons she has heard, this one is by far her favorite one.

"I am writing this message from my phone, using my data, because the thought of not telling you about it made no sense to me. You are gifted."

She smiles a little more as she goes through each sentence, every little detail, every compliment she feels she does not deserve. It feels like she is reading someone's state of mind and she doesn't know how to react.

The words soothe her wounded soul and she believes whoever took the time and efforts to praise her in such magnificent way deserves a proper answer. She nervously calls out for her best skills in grammar and vocabulary. She can only hope her knowledge matches the one of this mysterious person. She is convinced it won't.

She starts to type an answer despite her doubts.

The message was signed "Lexa" and Clarke writes her first name as well.

Clarke thinks Lexa's name sounds perfect.

She feels like she is doing something important.

She feels important.

She realizes it is the first message in months that isn't tainted with the theme of eternal rest.


Lexa is running.

The wind is blowing in her hair as she tastes the fresh oxygen from the trees around her. The hills are just high enough for her to work her cardio without feeling exhausted. She marvels at the way her muscles contract as she races through the forest. They stretch and ache in the most pleasurable way. She never wants to slow down. She cannot slow down.

She passes by the most perfect sceneries but she never stops. She has no time to stop. Who knows how long it will take before she can no longer run until her lungs hurt? She keeps her breath steady as she forces her heart to pump more blood through her limbs. She feels invincible, in her own element. She reaches the top of the hill easily and finally allows her body to take a break. Her lungs expand as she fills them with as much air as possible.

The view is breathtaking and leaves her gasping for oxygen more than the miles she just ran do. The cliff is high and Lexa almost believes that it would be possible for humans to fly if they jumped from this specific place. She stares at the city below, the huge buildings appearing as tall as her thumb. She doesn't hear the familiar city noises and she is grateful for the silence. It allows her to listen to the way her body reacts to the efforts.

She watches as birds dance in front of her over the emptiness. They own the sky with an ease Lexa can only hope for. They live a careless life Lexa can only dream of. She stays at the top for a few minutes before she starts heading back. She has no time to waste.

She starts to jog, but something feels wrong as if her legs didn't obey her anymore. She tries to increase her speed but it slows down instead, until she is walking at a snail's pace.

She frowns.

She tries to force her body to move faster, to run again just like she was doing a few minutes ago, but it doesn't listen to her anymore. It isn't hers anymore. She feels weak, tired, exhausted, completely drained of her energy. She can no longer feel the air entering her lungs and she suffocates. She falls to the ground, dirt scratching her knees as she opens her mouth to let the air in.

And suddenly, she is alone.

And suddenly, the trees are nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, her eyes open and she wakes up in her bed, immobilized by her covers.

It feels like an eternity since she has taken a walk in a park and she sadly realizes it is the truth.

She curses. She sighs. She resigns and accepts reality. She wishes she could do something other than constantly miss the feeling of running, but she is too aware of the way she has difficulty breathing just by simply walking at a normal pace. Even jogging is not an option for her.

Going outside is a chore now.

She struggles to climb the stairs back to her door whenever she goes out to buy food or supplies. Half of the time, she needs to take a break despite the small number of stairs. She needs to be mindful of the distance she has to walk, calculating how long it would take her and adjusting her speed accordingly. She needs to bring her phone every time, fully charged. She needs cash money in case she has to take a cab. She needs to think of everything. She no longer goes out for fun, she plans every single excursion she does.

She would give anything to be able to go to the park, but the distance is too great and the bus ride is too long for her to risk the journey. She could take a taxi, but why would she? She has accepted her fate. She can't go to the park as often as she used to. She can't mourn nature forever so she has moved on.

She reaches for her phone, a rare aspect of her previous life that has remained unchanged. It glows to life as she reads the answer she has gotten in reply to her previous message.

She smiles automatically as she reads the familiar "dear Lexa" at the top of the page. It is the third message she receives and she doesn't regret her decision to reach out to this stranger.

She reads the words that slightly make her day better. Their conversation has shifted from the story to themselves. They share little bits of what makes them the people they are and Lexa tries to remember all of them.

She has a terrible memory and she keeps writing notes on scattered post-its.

She keeps losing the post-its and somehow remembers everything about Clarke.

She remembers the content of the first answer, just as formal as her message, but with a thin layer of humor. The second message had been more personalized since the ice was broken. There was no need for extravagant words and impressive vocabulary anymore, and yet Lexa had still included a few uncommon words to impress the writer. They had shared random facts about themselves, mixing sarcasm and just enough jokes to test the other's sense of humor. Soon enough, as it is almost always the case on this platform, time zones and distance had come up.

Lexa remembers the moment she had realized Clarke lived in the same time zone. She had smiled widely, relieved to know they wouldn't have to wait hours before getting an answer from one another. She had mentioned it to Clarke and had received a hilarious answer about how they probably still lived lightyears away from each other.

Lexa had agreed.

Until now.

Clarke had directly stated the name of the city she lived it.

Lexa now disagrees.

They don't live millions of miles away from each other. In the grand scale of the universe, they are cosmic neighbors. She is speechless.

She knows what to say before she even types it. The words just flow through her mind like the violent current of a waterfall.

"Clarke, I know you said you come from outer space. I believe you. But somehow, your words have reached me across this immense distance and that is an incredible situation. I also believe that the world is small, tiny even. It is impossible to ignore that on the grand scale of the universe, we live only centimeters away, wherever we are on the planet."

She wonders if she's taking it a step too far.

She thinks that even if she is, it doesn't matter.

She has nothing to lose and she wants to test the limits of this insane coincidence.

"There are hundreds of thousands of people currently writing stories. There are thousands of websites made to share those tales with the rest of us. There is an infinity of languages, of genres, of writing styles that I enjoy more than others. A million possibilities could have occured instead. But out of all of them, because one night my cat murdered my internet connection, because insomnia decided to make me its puppet, because I had my phone fully charged and next to me, I resorted to reading a story I had saved, and among the many choices I had, it ended up being yours. You, Clarke, who lives probably less than twenty miles from me."

She signed with her full name this time. She won't waste the opportunity.

She feels like something important is happening.

She knows something important is happening.

This message brings life to her dull routine.


Waiting is annoying.

No one enjoys waiting. In a society where everything is rushed and everyone is forced to do things faster and better than anyone else, waiting is a handicap. The definition of waiting has been manipulated by people to mean that time is being wasted. Productivity rhymes with high speed and quantity rather than meticulous and quality. Effectivity rhymes with how fast one finishes a task.

No one wishes to wait for money to fill their bank account, for popularity to embrace their name, for a victory to be celebrated. Everyone secretly wishes they could snap their fingers and get everything they have ever asked for, from the expensive objects such the latest most performing car, to priceless concepts such as love itself. It is the era of the immediate results.

The world has forgotten that waiting has one important utility. It makes the results even more appreciated, more meaningful, more precious. It makes the goal worth it.

Right now, the wait is endless.

Tell me about you.

They both send this question thinking it is a good one.

They both receive the question and struggle to know what to answer.

They both think this is the worst question humanity has ever come up with.

What can they say to someone they don't know?

What can they say that is personal, but not too much, that is interesting, funny, unique, but just enough so the other person can relate to it as well? How can they convey just enough of their personality so that the other person stays around to learn more without running away? The balance is hard to find and they can't choose the right words, the right sentences, the perfect anecdotes. How much is too much? What makes them interesting? What makes them stand out from the crowd of eight billions of people?

Lexa wonders if she should tell Clarke about how she feels breathless half the time, how she found her story like a wave of fresh air filling her lungs, how she was so exhausted that night and somehow, those words were worse than insomnia, keeping her mind wide awake until the sun rose in the sky.

Clarke wonders if she should tell Lexa about how she feels lost half the time, how this long message arriving from nowhere was like finally arriving at her final destination after an endless walk, how she was trapped between this reality and the next one and somehow, those words were enough to tie her up steadily to the right one.

They type the same message without ever knowing it. They start with their occupation, their age, where they come from. They start with the most general information they can find about themselves. They don't bother describing what they look like. In an implicit agreement, they know this will be the last message on this personal blog. The next conversation will occur by text messages.

They enjoy the same things, they speak sarcasm, they share the same sense of humor they have a similar passion for food, they are both embarrassingly in love with tv shows and more importantly, they both sound like they don't want this conversation to ever end. Lexa mentions her cat and her interests in politics, philosophy and law. Clarke writes about her daily life and her interest in arts, travel and mysteries.

Neither Clarke nor Lexa share their personal contacts with strangers. It is against what they believe to be safe. They have always been careful, staying anonymous, faceless on the internet. Even after they agree to give away their names, they both know a certain limit has been reached. Who knows who the other person truly is? They have heard so many terrible stories about meeting strangers in real life.

But it is different this time. They are blind and they can't see the limit anywhere.

They cross the line without ever realizing, their answers merging again as they both sign with their phone numbers.

The wait is endless, but it is worth it.


Clarke is a survivor.

Clarke has lived through her boyfriend's shitty behavior. He cheated on her and became someone she did not recognize before he left her without any warning. He had changed her perception of love and relationships, making the part of her heart which once believed in princes and princesses and perfect endings, die.

She has survived her father's death, the hardest thing she has ever done. She still remembers the way her mother had whispered the words, her voice trembling and barely audible as she fought to remain strong in front of her daughter. It still haunts her, but not as much as the way her mother transformed into a ghost soon after.

Clarke has survived this too, the loss of her mother, of the woman who used to be so admirable, now reduced to a robotic machine performing surgeries days and nights. The blonde learned how to take care of herself without relying on anyone.

And Wells. Clarke has mourned him too, her second childhood best friend, even though he is still alive. He is still gone, part of an internship in another country too far for them to communicate more often than a few messages every month.

Clarke has been through many kind of deaths and perhaps it is why she feels so attracted by this mysterious concept, why she feels the strong need to write and paint about it, to talk about it whenever her friends agree to listen to this somber subject, to dream about it even if she never asks to.

Death is omnipresent in her life. She has become death, in a way.

She has been through so much and yet, nothing prepares her for the tsunami of anxiety that drowns her soul as she walks toward Lexa's house. She is overwhelmed by the thought that maybe accepting Lexa's invitation was a mistake. Maybe Lexa just wanted to be polite and Clarke, like the air-headed person she can be, accepted an offer that wasn't even one in the first place.

It doesn't matter anymore.

She is already in front of the door, her heartbeat betraying her controlled apparent demeanor as she rings the doorbell. She thinks, maybe this is a bad idea. She thinks, maybe Lexa won't answer. She thinks, the way they started interacting with one another is too special, too crazy, too impossible for them to let the story go to waste.

The door opens and she forgets she has ever been waiting. In fact, she forgets everything about the perfect speech she initially had in mind. No word, no painting, no sculpture could have ever prepared her to meet the enigmatic Lexa Woods, whose messages have been part of her daily life for many weeks. And while the words came easily when hidden by a screen, being confronted directly by the other woman turns her rhetorical talents to dust.

Lexa Woods is real. She isn't a robot. She isn't a computer. She isn't a possible murderer or a total scam. She isn't a stranger anymore. She is a gorgeous woman with eyes that strike Clarke like lightning. She welcomes the blonde with a commanding but reassuring posture. Her mouth is closed and she is breathing hard through her nose as if she had arrived at the door after a light jog. Clarke finds her beautiful.

She refuses to be the idiot who stares without saying anything, but Lexa still beats her to the first sentence.

"You're one who translates ordinary ideas to wonders for the soul."

It is a simple sentence, almost surreal, almost as if Lexa wasn't the one pronouncing it. It feels like Clarke has waited so long to hear Lexa's voice that she can't quite believe it is happening.

Lexa's voice is a song and Clarke wants to replay it until she memorizes its every note.

"You're the one who elevates an ordinary writer to the status of an artist from above."

Clarke's voice is a movie and Lexa wants to watch it until she memorizes its every image.

Lexa nods at the answer as if she secretly approves the way Clarke answers her. She is sure Clarke doesn't need any approval regardless.

"I am merely stating the facts," Lexa says as she steps aside to invite Clarke in.

The place is spotless and Clarke has no doubt it has been this way for a long time. It feels strange to be here, invited to such a private place. She had expected their first meeting to be somewhere else, outside, in a public place so they wouldn't feel threatened by the close proximity or awkwardness. But Lexa had insisted, luring her with promises of excellent meals and magical desserts. Judging by how great it smells, Clarke knows she won't regret her decision.

Clarke barely takes two steps towards the living room before she trips on something and falls to the floor ungraciously. She groans as a hand reaches for hers, helping her up. She meets the mischievous expression of Lexa and glances at the small figure sitting next to her. A white and light brown cat is purring, proud of its latest victim.

"I'm guessing he's the one who chewed your modem cable to death?"

"You would be right," Lexa nods.

Clarke stands and looks down at the furry demon licking his paws innocently as if he hadn't almost attempted to indirectly murder her a few seconds ago.

"Thank you for killing your master's internet," she smiles brightly, ignoring the pain from her fall.

She glances at Lexa and winks playfully. It is a bold move, but nothing she judges past the limits of what is socially acceptable when meeting someone for the first time. Lexa remains in control of the tiny storm raging in her brain. Clarke is just as fascinating and intriguing as her stories, perhaps even more, and she wants to discover everything.

"His name is Titus."

Clarke looks up and down the small feline silhouette, trying to figure out how the name came to be. She finds no reason and Lexa answers before the question is even asked.

They don't need words to communicate with each other and they are only starting to find out just how true this statement is.

"My best friend named him when I had him six years ago. He would sleep all day on most of the pieces of furniture, prevent me from doing my work and wait for me to leave the house so he could destroy everything. He would play the victim and then wait for to be forgiven. She found him useless and quite problematic. She thought the name would fit well."

Clarke smirks at the thought of Lexa being dominated by a poor cat.

"He is not a poor cat," Lexa warns, reading Clarke's thoughts for the second time in a row. "He once slept on me and almost suffocated me until the point of no return."

Clarke laughs at the joke and Lexa does too, as if it was the only thing they could ever do.

Lexa almost forgets how truly close to death she had been.

"He's not that useless, now, is he?"

"Maybe not," Lexa agrees. "But only maybe."

Clarke nods. She wants to prove Lexa wrong.

They take a seat on the small balcony in the backyard and a small wind caresses their faces. Lexa's house has the perfect view of the Ark River. She can see everything that is going on and she loves it. It feels like she guards this place despite never being directly involved, like she will be the first one to know if something goes wrong.

Two glasses are already waiting for them and Clarke swallows her nervousness away. The cold drink washes her doubts away as she wonders if she can find a subject worth talking about.

She remembers the little pieces of information she has given Lexa and recalls the reaction they had gotten. She knows Lexa shares the same passion for food and words, raging controversial debates and light comedy shows, but she would like to learn more. Her artistic side wishes to know exactly what colors she would have to use if she ever had to paint her, what metaphor to write if she ever had to describe her, what tools to choose if she ever had to sculpt her.

She wants to know what makes Lexa immortal in someone's memory.

She wonders if Lexa has been touched by death yet, or if she has been spared from this destiny for now.

Lexa looks at her the same way.

As if they both are scared of what to say, what to ask, what to know.

As if they are both painfully aware of the amount of secrets they can learn about one another, while knowing too well that some secrets are better to remain buried.

Lexa is calm. She controls her body but she cannot do the same with her mind. She seeks the perfect question to ask a brilliant mind like Clarke's, never realizing that the blonde is simply content to be sitting right next to her. She searches for the greatest question and this time, it is Clarke who is faster to speak.

The blonde has asked her brain for an original question, one that is not necessarily common, one that is different front all the boring ones people usually ask. She wants a question to portray her interest in knowing Lexa without sounding like they are having a date.

"If you had thirty seconds to make an impression on someone, what would you say?"

It is an innocent question in Clarke's mind, but the moment the words are out to be heard, the artist realizes how loaded her sentence actually is. It is meant as "in general, what would you say about yourself", but it sounds a bit too close to saying directly to Lexa : "Impress me." It sounds a bit too close to saying "make an impression on me."

Clarke shrugs mentally. As if Lexa ever needed to impress her more than she already did. She should be the one trying to impress her. It would probably take a lifetime, but Clarke finds the idea of spending that much time around Lexa quite appealing.

Lexa frowns as she thinks of a response. She wants her answer to be personalized. She wants her answer to fit the person Clarke is and everything they have exchanged so far. She wants to make this woman care and she has no idea where this almost primal need comes from.

She builds a perfect answer to this question because something within her is screaming that she truly wants to impress Clarke. She thinks of Clarke as an artist, a poet, a painter, a musician, a prodigy with words, and she wonders what she could ever say that would be enough to impress her.

She is so busy trying to find the right answer that she doesn't notice Clarke is already hypnotized by her simple presence.

"I can be the words you need, the prose you look for, the colors you seek when it is dark outside. I will be the pen for you to write with, the parchment for you to ensure that your phrases remain out of time's reach, the paint for you to use when the world becomes nothing but a vast blank canvas."

The silence is not enough to hide Clarke's pounding heart. It threatens to beat out of her chest and the blonde fights to keep it inside, to keep her appearance calm and in control. She manages to do it, barely. She cannot hide the pink color from decorating her cheeks.

Lexa refuses to look her way. She hopes she didn't say too much. She fears looking at Clarke will confirm her thoughts, but when she glances up after many seconds, she is welcomed by two sparkling blue eyes.

"That is beautiful."

Lexa thinks Clarke is a fool if she thinks her words were beautiful. She thinks Clarke is magnificent. She thinks Clarke's work is sensational. She thinks that whatever Clarke decides to say to make an impression, it isn't needed. The blonde has already left an astounding one on her.

"You're beautiful," she lets out and Clarke's eyes shine with the stars of the entire universe.

She waits for Clarke to speak her mind.

And when the artist does, it isn't to give Lexa her answer to the same question. It is to ask another one.

"Do you really like the way I write?"

The tone is hesitant, insecure as if believing that Lexa could ever admire her is an impossible task. Clarke has always been terribly hard on herself.

Lexa thinks it is a tragedy, the way Clarke sounds incredibly vulnerable when she has so much to offer and receive. She wishes Clarke's confidence didn't hang only by a thread. She wants to give Clarke an endless speech about the beauty behind her stories, but she can only resume her thoughts to a small sentence.

"You're special."

The words have nothing magical, but the tone, heartfelt and impossibly delicate, makes Clarke believe in Lexa more than anyone else.

Clarke suddenly believes she is a unique kind of special because Lexa says she is.

Without hesitating, Clarke speaks her mind, gives her own answer to Lexa. The words flow in her soul as if they had been waiting to be pronounced since she was born. It feels as if she is singing a song she spent hours memorizing. It is far from the general answer she initially thought she would give. It is meant to make an impression on Lexa and no one else.

"I know enough about you to write a single sentence. I want to discover enough to write a novel. And then, I want to learn enough so that I can rewrite history itself to show the world what a miracle it is that you exist. But I don't want you to be an open book. I want to observe, to explore. I want to take as much time as possible. I may be special, but you must be extraordinary."

None of the rest matters.

Clarke waits for an answer that she isn't sure she wants to hear.

Lexa waits for the right words to come back to her.

They both think they've been waiting a lot more since they started talking to each other.

"Did you prepare that answer before asking me the question?" Lexa narrows her eyes suspiciously.

Clarke smirks and shakes her head shakes her head sideways. She tries not to show how proud she is of her answer and fails.

"Your talent with words knows no limits," Lexa whispers.

Clarke believes it is simply because Lexa portrays the best inspiration she has had in a long time.

Their conversation takes a new path, a different one.

They interact in a way they haven't been while chatting together. There are hints to dozens of possibilities, in the way they speak, the way they act, the way they simply look at the other. They ask questions they wouldn't have asked in other circumstances and they play with the answers to make it more personal than they should.

It is a cat and mouse game and they have no idea which role they play, exchanging the masks every few minutes.

One second, Clarke tries to subtly ask Lexa on a date. The next one, Clarke mentions her ideal day and all Lexa wants is to make it happen, and the blonde realizes a bit too late that she probably won't be the one organizing their first official date.

One minute, Lexa wishes to know Clarke's biggest dream, and the next one, she is the one babbling about her false ambitions, forgetting about the many obstacles in her way.

She remembers reality a bit too late, but she keeps her cheerful tone because Clarke is looking at her like the word "impossible" doesn't exist anymore.

Clarke shares her goals regarding her arts, her life in general. She speaks as if everything will come true and she even starts to believe in her own words. Lexa seems to believe in miracles and Clarke suddenly does too.

Many times, they laugh too hard and too long, and Lexa finds herself having trouble regaining her normal breathing.

Clarke never asks questions and simply waits for the worst to pass.

One moment later, and two bites into the main course, Clarke asks what Lexa would cook if she had to impress someone with her skills. Lexa makes the situation slightly backfires by asking Clarke what her favorite meal is instead of answering directly to the question.

They find themselves sharing even more in common and when they reach a disagreement, they both yearn to know about the other's perception.

Clarke loses the game and Lexa gloats at the way they get along in perfect harmony despite the fun competition.

They lose track of time, sharing silly anecdotes and brushing heavy subjects. They flirt and it is undeniable that they both encourage the other to do so. They talk about perfect scenarios and pretend they won't memorize it for future references. They mention their favorite songs and movies, books and hobbies, colors and meals, and they both secretly keep the information safe in the corner of their mind. They share stories about their lives and Lexa finds Clarke even more charming than before, and Clarke finds Lexa magnetizing.

Despite the few differences between them, they feel at ease.

Despite it being their first meeting, they feel as if they are old friends reacquainting.

As the evening comes to an end, Clarke asks Lexa to offer her a secret.

She asks for something that not many people know, something precious, something raw and real and perhaps even ugly. Something that matters. Something terrible so they can get past it and focus on the more positive aspects afterwards.

She isn't sure if it is a good idea, but she asks anyway because she is convinced nothing can ruin this day, not even the most terrible secrets. And she would rather know about those sooner than later, before she risks being hurt by the truth.

Lexa requires for one first and Clarke gives in because she feels that refusing something Lexa asks would be considered a crime.

"My father died five years ago and it feels like it happened yesterday."

Clarke's voice doesn't waver anymore when she says it. She talks about it casually, but Lexa sees right through her. She notices the little girl who misses her father more than anything and anyone. She also sees the woman who has learned to live without him.

She wants to gift Clarke with a secret too, but she is afraid its weight will shatter their amazing meeting. She tries to find a revelation other than the obvious one, but none comes to her mind.

She remembers the night she spent awake, reading Clarke's masterpiece, the subject of death being displayed in a thousand different ways. She hopes Clarke will be able to see past the words, to believe in some sort of sick joke. Clarke's arts are all about death, but it doesn't mean Lexa is ready to become part of the exhibit. Still, she takes the plunge.

Because if Clarke would rather not be part of it, Lexa wishes to know now and not when her heart is at stake.

"I'm dying."

She doesn't add details. She waits for Clarke to make a decision. Her voice doesn't tremble anymore when she says it. She reveals her raw truth like one would name its favorite song, without giving it too much importance, but Clarke sees right through her. And suddenly, flashes of Lexa taking long and deep breaths, of Lexa struggling to breathe correctly, pass through her mind heavy with meaning.

Lexa doesn't add details and Clarke doesn't ask for more.

Clarke isn't sure if she wants to know more today, but her admiration for Lexa only reaches higher levels. Maybe she should be scared of the implications of this small sentence, but she isn't. She owns death. It doesn't scare her.

"I will call you," Clarke promises as she leaves.

Lexa breathes a little easier.

Lexa is a survivor.

She has lived through her first love departing this world.

Costia was full of hope and life, and Lexa sometimes dreams that she has never left the land of living. They had only been children when they first met, but the connection has been instantaneous. Their relationship had bloomed from shy friends to passionate lovers within months and Lexa had thought that despite her young age, her soul had been born to fall in love with Costia. All it took was three seconds to shatter this utopia in millions of pieces, one fateful night during which Costia and her family were hit by a drunk driver.

Lexa survived the loss of her first love, but it was only the beginning of her misery.

Lexa had survived the crisis following her parents' divorce and her uncle Gustus' suicide only a few months later. That time, she knew not to be surprised when all hell broke loose. She knew even the best situations could reach their end. She knew what to expect. She cried at the funeral but never again until the most recent blow.

The diagnosis hit her from all sides. The prognosis burnt her down to ashes. The treatment weakened her and the side effects were nearly enough to obliterate her motivation to live. And still, by some kind of miracle, she has found a way to keep walking, to keep her head up, to let the air fill her wounded lungs in adversity.

She has accepted the fact that she would die earlier than the average person did. She has prepared herself.

She will not fall in war without fighting with every ounce of energy she can extract from her body, but when the time comes, she will be ready.

She thinks she already is.

She doesn't realize she is not.

She closes the heavy door behind Clarke, her breath already short from the effort it takes.

She feels that the artist walking down the stairs is the same kind of person as her: a survivor.

Clarke and Lexa have been surviving for so long and the same message of respect is shared as they lock eyes one last time through the window. But it doesn't matter what monsters they defeated, what wars they dominated, what territories they conquered.

They have been defeated by the simple way their eyes met and refused to ever look away. It is their first meeting only and yet, there is one thing they are sure of.

Clarke believes she could fall in love with Lexa.

Lexa believes she could fall in love with Clarke.


They don't see each other a lot, but Clarke doesn't break her promise. She finds Lexa too interesting to fear whatever truth hides behind her previous words.

She calls Lexa as soon as she gets home because she doesn't believe in the "three days rule". She thinks it is a waste of time to force herself to not contact someone she likes because expectations tell her to. She wants to hear Lexa's voice.

It takes two months before they see each other again, still at Lexa's place per her request. The months that never end, they call them. Sixty-two days during which they kept thinking about each other without even being aware of it.

It shows in the way Lexa finds herself cooking Clarke's favorite meal twice, and in the way the blonde realizes too late that she has been painting all month with the brunette's favorite song on repeat. It shows in the way Lexa watches Clarke's favorite shows despite not finding them particularly interesting, and In the way the artist sees her new inspiration in every place she goes.

It shows in the way Clarke's dreams about her father are replaced by vague images of Lexa.

It shows in the way Lexa's shortness of breath is more often caused by thinking about Clarke than by the sickness betraying her body

Their calls are short, but multiple. They contact each other for no reason at all, to talk about the weather or to share about something from their day. Their conversations during the day are joyful and full of optimism, and Clarke believes this is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. Their talks at night are mysterious and glamorous, and Lexa feels like she wouldn't mind living in the darkness for the rest of her days.

They test the limits of how late they can stay up to talk together and often wake up the next day with a dead battery by their side, their phones still pressing against their face.

They always talk too much even when their answers become completely irrelevant. They always try too hard to impress the other, as if they were built this way. They always realize a bit too late that it isn't necessary.

Lexa repeats Clarke's name many times and it makes the blonde chuckle. When Clarke asks her about it, the taller woman says it is because she has trouble remembering names and she doesn't want to make a mistake.

Lexa's favorite animal is a raccoon and Clarke's is a lion.

Lexa's love for food can only be matched by Clarke's lust for drawing.

Lexa's slight boldness when it comes to feelings complements Clarke's hesitant behavior.

Lexa loves running, the forest, the lake, camping. If reincarnation exists, she believes she has lived a thousand lives in the wildness. She believes her spirit will not go through to heaven or hell, but rather to a tree, where she will live for many more centuries.

Clarke loves that she is privy to those little facts and tries to ignore the hopeless tone in Lexa's voice as she speaks.

They give away enough information for Clarke to write her novel, but she doesn't mention it. She wants more and she is willing to give just as much.

She finds beauty is everything Lexa is, everything she does, everything she isn't and doesn't do.

She realizes she can contact Lexa anytime of the day and night, and somehow get an answer within minutes. She hopes Lexa gets enough rest but she doesn't dare to ask.

They always get along. They never run out of things to say and when they think they do, one of them finds just the perfect sentence to make the conversation go on and on until one of them gets busy.

Lexa is the first one Clarke thinks about when she wakes up and the last person on her mind as she struggles to send one last message with her eyes closed.

They always laugh too much and Clarke listens to Lexa's shaky breath too many times, wondering but never worrying.

She never asks questions and Lexa never elaborates.


Only two parts in this short story.