Authors note:

Trigger warning: Even though there will be plenty of funny banter, this fanfic will touch mental health issues. (WILL NOT INCLUDE SEXUAL ASSAULT) I will put the proper warning before each chapter. If you are concerned about certain triggers, you could always message me and I will be completely forward.

Also, I'd like to thank both of my awesome betas Jewelz1642 and PenguinofProse for tolerating me all this time and being so awesome about this process!

The first step in the twelve steps program is to admit that you are powerless. What a fucking stupid notion.

Clarke always refused to believe that anything in her life was beyond her control. The moment you start making excuses - blaming stress or childhood trauma - is when you give into the narration that you are a mere pawn in your life, not an active member.

Sure, all the above could shape the options you have, but in the end, you always have a choice, even if it's between two equally horrible decisions.

Her dad once told her that she was too harsh, that life isn't black and white. People aren't just good or bad, most of them live in the grey... He was a genuinely kind man.

'And look where he ended up', Clarke thought bitterly. She took a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to cleanse the negative thoughts that decayed inside her mind. She opened her eyes, inserting her contacts into them. After all these years, it's was still the worst feeling in the world.

She got out of bed quietly, glancing at the window. It was dark outside, meaning she was going to be late. She groaned to herself, dragging her feet tiredly across the room. She checked herself in the mirror, trying to fix her hair as quickly as possible. It was much easier to get it together now that it was shorter. When she was younger, her mother strongly suggested that she grew it because it was more elegant, more presentable. Now, that she was far away for her prying hands, she could finally have the haircut she always wanted.

That was the first thing she did when she disappeared.

She's standing in the middle on a dirty bathroom stall, holding a knife with shaky hands. Her clothes are wet, clinging to her body, stained with mud. She takes deep breaths, while tears are streaming down her face. She begins to cut her hair. Slowly at first, but with each strand of hair that falls down the sink, she becomes more determined. She glimpses to her hands, are they red from hair dye or blood? She's not sure. When she's done, the image that is staring back is a stranger. She grabs the hoodie that she took from the laundromat, wearing it over her wet clothes. She wants to change it, but it's not safe to dispose of them, not here.

The Clarke in the reflection would be unrecognizable to anyone who knew her before. It's strange how you change on the outside when you change from the inside. She used to be so timid and unspoken: clinging to the dark corners, staying out of sight. Now, she looked healthy, confident, and powerful.

She also looks a fucking, tired mess.

Clarke chuckled to herself, wiping the remains of mascara and eyeliner from the night before with her sleeve. She really should start to get used to removing it before she goes to bed. She quickly splashed water on her face, trying to get to those pesky black flakes that hanged in the corner of her eye. She reapplied it with a swift motion. She used to hate putting it on, as it was only for the sake of disguising herself. But it's grown on her. It was like putting on war paint.

She turned her face left and right, examining herself. She looked half-way decent and had no time to do anything beyond that. She grabbed a pair of jeans, pulling each leg while jumping around the room, and hurried to the front door. In the kitchen stood Raven, leaning against the counter, rummaging through Chinese food leftovers with a smug expression. Her backpack was tossed carelessly on the floor, pouring out books and notebooks, suggesting she had just come home.

"Morning, buttercup," Raven greeted. She singsonged her sweetly, her mouth still filled with pork noodles.

Clarke would have gladly thrown something at her if she had anything in her grasp. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she grumbled.

Raven gave a half-hearted shrug, "Honestly, I thought you'd be gone by now." She was barely understandable, spitting bits of food with every word. If Clarke's mother were here, she would reprimand Raven for being impolite. Clarke could almost hear her voice: scolding and cold for being anything short of perfect.

"Overslept," Clarke explained hoarsely while pouring a cup of cold coffee. She gulped it down, grimacing over the taste. 'Eww, last night's brew.'

"I didn't make coffee yesterday; I have no idea how long that thing has been sitting here," Raven said as she twitched her nose, half apologetically, half amused. Clarke shifted her gaze quickly to the pot, debating whether she should make another cup, to make up for the last one.

Raven caught her, pushing her to the door before blocking her path back to the kitchen, "Oh no, you don't. I used all my connections to get you this job." She stretched both her arms to the side, shifting her body left and right, ready Clarke to make any sudden break.

"You mean, minimum wage job at the bar?" Clarke placed a hand on her heart, mocking sincere gratefulness.

"Well, I don't have a lot of connections, asshole," Raven retorted, crossing her arms in fake hurt.

"I think Murphy would be okay if I'll have just one cup," Clarke murmured as she quickly passed through Raven, easily outmaneuvering her. It wasn't a fair fight after all, not with Raven's bad leg. She quickly ran through the motions of starting a new pot of coffee.

"I swear to god, I'm gonna take this prosthetic out and kick your ass." Raven reached to her knee, tugging with the straps. Clarke rolled her eyes as she watched the pot, tapping her foot impatiently.

"You know what they say about watching water boil?" Raven smiled dryly, limbering her way back to her food.

"It's this damn thing. We need to get a new one." Clarke sighed as she checked it with the back of her hand. Not even slightly warm.

"When I finish school and you are a successful artist, we'll buy all the pots in the world," Raven sarcastically fantasied out loud, before snorting and going back to her pork noodles.

Clarke thought while staring at their old coffee pot. There was a time in her life when Clarke could have any job she wanted. She could've fluttered her eyelashes and an opportunity would present itself, wrapped neatly with a little bow. When she was a kid, her mother would lay her down to sleep, promising the world to her. Promises too good to be true, it turns out. It was difficult adjusting to her new life, knowing she'd actually have to work to get anything, but it was worth it. She didn't mind working two different jobs while taking night lessons at the community college if it meant freedom.

If it meant never having to see anyone from Arkadia ever again.

"Anyways, considering your shift started two minutes ago, it's probably for the best," Raven commented, shaking Clarke out of her thoughts.

"Fine, fine, I'm heading out," Clarke raised her hands as she grabbed her bag.

"Oh, and Jake? If you wake me up tonight when you get back, I will legit end you!" She heard Raven call out after her and closes the door with a sigh.

When she realized there was no way she was ever going home, she knew that she would have to change her name. Clarke was too unique for a girl, and unique was not what she needed when she wanted to make herself as invisible as possible. Yet, part of her felt guilty, changing the name her father picked out for her. So, a compromise was made, and she took his.

Besides, it's not like he was using it, being dead and all.

She thought it would take her a while to get used to that. She imagined she would get confused from time to time and introduce herself with the wrong name. But like most of her dreams that didn't happen. She never had one slip up since they changed it. She became Jake in that dirty bathroom - staring at her reflection, surrounded by strands of her hair in the sink.

The Dropship is probably the nastiest place Clarke's been to. When she entered, her feet stuck to the ground, almost like quicksand - warning her that this place is going to swallow her whole. She shifted through a few tables: most of them seemed like harmless drunks, mumbling to themselves while holding their own to a bottle. She took a deep breath, trying to hide her disdain. It was probably not a good idea for her to work in a bar, considering her past with self-medication, but it was the only place willing to work under the table. After all, it's not like she could use her real identity. A man behind her started to cough loudly. She managed to get out of his way gracefully, a moment before the customer hurled all around the floor.

Well, that explains the stickiness.

"Nice dodge J. Clearly, you've done this before," a voice from behind her said. She glanced over her shoulder to find Jasper, chewing on ice.

"Yeah, I played for the Dodgers," she joked. Jasper blinked at her a few times, confused. She noticed then that the pink hue in his eyes was not a reflection of the lights. Figures. He's usually stoned by now. She explained slowly, "I didn't actually play for the Dodgers," fighting a smile.

The guy took a step back, nodding as if he was assessing her humor. He shook his head, realizing the joke, before concluding, "You're good. You're really good." He paused, "And late, I think." He glanced at the clock on the wall, the one that hasn't been working for years. "Whoa! Your shift is almost over! Murphy's gonna kill you," he gasped.

"Yeah, I should go," she replied. She peeked over his shoulder to see if Murphy's anywhere to be found. Thank god, he's not inside the bar, she thought.

"Honestly, it's cliché for the manager to be named Murphy. But maybe it's like the opposite thing, you know? Maybe his parents named him knowing he would be a bartender. Or, or- maybe he felt obligated to become a bartender with a name like Murphy." He paused, rubbing his chin. Clarke knew better than to weigh in, whenever he got into his philosophical mood. It was better to let him babble until he ran out of things to say.

"Anyways I gotta get back to my friends there," Jasper shook his head like he was scared about forgetting them. "I'll try to create a distraction so Murphy won't see you come in."

"Hop by later. I'll get you those pretzels you like," Clarke promised and headed to the bar.

Bellamy rested his head on the back of his hand, sighing deeply. Staring back at him was a pile of history papers he was supposed to be grading. He glanced through a random assignment, snorting loudly. 'Ugh, clearly plagiarized,' he mused to himself. Honestly, he figured that the snotty rich kids would know better than just copy-and-paste Wikipedia.

He once tried to make grading into a drinking game, taking a shot whenever he read something incredibly stupid, but the idea was quickly scratched when he got wasted before finishing the first paper.

He knew his students gossiped behind his back - complaining about his incredibly high expectations - and he took pride in that. When he was a student, he worked two jobs and took care of his sister, all while studying every spare second he had. So, excuse him for not being impressed when he got a lousy paper that had no original thought behind it.

His real passion wasn't being a teaching assistant for those spoiled rich kids, of course. It was just a way to get money for Octavia. But now that O was all grown up and moved away, he needed something else to take care of. After all, years of molding his life and personality around caring for someone shouldn't go to waste. So, he volunteered at the care center, helping people get their GED. Nate has told him repeatedly that he's wearing himself thin, but he didn't care. Keeping busy was essential to keeping a clear mind. And he didn't like being alone with his thoughts.

But, now that the summer has begun, he had plenty of time to himself for the first time in years. Which is a horrible new experience. All he had to do, for two months, was to grade seniors on their final paper and work on his thesis - the one hasn't been able to finish for a year.

Scratch that. The one he hasn't been able to start.

He leaned further into his hand, skimming one of the last papers he had to grade. In 60 BC, Caesar, Crassus and Pompey formed the First Triumvirate ...

Bellamy let out an annoyed groan, glaring at the paper.

"What wrong with this one?" Nate laughed from the kitchen.

Bellamy picked it up and started waving it, as to shake the mediocrity out of it, "THEY DIDN'T EVEN ERASE THE HYPERLINK!" He grunted again, shaking his head. "Also, they talked about the wrong Caesar!"

"Is there more than one?" Nate scratched his head, confused.

Bellamy blinked a few times, shocked by his roommate's lack of what should be common knowledge. "Well, yeah. First, there was Julius Caesar, and then there was his adopted son, Augustus, who took his name and made it…"

"Wow! Super interesting! Thank you, Mr. Blake," Nate said, a little too loudly, making Bellamy even more huff in frustration.

"You're wasted potential," he remarked.

"How do you know my childhood nickname?" Nate teased back. He came out of the kitchen, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Bellamy cringed, Nate probably left the dirty dishes in the sink.

Nate ignoring Bellamy's looks continued, "Anyways, does that mean that your royal highness..."

"Ave Caesar," Bellamy corrected, making the other man roll his eyes.

"...Is going to grace us with his presence tonight?" Nate crossed his legs, giving his friend a scolding look.

Bellamy considered it for a moment, shifting his gaze from Nate to the papers.

"Come on. When was the last time you went out?" Nate continued to urge, leaning closer.

"Do one-night-stands count?" Bellamy rubbed the back of his neck, trying to appear innocent.

"I think you know they don't." Nate rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Bellamy wasn't sure if he was tired because of the day he had or just tired of him.

Bellamy took another glance at the paper when he saw one with the actual Wikipedia logo.

"Count me in."

When they arrived at The Dropship, Bellamy twitched his nose. All his friends have been raving about this place, but honestly, he can't figure out what the big deal is. It was just another dive bar with cheap drinks and... Well, cheap drinks might be enough of a reason, now that he thought about it. Nate directed them to a corner booth, claiming it was their usual table. Bellamy tried to hide a snort; to call it a table is an insult to furniture everywhere.

"I can't believe grandpa made it," Harper teased, elbowing Bellamy's rib. Bellamy tried to return a smile, but failed, rubbing his incoming bruise. Ever since Octavia got Harper into Krav Maga, she threw quite a punch. Or an elbow if he's being precise.

"Someone has to wave his hand at you kids to get off their lawn," he joked.

"Oh, teach us your wise ways, master, to us mere crickets," Murphy remarked as he stood up to take a small bow, his mockery making Monty frown.

Monty commented, attempting to sound casual, "Pretty sure that's cultural appropriation."

"You're Korean," Murphy retorted, climbing back into the booth.

"I'm offended," Monty defended as he dodged Murphy's flying limbs.

"I thought your people were known for their kindness-" Murphy commented casually as he takes a sip of his drink.

"DUDE, THAT'S STILL NOT OKAY!"

Bellamy glanced at Jasper, who drew his eyebrows in confusion. "I thought he was Canadian," he whispered to Bellamy, concerned. He reeked of marijuana and cheesy Cheetos; the scent was so strong it almost took a visual form. Bellamy tried to smile, but it was hard to hide his concern. He has confronted Jasper about his smoking habits in the past, but Jasper always dismissed it, claiming 'his mother said it was okay.' Bellamy noted to himself to keep an eye on his regression.

Murphy glanced away, groaning, "If you'll excuse me, I need to head out for a second. Jay thinks she is so smart…"

"Was she late again today?" Monty asked, scoffing.

"No!" Jasper called, blinking repeatedly while laughing nervously. Murphy rolled his eyes at the obvious lie, talking over Japer's head.

"Yeah, she thinks that if I don't see her come in it's like she was never late. I swear to god that if she's going to be late one more time…"

"You're not gonna do anything because she's the only one dumb enough to work here," Harper noted.

Murphy sighed deeply, blowing air from his cheeks. "I won't fire her, but I will scold her." He mumbled, defeated.

"Probably not, though."

"Yeah, probably not." He agreed, hopping off the table to greet his employee. Quickly, the conversation shifted towards some new tv show or singer, or something like that. Bellamy always had a tough time keeping up with current culture. He was about to start one of his usual rants about Panem et circenses when suddenly he heard a laugh.

A cheery, lyrical, laugh.

Bellamy could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing. His legs started to jump nervously, and his hands were shaking because he knew that laugh. He has been thinking about that laugh for years now. It belonged to one person and one person only. And that person wasn't supposed to laugh anymore. She's supposed to be at the bottom of the ocean.

Bellamy closed his eyes, and in his mind, he could almost see her, shouting at him for being an idiot. His lips crawled into a smirk that used to be reserved for her only. A familiar tingle of hope snuck into his heart, which Bellamy tried to drown right away. When they told him that about Clarke, he refused to believe it. She couldn't be dead. They never actually found her body, no clues as to what happened, so how could he just accept that his best friend was killed? He knew her, she was strong, and she was a survivor. Drowning seemed like an impossible way for her to die. He used to imagine the moment he found her over and over. He's imagined that the craziest scenarios: her being kidnapped, amnesia, anything that could distract him from the harsh truth: she was gone.

The woman laughed again, and the melody... it was mesmerizing. It was almost like a comforting lullaby, caressing away the years of loss. He took another long sip from his drink, trying to focus on the here-and-now. 'It's not her,' he reminded himself. He knew he should look; he knew that was the only way to fully return to reality. He counted to five before he made himself turn, ready for the wave of disappointment. But it never arrived.

Because the woman standing next to Murphy looked hauntingly familiar.

Bellamy jerked his head quickly, closing his eyes. Jesus, how drunk is he? 'That's not her,' he thought to himself forcefully. He reminded himself that the last time he saw her, she was fifteen years old, and that was over a decade ago. It wasn't her. It was some random woman that matched the way he'd always imagined Clarke would look if she'd somehow survived. Besides, Clarke couldn't possibly be alive. He would know. She wouldn't have let him live without knowing.

He glanced over his shoulder, slowly opening his eyes to focus outside the small window. He examined every feature from afar, forcing himself to find any evidence that could disprove her identity. She was a lot thinner, tanner, and a redhead. A traitorous part of his brain pointed out that all those things can be changed. Her big eyes, small nose, the way her lips perked up when she smiled… For a projection of his former best friend, the resemblance was uncanny.

When she laughed again and punched Murphy's shoulder, he forgot how to breathe. He swallowed hard, trying to ease his heartbeat by inhaling and exhaling slowly. He realized then, it was more than just the way she laughed or looked; It was the way she acted. Being her best friend, he was able to study her for hours, every motion she'd made was carved into his memory. Just like Clarke, the woman in the bar held herself a certain way, almost like she's floating above everyone else. Like a Princess.

His heart started to flutter, and his head began to spin as he grew more certain that there was a chance that this woman could be her.

"Who is that?" he asked in a raspy voice, gesturing with his head to the bartender while making sure that his head was turned. If it was her, really her, he needed to act with caution.

"That's Jay, she's new here," Jasper answered. He waved dramatically at the bartender, blowing air kisses at her. Bellamy flinched at the name before shaking his head. 'Of course, she's not gonna use her real name,' he tried to convince himself.

"Do you know where she's from?" He forced himself not to stare at her.

Jasper gave half a shrug, raising both of his hands. "She's kinda mysterious ya know? Why, are you, like, into her?" He wiggled both of his eyebrows in amusement. "I saw her making out with a girl the other day, so..."

"Jasper, focus, what do you know about her?" Bellamy asked harshly. He knew he was being an asshole, but he could apologize later. There was no time to waste.

Jasper narrowed his eyes, every unfried brain cell left of his was collaborating, trying to produce anything useful. "Well..." Jasper's eyes lit up. Finally, something Bellamy could use. "She doesn't play for the Dodgers."

For fuck's sake.

Bellamy sighed. The only way to know if it was her was to get a pure, sincere reaction out of her, one that would catch her off guard. He approached the bar, almost lounging himself to the table. Before banging as hard as he could on the wood bar counter.

"What the hell?!" he yelled.

Granted, he could have been more subtle.

However, it worked. The woman who was cleaning the glasses yelped, dropping it to the floor.

"What the hell yourself! You can't just yell at people behind their backs!" She yelled back, clenching he hand to her heart and taking deep breaths. She then shifted her eyes to the broken pieces of the floor. "Shit. Murphy's gonna take that out of my paycheck." She glanced towards Bellamy, smiling mischievously. "Well, he can't charge a customer." She smirked, collecting the broken shreds with her bare hands.

Bellamy narrowed his eyes to the woman in front of him, chewing on his cheek. He hoped for her to be startled, to confess, to wrap her hands around him, and beg for forgiveness. The look on her face did not indicate her being busted. She crossed her arms impatiently, and he realized he had been staring at her without saying anything.

"Here's a menu. If you want to order something, knock yourself out," she said, tossing him a laminated piece of paper. She then moved along to other customers. Bellamy blinked a few times, shocked. That conversation went nothing like he thought it would. It was a bad start, but maybe it was his fault for trying to act casual. He should've let her know that he's on to her.

"Hey, I know you from somewhere," he tried again, leaning back on his chair, trying to appear smug. He hoped that by acting confident, he could trigger something, anything. A tear, a twitch, even a blink, but it was all in vain. Her face was set in stone.

"I don't think so. Unless you've been to Michigan," she replied, barely bothering to look at him, giving only a mere peek. He was about to give up and deem this whole thing a strange encounter when he heard her laugh again. He couldn't just give up. Not without being 100% sure. He couldn't do that to Clarke.

"Never been to the west coast?" He asked. He had to raise his voice to get her attention.

She shook her head, forcing a smile. He wanted to grab both of her shoulders and shake that smugness of her face. How dense did she think he was?!

"Huh. Funny, because you look exactly like someone I know," he muttered through his teeth.

She exhaled deeply, rubbing her left temple with slow, circular motions. Was this is? Is she going to admit that he caught her? Bellamy felt himself feel with anticipation. "You're cute and all, but not my type. Now, if you want to order something…" He grabbed her arm forcefully, pulling her closer. She tried to tug her arm away from his grip, but he was determined. He can't lose her, not again.

"What the fuck?" She hissed at him. She moved like a captured animal. Bellamy tried to shake away that thought because that would've made him the hunter.

"Let me look at..." he started to explain. But he stopped when he felt a tingling sensation on his left cheek, quickly spreading to that entire side of his face. She slapped him. He raised his hand to touch the place of the injury, baffled.

Clarke would've never done it. Not when she knew about his mother. His mind started racing, as a million different theories crossed his mind. Maybe she did lose her memory? A desperate part of him refused to let go. He wanted to inquire, but before he could, he felt her grab onto him, yanking him from the collar of his shirt.

"Get your hands off me." Her tone was quiet and low. That's when he saw it, a pair of sharp brown eyes staring intensely. His heart skipped a beat, and the whole world seemed to stop.

Clarke had blue eyes.

"Now, do we have a mutual understanding here?" She almost growled to him. He nodded, and as he dropped into a chair, he could feel his heart sink as well.

"I'd pour you a drink, but you've had enough." The mockery in her tone was cruel; it was like a dagger to his heart. This image in front of him was like a horrible fever dream that'll forever taunt him. He chewed on his lower lip, tilting his head to the side. It wasn't fair to project his feeling of loss, anger, and resentment to this stranger; he knew that. But the way she looked at him, that mixture of pity and disgust, drove him insane. He felt his lips crawl into a smirk.

"You look like a girl I used to fuck. Sorry for the mix-up."

Well, that was misogynistic and a horrible thing to say to anyone.

What he hated even more than the fact that it turned out he's a bigger asshole than he thought himself, was the fact that her shocked expression gave him so much satisfaction. Her lower lip began to tremble, and some twisted part of him wanted to extract any hurt from her.

Instead, she sneered, "Well, if tonight is any indication, I don't think she's gonna call." Suddenly her gaze shifted up as she gestured above him. "Yo, does this belong to you?" She asked someone from behind him.

He felt a sudden hand on his back, grabbing him. "Sorry, he's a bit of a mess tonight, his friend apologized. He wanted to object but bit his tongue when he saw Nate's glare.

"I barely had anything to drink," Bellamy mumbled. He felt like a kid again in parent's teacher conference, scolded for being naughty.

"Oh, then that's just your good-natured self?" she commented. "Jeez, being drunk was your last saving grace." She clicked her tongue, hitting the bar with her towel. He clenched his fists and turned away, desperately wanting to respond. He couldn't help himself around this woman. Everything about her provoked him, pressing buttons he didn't even know he had.

"He's usually more tolerable than that," Miller insisted, and he could feel the grip on his shoulder tightening. He's definitely going to hear a lecture later tonight. "He wasn't that much of an asshole, right?" Nate checked, and Bellamy could hear a certain nervousness. He dug his nail into his palm, trying to remain civil. Losing his temper around this girl meant losing the last shred of dignity he had.

"Nah, I'm fine. Nothing a generous tip can't fix," she answered casually and handed out a tip jar, laughing loudly. How did he think it was the same laugh? Her voice now seemed like nails on a chalkboard.

"I'll give you a big one." Nate searched in his pocket, winking at Bellamy. "Stay in school," he remarked with a finger gun motion. She rolled her eyes but cracked a sincere smile to him. Bellamy felt a gentle tug from his collar, implying that it was time to leave this woman alone, and he was more than eager to oblige.

Only after the last person in the bar left did Clarke allowed herself to breathe. Working after seeing him was like operating on autopilot. People's words were muffled like she was hearing them from under the water. After his departure, she replayed their meeting over and over again in her mind.

When he entered the bar, it was like someone pulled a rug under her feet. Everything around her moved very slowly, as she watched each step he took with a longing gaze. After he sat down, the spell broke, allowing her to focus. She had come across people from her past before, but with Bellamy, she wasn't sure she'd be able to get away. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for any exit routes. There was one door, and Bellamy just happened to sit right in front of it. If he noticed her leaving in a hurry, he would have been able to connect the dots. Her only option was to act casual, hoping he won't approach her.

That's right, she thought. Why would he talk to her? He's here with his friends, having the time of his life. She's just a bartender, working in a dark corner. She could do this. She'll play it low during this shift and quit later, to avoid ever having to see him again.

Her plan relaxed her, perhaps a little too much. She should've kept her back turned to him as much as possible, but she couldn't help but glimpse at him from now and then, noting the differences from her memory. He was taller, a lot taller than she remembered. And more muscular. She forced herself to look away, pretending to be preoccupied with polishing the wine glasses. From the corner of her eye, she could see that he was frustrated about something. In her mind, she pictured what possible lecture he's working on. She chuckled to herself, reminded of the time he ranted for hours about why Hercules, the Disney movie, was a bad representation of the Greek gods.

"What so funny?" Murphy grumbled as he approaches the bar.

She shook her head, dismissively. "Private joke," she answered, making Murphy let out a loud snore. The moment he does, Clarke cringed. He had drawn attention to her.

Clarke massaged the bridge of her nose, trying to calculate her next move. Her brief meeting with Bellamy went fine. There was a moment she thought he was on to her, but as it turned out, she was better at this than she thought. She felt satisfied with her success, mostly.

A small, egotistical, stupid part of her felt disappointment. She was sure that if she'd ever come across him, he would know her instantly. She fantasized about that moment for years, dreaming about him wiping away her tears, scolding while holding her tightly. Hugging her so tight, as if he could keep her with him, safe, if he never lets her go.

It might've been good to see him, though, since, in a way, she idealized him in her head. She saw him as the kindest, sweetest, funniest person in the world once. It turns out, he grew up to be an asshole. A handsome asshole, but still.

She shook her head, covering her face with both of her hands. Rubbing across her skin as if she could rub away the thought.

At least he seemed convinced about her identity. Meaning she didn't have to quit. Actually, if she did quit now, it might raise his suspicions. Since he wasn't a regular in the bar - from what she could tell - this might be their last meeting ever. A sudden thought rose to her mind, and a burning sensation filled her cheeks.

She slapped him. What if that's the last thing they would…

Her heart began racing, as guilt and anger washed over her. she went too far. She knew it the moment her fingers touched him, but it was an instinct. Being on the run meant dealing with a lot of sketchy men, you get accustomed to handling things a certain way. And he did act like a jerk.

Still, he didn't deserve that.

She tried with all her might not to picture him back home, staring blankly at the wall, as memories of his mother terrorized him. But the image refused to leave.

When she came back to her apartment, she left her shoes outside the door, careful not to make any sounds. In the living room sat Luna, one of Raven's weird friends from college.

"Raven said I could crash here," she explained. Clarke looked at the living room, searching for a phone, a book, anything that could indicate what she did before she entered. Did she just… stare?

"I'm meditating. Would you like to join me?" Luna answered the question that Clarke did not ask out loud.

Things like that made Clarke wary of Luna. She didn't have a problem with her, per se, but the way Luna looked at you, observing quietly and thoroughly, always made her feel uncomfortable. The first time they met, Luna didn't shake her hand, but gazed into her eyes and told her she should learn to forgive, instead.

"I'm tired," Clarke responded, hoping to make it to her room without triggering any further analysis.

"What a wild night you've had," Luna remarked quietly, barely glancing at her. Clarke's lips pressed into a pout. God damn those psychology students.

"It was just another shift," she lied through her teeth without batting an eyelid. It took a while, but now, lying became second nature to Clarke. She did it so often that she had to write some things down to keep up.

"Sure, Jake," Luna whispered. The way she pronounced her name sent shivers down Clarke's spine. Like she knew her darkest secrets, not saying anything due to indifference alone. Clarke fought the urge to punch that smug, know it all freak. Instead, she gave a casual shrug, like she had no idea what she's talking about.

After closing the door behind her, she felt something bothering her eye… the makeup. Clarke is almost cheerful, proud to have remembered to take it all off for the first time in months. She skipped to the bathroom, placing each brown contact into their case. She looked up at her mirror. Staring back was a teary reflection