Uh, hey. It's been a while. I used to be pretty active in this fandom, but then some Life Stuff happened and I haven't really been around for a few years. Then recently some more Life Stuff happened, and while I was in lockdown last month I got back into the show, tripped the hyperfixation switch, and uh... here we are. As rusty as I am, it's been really nice being able to write a story for the show that got me into fanfic in the first place.

Anyway. This is a post season 7 AU, sort of. Everything up to about halfway through 7x20 is canon, then it diverges in that Alex managed to fool Ezra in the hotel, the wedding went ahead, and nobody noticed Spencer was gone. This will be a multi-chapter story, not sure how long it'll be yet but I guess we'll find out.

Unsurprising to anyone who interacted with me or my stories back when I was first active, this will have a lot of platonic Sparia, as well as platonic OT4 (not much Alison because I don't have a strong grasp of her character), and eventual romantic Spoby, probably. The idea is that it'll be heavy on the hurt, heavy-handed on the comfort. It will delve into some dark themes, and the rating may change to an M at some point because of that, but it won't contain anything worse than would be seen on the show.

So um, that's it, I guess. I don't know how active the fandom is anymore, but I've had fun writing this fic so I figured I'd share it in case anyone else might enjoy it. So read if you want, review if you can, and I'll see you all next chapter.

the illusory truth effect: the tendency to believe false information to be correct after repeated exposure.

[Seventy-one hours, eighteen minutes.]

It's dark outside.

An unremarkable fact in itself, given the full moon hanging low in the darkened sky overhead. When night falls, it gets dark outside. And yet for the solitary figure trudging through the streets, bare feet scraping the pavement as she struggles to keep herself upright, the thought is completely foreign and unfathomable. It's dark outside, she thinks, the tired haze in her eyes preventing her from making out any features of the buildings or street signs she passes. It's dark, she thinks in a daze, and I'm outside. The words keep repeating in her mind as she makes her way down the quiet street, each step a monumental effort as her body begs to be laid down, to rest against the cold ground and never move again.

But she does.

She keeps moving, because once she stops it's all over. She can't afford to rest. Overhead the moon shines on, full and round and so absurdly cheerful that she would rip it out of the sky with her bare hands if she could. Its light is too soft, too gentle, giving such a beautiful glow to a world that holds nothing but ugly, treacherous things. She turns her gaze downwards, in anger as much as from embarrassment, and counts the cracks in the pavement. Most are simply tiny fractures, flaws in an otherwise functional design, but there are tiny weeds growing from some of them, rising up in defiance of their hostile environment.

She was so sure they'd come for her.

That certainty had kept her going for weeks, for far longer than they had thought she'd be able to take it. But time had slipped by, marked only by her twice daily visits and the eventual tally marks she had kept in the back of her notebook once she was finally allowed to have a pen in her room. She wasn't allowed to hold the pen when anyone else was in the room, of course; she would have to make a show of leaving it on the bookshelf and returning to her bed with empty hands before that big glass door would swing open. Time had slipped by, and she had felt herself slipping away, worn down by the constant isolation and carefully mediated torture.

It's dark outside now, and it's cold. She's barely cognizant of her bare feet, unaware that the rough ground is scraping her skin raw, her entire body fixated on only one thing: moving forward. She has to keep moving, it's the only thing that matters. Nothing matters. A light wind brushes against her skin, and she knows it's barely a breeze but it feels like ice against her malnourished frame. She wraps her arms around herself, a feeble defense, and finally glances upwards, squinting at the street sign overheard. The illumination from the nearby streetlight makes it almost unreadable, the white letters glowing like a blazing sun, but after a few seconds they settle into place and form complete words.

It reads like a warning, the last chance to turn back before dangerous terrain. She stumbles to a halt and stares up at the sign, only breaking her gaze when a light drizzle of rain cools the skin on her cheeks. She brushes it away with the back of her hand, confused to find that only her face is damp. Lifting her gaze, the cloudless sky opens up above her, the bright silver stars joining the moon in its mockery of her. In the glow of such beauty, she feels ashamed. With a huff she wipes her face again, this time recognizing the dampness for what it is.

Before she can muster the fortitude to keep going – or the courage to turn back – there's a footfall behind her, and over her shoulder a shadow looms, thrown into gigantic proportions by the angle of the streetlight. She turns to face them, knowing she can't outrun anyone in this state and unwilling to even try, and is surprised – yet strangely not relieved – to see a familiar face.

Her surprise is mirrored in his expression, his eyes wide open and his mouth slightly agape as he takes in her condition. He takes half a step forward but pulls himself up when she flinches, automatically backing up. There's only a couple of feet between them, but it's a bridge she can't let anyone cross.

He breaks the silence first, his voice incredulous. "Spencer?"