thank you so much for your comments and appreciation for this story!! it honestly means so much more than you'll know

Three days later, everything goes wrong.

Pansy sits in her office, a chic minimalist room draped in white, barely larger than a cubicle. Covered from wall to wall with overstaked files spilling from the file cabinets. A cause of great shame to her mother. Cynthia hadn't talked to her for a year after her engagement with Draco fell off and Pansy had decided to try out her luck elsewhere. In a pedestrian job, as her mother called it. Running away in a trite little chamber. Pansy doubts if even one Parkinson women in the last century had worked a day in any kind of service. She's fairly certain she doesn't want the answer.

She quite likes her office though, likes the simplicity of it. The mediocre decoration, or lack thereof. Likes the fact that this was the first room she could decorate anyhow she wanted.

Cynthia wanted her to sit behind an ivory desk and work on social letters. Never in her life would she have envisioned that her only daughter would sit through a minimally air conditioned office, cutting through words of other people and praying, like any other insipid pedestrian on a government job, the clock would miraculously turn to five o'clock.

The desk fan beside her keeps making the wheezing noise as she works; the cool air wafting the pile of papers beside her. A deep, humming buzz churning from its metallic blades with the quite bristle of parchments make the already stale air in her room more congested. Airsrpayed. Bleakly stale.

She strikes through the words in visible ire. A failed attempt at a culturally appropriate joke, a miniscule, inexcusable slime smearing aimed at Department of Mysteries from Department of Education. She blunts it all out. It always surprises her how bad people are at speeches. How crass and tone deaf some of the ministers are. Her eyes narrow in annoyance. She taps her feet and tries not to stare at the clock for the end of the day countdown. The quintessential officiary desperation of the hour to end rises up, and she half-heartedly thinks about what her mother would say, that is, if she were to see her daughter wade through the clock like a common—

Perhaps that's why she doesn't notice the pearlesant Jack Russel until it's prancing right in front of her. She jumps up when the dog hops on her table, unsure. He growls once before winding back again. Pansy tilts her head at the patronus inquisitively. She only has a moment to wonder before he speaks, just as awkward as his halfhearted dance, "Hello. I'm sorry to intrude. That is... if you were working."

She doesn't recognise the voice.

"Or if you don't want to receive this message. Either way, I am..." At this the dog jumps on the hardwood floor, whirls around. When it speaks again, its voice comes suddenly out more panicked, as if he's just figured out what he came to say, "Harry's injured. You—he's at St. Mungo's. I—please come."

The quill drops. The studding noise it makes when it cracks open on the ground is annihilating. Or just louder than a whisper. Pansy can't tell. The whirls of the electric fan vibrates through her skin and the airsprayed, putrid fresh air of the small, small room thrashes inside her lungs and—

Harry had gifted her the fan.

There's nothing quite like gasping for air when the world's so full of it. Her chest stretches flat against her ribcage. She's having a hard time to reach through the vacuum inside her and breathe in her due of air. A lungful. Handful.

He'd made a joke about it.

He's injured.

Pansy's still trying to keep breathing as she follows the dog and apparates.

"Thank god," Ronald Weasley breathes out when he sees her. His voice in reality sounds more muted, gruff than his patronus.

Pansy nods. Graciously. Curtly, she thinks. Her nails are digging into her palm as she looks up at him. His dark auror robe is long with cape-like sleeves, darker at the seams. The regal ebony looks almost grey now, just like Harry's when he comes back home covered in dust and lint and whatever the hell their convicts decided to throw at them. His dress looks longer, though, flapping against his shin. He's taller than Harry.

Harry's injured.

"Where is he?" Her voice comes out light. Airy. Funny how lack of oxygen does that.

He twitches uncomfortably. The tip of his nose turns a cherry red. "He's—well, I just want you to know—"

"Where—?"

"He's fine," he insists. He rakes his hands through his hair. Ridiculously red. "Don't panic."

Pansy wills her mind to focus on the man. The gangly limbs, long face. Brown freckles everywhere on his face, his neck and hands. He feels more familiar than she'd expect him to be. His hair, the carrot, vibrant red stands out from the pale cream wall of the hospital. She realises, bleakly, that there's no one else around them. Normally Mungo's was always filled with healers and nurses and visitors glitzing around, too quick to even notice. But now there's only one man, glaringly awkward, fumbling, looking as though he doesn't know what to do with her now that she's here.

"I'm not panicking," she hisses. "Where is he?"

"He's fine. The healer said he's going to be fine."

She makes a point not to blink. Her eyes itch from dried tears.

"I just—look, I'll take you to him. They just—injected a lot of... I don't even know. Fucking horse tranquilizers, for all I know. So I don't—don't want you to get scared."

"I'm not scared."

Blue eyes her over, wary, uncertain. She's not sure if she's sounded too angry. Or too emotional. Or nothing at all.

"He was asking for you."

The world tilts on the wrong axis. Her knees shake. She's grateful when Ronald Weasley offers his hand for support.

Of course she's scared to her fucking bones. It simmers, the fear, like an adolescent creature rustling from sleep. Like something so alive it should have a body of its own. Instead it resides in her, blocking her thoughts, stretching her skin to make an impromptu home neither of them want to live in.

The creature jumps out of her body when she finally sees him.

There's a nurse hunched over his face. And it's only after Ron Weasley coughs that she turns back.

Her face twists in disbelief when she sees Pansy. Pansy stands straight, or rather, straighter than she was. Her toes tingle in discomfort, a nervous simmer rashes from her stomach as she tries to settle into the scene, her skin, and ignore the stare.

After forever, it seems, the girl answers with a jerky shake of her jaw, "But healer Ronson said —"

"Family members only." He flips his hand impatiently. "I know."

The girl eyes her again, and Pansy would takes the challenge, would stare at her with equal amount of hostility and arrogance. But she's too busy gawking at the limp body at the middle of the blindingly white room. There's an open window behind his bed, illuminating on the saline stand, the half filled tray of potions, and him. She can see his dark hair, she can tell someone has brushed it back recently.

She can tell that he moves, just a ripple in his body, when he sees her. She can't tell exactly when the nurse leaves and Ron Weasley has ushered her to the bedside. She can't tell exactly how she's able to reach out and hold his hand, freezing, twitching, without disintegrating into a hundred pieces.

But somehow she's sitting at his side. Somehow she stares back, not crying when his lips curl into the infinitesimal smile. Soft and tender. The one he gives her after a long, tired day. The one that gives birth to a hundred impossible scenarios in her head.

"I'll leave you two," Weasley says gruffly. Pansy isn't sure if she nods. But he adds, "And call me if you—you know."

She doesn't know, is the thing. She's not sure why Weasley would even call her here.

"Pansy," Harry says weakly, and smiles.

The creature scratches against her throat. A soft gasp leaves her mouth as she rakes her eyes over him. His entire body is exposed except for his groin. There's a patchwork of cuts and bruises over his chest, crisscrossing over like needleprint. The bruises bloom knavishly in purple, lilac, midnight blue. Her lips tremble. The worst part is his legs, the ankle of his left side is bloated, swelled and sickly yellow. There's a chunk of his large toe missing. Except for this, the entirety of his lower limbs are pale pink like a baby's skin.

"It's nothing," he says quickly, or tries to. His voice cracks at the last syllable. "It's nothing, baby. They're just giving me something for the poison; they're not sure what it is—so I guess it's a little bit of everything. That's why it looks so…" The rest of the sentence trails off in a sigh. "I'm supposed to be falling asleep, by the way, except the sleeping draught is not working too well."

It takes her a moment to find her voice. "You moron. "

"Not you, too." He fidgets nervously. "Ron's already given me a ton of shit."

"What happened?"

"I don't… quite—I'm not sure." His hand flexes as Pansy leans forward to grab it. She threads her fingers through his. His skin feels like paper, cold and grainy. His breath smells like medicine.

"You're an idiot." I love you, she thinks, like a curse.

He smiles weakly. "I'm so glad to see you. Ron called you?"

"He said you were asking for me."

He shifts a little to her side, away from the midday light bursting through the window. "Makes sense, actually. I had a dream about you."

She forces a smile. "Yeah?"

"We were in the cave, at Gringotts. Remember the time I tamed the dragon? It took so long, by the time I was finished I was bleeding through my chest, and I… the other me, and Ron and Hermione had fled and you healed me and— "

"Yeah, I remember." She'd touched the dragon after. the callous, gravelled scales. Charcoal black with drops of scarlet scattered over its body. It gleamed in the dark like rubies. She half stared, mesmerised, while simultaneously feeling his eyes on her. She was afraid he'd fall over, after all of that, afraid they'd fall out of the memory. Her hairline pricked with sweat. It smelled like the sea in there.

He's eyeing the soft blue stain on her fingers now, rubbing his thumb over the pulp of them.

"I felt like I was at the beginning of that memory. The air was salty and thick and—I was too tired. I thought no one else was there. As soon as the cast the first disarming charm it was complete chaos. It was… I'm glad Ron's fine, though. It was so dark in there, the bastard's let a disillusionment charm so strong it was thick enough to… get lost in. Sneaky bugger. I hope we caught him… I couldn't ask Ron, he was balmy over me."

She knows him enough to call out his bluff, when he's deflecting what truly worries him. Pansy's mind catches on to the words he doesn't say. He thought they were at the beginning of his memory. She's taken him there exactly five times. He fought the dragon in one. Fought the goblin in another. The last time he took a moment's gap, a hesitation, before he disarmed the goblin and let the three kids pass. Now , he thought he'd cast a disarming charm. Did he really or—

"Don't overthink," he says.

"I'm not—"

He points his index at her face. His finger trembles before he drops it quickly. "You tilt your nose up when you do that."

Pansy looks down on their entwined fingers. Silent.

"I like reading you. You… are hard to read." His lips curl in a smirk. "It's no surprise; you make everything a challenge. That's the quintessential Slytherin in you."

"And you make everything a conquest," she replies sourly. "That's the incorrigible Gryffindor in you."

He chuckles, a little arduous, a little breathless. "I don't want to conquer you, though. I just want to love you."

It's as if he's blasted an Incendio in the room. A magnanimous shift in the air. An insidious pressure on her chest. A gnarled burn in her throat. Her lips part in surprise.

"Does that scare you?"

"What?" It's more of an instinct than a question. A frail deflection. She knows what he's saying.

He squares his shoulders, winches at the pain. Pansy feels his thumb twitch over her index as he repeats, louder, "That I'm in love with you?"

She can't answer. Can't return the slight raise in the pressure of his grip. Can't do anything but stare back, with tears pooling in her eyes. His eyes are muddled with exhaustion. Still erratic. Pupils dilated and—

"Harry," she starts finally, already hating the pitch in her voice, already hating how patronising she sounds, "you're not in—"

" Don't tell me how I feel," he snaps. Winches. She wonders if there are any broken bones at his chest, too. "They injected me with a lot of shit... But I—I'm steady enough to know what I'm saying. So don't. Don't deflect this now. I want to… talk."

She leans back helplessly, turns her face away to look at the surroundings. To not look at him. "This is probably the worst time to do this."

"No."

"No?"

There's a dry moment of silence. She keeps her palm over his, keeps her eyes moving over anything but him. He waits until she looks back. Then says, "You know, in the old days, the healers used to discourage the use of anesthetics. They felt that the pain was a sure gateway to healing. They put a lot of poison in us in the training, too. To become an Auror you have to forge your body. Get acquainted with pain. And I think… I feel, there's a specific quality to pain, you know? It purges . It almost always leaves a footnote. When I was in the hole, bleeding through my head, my legs burning, unable to move. I realised what I actually got wrong. What I was chasing, how… fucking inconsequential it was."

He takes a deep breath. Pansy feels as if she is standing in the precipice of an impossibly long fall.

"The priorities sit differently when you're at the end of the line. There are a lot of important things we don't talk about. Like… the guys you meet for lunch every Saturday."

She touches the small stretch of pale skin in his middle finger. He wears a ring usually, a ruby red heirloom of his godfather. "You know why I meet them."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. And I know how you take two extra glasses of whiskey that evening. I know you come home weary, bitter, and hating yourself. I know you like to make love half drunk those nights. You like when I hold you, you like—"

"Harry…"

"We cope the same way, princess. All skin and bones, you and me."

She tries to gulp down the breath stuck in her throat. It grates. It doesn't move. "There's nothing else to know about it… or them. They're not important."

"Yet, I don't know if I'll lose you to any one of these unimportant, prime-cut fucking purebloods." He says the last word— purebloods —with a venomous hiss. Almost a snarl.

"I'm a pureblood, too, you know."

"Not like them."

She purses her lips. She wants to believe that. She does. After an eternity, she tells him the truth and nothing but the truth, "It's not possible for you to lose me to them."

Meaning, she's his in a way she can't imagine for anyone else. Even if she's married to someone else, even if they go their separate ways as she suspects they will, in time, she'll be his. She can't believe he doesn't know.

"Have you slept with any of them?"

Pansy is surprised to find that she's not perturbed by the question. Not offended. She almost snorts at the ridiculousness of it. "No. Not after you."

"Good." His breath falls heavier as he closes his eyes. The sleeping draught , Pansy thinks bluntly.

Her breath mimics his. Heavy. Painfully wistful. "Do you want to sleep it off?"

He shakes his head.

"Harry, we can talk later."

"Do you want to know if I've slept with Rose?" His voice comes out like a lisp, but the words are sharp.

"No." She's certain he hasn't. Almost certain. Almost… but there's always the unapproachable grey area of wonder, isn't there? Of your worst fears being true? Or true enough? Sure he didn't sleep with her, but did he kiss her? Maybe he hadn't wanted to, but as soon as she leaned in, he thought why not? Why not take what life offers? Why wait for the fucked up girl in her play acting life who can't even be honest with herself? Why not—

He opens his eyes. "You're doing it again. Over-thinking."

She snorts. "Sorry. I am trying not to imagine you with her." In darkness, his glorious four-poster. In his kitchen, maybe. Or her house. Or—

"Pansy."

"It's a habit."

"I haven't slept with her. Or anyone else."

She tries to smile. "Good."

"Hermione set us up. She thought we'd have a lot in common." He rolls his eyes. "Bull. She tries to be subtle about it, but she chooses the same girl for me every single time. Or some iteration of the same. Red hair with a flower name… Hermione probably thinks I have a condition. Deep seated psychological fixation."

He stares at Pansy, a soft, melancholy smile forming in his lips as he trails his eyes on the heart shaped petal on her chest. "Well, maybe she's right about one of those fixations."

Her lips tremble. He pretends not to notice it.

"I walked her home and kissed her on the cheek and bade her goodnight. On her doorstep, she asked about you—who you were… the reason I wasn't interested, why I was distant . And I said I was in love with you. And I… I was so relieved to say that out loud. After so long, I wanted to… scream it, if I could."

He clutches her hand harder, his palms are sweaty, his hand jerks uncomfortably as she leans closer on cue.

"Because, Pansy, when I was dying—" A dry chuckles. "— again, I couldn't remember what Dumbledore said to me when I was sixteen, or what Voldemort looked like when I killed him. I thought about my mum and dad, what my name sounded like in their mouth. And Hermione, and Ron. He'd be livid if I died, by the way… And I thought about you. I… regretted that I never told you I love you." His words come out quicker, as if he's trying to get them out in a single breath. They trip and fall and he's nearly gasping by the time he finishes. And she listens. With a rapt, sticky attention. A haunting beat of her heart in her ear.

"It's not an impulse. I can still feel it. The burn of the poison. It's in my veins. It cleared away a lot of things for me. I love you. When everything's over, the memory burns out, and all I have left is darkness, I love you."

She's dreamed about these words for a lifetime. She's dreamed—foolishly, foolhardily, with a raucous stubbornness enough to match his Gryffindor audacity—him saying these words for the better part of last year. And yet. And yet. "Harry—"

"I don't want to pretend it's anything else anymore. I don't want to tiptoe around you, pretending I'm OK with you meeting potential suitors every fucking week. Life's too short, Parkinson. Too fucking short and I've died one too many times, I lost too many things. You saw them. You know. You understand."

She does. Perhaps too much.

"I don't want to be… presumptuous, but I know you love me too. So—it's all bullshit anyway, your history and my history. Fuck that. Be with me. All of me, all of you."

A crack in the door breaks them from their sphere. Pansy snaps her head up to see a healer in her neon green robe. The woman stands with a fresh tray. She can only make out three filled vials of potions as she comes closer.

"It's time for him to—" she starts, but Harry cuts her off. Pulls Pansy closer to him until her lips hover on his, their noses bump. And it's so familiar, so very, intensely—

Their faces only an inch apart. His pupils are dilated as he fights with sleep. What he whispers is only for her. "When you came home from visiting your father. I held you the entire night. You were crying in your sleep, and I thought, again and again, like a prayer, that I love you. I love this girl. Pansy, I'm not an idiot, I know why you hesitate, but I have this insane, persistent faith that… that—love can solve everything. If you are brave enough to fall, it can change your life. I believe that love wins. However long you wait or how many detours it has to take, it wins. "

Her lips part, there's a soft, tender sigh that leaves without her notice. Her lips brush over his when she leans in, more private. Just them. Her heart beating like a frantic bird. "I love you," she says, admits.

Confesses.

His eyes glint. Finally, his breath settles. "I know. I always knew."

"You did always have a bloated sense of self."

He smiles. "You said it today in my memory."

"What?"

"He needs to sleep now," the healer says curtly.

Pansy narrows her eyes. "What did you say?"

He reaches up to kiss her. A soft press. A soft sigh. "The cave. I saw… today. I saw you. And you said—"

"He is under some heavy potions, miss," the healer says, at her side now.

"—you were wearing the midnight blue dress. And you—"

"I suggest you let him sleep."

"You said you loved me."

Pansy feels a hand tugging her back. Softly enough. She pulls back. Harry's eyes turn softer, muddier, as she does.

"We need to go back there," he murmurs wistfully. "You can… we can…"

Pansy doesn't have the heart in her to let him finish. She kisses him, the rest of his words drown in the midst of it all. When she pulls back, a heavy, sleepy smile is plastered all over his face. His eyes are calm. He whispers a question in full, her breath stutters in an attempt to calm herself down.

"Yeah, baby," she finds herself nodding. "We'll go back."

She comes out shaking.

She rustles through her bag, her fingers spasm as she tries to pry out a spare parchment. The world is too bright, too loud and words like love and us and memory are coiling through her throat, tightening like vines on the frame of an ancient mirror. The mirror reflects what she desires most in life. The mirror taunts her with something she should never have.

She couldn't hear Ron Weasley the first time he calls her.

"Are you OK?" he asks again, louder.

Pansy's hand finally grazes against the paper. She tears it out along with her quill.

"Are you OK?" she snaps. Her knees shake. The world is a tumultuous force insistent on knocking her down.

To her surprise, he chuckles . "Harry said you are like that."

"Like what ?"

"Defensive."

She pushes the point of the quill against her thumb to stop from screaming. She is defensive, because she understands the innate nature of the world and the people polluting it. She understands the essence of history and time. She understands her own frailty and how it appears to other people.

She understands what Ron Weasley might think of her. She knows he is justified in his judgement.

That's why she squares her shoulders and says, like she's surrendering after a long lost battle, "You probably think he's too good for me."

When he doesn't answer, a dry, humorless laugh bubbles from her throat. When it comes out, it tastes bitter. "Yeah. Well, you're not alone in this. I think he's too good for me."

He opens his mouth before promptly closing it shut. Pansy flattens the torn paper against her palm. She stares down, blinking. A tear finally plops down, settles like a blot of ink on the paper.

"It's not an opinion. It's a fact. He's too nice and too kind and entirely without a history of generational war crimes and prejudice and… don't think I haven't pointed out that I'm bad for him. That it's going to hurt him. But he's an arse. An absolute fucking—"

Before she knows it, she's crying. Her breath rises up in hysteria. A knot loosens inside her. She hyperventilates.

"And now this . Fucking —"

"Hey, hey, Parkin—Pansy. Pansy . I don't blame this on you. Merlin's sake, he's always been a reckless bastard. You—you need to sit down."

And she does what another guy says, again, ushered, patted on her back. She cringes at her own weakness and the sour bile rising up at her throat as she cries. "You don't know," she says. "He needs help."

"What kind of—"

Another sob bubbles up like hysteria. She covers her mouth with her hands and it smells like how he did when she kissed him. Her teeth clatter. She has to close her eyes to focus on breathing. Breath in. He's delirious. Breath out. This can't go on. She can't tell how long she does this. But her chest hurts by the time she can sit straighter, her breaths come out ragged, throat aching. She finds Ron Weasley still sitting beside her, trying not to stare. Trying still to pat her back.

Her scrawl comes out messy, spaced off cursives as she writes down a name and an address. The letters keep getting smudged from her tears. She sniffs, offering the paper to Weasley.

"He needs—take him there. She'll look after him."

He eyes her as if she were an alien. Well , she thinks sourly, I might as well be .

"I don't understand," he says.

His eyes are a clear, azure blue. Reminds her of a cloudless sky. Reminds her that it's time she comes clean. Shaking, and so very very afraid, she describes it to Ron Weasley, what she's been doing. Where they've gone to. The depths of Harry Potter's memories and the depth of the grave they've dug together.

"I've been telling him for so long," she says shakily, feeling smaller by the minute. Still not small enough. "He doesn't—then I don't… I've made such a huge mistake."

He still stares. Maybe it's a Gryffindor trait. Maybe it's what honest people do. Her hands form a fist again. By default.

"I get it," he says slowly. "It's making sense now… these past few months."

She nods. "You can help him. You—if he stops now, if he takes his treatment now, it can…" She laughs to get rid of the clot in her throat. "He can be normal again. Maybe... be with someone normal. Your sister, probably. Be a part of your family again—"

"He's always been a part of my family."

Her nail digs into her palm. She doesn't winch at the pain. "Yeah, right. I know."

"And it's not—I don't know what happened with Ginny. But he… he's been good, since the last few months. He was reckless, he made mistakes… but he—he laughed."

"I love him." She does. She has loved him in a million different scenarios, a million different memories. Boy broken, boy fighting to his bone, boy feral. She saw him become a hundred different men, she loved all of them. But the bright scarlet thread of consequences tying them together feels like a noose. To bind his death rope. He loves her. She doesn't know how to untie what she does for him apart from what she means to him. She doesn't know if he can even differentiate it.

She loves him. She doesn't know if it's enough.

"I'll make sure he goes to this healer," he says finally.

"Thank you."

"And what about you? What will you do?"

"I think it's better if I stay away."

He taps his index on his knee. "Better or easier?"

And she's not an idiot. She can detect, still, the disdainful huff. A scoff. Of course he thinks she's running away. That's what she does , no? Always. But this isn't— it isn't, she thinks desperately, the truth. The truth is more complex. More gruelling.

Her voice is soft and defenseless when she says, "He is one of the few people to see me like I… I matter. I don't—"

She's doing the one thing she can think of. One heart for slaughter. She hopes that it's enough, the most selfless thing she's ever done. she prays with all her will that it'll be enough.

"I just—I'm selfish, Weasley. It's who I've always been. That's why I called out his name in the Great Hall. I—I just thought of saving my skin. And I should've left him, now, long ago, when I realised what was happening. But I kept trying to… fix it. I told myself I was helping him, I told myself I was in control for a long time. I… god, I fell in love with him. It's easy to love him, no? He doesn't—he doesn't settle into the background like other people. He stands out. Even after all that's happened, he still has the heart to believe in something, believe in me and I… I loved how he made me… less lonely. I loved that I made him feel safe, like he is understood. That's all anyone ever wants anyway. So I thought it meant something. Us. But." She takes a deep breath. "It's not worth it. Him in this state. So I—it's not easy. I'm not—for once in my entire fucking life—choosing easy."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Pansy presses her lips in a thin line, her cheeks itch from the dried tears. Her skin cracked, feels cut open, pervious to all kinds of hurt. The day is almost at an end, the long windows of the lonely hallway glinting in the afterlight. It's almost evening.

"OK," he says, running his hand through his hair. "I don't know what to… OK."

She nods. She's so light. Weightless. Nothing at all. "And I—I'm sorry. For—"

"What?"

"Taking it as far."

He sighs. It sounds exasperated. "Yeah."

She stands up, shaking her head when he offers help. Despite the lightness, despite feeling as if she's done the right thing, it takes all of her willpower to apparate. It takes her a whole minute to picture her home, small and lonely. Her catalogued dresses and her new telly. Her immaculate kitchen and her heirloom mirror. The couch that's really for two people. She imagines the place, pictures the rhinestone chime he gifted her before the tight coil of nerves in her abdomen whisks her away.

Her room is almost dark. The last of the afternoon light falls like a fleet of light and she waits for evening. Sits on the floor of her drawing room like a forgotten pet. She waits for the last of light to die and waits for the darkness to settle and swallow her whole.

THE END.

lol. just kidding. i am physically incapable of writing an ending that's not unequivocally happy.

So... one more chapter to go for these angsy idiots in love. would love to know your thoughts—on the story the characters the writing whatever.

have a good day