Warning: mentions of sexual assault, death, and explicit language. Read with caution.

I know that this is a difficult time for everyone, and this chapter is a bit angst, so I completely understand if you're not up for it right now. If not, enjoy!

Chapter Ten: The World By You

A gentle pressure against his cheek woke Kurt. Cold cream clung to his skin like dew to a sleeping leaf, and that same pressure returned, rubbing it in, circle after circle. When he tried to move, a bolt of pain rattled his abdomen, tearing a groan from his throat.

"Careful." The hand left his cheek and steadied him, calloused, firm. "You just had surgery, kiddo. Gotta take it easy for a bit."

"Dad?" Burt resumed his ministrations, dipping his fingers into the tub of moisturizer. Kurt's lips fell open into an 'o' as his father pressed the lotion to his forehead. "How long have you…"

"Almost half an hour now. I swear, Kurt, this entire routine of yours is a handful."

"That's… th-the idea," he said, disoriented. "W-What… time is it?" He turned to the window, but the dreary, cloudy sky betrayed nothing. It could have been any time between sunrise and sunset, and the sun could have been hidden anywhere behind the thick mass of clouds.

"Almost 6 pm. You slept through the day again. Woke up around noon when Harry came 'round to check on you, but you fell right back asleep after."

"Oh." He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately – sleeping through the day. Before he'd had trouble even keeping his eyes closed. Then again, the line between where his body spoke for itself and where it was guided by drugs had begun to blur substantially. "W-Where's Carole? F-Finn?"

"Carole went to stock up on some post-surgery foods for you – she knows how much you like Greek yogurt. Finn's… at home, studying. He has a biology test tomorrow. You never know with that one." Burt shook his head in wonder. Then he paused, reaching for his cell off the side table. "But he did ask me to let him know when you woke up, so I'm gonna..."

Watching his father text infuriatingly slowly, Kurt grimaced. "No t-touching my face now. Ph… phones are nasty."

Burt looked up at him, smiling fondly. "You sound like your mom. She never let me come near you when you were a baby until I'd showered and changed after work. Understandably."

The breath caught in Kurt's lungs. It had been ages since his father had brought Elizabeth up in conversation like that – the last time he could remember was before Burt and Carole's wedding, when his father had sat him down alone, as he was sure Carole was doing with Finn, and reminded him that his mother had been and always would be his soulmate.

For some reason, knowing that had validated his existence in his mind. If he was the product of love like that, there was no way anything people had said about him was true. None of the name-calling and slurs and slushies had meant anything.

Now, the thought just made him want to cry. Imagine what she would say if she saw you right now.

"Kurt?" Putting away his phone, Burt lifted himself onto the bed by his son's side. "What's wrong?"

The flood gates broke. Sobs raked through his body, showering him in pain like bits of glass from a car wreckage. "E-Every-th-th…ing-g," he cried out, barely forming the words around his pursed, trembling lips. Burt pulled him into his chest, holding himself together with the tiny, broken body in his arms.

"Shhh, hey, it's ok," he whispered, smoothing the boy's hair down, over and over, holding him until his body stopped shaking violently and all that was left of the episode was a sniffling, red-faced Kurt tucked into his flannel, damp with tears. Kurt lifted his face, eyes trained on the water stain, and Burt shook his head. "Stop thinking about my shirt."

"S-Sorry."

"Don't be." A moment of heavy silence passed before Burt realized that Kurt wasn't going to talk unless he prompted him. "Kurt…"

"J-Just f-forget ab…bout it," he sniffled. "P-P-Please."

"Can't do that," Burt said. He shifted closer, patting Kurt's arm (and rejoicing when he didn't flinch away). "Is it your mom, Kurt? Or the surgery?"

"T-t-told you…"

"Yeah. Everything. But I need to know what that means."

"S-She… you…" His teeth found his lip again, biting firmly before spitting it out. His mouth tasted like sour milk. "You said n-not to…" Tears spilled down his cheeks. "…th-throw myself ar-ar-round…"

Something stilled in Burt's chest. Something important that he needed to survive. The cuss word slipped right out from his lips, and he was helpless to stop it. "Fuck."

"And m-mom… w-w-would b-be… di-disgusted…"

"Kurt, stop. Please." The ache grew stronger and stronger with each word, until Burt believed he was having another heart attack – but no, his heart was just broken beyond repair, and not one of the medical professionals in this building could save him from that. "You are not disgusting. And your mother would be proud of you for being so strong. And Kurt, dear god, you did not throw yourself around."

"I…" The way Kurt's jaw clenched made his throat swell, and Burt eyed the trashcan in the corner, ready to grab it in case he puked. Neither one was sure who moved, but Kurt found himself tucked back into the warmth of his father's embrace. He said, with a resigned absoluteness, "I'm broken, dad."

"You're not broken," Burt said.

"De-Depends… who you ask."

"You're not broken to me," Burt amended. "And anyone who thinks you are is wrong."

"Am I wrong?"

A small smile graced his father's lips. "This time? Yeah, kiddo, you are wrong."

Kurt swallowed. "I-I've been… wrong a lot, lately."

The world is wrong, not you. Burt wanted to tell his son this, to shout it from the top of the highest building in Lima, to burn it into the eyelids of anyone who'd ever shot Kurt a mean look. But there was a fine line between building Kurt up and putting him on a pedestal that Burt struggled with immensely, twice as much since his first wife's passing. "What makes you say that?"

The boy averted his eyes, which swam with shame and doubt. "Everyone says I'm… seeing th-things."

"Kurt, you just woke up from a coma. The doctor said you might experience some hallucinations. It's perfectly normal."

"Did you? W-When you…"

The question made Burt pause. Lately, the memory of his own coma had become a kite fluttering on the end of an infinite string. "I don't think so. But that was different."

"How?"

"I…" wasn't bullied, beaten, bruised, assaulted… "had a heart attack. You had a head injury."

"Nice way to… p-put it." He flinched as soon as he said it, violently and viscerally.

Burt blinked back tears. "My point is that you're going to be okay, and everything's going back to normal."

"Ok." Kurt couldn't help it – he still thought about it all, constantly, as though he had died and gone to hell, and some demon somewhere was prying his eyelids open with meaty fingers and forcing him to remember the worst moments of his miserable, meaningless life. He remembered the hands against his skin, the vomit lodged in his throat…

Courage, Kurt.

But he wasn't real.

Nothing was real.

How could he trust that everything would be okay?

Burt's fingers skimmed his forehead as he stood. "I'm going to see if I can find Dr. Anderson. You know what to do if you need anything." The boy nodded, and his father paused, fingertips pressed soothingly against his temple. The mechanic sighed. "I love you, Kurt. So much."

"You t… too, dad."

His father closed the door behind him, and suddenly that piece of wood was a thousand walls of reinforced steel. Kurt closed his eyes.

Loneliness took over.

From Finn Hudson: Burt jst texted me dat Kurt wok up

MEt me outside Hs r 8pm.

Blaine stared at his phone, trying to decipher the message. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, considering the conversations he'd had with the boy, and the size ratio of his fingers to the keys on his phone, but he'd taken a moment after reading the message to assess his own sanity. Ultimately, he decided, he was just going to have to get used to the eccentric style.

At least, if there would be a need for them to keep in touch. Which Blaine both dearly hoped there would be and dreaded with all his might.

The smile on his face dropped, however, when he caught sight of the paperwork on the coffee counter. The day's events rushed back into his mind, bringing with them the bruising ache in his temples. He rubbed them, frustrated, and tried to keep the angry tears wherever they came from.

Wes placed a coaster on the table, topping it with a steaming cup of coffee. Familiar and warm, the burnt, bitter smell wafted through his nose into his brain. The teacher's arm wrapped around Blaine's shoulder as he took a sip of the heavenly liquid, sighing in relief.

"How are you holding up?" Wes said, tucking a cushion behind his back.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You weren't fine when you failed that damn code blue mock, and you're not fine now that it's the real thing."

"Jeez, Wes, thanks for the uplifting words," he snarked, setting the mug down harshly. The clang resounded through the air, mingling with his words. After a moment, Blaine shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I take everything out on you. It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not fair," he agreed, "but given that you saw a man die today, I think I'll let it slide." Blaine seized up, every muscle in his shoulders tightening at the single word. Death.

"I-" His voice was uneven, like the lines on a cardiac monitor. "I just-"

Apologetic, Wes sighed. "Sorry, that was blunt. I've never seen anyone… pass away. I don't know how to help you other than make you coffee and hold your hand."

Blaine's eyes met his, golden and teary and desperate. "What do I do, Wes?"

"Call someone who understands. Cooper?"

"He has a scheduled procedure, a long one. He'll be busy for hours."

"How about…" He hesitated, weighing the options. "Sebastian? Marley?"

Blaine flinched. "They've never – no, you're right. I'll call them."

Two short phone calls and a change of clothes later, Blaine was opening the door to two solemn-faced medical students, the taller of whom grasped a brown bag tightly around the top. "Let's go for a walk, Blaine Warbler," Sebastian declared, tipping the concealed bottle into the sky, and its contents dribbled onto his chin.

"The good stuff is more for him than you," Marley whispered as the trio took to the streets. It was just past 6 o'clock, and the sun was in its last stretch before disappearing completely into the underground. She kicked a rock with her rubber-soled shoes, and it skipped, drowning in the dark. "Hunter brought home another conquest."

"Why do you and Bas put up with that asshole? I barely have to deal with him during rounds and I still despise his face."

"Because rent is expensive, and three med students living off of minimum wage while paying off loans is better than two," Marley replied.

Blaine smiled half-heartedly. "You know I'd move in with you if-"

"If you and Wesley hadn't been roommates since Dalton, I know."

They fell into a companionable silence, watching Sebastian drink himself to euphoria a few feet ahead. As they walked, the chilly air brought life back to their cheeks. Blaine was content for a moment, allowing himself to forget the day's troubles, and shook his head at his friend's antics. "He gets like this every time Hunter brings someone home. Have we ever considered there might be a reason?"

Marley shuddered. "For his sake, I sure hope not. And for my sanity. There's no way I could keep living with them if they ever…"

"If who did what?" Sebastian slurred, already tipsy from his 'nightcap.' He was lying to himself – there was no way that would be his last drink of the night. Might as well help him along.

Blaine grabbed the bottle from his hand and took a long swig, relishing in the poetic juxtaposition of a burning throat and frozen fingertips. "Look at us, drinking in public on a Wednesday night. If only our patients could see us now." He cut himself off, a hysterical laugh breaking through his lips. "You can't see when you're dead, though."

"Blaine-"

"I watched that man's heart stop beating. And it wasn't the first time I'd seen that." He drank more and more, until the bottle came up empty; he frowned at it but continued on. "But Kurt was fine afterwards, you know. Kurt's still fine. I mean sure, he's got some problems, like Finn told me about… what was it?"

A slightly intoxicated Sebastian and Marley shared a look of confusion. "Who are you talking about, Blaine? Who's Kurt? Finn?"

"Kurt's a… can't tell you that? I think…" After that, they walked in silence, not one of them knowing where their destination was. Somehow they ended up in the dark, packed parking lot of Scandals. Blaine blamed muscle memory. He grinned approvingly. "Good choice, feet."

It was just past 7 o'clock, and happy hour was at its swinging peak. As they entered the bar, they were hit by the robust smell of sweat and alcohol mingling like a dirty kiss. The far wall of the establishment was lit up by gambolling blue light, and the dance floor was orbited by round, wooden tables, occupied by men and women with striking appearances and confident hands. The three found themselves carried – whether by their own unconscious feet or by the current of bodies – to the crowded bar counter.

Marley took to ordering their drinks as Blaine and Sebastian engaged themselves with appearing less drunk than they were. She rolled her eyes at them, sipping on a light cocktail. "What was in that bottle, Bas? You two are shit-faced."

Sebastian chortled, the sound not unlike that of a honking goose. "Ah, my friend, 'tis not a matter of what, but how much…"

"Great, the Shakespeare-drunk phase," Marley sighed, shoving a shot glass towards him. "Let's move that one along quickly, please. I don't have the brain capacity to babysit you and translate your middle-English bullcrap."

"Early Modern," Blaine interrupted, dazed. He whispered, close and conspiratorially, "Don't let Wes hear you."

"For fuck's sake," she groaned, letting her forehead rest on the dirty counter. "This is how I die."

"Wouldn't be able to help you if you did." Blaine tilted the liquid in his glass around and around for a minute before tossing it down his throat in one swift movement. It burned, and he loved it.

Marley tensed, slowly lifting herself up and placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Blaine, I didn't mean-"

"I had to tell his family that he was dead. Have you ever told someone their father is dead? Or their husband, or their brother? Or… that you couldn't save them?" Another glass slid across the bar to him, and he looked up to see the bartender's sympathetic face. He couldn't bring himself to smile in thanks, so he just nodded.

"Blaine…" Marley rubbed his forearm, trying to get him to look at her, but it was as though he didn't feel it. Then her attention was drawn to Sebastian, who appeared to be getting into a fight at the end of the bar. "I… I'm gonna go pull Bas away. Are you gonna be alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, totally." The reply was laced with disinterested bitterness. She frowned but left, dragging Sebastian away by his ears. Blaine rested his face in his hands, brushing the curly mess of his hair out of his eyes, lamenting the loss of his hair gel after graduating high school.

The bartender returned, eyeing the man as he measured. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop," he began, shaking a drink. The movement made his arms flex appealingly. "But that was some pretty heavy stuff you were talking about."

"Everything's heavy lately," Blaine muttered sourly before catching himself. "Sorry, 'ts not your job to be my therapist."

"It sounds to me like you deserve some free therapy," the man quipped. "Not that I'm qualified. Well, I am a bartender, which makes me qualified than most. So, which of the noble professions are you? I'm guessing either fireman, cop, or doctor, although you look too young for the latter."

Blaine raised his eyebrows. "Doctor. Or, studying. I'm in med school. Should I be concerned 'bout you carding me?"

The man grinned toothily. "Humour me?" Blaine folded his lips together, sliding his driver's licence over the counter. The bartender's eyes roamed over the card for a moment before he slid it back. "Nice to meet you, Blaine Anderson, 24, male. Second year?"

"Third. Skipped a grade."

"So you were destined to be a genius, then."

"Could say that. Or… that I was friendless and lame."

His eyes brightened as he leaned into his hands. "I find that last part hard to believe."

Oh. Blaine may have been intoxicated and naturally oblivious, but he could tell when he was being flirted with. Something in his stomach churned, and he didn't know if it was pleasant or unpleasant. He hiccupped. "I… I'm very drunk."

"You're the most eloquent drunk I've met, despite the oversharing." Either way, he placed a glass of ice water in front of Blaine. "But, as your therapist, I don't think it's wise to drink until you forget whatever's troubling you."

"Fair enough. 'Ts not like death ever goes 'way." Blaine sipped the ice water. It was cool, refreshing, but he wouldn't admit that. "Tastes better, but isn't as much fun."

Time passed slowly as he sobered up, and the bartender went back to work, returning every now and then to refill Blaine's water. In one of those moments, the man smiled at him fondly and opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off by a loud noise. Blaine spun around to the source, where he saw an alluring, black-haired woman in the depths of an argument with another girl whose soft-looking blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders. The first woman turned away from her partner, her pointed features striking against the dim light of the bar. Santana.

She said something to the blonde, whose face screwed up in tears, and the girl turned and ran from the room. Santana dropped herself into a booth, the lines on her face making her look twice her age. Before he knew what he was doing, Blaine was out of his seat and sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

"Go away, I'm a lesbian," she dismissed without looking up from her drink.

"And I'm gay, and way too old for you," Blaine replied, taking the glass away from her. She looked up, resentment clear on her features, when she noticed him, and her lips parted in recognition.

"Hobbit, what're you doing here?"

"Maybe I should be asking you that, Santana, since I know for a fact that you're underage."

"Don't be an ass, little Anderson," she snarled, taking the drink back and finishing it. She set the glass down with a clink. "How do you even know who I am?"

"I…" He debated whether or not he should admit that he'd heard the rather intimate conversation. "I was in the hall when you and Finn were… talking."

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed for a moment as she processed his words. Then her eyes widened, and panic flitted through them. "You can't tell anyone."

Blaine nodded. "It's none of my business who you love. But I have to be honest, if you're going to introduce yourself with 'go away, I'm a lesbian,' I don't know how long you'll be able to keep it a secret."

She shrugged. "No one in this gay bar would know me, and if they did, I'd have blackmail against them, too. The only out person in my entire school happens to be my friend, you know."

"Seems like you have it all figured out, then." Without the drink to occupy her, Santana's gaze wandered around the bar, as though it was her first time there, and ultimately landed on the door – Blaine remembered the girl who she'd been arguing with. "Was that Brittany?"

"How did you… right. Yeah, Brittany. My girlfriend."

"You two seemed cozy."

She glared at him. "I repeat, ass." He waited, hoping she'd open up eventually. Their staring match was broken when she looked away, resigned. "Brittany's different. She has this way of seeing the world that's so… happy. So optimistic."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Only when she doesn't understand that the world can be a bad place. I thought we were on the same page about being together, thought she knew the risks for me, but it turns out I was wrong."

"She doesn't want you to stay in the closet?"

"No, she doesn't… understand the closet. She thinks everyone should be able to love who they love, and it's no one else's business. Which, trust me, I would not complain about, but it's just not going to happen."

Blaine knew there was a part of the story that she wasn't telling him. He said nothing – it wasn't his place. For now he would just sit with the girl and reassure her, because he remembered what it was like to be her. "The people you love don't always understand you, but it's their job to try."

Whether that advice applied to Santana, her girlfriend, or both was up to her to decide.

She swallowed loudly before schooling her expression, pasting on her cocky, confident persona. "So, what are you doing drinking alone on a school night?" (Her casual use of the term 'school night' reminded Blaine just how young she was.)

"I'm not alone. I came with friends."

"Really?" She didn't look around, didn't even break eye contact. "Where are they, then?"

"There was an incident. Don't remember much else."

She smirked, glancing behind him. "Anything to do with the hot bartender checking out your ass?"

Blaine rouged. "No, nothing like that. And I find it quite amusing that that's the third time you've referred to my ass."

"Incorrect. The first two were me commenting on your ass-like behaviour. And not in the good way." She paused for a moment, contemplating. "Although, if I was into that sort of thing, I wouldn't turn you down."

He rolled his eyes. "You remind me of a friend of mine."

"Yeah? You remind me of Kurt."

That stopped him in his tracks. It came to his attention that he really didn't know anything about the boy, despite constantly worrying about his health. "How so?"

"He's witty, like you. And cares about people enough to sit with a stranger and talk to her about her love life. And he gives great advice, looks out for me, and, well, can be kind of an ass, especially before coffee. This one time he actually snapped at his math teacher at 8 am because he hadn't had enough time to stop at the Lima Bean for his skinny white girl coffee order. He was mortified after, you should've seen it!" She grinned wide, lost in memories.

"He sounds... amazing." The ache in his chest screamed that he wanted to be there for him, to make him better, whole, safe, unscarred. Because Kurt was a good person, or maybe because he didn't deserve what happened to him, or because he just reminded Blaine of himself.

Santana watched him carefully, and it was unnerving, like being put under a microscope. "You'll be good for him. At least, I hope so."

"How? I don't understand, why are you and Finn so interested in me? Kurt has so many great friends already. I don't know why he would need me."

"Honestly, I don't know either." She stood, straightening the bowtie on his collar. "It wasn't me or Finn who chose you, Hobbit. It was Kurt." With that, she grabbed someone's drink, downed it, and adjusted her bra noticeably before shoving past him and making her way to the dance floor. For a moment, Blaine just watched her dance provocatively with anyone who would give her the time of day, which was most. It wasn't particularly pleasant to watch, but it wasinteresting, like seeing her in her natural habitat, yet still with a wall around her made of one-way glass.

Then he turned away, and they didn't see each other again.

He checked his watch: 8:45 pm.

Making his way back to the bar, he ordered another drink.

Finn had been tapping his foot incessantly for the better part of an hour before Kurt exclaimed, "W-What are you doing?"

The tapping stopped, and Finn grimaced apologetically. "Sorry, bro. Just… waiting for a text from Rachel."

"About?"

"Uh, she said she'd… lend me her notes. For the biology test."

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Dad t…t-told me about that."

"Why do you look so surprised, man?" Finn said defensively. "I study."

"F-For video games, maybe."

"That's not fair," he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm trying to get good grades so I can go with Rachel to New York next year."

Kurt softened. "I'm proud of you, F-Finn."

He grinned toothily and said, "Thanks," and then the incessant tapping of his foot was replaced with tapping of his fingers against the keyboard of his phone.

Kurt sat back in bed. New York… Every bone in his body longed for the city, for the bright lights and greasy foods he'd never eat, where the only stars you could see were Broadway legends and performers of all shapes and sizes and talents, where he belonged.

But… his NYADA audition was five months away, and he still couldn't speak without stuttering. The one time he'd tried to sing since waking up had been hell in his throat, and he was, to be honest, terrified to try again. Maybe, if he tried, if he pushed past it all and just tried… It was impossible. Something in his mind stopped him for even being able to open his mouth to entertain the thought.

Tears leaked out of the sides of his eyes, and he hoped that Finn wouldn't notice, wiping them off on his pillow by turning his head to either side.

"Hey," Finn's voice interrupted the silence, and Kurt panicked for a moment, thinking he'd been caught. "It's almost midnight, and I'm starving. Is it cool if I head home for the night?"

"You're always starving," Kurt replied, forcing humour into his tone. "G… Go ahead. Luck for th-the test."

"Thanks, bro. You're the best." Finn lifted Kurt's wrist to bump their fists together in an entirely far-too cheesy way. There was no way Kurt couldn't smile. "See you tomorrow."

"Oh, F-Finn?" The boy stopped at the door. "Can you close th…th-the lights? I'm kind of… tired."

He nodded, and the room was suddenly dark. Finn bid him a final goodbye before heading out, and Kurt was left alone again. He knew it wasn't often that he was alone, but it seemed like the world became sharper and slower whenever he was, like some kind of cosmic torture.

Settling back for a long night, Kurt sighed. The nights were all the same: hours upon hours of lying awake, unless Harry took pity on him on one of his check-ins and gave him something. But they all knew he would start to rely on the medications to put him to sleep, so this happened few times and far between (or so it felt to Kurt, who'd really only been out of his coma for a little over a week).

Closing his eyes was useless, he decided, so he kept them open and just watched. His eyes, by nature, were drawn towards the window that looked out into the hall – there was a soft light glowing on the other side, enough that it lit the hallway and just the front of Kurt's room. He wondered how much longer he would get to stay here before they moved him again.

As usual, time passed slowly in the night. He was silent, watching, waiting – for what, he didn't know. In a thought he immediately banished, the feeling reminded him of hiding in the shower stalls at McKinley after being threatened in the halls, wondering if today would be the day he didn't get to go home for dinner.

Now, he wondered when the day would be that he could return home at all.

Nurses passed through the hall every now and then – not often, as the nights were usually slow. He never saw Dr. Anderson at night, which he assumed was because he was on call in his office or at home, wherever that was… and whoever that was with.

Last summer, my wife was killed in a break-in…my daughter was with her.

He knew Dr. Anderson had only told him about this to see if he would admit to knowing who assaulted him – which he never would, as long as Azimio's threat remained – but he couldn't help but wonder how the man survived, nevertheless continued working with a smile. What kind of person was Dr. Anderson? His family?

Hours passed that way. Or minutes. Kurt wasn't sure. But he had a feeling it was somewhere in those precarious hours between the dead of night and the outset of dawn when a figure – a man – came into view, illuminated gently by the overhead light. Kurt expected him to pass through, maybe on his way to the emergency or operating rooms, but he didn't continue on. In fact, he sat himself down opposite to Kurt's window and dug through his backpack for a moment before producing a textbook and cracking it open.

His face was hidden by shadows, but something about him was familiar – the long, reaching curls tangled in a mess on top of his head, the small but powerful build of his body… Kurt watched him in silence as he turned the pages of his book, fingers trailing along the lines with focused intent.

Kurt began to measure time by the turning of the pages. One, two, three… The man stopped reading suddenly, rubbing at his temples with one hand and reaching in his bag with the other. He pulled out a bottle of pills, took two dry, and carried on with the textbook as though nothing had changed.

But it had.

Because when he'd taken those pills, Kurt had seen his face.

He was real.

He existed.

Blaine.

Maybe everything would be okay.

A/N: ... Finally. (Is that what everyone else was thinking too?)

Thank you so much for reading, and feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments! Follow my Instagram nayawarbler to keep up with my process, polls about the story, and edits! Also, if anyone just wants to DM me and chat then I'm totally game.