Volume 1: Act 1 – Chapter 6 Through Glass Walls
Thirty Seconds To Mars – A Beautiful Lie
He was there, reaching out with that stoney hand, trying to coherence her into that same, mind numbing, selfish deal. Just so she could keep living like herself. All because she thought, for one moment, that it was their fault. That ever since they came to Gravity Falls, things changed, mother and father became worse because of them.
She remembered this dream, this daydream. It wasn't the first time she had it, but now it was like a reoccurring thing, and a recurring nightmare of her own self, the scars she carried, the things they did, the things I did. The blood on my hands…
This time, the ending wasn't playing out the same. She usually would tell him to buzz off. After all, she knew who really lay behind that stoney statue, it was him. Even thinking about his name invoked a kind of fear in her that she never had really felt before. But it couldn't actually be him. He was gone after everything she did, they did. He was gone, right?
Why wasn't she telling him off, with that little quippy pun she loved to make so much? Her body was moving on her own, and before she knew it, she was reaching out her hand, ready to shake, ready to make that deal.
The statue laughed at her as it spoke. His voice echoing through it.
"Aww don't be sad, I can tell you that this is the right decision! This is what you have to do blondie! To get your life back. After all, you couldn't FATHOM living without that stolen income of yours!"
She shook the hand….
Pacifica woke up in her bed, feeling like she had just fallen into a bathtub. She recoiled at herself in disgust. So unproper she thought. She immediately dismissed this feeling. Something that was just second nature at this point.
This wasn't the first time she had this dream. It had been one she was having a lot recently, but this time the ending was different, and that is what scared her. She had no one to talk to about it. She couldn't say anything to anyone, confide in anyone, especially not her. She hasn't talked to her in so long. What has it been, 2 years? She grabbed her phone off her nightstand, scrolling to her conversations.
That number, that name, stood out like a sore thumb in her eyes, like it was a different color than all the others, like it had a different energy. She wanted to commit, to jump right in and text her again, even though she knew it would feel awkward. I mean, they haven't had a conversation since last year. But she was scared, scared of something, scared of breaking something, or scared of doing something she desperately wanted to do for a long time. She thought about the last conversation she had with her, just talking about simple things, school, work, how Gravity Falls had been. But she would always bother her by talking about him. After all, he did give her the wrong number.
She stared at her phone, mind racing. I can't, I shouldn't. There was something that had been instilled in her from the moment she was born, the moment she was raised in this family. The "Northwest way." Full of pride, stride, and class, whatever nonsense that was. She thought to herself, thinking she couldn't break away, like she couldn't even dare to think about betraying what her mother and father had built up for her.
She rolled her eyes at this inner turmoil, getting annoyed already even though she just started her day. She slid out of bed, sweaty and feeling like she just ran through a forest. She walked into her bathroom, its marble floors cold underneath her toes. Turning to her mirror, she looked into her eyes, they looked so tired, so exhausted. She felt this exhaustion too. She couldn't tell if it was because of her dream, working multiple shifts at the dinner, or cause of something…else. Like she was tired of keeping up with something, like she was tired of lying.
She made a noise of annoyed exasperation at herself in the mirror. I don't have time for this! She slowly got into the shower to wash herself up. Massaging her hair with the countless hair products she had acquired over the years, almost like she was trying to wash away whatever thoughts that lie on the surface of her mind, like she was washing herself.
Once she finished, she went to put a towel in her hair for a bit and got her clothes ready. She grabbed her stuffy, cotton uniform from her closet. She did her best to make it look cute, to make it work, but she could do only so much. It didn't accommodate her body as much as she wanted like the rest of her dresses, but she reminded herself,
I chose this.
She set down her work uniform and looked into the mirror to do her makeup. She picked up her mascara, twisting the cap off with a slow, practiced motion. As she brought the brush to her lashes, she stared into the mirror, catching her own reflection in an unguarded moment. Those tired eyes stared back, the circles underneath stubborn, shadows that makeup couldn't completely erase.
Each stroke of mascara felt heavy, almost mechanical. With every layer, she wasn't just adding volume to her lashes—she was adding another piece of that old, carefully crafted "Northwest image." The version of her that knew how to walk with her chin up, to smile and charm, to hide the messy thoughts that clawed at her whenever she let her guard down.
The makeup was a mask, she realized—a cover-up of her disheveled self, a unknown but silent version of herself that has always been there. As the familiar gloss smoothed over her lips, she felt like she was sealing herself back into that safe but stifling box, the "proper" self that was easy for the world to accept.
She let out a small sigh, setting the tube down and eyeing her own face. She looked perfect, every feature as it should be. But for some reason, staring at this flawless image felt hollow. Like she was staring at someone else.
She tried to shake off the uncomfortable, indecisive feeling as she got dressed. Once she was ready, she slipped out of her room and headed down the hall, passing portraits and family pictures that seemed to haunt her more with each glance. She was starting to resent them. Faded and empty as they looked, they somehow still held all those buried secrets—the things her family had done. Every lie and manipulation, all that harm. Like there were walls keeping her in, and all she could do was look in through their hazy glass. The thoughts, they left her feeling…
broken.
She walked faster, as if fleeing the mansion's silent accusations. The mahogany walls, rich with color and grain, the ornate decorations, and the countless family portraits—all of it seemed to stare her down, a constant reminder of her inheritance. She moved past empty rooms, each one as hollow as the next. The dusty, untouched spaces reminded her of her family's legacy, their broken promises, and their comfortable lies. Part of her expected to look down at her hands and see them stained, marked with the same blood from that nightmare, the blood that could never be washed away.
Finally, she reached the grand staircase leading to the main foyer and the front door. The stairs spiraled down elegantly, an ostentatious blend of polished woods and gleaming glass railings. Regal as it was, it felt as hollow as the mansion's silence. Banners and decorations hung around her, but they only made the grandeur seem more laughable, a forced echo of her family's empty pride. She had to admit, this new mansion was beautiful in its way, but it would never feel like more than a cold shell. This feeling, so powerful, so strong in her mind, was something she doubted would never change within her.
She swallowed as she walked down the stairs, only to freeze when a familiar voice caught her attention.
"Leaving so soon, miss?" It was her butler, Benson. His old, wrinkled face held a gentle, knowing expression.
Pacifica managed a smile. "Of course. My shift starts in an hour."
"I understand, madam. Shall I start the car as usual? It would be rude to wake your parents for a formal goodbye."
Out of everyone in the hollow shell that was her home, the servants always seemed to understand her best. Benson, especially, had become a quiet ally. He had a warmth that was hard to find in anyone else around her. Over the years, he'd ferried her to countless destinations, never asking too many questions, and always seeming to know exactly what she needed without her saying a word.
"Yes, Benson," she replied, smiling up at him. "Please."
"Right away, madam." With a small nod, he turned and led the way to the garage, where the crisp morning air slipped in, fresh and alive, as the door opened. She took a deep breath and looked out at the trees beyond. Benson slid into the driver's seat of their luxury car and started it up. After a quick check of her purse, Pacifica climbed into the back.
The ride into town was quiet, but it was a comforting silence. She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the trees rush past, catching glimpses of a gnome wrestling with a squirrel and a few deer wandering through the underbrush. Gravity Falls was strange, but that strangeness had become a kind of escape for her, a little refuge. She found herself admiring its unusual beauty—the way the trees reached upward, the fireflies glowing against the deep green, the occasional flicker of fairies. It made her feel small and grounded in a way that nothing else did.
As they pulled into the lot at Greasy's Diner, Pacifica felt a warmth bloom in her chest. The sight of its log-shaped exterior, standing as proudly (and structurally questionable) as ever, had grown familiar and even comforting over the past year and a half. She thought back to that first time, when she'd stood in front of its doors, heart pounding as she eyed the "Need Help" sign taped to the glass. Lazy Susan had spotted her, peering through the door with that gentle, welcoming smile. No judgment, just kindness—and a slice of pie, on the house. It was a small gesture, but it had spoken volumes to Pacifica, filling a void she'd long stopped noticing.
"We've arrived, miss," Benson said, pulling her from her thoughts. She nodded, unbuckled her seatbelt, and climbed out. After a moment's hesitation, she tapped on the driver's side window, and Benson rolled it down, a curious look on his face.
"Did you forget something, madam?"
Pacifica gave a soft laugh, his genuine concern momentarily easing her heart. She simply said two words:
"Thank you."
It was a simple thank-you, yet it felt heavier, as if it carried years of gratitude she'd never expressed. She felt a warmth that was so new to her family but had somehow taken root in her, flowing through her like the streams in the woods. For once, she felt…
full.
Benson's face softened into a bright smile. It was as if, in that brief moment, he understood everything she meant to say.
"Of course, madam."
With a gentle nod, he rolled up the window, waved, and drove off.
Inside, she found herself setting up for the morning shift with Lazy Susan, watching in amusement as Susan smacked the jukebox with her fist, trying to get it to work.
"Work dangit! Stupid machineee."
This got a chuckle out of Pacifica. She walked into the kitchen and prepared the friers and stoves for the morning rush. She took a strange sense of pride when setting up for the morning shift. Wiping down the edges of the burners, turning them on, testing the coffee machines. Such simple joys. She would then walk out of the kitchen to go prep the tables, wiping them down, arranging saltshakers and sauces. It was so thorough, so methodical and tedious. But she loved every bit of, such a contrast compared to the routines she would go through at the mansion.
She had just finished wiping down one of the tables when she looked up at the window, seeing her reflection. She couldn't recognize herself, even though she looked the same as this morning. Her hair a little messy but cute enough, an apron covered in stains, she looked different, felt different, almost liberated. She felt like on the inside she was a different person. Washing dishes and wiping windows trying to get rid of the past and move on. Setting up her own footprints, forging her own path she could be proud of, something that was…her, that was herself.
She looked at the reflection of the Dinner's window and part of her felt trapped, claustrophobic. It was like she was starting through a glass wall, looking at herself, her family legacy projecting an invisible barrier of expectations, past influences, a barrier that was suffocating, that followed her wherever she went. And no matter how many footprints she would make on the ground, footprints that were there to finally set her on her own path, the barrier would always be there, to remind her of her legacy, one that was sometimes beautifully easy but also full of lies and deception, a restricting cage locking her away.
She sighed, and thought to herself...
What a beautiful lie, a perfect denial.
The sea roared with a fierce personality that Grunkle Stan hadn't felt since his days in the Atlantic. Somewhere below deck, his brother was no doubt absorbed in those nerdy gizmos, gathering data on some of the anomalies they'd cleared up months prior.
They were finally sailing back to the coast after months on the Pacific—a stretch haunted by krakens, unnervingly sentient icebergs, and other oddities best left unmentioned.
Yeah… yeah, those were weird ones alright.
Stan stood on the deck as the storm battered the boat, rain pelting him through his poncho, which flapped wildly in the wind. He lived for moments like these, even if they had him clinging to his orthopedic back pillow afterward. The thrill, the spray of the sea—it made him feel alive. Hearing his brother's footsteps from below, he braced himself, as though Ford's scientific musings could compete with the fury of the storm.
"Stanley! Get back inside, this storm is gonna get worse! I can't have you slip and fall again!" Ford shouted at him from the cabin.
"Can it sixer! I'm taking in the scenery!" Stan yelled back as he looked out to the sea, its chaos almost inviting him to stay and watch. It was then when a huge gust of wind blew through the deck causing stan to lose his balance and almost fall over. He gripped on to the slippery railings of the Stan 'O War like his life depended on it. He looked out to the sea, then back to his brother. Ford stared at him with a blank and dumbfounded expression.
"Yeah, On second thought, you might be right sixer…"
As they stepped inside, the roar of the sea dulled to a distant rumble. Stan noticed Ford's workspace: screens, charts, and a web of diagrams scattered across the desk. "Alright, what's all this? More of your nerdy gizmos? I thought we were heading home."
Ford's face was serious as he glanced at the screens. "We are going home, Stanley," he replied, almost distracted. "But there's… something we need to discuss first. Something serious."
He clicked a button, and the monitor flickered to life. "This chart measures weirdness, I designed it back before we left to try and understand more about my theory of weirdness magnetism at the time. Now I'll spare you the boring details about weirdness magnetism for now and get to the important part."
He clicked a button, and the graph flickered again, its date reading several weeks ago.
"I've concluded that not only is the valley of Gravity Falls weird, but some of the inhabitants themselves are weird. Without having any more conclusive evidence from the valley itself, I'm not entirely sure of the reasonings behind all of that yet, but what matters is the data shown here." He pointed to the graph.
Stan rolled his eyes, "Can it with the nerd stuff four eyes, get to the point."
Ford replied quickly. "Stanley, this is more than 'nerd stuff.'" Ford's voice took on an edge, one Stan hadn't heard in a long time. "It's… unsettling." He continued.
"This is the graph of our measured weirdness several weeks ago, before we found that Ice man, Jerry, I think it was…" Ford seemed to trail off trying to remember the details about their encounter. Stan popped in.
"Oh yeah, I remember, and that stupid iceberg he lived in. That thing sill gives me the creeps." Stan shuddered at the thought.
Ford replied gravely. "Yes, the complications of an iceberg itself being an organism with a split personality was very…frustrating." He paused, then continued.
"Anyways…" Ford's hand hovered over the next button, his expression troubled. "The readings from yesterday are…" He clicked it, the graph flickering to a different one. The readings on it were stronger, much stronger, it almost looked like a different graph.
He looked at Ford unsteadily, then back at the screen. "So, we got weirder? How does that make any sense?"
Ford let out a nervous chuckle, but his gaze didn't waver. "Perhaps. Or it could be something more dangerous. Something I am afraid of. The readings here are so strong, in fact several times stronger than the readings I measured of our own idle weirdness..." Ford flicked to a chart labeled 'Kraken'.
Stans eyes squinted at this one, reading it. The graph looked big, and ominous. "What are you getting at Ford?"
Ford, a certain edge in his voice, one of fear, with uncertainty. "These are the readings of that Kraken me and you fought off back in the Atlantic. But when I cross reference it with the readings of our weirdness that I measured yesterday, it's…. quite alarming."
One final chart popped up; this time colored coated as Ford had overlayed both graphs. Stan felt a strong, sinking feeling in his stomach. One that wasn't from the ship, or his appetite.
"Wait…so let me get this right." Stan squinted at the graph again. "You're saying that our weirdness or whatever is actually stronger that that kraken I harpooned in the eye?"
Ford turned around to look back at the graph, his expression troubled "That is one possibility. But I find it to be rather impossible. Me and you are weird, especially me and my 6 fingers. But are we really weirder than a Kraken? A mythic beast? There must be an error in that statement."
He paused, a long, nervous pause.
"I'm afraid of a…certain possibility Stanley." Stopped to take off his gasses and massage the bridge of his nose.
"That we might have brought something back with us, or something in us."
Stan felt his stomach lurch. "So, you're saying—what? That we're weirder than a kraken? And were dragging something back with us, or is it—"
"Not exactly." His voice dropped. "I've searched the boat up and down and haven't found anything peculiar. So, it's either two possibilities." He gazed out one of the windows of the cabin, seemingly lost in his own hyperactive mind. His face was grim.
"One, something followed us after we stumbled upon that iceberg, and it is extremely unknown, incredibly dangerous. Its readings dwarf the Kraken's weirdness in comparison." His voice was exasperated at this point, underlined with a slight amount of panic. "It could be something we can't even detect, possibly so advanced, that it lives in 4 dimensions." He breathed out, tired from sleepless nights, worried about this possibility.
He continued.
"Two, whatever happened when we were in the iceberg changed the weirdness within ourselves, for better, or for worse." That would be something... something, I don't understand yet." He turned to look at the door. A huge wave crashed into the side of a boat, finalizing whatever Ford had just laid in the room. Neither flinched, they just stood, arms crossed, deep in thought.
A heavy silence settled, punctuated only by the hum of the instruments and the aftermath of the wave bothering the boat. Stan's voice came out in a low murmur.
"The kids, Ford. I don't want them getting hurt."
Ford nodded slowly, meeting his brother's gaze. "Neither do I, Stanley. But whatever this is… we need to face it. For them. I don't want to do this to them, but I believe it might be best to…postpone our arrival until we can figure out what Is causing this."
Stanley sighed. He couldn't hep but agree to this. If there was one thing he cared about a lot, it was family. But he still couldn't shake this feeling. That something was haunting them, that something was happening. Whatever Ford had uncovered was truly something terrifying.
"I'll call them. They deserve to know."
Ford hesitated. "While I do agree Stanley, are you sure you want to tell them about something of this magnitude? The last thing they need is to be worried about us. They won't be able to have a good vacation while being worried about us. I mean after things have been with Lauren and Richard..."
Stan sat on this thought. While he didn't like keeping things from the twins, he really had no room to talk. Afterall, he did hide his actual identity and a portal from the entire town and the twins for the longest time. They were his family, some of the only family he had left. He would be damned if the last thing he was gonna do was hurt them.
But he couldn't disagree with his brother. He knew Ford was a stubborn person. Built by experiences out of his own understanding. He was paranoid, scared of powers beyond comprehension, and being in the multi-verse for thirty years would make you feel so isolated, feel responsible, paranoid, always watching your back. Ford was looking at this through another angle, one that Stan couldn't necessarily argue with.
He sighed. "Fine. But this doesn't make this any easier."
Ford looked at Stan with a sad smile. He understood how much his brother valued family, and how he didn't appreciate keeping them in the dark, again. He remembered how he would spend those late nights with his brother, on the couch with pictures, telling him stories of their youth so he could piece his memory back together.
Family is truly a valuable thing, he thought.
With this thought, he replied. "I know Stanley."
Looking at the graphs and computers on more time, he shut them off and led Stanley to the lower decks, filling him in on his theories, on what to do next. Trying to grasp any single detail in his mind to figure out what this thing was, and how to solve the problem at hand.
The boat rocked back a fourth in the storm, sailing triumphantly to the coast, Towards home, towards Oregon, towards Gravity Falls. The place where Stan had done the impossible, where he had spent 30 years just to get his brother back. But there was something else, something small stuck on the stern of the boat. It was a tiny, dark spec on the back. So miniscule, so easy to miss. But it lingered, pulsing faintly to the rhythm of the sea. lying dormant, waiting.
The hum of the bus was odd, a gentle reminder of the trip the twins were on. The seats rattled, shaking both up and down. The smell of the old seats filled his thoughts with the nostalgia of their last bus ride to Gravity Falls. They felt every bump in the road, each one making them hyper-aware of how they were traveling deeper into the unknown, that journey into something new. Dipper had a simple routine of staring out the window at this point, watching the scenery blur by. They were getting closer, each mile feeling like a band-aid getting ripped off, like peeling away layers of his "Piedmont self", the person he was at home.
He turned to Mabel, who was on her phone, excitement dripping from her face. She was no doubt texting everyone she knew in Gravity Falls about their return. Hopefully, he thought, this reunion will be worth it.
He desperately wanted to believe that. To believe the words she told him just hours prior. And while he did, part of him couldn't help but worry, couldn't help but doubt those comfiting words, his own thoughts. He couldn't trust it. Like it was eventually bound to fall apart, crumble down like any golden empire.
He imagined the journal in his bag, a piece of himself, of those feelings he wanted to feel again, ones from Gravity Falls. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of nervousness about Gravity Falls, the uncertainty it held. He could imagine himself, holding his journal close, searching for comfort, as if it could shield him from the fractured images in his mind.
He decided to pull out his journal from his suitcase zipper. He grabbed it firmly and set it in his lap, hands tracing over every corner of it. It was like he was staring at journal 3. Carrying the weight, the idea of a return.
Now he could imagine this idea, like he was staring at something familiar, something that comforted him but made him feel nervous. Like he was looking at a time capsule, containing the wonders and precious memories locked away. Everything he wanted from that summer, trapped in there, waiting to be opened when he got back. It made him wonder, the nagging question at the back of his mind,
What if anything, everything, has changed?
Mabel, sitting beside him, sensed his tension. She looked up from her phone, putting her group chat antics with Grenda and Candy on pause. She had a spark, an idea, a jump start she thought. She grabbed Dippers shoulder, pulling him close and angling her phone to capture them both for a picture.
"Smile bro-bro!"
Dipper looked at Mable, confused as to what was going on. He suddenly caught on. "Mabel! Wait a second!" He knew he couldn't convince her otherwise, so he just quickly managed to squeeze out a slightly awkward smile at the last second.
She snapped the picture and smiled. I'll send this in the chat later, she thought. She could envision her reunion with Candy and Grenda, already starting chaos at their first sleep over (which was already planned).
"Aren't you excited Dipper! We're getting closer! I can already imagine all the fun my sleepovers with Candy and Grenda will be! All the fun we'll have." She looked at Dipper's face.
"Come on Dipper, you look like you're going to explode with all that brooding energy!"
Her warmth seemed to pull Dipper out of his anxious episode, into the light that was her energy. He couldn't help but chuckle at this comment. I don't look brooding, do I?
"Okay okay, I am getting pretty excited." He was feeling it in his chest, all over him. It was washing him like he was under a waterfall. He could see the sign up ahead. The sunset peeking through the edges of the pines trees which lined the edges of the road. The light, so hazy, full of nostalgia, reflected onto the sign, giving it an orange hue.
Welcome To Gravity Falls!
He pushed away his anxious thoughts into that dark corner of his mind, something he had gotten good at.
He thought to himself about how he felt about Gravity Falls, looking forward to the reunion he will have later, even if he was scared, scared of change, nervous he wouldn't fit in. He breathed in and then out, muttering to himself.
"Here we go."
"Ticket 127!"
The cook in the back called up a ticket, setting it by the greasy food. Its smell quickly infiltrated Pacifica's nostrils as she balanced the order on her plate. She walked over to the table, greeting them with a bright smile. She put on a performance, being that beautiful blonde waiter girl she was known as. It wasn't anything hard for her, putting on a performance was something that practically made the Northwest family.
"Hey, I'm still waiting on my chili fries!"
Someone at the back of the restaurant shouted at Pacifica. There were a lot of people nagging at her today. She wanted to snap at him, to turn on her heels and march towards him, laying down the law. She quickly pushed that quick, northwest defense down back into her subconscious. She knew she couldn't do that here. She instead turned around and looked at the man.
"I am working on it sir!" She replied with a smile.
Through her smile, she wanted to grind her teeth. It wasn't unusual for people to get impatient at Greasy's, but they were practically swamped today, which was very unusual at this time. She didn't have a problem with work, but for some reason, she was getting very overwhelmed today.
Lazy Susan looked across the diner at Pacifica and smiled. She could tell she was having a rough time. Pacifica was one of her star employees. Making all the boys who would walk in fall to their knees with her beauty. So simple, so elegant. The tips were plentiful too. Pacifica was perfection herself. The way she smiled, treating every customer like a king. But Lazy Susan could tell that under that persona, built up by years of conditioning, years of practice, Pacifica was undergoing an important kind of change. A change within herself.
She walked over to Pacifica, who was breathing a bit heavily by the counter, organizing tickets with orders.
"Hey sweetie, are you doing, okay?" She gently tapped her shoulder.
This set off something inside of Pacifica. She was overwhelmed, and that touch on her shoulder was the trigger she needed to finally let loose.
She huffed and turned around immediately.
"Oh my gosh, I'm Fine!" her snarky comment made Susan pause.
Pacifica immediately realized who she was talking to, what she had done. That painful, aching feeling of regret washed over her as she just stared at Susan, speechless, in disbelief that she would let herself let that part of her slip.
But Susan just stared back, with an understanding smile. She put her hand on Pacifica's shoulder.
"It's okay honey. Take your break early, I'll cover for you."
Pacifica stared wordlessly at Susan. So gentle, she thought, so thoughtful.
"Susan I…I err..." She struggled to respond back. She could feel herself choking up a bit, getting slightly emotional. She could not let everyone see her like this.
Susan just squeezed her shoulder gently. "Everyone has bad day's Pacifica, it's okay. Sometimes you just need to take a breakkk."
Those eyes, so full of care, and attention. Pacifica just smiled at Susan. It was like a motherly presence in her life, something that she was void of. It made her feel warm, loved, like she actually mattered, like someone cared.
She walked back into the kitchen and out the back door. Sitting on the steps, she breathed out, letting all the emotions and feelings flow through her breath. She reflected on that day. She didn't quite understand why she was so overwhelmed today. Maybe, just maybe it was because of this morning. She remembered her reflection, how she felt. It still bothered her.
That glass wall, always there, always present in everything she did. Even now, she could look around her and see the outline of the hazy glass filling her surroundings. She didn't want to see it anymore. She was so defeated, so….
tired.
It made her feel like a bird in a cage, she could only look around at the things in her life, the things she wanted to do, things she wanted to experience. And whatever she did to break free, no matter how hard she flapped her wings to fly out, she was always pulled back in. That "Northwest" part of her, a beautiful chain, a set of heavy shackles, bounded her within the cage. It was so claustrophobic, looking out the cage, out through these glass walls, aching to break them down, and to move on, but she knew she couldn't. Her Northwest habits always tended to appear, staining her personality, no matter how hard she tried to distance herself from them.
Before she realized it, she was wiping away the subtle tears leaking through her eyes. Ughh, really? She thought to herself, how pathetic, being so emotional today over this nonsense. And then she stopped, realizing: there it was, that petty, snobbish, blonde rich valley girl stereotype leaking out, doomed to forever repeat her mistakes.
She took out her phone to turn on her camera and look at her makeup, hoping it wasn't smeared by her tiny emotional episode. When she looked at her reflection, she could see it, that disheveled part of herself, begging, aching to break out. Her make up, that mask she put on every day, slowly slipping off her face.
It's cracking, and I don't know how to stop it
She just stared into her eyes. Tired, aching, hollow, devoid of pride, full of spite. She could feel it all, all the emotions which lie deep in her soul, buried in her mind.
Then her phone vibrated, and it was a text from… Oh. My. Gosh. Her? What could she want? She was obviously busy! She opened the message, her jaw seemingly dropping to the bottom step at its contents.
It was a picture, a picture of them, of him. That dorky, nervous smile and her bright and infectious one, both combined in the picture. His face, it looked so surprised, so caught off guard, so lost...
She read the text underneath the picture:
Guess who's coming back!
She re-read it. Again, and again, and again, and then looked at the picture, they were on a bus and… oh my god, wait, WHAT!
What am I going to do?