Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bass seemed to jostle the floorboards of the cramped apartment, a sensation that felt both familiar and completely alien to Jack. He leaned against the wall, a red plastic cup of water in his hand, mostly untouched (he ignored the sarcastic comments about still being a lightweight).

“Jackson! My man!” A heavy arm slung around his shoulders. It was Mike, a friend of his before his… adventure. “Where’ve you been, dude? Seriously. Five years? You just ghosted us.”

Jack offered a tight smile. “Like I said. Traveling. Looking for a good job. You know how it is.” The lie was smooth now, believable. Because it had to be. The truth—that he’d spent the last several years as a lanky purple rabbit in a digital circus—wasn’t exactly a story you dropped at a pre-game.

“Wild,” Mike said, not really listening. He took a swig of his beer. “Well, you missed a lot. Kyle and Sarah broke up, got back together, then broke up again. Jason flunk out of college. We all just… stayed here. You're the one who got out, for some reason.”

Got out. The phrase made Jack’s spine shiver. He had gotten out. That was the goal, the entire, desperate, all-consuming goal. To escape the circus. To be here. In the real world. With his real friends. So why does it feel so… empty?

Wrong?

He looked around the room. These were the guys he’d played video games with, skipped school with, dreamed about the future with. But the boy who did those things was seemingly still trapped in that computer, that video game. The Jack of now, the one who’d been the rabbit he doesn't even remember the name of, found their laughter a little too loud, their jokes a little too mean. Sarah was drunkenly mocking another girl’s dress in the corner, and everyone was laughing. A few years ago, he would have been laughing too.

Now, he just felt so, so tired.

He shook his head, trying to shut down the memory he knew his mind was forcing him to remember.

WELCOME TO THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS—

He gasped, pushing off the wall, dragging a trembling hand through his dark yellow hair in fear. That happened a lot. Bits and pieces, he'd remember. A jester with too-big eyes, a ragdoll with a blue—or was it purple?—dress, a pair of dentures, a… a...

He forced himself to stamp them out, these remnants of a life he’d hated. He was free. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

“Earth to Jackson!” Chloe, who he’d had a crush on at seventeen, waved a hand in front of his face. She was prettier now, but her smile still didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve been so spacey since you got back. What, did you find enlightenment wherever it is you were or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbled, forcing a chuckle that sounded hollow even to him. He loved them. He had to remind himself of that. These were his friends. This was his life. His real life. The circus was a nightmare, and the people in it were just fellow prisoners. They didn’t care about him, and he didn't care about them. Simple as that.

“You okay, man?” Mike asked, his brow furrowed with genuine, if dim, concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jack pushed off from the wall. “Nah. Just… a lot of people. I think I need some air.” He weaved through the crowd, the noise feeling like physical pressure against his skin. He stumbled out onto the small balcony, shutting the sliding glass door behind him.

The quiet was a relief. The night air was cool and, most importantly, real.

He was Jackson. Twenty-two. He had a small but good apartment where he lived with his mother, and a job at a tech support call center he was weirdly good at (he'd had to be good, because he didn't get to finish school and get a real job).

He had his old friends back. He'd been back for three months, had lied to his friends he was away traveling and they'd believed him. Heck, this whole party is to welcome him, his mother had sighed before agreeing to this mess. So why did he feel so alone?

He leaned on the railing, looking down at the street. A small part of him, a part he was trying desperately to quiet, wondered what they were doing right now. Was the ribbon living her dream and making her webcomic? Was the mismatched character still cursing him till this moment? Was the ragdoll trying to keep everyone’s spirits up with a painfully forced smile? He could almost hear the grating, cheerful music of the tent. He could almost feel the keys in his pockets.

“They didn’t love you anyway,” he whispered to himself, “It was just survival. You were all just trying to survive each other.”

It was the truth. He hoped it wasn't.

He was out. He was free. He was human.

Jack took a deep breath, straightened his back, and turned back inside. He slid the door open, forcing a wider grin as he stepped back into the noise and the light and the friends who felt like strangers.

But then, he realized distantly, that he's not going to last in this place.

His grin slowly faded to a tired frown. “I’m going out,” he muttered to no one. No one heard him anyway.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, the fabric feeling strange compared to the feel of his rabbit skin.

No. That thought was unwelcome. You're here. Not there.

His friends' voices echoed in his head, their laughter, their words. Wrong. The word surfaced again, and he hated it. They were his friends. He was the one who had changed. He was the one who was broken.

Just need to walk it off. Get some real food. Something that isn’t digital candy.

His feet carried him on autopilot toward the glow of a 24-hour supermarket at the end of the block.

—------------

Inside, under the harsh lights, Christine was losing a battle.

“—completely unreasonable, Mr. Henderson!” Her voice was desperate, almost pleading. “I was the lead accountant for this entire chain. You can’t just… demote me to a cashier because I took a sabbatical!”

Henderson crossed his arms over his broad chest. “A sabbatical is planned, Christine. It involves paperwork. It does not involve disappearing for six months without a single phone call, email, or at the very least, a message. We thought you were dead in a ditch!”

Christine flinched. Her hands, clenched at her sides, were trembling slightly. How could she explain? The first few times she’d tried, people had looked at her like she'd grown a second head: “There was this headset, and then I was this jester named… something, and there was a ringmaster and a tent, and I was trapped—” They’d laughed. Her parents had recommended therapy. Her old colleagues had started avoiding her.

“I had… a family emergency,” she said, hoping it was convincing. “A personal crisis. It was… complicated.”

“Well, the complicated truth is your position was filled,” Henderson said, not unkindly, just finally. “Corporate policy. You’re lucky I’m even giving you your old job back at this point. Now, either you man register four until we can sort this out, or you can pursue other opportunities.”

A second passed, then two.

Christine nodded, shoulders slumping, her glasses riding down her nose.

She mechanically tied an apron around her waist, moving to register four.

—-------------

The automatic doors hissed open. Jack walked in, the fluorescent lights making him squint. The air smelled of disinfectant and baked bread. Real. He didn't bother with a basket, he wasn't going to buy much, anyway—his salary won't allow it yet—his eyes scanning the aisles without really seeing them.

His mind was still replaying those cursed thoughts. He picked the first thing he registered and was edible. A bag of chips. Then he made his way to the register.

He ended up in her line. It was the shortest. He didn’t look at her. He just placed his mere item on the conveyor belt and awaited the price.

Christine didn’t look at him either. Her focus was on the screen in front of her. Chip bag. Scan. Beep. Her movements were almost robotic. She’d done this a thousand times before her… trip. It was muscle memory.

“That’ll be three-fifty,” she said, her voice flat.

Jack nodded, pulling out his wallet. He handed over a five, his eyes finally lifting from the chewing gum display to the cashier.

A young woman. Black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Tired eyes. She looked… stretched thin, to say the least.

Christine took the bill, her fingers brushing against his. She handed him his change and his bag. “Have a good night,” she recited, the words empty.

“Yeah, you too,” Jack mumbled back, his voice equally hollow. He took the bag, turned, and walked back out into the night. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him.

Christine looked up for just a second, watching the tall, lanky figure with the slouch walk away. Just another customer, someone who seemed to be just as tired as she was.

She turned her attention to the next person in line, already reaching for their gallon of milk. “Hello. Find everything alright today?”

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the real estate office, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. Regan smiled, the expression feeling practiced but genuine. It was her first client since… well, since she’d gotten back.

“It’s a lovely sentiment, Mr. Kingsley,” she said, her voice warm. She smoothed her skirt—a real, professional skirt—and tapped the plot plans on her desk. “The size is modest, but for a memorial garden, it’s perfect.”

William nodded, his hands resting on his knees.

“Yes,” he said, his voice soft. “Emily would have liked the place. And the bugs. She was… very fond of the bugs.” A faint smile touched his lips at the memory.

Regan’s professional smile softened into something more real. “A lot of people are afraid of insects. It’s nice to hear about someone who appreciated them.”

“Oh, she collected them,” William said, a distant look in his eyes. He didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t. He couldn’t explain that his Emily hadn’t just appreciated bugs, she’d been utterly fascinated by them, had spent hours in the digital grounds of the circus observing glittering, glitched-out beetles and butterflies with screen-tear wings. He couldn’t say that the last time he’d seen her, her form had been an abstracted form, thrown in a cellar.

To the world, he’d simply said his wife had passed away suddenly while they were traveling. It was easier than the truth. Who would believe a story about a digital circus, a chess piece, and a wife who’d been consumed because of thinking too much? They’d think the grief had finally unhinged him. It had, in a way.

He looked at the real estate agent. Ms. Regan. She had red hair that was let loose to settle on her shoulders, a smile so warm it made him want to cling to hope that the world was still good without his beloved, and—most importantly—she spoke about his wife with respect instead of being grossed out.

“The soil quality is good,” Regan was saying, pulling his attention back to the present. “You’ll be able to plant anything you like. Roses, lilies… things that attract butterflies.”

William’s eyes glistened for a moment. “Butterflies. Yes. She would like that very much.” He cleared his throat, composing himself. “It’s the least I could do for her.”

“I understand,” Regan said, and found that she was on the verge of tears.

William looked at her, only for his eyes to widen. “Why are you crying? Are you okay?”

Regan nodded, wiping her eyes with a wobbly smile. “This is just… really beautiful and romantic. Mrs. Kingsley was so lucky to have you,” she managed, her voice breaking.

William nodded, smiling slightly. “Thank you, Ms. Regan,” he said, standing up. “For your understanding. I’d like to move forward with the purchase.”

“Of course.” Regan stood as well, offering her hand. “I’ll draw up the papers immediately. And please, just call me Regan.”

“Of course… Regan,” William nodded.

He turned to leave then, pausing at the door to look back at the plot plans one more time. A small, quiet place for his queen.

Regan sat back down, her smile fading into a thoughtful expression as she watched him go. She picked up a pen, ready to write, but for a moment, she just held it, her mind drifting to a place she was trying very hard to forget.

And she was wondering why that man's story just ripped her heart out like that.

She shook her head, dismissing the thought. It was just a sad story. There were plenty of those in the world.

In this world, specifically.

—------------

The walk home from the real estate office was a quiet one. William moved with a slow pace, the keys to his modest house jingling softly in his hand. The neighborhood was unchanged—same manicured lawns, same soft, rhythmic chirping of birds at this hour in the morning, the same fence that has been the same color since before he'd gone inside the circus.

It was normal. He missed normal.

He was almost to his door when a voice called out.

“Mr. Kingsley? Hey, how are you holding up?”

He turned to see his neighbor, Zara, leaning out of her front door. She was a young woman, almost twenty-three, with short hair dyed a vibrant blue and pink. She’d moved here recently, and ever since her first day, he’d had a feeling she was a good person.

He was right.

He offered a bright smile. “Hello, Zara. I’m well. Thank you for asking.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said, her expression softening. She’d heard about his wife. Everyone on the street had. “You need anything? I’m heading out for work, but I can grab you something later.”

“That’s very kind, but I’m quite alright.” He meant it.

“Okay. Well, don’t be a stranger,” she said before pulling her door shut and heading down her steps, giving him a little wave as she went.

—------------

Zara turned the corner, the smile fading from her face as she walked toward the bus stop. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her ripped jeans. Work. Right.

She didn’t tell sweet, grieving William what she did for a living. He was a nice man, from a different generation. He’d probably just give a polite, confused nod if she said she was a tattoo artist. It wasn’t the job she’d have chosen, not in a million years. It was messy, the clients could be difficult, and… it was one of the many reasons why her parents hated her.

But it was all she had. When she’d… reappeared… here, her old life had moved on without her. Friends had graduated, gotten real jobs, started families. She’d been left behind.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her.

For a while, she’d been a collection of mismatched parts. Literally. And now, she wasn't very different— a jumble of assets slapped together, never quite fitting right, always on the verge of coming apart.

Some things, it seemed, never changed.

The world had only turned a few years. Her parents were still in the same house when she'd had the courage to go check. Her dog was still alive, though much older (she'd known he was taken to the pet shop after she hadn't come out of the building she'd gone inside. Someone—she was thankful for whoever they were—had taken him there instead of leaving him in the woods). And yes, she had to stay at an old classmate’s house until she could save up for a small apartment, but she'd found a small house, even better.

The bus arrived with a hydraulic sigh. Zara climbed on, finding a seat by the window. She looked out at the passing streets, the ordinary people living their ordinary lives.

She was one of them again. Human. Whole. Not a mismatched assemblage.

So why did she still feel… pieced together?

She shook her head, trying to get rid of the thoughts. She was out. She was free. That was what mattered.

She leaned her head against the cool glass, closing her eyes against the sunlight, and tried to ignore the instinct to check that all her limbs were securely attached.

When she arrived, she was already dreading it.

But the first person was already waiting, and apparently, she was with someone, given the way the two were exchanging glances every few seconds.

Great. She thought. Matching tattoos.

She forced a small smile as she leaned over her client’s arm, her hand steady as she started etching the first lines of a tiny star onto the skin.

It took minutes, but it felt like hours to Zara. She felt a little jealous, or a lot, if she was being honest with herself.

On the other side of the studio, her colleague was putting the finishing touches on an identical star for the client’s best friend. They were laughing about some inside joke, something Zara had never had. And will probably never.

“Almost done,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper under the machine’s hum.

Matching tattoos. She’d lost count of how many she’d done. For couples, for siblings, for friends who promised to be forever.

Maybe someday…

Maybe someday, she would have someone to get a matching, stupid, wonderful tattoo with. Someone who’d laugh with her in a tattoo parlor and promise forever, even if forever was just a concept.

She finished the tattoo, going through the motions of applying the balm and wrapping it in clean cling film. She gave the aftercare instructions, and accepted the happy thanks of the two friends who left arm-in-arm.

Enough.

She wiped down her station with a little more force than necessary. “I’m taking ten,” she announced to her colleague, who nodded.

But she was going to take more than ten.

She needed air. She needed to see people who weren’t in pairs. Maybe she’d just walk to the corner and get a coffee. Alone. But at least she’d be moving.

Her legs carried her to the small restaurant down the street. Good enough. She'd sit alone at a table and eat and not think or look at the friends gathered.

The scent of burgers and fries hit her nose almost immediately the second she entered. It was aggressively normal, and after a morning of etching permanent art into strangers' skin, normal was what she craved. She ordered the simplest sandwich and a cup of coffee, then let her head fall back against the seat, closing her eyes.

Just for a minute. Just to breathe.

She’d barely had time to register the idea of relaxing when the noise started.

“...absolutely unacceptable! Look at this! A hair! A goddamn hair in my soup!”

Zara’s eyes snapped open. A large man, probably in his early forties, was half-standing in his seat, jabbing a finger at a young woman in a server’s apron. A woman had hurried over—the shift manager, she assumed. Her face was already pale from the anxiety.

“Sir, I’m so sorry, let me get that replaced for you immediately, and your meal will be—” the manager began, her voice trembling slightly.

“Replaced? I don’t want it replaced! I want to know how something this disgusting happens! What kind of kitchen are you running? Are you even clean back there?”

The manager flinched. “Sir, please, keep your voice down. I can assure you, our kitchen standards are—”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down! I want to speak to the owner! Now!”

Zara watched, the plans of relaxing forgotten. The man was a bully, pure and simple.

Without really thinking about it, Zara slid out of her seat. She didn't stride over angrily; she moved calmly, so calmly, and stopped at the edge of the man's table.

“Hey,” she said, her voice level.

He turned his glare on her. “This doesn’t concern you, kid.”

“It does when you’re ruining my lunch with all the yelling,” she said, crossing her arms. “She said she’d replace it. She said it’s free. What more do you want? A parade?”

The man sputtered, his face turning redder. “I want accountability! This is a health hazard!”

“And you’re causing a public disturbance,” Zara countered. “Which, last I checked, is also against the rules. You’ve made your point. You’ve scared the server and you’ve yelled at the manager. You’ve won. Now, either let her fix it, or leave.”

The man glared at her, then the manager, then down at his offensive soup.

“Whatever,” he muttered, throwing his napkin on the table. “Forget it. I’m leaving.” He shoved his way out of the booth and stalked out of the diner, the bell on the door jingling violently behind him.

The manager let out a breath of relief, her shoulders slumping.

“Thank you,” she breathed, turning to Zara. Her eyes were wide with residual fear and gratitude. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I kinda did,” Zara said with a slight shrug. “Guys like that are the worst.” She looked at the manager, really looked at her. “You okay?”

The girl nodded, offering a small, genuine smile. “I am now. Thanks to you.”

Zara gestured back to her table. “My food’s probably ready. And... you look like you could use a minute. You wanna sit with me? We could talk.”

The other hesitated, then nodded. “A minute would be nice. Thank you. Again.” She followed Zara to the table, sliding into the seat opposite her. “I’m Gizelle, by the way.”

“Zara,” she replied, pushing her plate of fries toward the middle of the table. “Help yourself. You’ve earned it.”

Chapter Text

“It’s just the park, Mom,” Jack said, his voice filled with a frustration he was trying to leash. “We’re just gonna hang out. Maybe throw a frisbee. Didn't you say I needed to go out more? Here I am, hanging out with my friends!”

His mother, Linda, gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white.

“I know what I said, Jack. But I also said with me,” she said, her voice trembling. “The last time you went out to ‘hang out with your friends,’ you didn’t come home for five years.” She turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears, just like they always did when this topic was brought up. “Five years. I reported you missing. The police found nothing. Your friends said you just wandered off. I thought you were dead. I had to live with the fact that I was never going to know if you were.”

“But I’m not dead! I’m right here!” he insisted, throwing his hands up. The motion felt too loose, and he forced his arms back to his sides. “I told you what happened. It wasn’t my fault!”

“You told me a story about a… a headset,” she whispered the last two words, “that turned you into a purple cartoon rabbit in a circus.” She shook her head. “What am I supposed to do with that, Jack? Hm? Do you understand how that sounds?”

“I know it sounds crazy!” he shot back, the anger finally showing. It was the same anger he’d felt in the circus but always hid, the fury at the absurdity of it all. “But it’s the truth! You think I wanted that? You think I wanted to be stuck there? I fought every freaking day not to abstract in there!”

He saw her flinch, and a part of him hated himself for it. But the larger part, the part that was that digital purple rabbit, couldn’t stop.

“And now I’m back, and you want to keep me here like I’m some… some grounded child! I can’t just sit in my room forever, Mom! I need to live. I need to be around people my own age who aren’t weird-looking game avatars!”

“I don’t know what that means!” she cried, her composure cracking. “I don’t know what any of that means! All I know is that my boy left this house and vanished into thin air. And now he’s back, and he’s different, and he’s talking about things I can’t understand, and I am so, so terrified that if I let you walk out that door, I will never see you again!”

“Why are you like this?! It's just a few hours!”

“Oh, here we go, here we go!” Linda yelled, slamming the spatula she was holding onto the counter. “You think I didn’t see you sneaking out to the supermarket yesterday? Well, I did, and I let you! Why can't you see I’m trying?!”

Jack scoffed, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and looking away. “I’m sure it wasn’t that hard, anyway…”

Linda froze. “What…?”

But her son only turned with his body, half-facing her as if waiting to see if he'd pushed too far.

And maybe he had.

“Wasn’t that hard…?” she whispered, her voice utterly devastated Jack actually flinched. “I couldn’t step into your room for two years…”

She was crying. He’d made her cry.

“I cried on a tombstone with no body inside for months every single day… I went to support groups!” she suddenly yelled, hugging herself tightly. “I refused to move from this house that held your smell and your stuff and our memories in every corner in case you came back!”

Jack turned away, giving her his back, only so she wouldn’t see he was tearing up.

“So don’t you dare, don’t you ever dare, tell me it wasn’t that hard.”

“Y-Yeah, but—” He took a deep breath. His voice was breaking, his pain was showing. Completely unacceptable. Don't let it show. Keep it all inside.

He cleared his throat then tried again. “I need to see real people, Mom… I need to do this, pl—”

“No.”

Jack turned to her sharply, so fast his yellow hair fluttered wildly with the movement. “At least let’s talk about it—”

But Linda didn’t budge. “No. You’re not going out, Jackson, and that’s final.”

Jack’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him, leaving behind only bone-deep resignation. He looked at his mother, really looked at her—the gray streaking her brown hair that hadn’t been there before, the permanent shadows under her eyes that definitely hadn’t been there five years ago.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter.

“Okay,” he said, his voice flat and hollow. “Okay. I understand.”

He turned and walked out of the kitchen without another word.

Linda let out a shuddering breath, her hand going to her heart. “Jack…?”

He didn’t answer. He just went up the stairs and straight to his old bedroom and closed the door.

She stood in the kitchen, listening to the silence. She had won. He was staying. He was safe.

Inside his room, Jack stood by the window, looking down at the quiet street. The same view he’d stared out for weeks after returning, marveling at its normalcy.

Now it just looked like bars on a cage.

He’d tried. He’d really tried to be patient, to be understanding. But he couldn’t do it. He needed to move, to get out, or he was certain he’d go crazy.

He turned from the window, his jaw set.

“Fine,” he muttered to the empty room. “You won’t let me go out?”

He yanked open his closet door and pulled out a dark hoodie, setting it aside.

“Then I’ll sneak out.”

The grand foyer of the mansion felt less like a home and more like a museum after hours. Cold marble floors reflected the light of a single, ornate crystal chandelier, doing little to calm her nerves whenever she looked up. Regan stood in front of the large front doors, staring at her shoes, the shoes she could take off and wear again and choose another pair of.

She was doing anything to buy her time, really.

“It’s just to the stables, Mother,” she said, her voice measured. It was the voice she used with difficult clients, the one she’d perfected when trying to ask for something that was un-lady-like. “I won’t be long. I just… I’ve missed my horses.”

Eleanor, standing in front of her, yet so far away, didn’t look up from her phone. Her hands were trembling, though.

“It’s too early, Regan,” she stated, her tone implying this was the final, irrefutable word on the matter. “It’s not appropriate. And after everything… we’ve only just gotten you back.”

The words were meant to sound like concern. To Regan, they sounded like possession. Like she was still her perfect little doll she could control.

But Regan wasn’t that girl anymore. She took a slow, quiet breath, then let it out even more slowly. She had held onto so much worse than her mother’s disapproval.

“Yes,” Regan said, the word dangerously soft. “You have gotten me back. I understand, but I’m a grown woman, I can make my own decisions.”

Eleanor’s thumb stilled over the screen. “This is not the time for theatrics, Regan. We are all very grateful you are home and… well.”

“Are we?” Regan took a step forward. “It’s just… it’s weird, don’t you think? It seems my disappearance was the only thing that finally made you notice me,”

Her mother finally looked up, her eyes a cool, piercing blue. “That is a cruel thing to say.”

“Is it?” Regan asked, tilting her head. The motion felt foreign in this body. “Three months ago, you hugged me for the first time since I was fifteen!”

The phone was shut off and slammed on the glass surface of the nearby table. “You will not speak to me that way. I am your mother.”

“I know what you are!” Regan cried, trying to hold her tears back. “And I am your daughter! I’m a human, not some… some doll you can control!”

She saw the shock in her mother’s eyes. The Regan who had left, the people-pleasing daughter desperate for a scrap of approval, would never have said such a thing. That Regan had been softer. More breakable.

This Regan had already been broken, countless times, and had stubbornly sewn herself back together in a dark room before an assemble for a theme song.

“I am not forbidding you to see those horses,” Eleanor said, her own voice breaking. “I am asking you to be reasonable. To wait a little more and spend the day with me. To not add more worry to a situation that has already given me…” She paused, her eyes welling with tears she refused to shed. “…more grief than any mother should have to bear.”

The guilt-trip. The oldest tool in the arsenal. It had worked on the old Regan every time.

The new Regan just looked at her, her emotions all over the place.

She didn’t miss you.

She looks wrecked.

She’s just saying this.

She never—

Regan sobbed, the sound loud in the quiet space between them. “Why didn’t you ever hug me like every mother does?” she asked, crying freely now, pouring out all the rage and anguish she’d felt ever since returning and realizing nothing had changed.

She had hoped she’s still hoping, desperately, that her mother had changed, if only at least a little. She looked up with a tear-stained face, only to find herself looking at the same shattered expression on her mother’s.

Still, she couldn’t help but whisper, “Why didn’t you love me?”

Eleanor ran a hand through her hair furiously, looking away. “You idiot, I do—!”

“All of me!” she yelled.

Silence. Eleanor finally dared to risk a glance at her daughter.

Regan went on. She couldn’t stop now that she had started. “Why couldn't you love the me that liked to pet and play with horses? Why… why were you always blaming me for your divorce?!” The tears fell harder, sliding down her cheeks and to the polished floors. “Why was it always my fault?!”

“Shut up!” Eleanor suddenly yelled. Her voice was rough with tears and something else… fear. “Don’t you ever bring that up again, do you understand?!”

Regan opened her mouth, to apologize, maybe, or to talk back. She wasn’t sure anymore.

But her mother was already turning away, her chest rising and falling too fast, her perfectly-manicured nails going through her hair over and over, and for a second, Regan didn't know who the person in front of her was. This devastation in her mother’s voice was somehow worse than the angry yelling.

“You wanna go out?! Go!” she yelled after a few steps. “But you’ll be back in an hour, is that clear?!”

Regan nodded silently.

“Answer me!”

She took a step back. “Y-Yes…” She hesitated, then added, “I’ll be back in an hour,” in a whisper, and stepped out into the morning light, closing the door softly behind her, leaving her mother alone in the cold, silent museum of their home.

What was that? Was the first question to come to her mind.

She moved down the row of stalls, her fingers trailing over the wooden doors. What the heck was that? Why was her mother crying like that?

I’d never seen her cry before…

She kept walking, relying on muscle memory, old memory buried deep in her brain even after years. She absently picked an apple from the nearest tree and kept walking until she reached the last door. A snow-white horse with charcoal-black mane and tail stared at her, then at the small apple in her hand. She was the only one awake. Regan smiled softly, small as it was. Pearl was always the first to wake up, staying awake awaiting her ever since her return.

“Hey, you,” Regan whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she never allowed herself in the house. She unlatched the door and slipped inside, burying her face in her warm neck. God, she’d missed her so much.

She ran her hands over her strong shoulders, her sleek coat, her mane, feeling the hair beneath her palms. This was true. This was real.

“Oh, Pearl,” she breathed, looking at her. Her little pony. Her miracle foal, all legs and knobbly knees, who had been barely a few days old when she’d…

When she’d put on that headset.

The memory was quickly dismissed. She was back. She was here.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her hands cupping her face. “You’re all grown up. I’m so sorry I missed it.” Her voice broke. “I missed all of it.”

Pearl nudged her chest, demanding the treat, her brown eyes blinking slowly at her.

A sob escaped Regan, then another, and she let them come, her tears soaking into her mane.

“You have no idea,” she whispered to Pearl, as if she understood. “You have no idea where I’ve been. What I’ve seen. Sometimes… sometimes I’m not sure I believe it myself.” She buried herself deeper into the horse’s body, her arms tightening around its neck. “And now, my mom… I don’t understand anything…”

“But I’m back,” she said, her voice soft despite the tremble in it. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Not again, not ever.”

Pearl nudged her again, letting out a small neigh.

Regan leaned back with a chuckle, presenting her with the apple before settling on the nearest hay cube. “I have so much to tell you about today...”