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It used to be so hard for Adaine to spend time with Fig.
The walking antithesis to anxiety and doubt, made manifest. Someone who truly knew what she wanted, and suffered no fear about getting it.
Adaine spent a lot of time wondering what that would be like, freshman year. What it would be like to exist so full of life, full of passion and joy and emotions of all kinds. Fig’s only limitation in any given day was the amount of time she had to spare.
So forgive her if it was really difficult to spend time together sometimes.
She watches Fig struggle and chafe against the world’s expectations. In a completely different way than Adaine does. Because Adaine’s struggle comes from striving to meet and surpass what the world (her parents) wants from her. All Fig really wants is to tell the world to fuck off while she does what she pleases.
Adaine doesn’t have that ability. She can’t make choices on a whim. And for a long time it felt like Fig didn’t understand responsibility, was just acting on impulse, no regard for the way she impacted the people around her. It took nearly all of freshman year for Adaine to understand: Fig’s action is in answer to the responsibility and care she holds. Her caprice does not stem from indifference; rather, what the world sees as caprice is more accurately described as Fig acting, even before first thought, to protect her friends. Her family.
And—apparently—Adaine counts as family. Which took her an embarrassingly long time to figure out.
Because there’s so much to admire in Fig that it was hard to reconcile her bitterness with her adoration.
Being in the same room as Fig means standing next to the sun. It means standing in the blast radius of radical positivity by way of rebellion. Full submersion into the concept of a different world.
Importantly: a better world. Not merely a different one.
Adaine is more than adept at imagining different worlds, but her anxiety automatically tends for the worst case scenario. Fig is a walking, talking bottle of “but what if it’s good?”
She tries really hard to give back any way she can. What can she possibly do for Fig in exchange for this unbelievable gift, the way the arc of her life has been changed thanks to Fig’s mere presence?
Every single one of her friends has radically shaped her life. She knows this well. Accidental detention is one of the most wonderful mistakes she has ever made because it brought her into the circle of these strange, beautiful creatures. From Riz she learned steadfast determination; from Kristen, intentional open-mindedness; Fabian, the ability to move with the moment rather than against it; from Gorgug, true strength, and when to use it. She knows she is lucky beyond counting to have friends that she can grow and learn alongside. She values each of them deeply.
But none can match Fig.
Fig, who shows her awareness at the same time as demonstrating how little she cares about the weight of that knowledge. Fig, who sees every dark underside and claims it as her own, as kindred. Figerouth, her closest friend, burning archdevil, brighter than the sun, the guiding beacon, the lighthouse.
Adaine pays special attention to Fig’s studies, her whereabouts. If all she can offer to Fig is an extra level of perception, she will gladly provide. Because Fig truly sees her. No questions asked. Well, not exactly no questions; Fig might ask where to bury the body if needed. But not the stupid questions, like “where have you been” or “what do you think you’re doing” or “why are you like this.” The good questions. The caring questions.
She’s learned by now, of course, that this care comes from a need for the same. A lighthouse, after all, must be continuously lit from the inside. The signal pattern of light and darkness is a mirage, a projection. Adaine’s objective is to keep the fire kindled. She must.
So she watches. And the more she watches, and understands, the more she regrets that friction she perceived freshman year. It was all in her own head, she knows. Terrified of being witnessed or known for anything at all, paired up with a ringleader determined to find the spotlight. Fig couldn’t care less if Adaine wanted to get in or out of the light; Fig saw her—loved her—regardless.
No, the tension was all her own.
There’s so much she regrets from that time. She and Jawbone have talked at length about the necessity, or lack thereof, of regrets. Her stance changes depending on the day, and Jawbone is always willing to spar, to test her mental defenses on the subject. They’ve started many a pros-cons list together, only to scrap it hours later to argue the opposite way.
Regret keeps you mindful and honest; it forces you to examine your actions and thoughts. It makes you grow. Discomfort and ugliness is necessary for change. Without regret, there is no chance to scrutinize choices, plot differently, live differently.
Regret holds your mind captive to the past. The backward-facing tunnel vision is a trap into making the same mistakes over again. A focus on self-reproach hinders growth before it has the chance to start. Self-loathing, all dressed up.
Regardless of its merits, the fact of the matter is that Adaine does regret. She knows her mind is not something to be controlled or understood, but something to see as it is, to use as it comes to her, with as little judgment possible. Regrets can’t be willed away. Much like anxiety. Journaling won’t negate the instinct. And this is one instinct she has honed well, double-edged sword that it is.
She regrets her callousness. She regrets not speaking more quickly or more eloquently in defense of her friends. She regrets her cowardice. Every day, her cowardice, the albatross. The fear that led to lashing out. Especially at the people trying to draw her closer, trying to carry the weight together.
She regrets shutting Fig out at every turn.
It would have been so easy to do more than listen. To participate. To breathe a moment, lean in, instead of tensing up, bricking herself up. (Thank the gods for therapy.)
Adaine knows if she had leaned in, she would have seen Fig’s rashness in three dimensions instead of foil to her own mind; symptoms of grappling with her heritage and place in the world; feelings of grief and loss over the future she thought she knew; a need to prove herself to anyone who would listen. A lighthouse. A cry for help. Two lights, flashing in the dark at one another in different secret languages.
Things are better now, of course. She’s worked very hard to actually talk to her friends instead of simply being present with them. There’s a time for each in their own season, she knows. The Adaine that Fig loves today is very different from the Adaine that she loved two years ago. The same can be said for the opposite. Put the four of them in the same room and you wouldn’t even guess they were only two years apart.
Now Fig and Adaine match energy levels so well, it’s a wonder there was any discomfort to begin with.
Well. Perceived discomfort and tension, on the part of one of them.
Adaine has probed before. (Verbally, of course, she’s not a complete freak.) Fig dismisses out of hand even the concept of any rigidity between them. She was—still is—always so comfortable in her own love of Adaine. Trusting that Adaine would come around. Get over whatever she was wrestling with. A bedrock of pure dynamite, ready to explode in joy and fondness whenever Adaine was ready. Full throttle.
Which means, really, Adaine’s biggest regret is the time she wasted on isolating herself. She thinks of all the time—two entire years!—that could have been spent forging a bond with these people—with Fig!—instead of wallowing in her own head.
And she knows this is her mind working against her, finding reasons to nitpick and disparage. Yes, there’s a lot she would have changed about freshman year. A lot that would have been more bearable if she could have gotten out of her own head.
But she’s here now, isn’t she? Sure, she has her regrets. She’ll have to take it as a sign of growth. Because now spending time with Fig is the easiest thing in the world.