Chapter Text
Every day you must say, "How do I feel about my life?" That's what the government's therapist said last session.
Even after three years of Vecna's death, Willow still had this never-ending, never resting... fear. She was scared, but she didn't know of what exactly. Sometimes, on her worst days, she’d still feel the itchy feeling in her neck or Vecna's cruel hands caressing her face like a pet.
It was November, the month where it had all started many years ago. That meant sleepless nights, caused by haunting nightmares and also the need to be aware of everything all the time, just in case any demogorgon wanted to take her down to hell again.
So, how do I feel about my life? She asked herself again, sitting on her bed, covered by blankets in her NYU dorm. It was still morning, cold nevertheless, thanks to the New York Fall.
I am sick, and I am dull. And I am plain. How dearly I'd love to get carried away.
Oh, but dreams have a knack of just not coming true.
Of course, but nightmares do.
A lot had happened during these past three years. After graduation, she got accepted by NYU for a degree in graphic design. Michelle followed with a degree in creative writing, and now she was her roommate. They’ve had to fight for it, though, since their classes weren't quite close, and it was not really efficient for either. But they didn’t care; this is what they had wanted since elementary school. Even if it wasn't comfortable, they liked it that way.
The sound of jiggling keys opening the door stopped her train of thought. Then Michelle got in with her big brown coat and slightly flared jeans. After so many years of not having the liberty to have a style, she was finally free.
These past years she had explored numerous different looks, but after many failed attempts she had settled a bit. She liked simple but stylish things, nothing too extravagant but still nice and unique.
But deep down, Willow knew it wasn't only about clothes. Even if Michelle was a really confident woman, Willow knew she had identity problems. She feared not knowing who she was. Instead of doing what she wanted, she was scared of ending up in a life she didn't choose, a life made by the society both of them had always hated.
"Hey, good morning." Michelle finally noticed her.
"Hi, Micah."
"How are you feeling? I got you breakfast." She said, approaching her blanket fort as she showed her the paper bag in her hand.
"I'm... okay." Willow tried to answer. She didn't even know how she was feeling; she just knew she had this aching need to disappear.
"Here, I got your favorite." Michelle sat down, taking off her coat. Inside the bag there were two white chocolate croissants." Oh, wait. Let me find you some napkins"
She searched for them for a few minutes, but at some point Michelle started to get desperate. "Where did we put them? I swear I bought a pack like two days ago."
Anything is difficult to find when you will not open your eyes.
When will you accept yourself?
“Finally!” Michelle cheered as she pulled out a napkin hidden at the back of the big drawer. “Here.” Willow grabbed it, even though she didn't even feel like eating anyway.
Sometimes she'd remember the whispered voices from Vecna telling her the truths of who she is. The disgust in his voice was something that Willow would never forget, and even worse: he was right.
She was a mistake to this world. She'd end up poor; her artistic talents were stupid and useless. How could she even try to make a life out of it all?
She'd end up alone, forgotten by her loved ones and abandoned by others. How could anyone love her? She was nothing close to good or even fine.
Oh, and of course, the only person she has ever loved would never feel the same because Michelle was straight, and Willow was a queer.
It had to be her, her lifelong best friend, the one that after her funeral still believed she was alive. She never gave up searching for her, no matter what the others said.
But in the end, Michelle liked boys, and it was her fault Willow didn't.
Yet, there was, deep down, some hope for her. Those moments where the line between platonic and romantic became blurred and unclear kept her alive. Even if Michelle was one of the smartest people that Willow had ever met, she always had a hard time when it came to feelings and expressing herself.
Maybe she hasn't figured it out yet, that's what she kept telling herself.
And time is against me now...oh
Oh, who and what to blame?
“Willow? Hey, what happened?” At some point, Willow had started crying, the untouched croissants between her hands. When she was certain, Michelle didn't wait long to embrace her in her arms. The croissants lay forgotten on the night stand. “Hey, hey… I’m here; you are fine”
“Why are you like this?“ The question escaped her mouth without permission.
“Wills? What do you mean?” Michelle sounded genuinely concerned; of course she did.
“Why do you care for me so much? I'm… nothing.” She pulled closer, but her words were distant.
“Willow…” she reached out to her face, holding it between her hands. “How could I not? I've known you for so long that I cannot even think how my life would be without you. You were my first friend. The one I first trusted. The first one I've…” She looked scared of finishing the sentence, so she shrugged it off, “What I mean is that you are the most important person in my life, for so many reasons that I can't even count them all on my fingers.”
“But… you deserve better. Someone that can take care of you like you do to me.” Willow argued, placing her hands over Michelle's.
“You already do! You have always been there for me, by my side, even if I wasn't at the moment. You always help me calm down whenever I'm having a crisis. You know how I always get sick? “She asked, sniffing her nose.
“Yes…?”
“Aren't you always there taking care of me with medicine and chicken soup?”
“Yeah…” That made Willow smile a little.
“So you do take care of me! Constantly, if you ask me.” She ended her point with a laugh and a hug. “I've never cared for someone as much as for you. Nor has anyone cared for me like you do, and you know it.”
Willow couldn't help but keep crying, harder than beforehand.
When will you accept your life? (the one that you hate).
Right. Care. That was what all of this was.
Not love. But care.
Somehow that hurt even more than nothing. The reminder that her love wasn't reciprocated, just a useless feeling to lose your mind on.