Chapter Text
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
The word kept repeating itself in Marinette’s tormented mind.
Lying with her head buried in the pillow, she cried in silence—or tried to. Her throat ached at the mere thought of uttering a single word, yet she still sobbed like a child.
The tears were hot, making her pale face burn as though acid had been poured over her cheeks. She had cried so much that her hair was damp, clinging to her skin as if she had just stepped out of a swimming pool on a hot summer day.
Her heart pounded violently inside her chest. It hurt as though it were being crushed, squeezed by something invisible in an endless agony. The beats were so loud that she could hear them inside her own ears. A heavy, insistent pulse, like the sound of a bomb about to explode—far enough away to seem like an echo, yet far too close to be ignored.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
She felt lonelier and more miserable than she ever had before. She had spent nearly an entire week locked inside her room, without even looking at the world beyond its walls. She had not taken a shower. Even that seemed to require an effort she simply could not gather.
Her parents were worried. They had done everything—absolutely everything—to help her find the girl she used to be again. Their little girl.
Ever since the day they discovered her secret, ever since they learned that she was Ladybug, they had realized that something inside her had changed. Marinette was no longer the same. It was as though she had become someone they did not know, someone they no longer knew how to reach. Somewhere, buried deep within, traces of the sweet, determined, and strong girl who was their daughter still remained. But that girl seemed farther away with each passing day, hidden behind a shadow that kept growing inside her.
She no longer cared about her creations. She no longer talked about fabrics, sketches, or designs, nor about her dream of becoming a great fashion designer one day. She still cooked with them from time to time, but the joy that had once lit up her face had vanished, and sometimes even the taste of sweets seemed less sweet. Her smile was no longer the same, either. It was small, empty and forced—as though she had to command her own muscles to form that expression in order to convince others, and perhaps herself, that everything was still okay. Before, she smiled with her eyes as well. Now, even they could no longer pretend.
After Chrysalis revealed her secret to the world, her parents had tried everything to get her out of that room, but nothing had worked. She no longer wanted to do anything.
Playing video games with her Dad was too boring now. Painting with her Mom required an energy she no longer possessed. Not even taking a ride on Grandma’s awesome motorcycle could spark the slightest enthusiasm in her. The world had lost its colors, its shapes and its sounds. Everything felt distant, dull, and purposeless. And deep down, all she wanted was to disappear.
Forever.
Her stomach growled with hunger, but she could not even bring herself to think about food. The mere idea of putting anything into her mouth made her stomach twist, as if her own body rejected the possibility. She would probably throw up everything she forced herself to eat.
She was much thinner than she used to be, something that was beginning to frighten her parents, who were already watching her body with far too much concern. In a desperate attempt to get her to eat something, they had left a small stockpile of food on her desk, hoping that, at some point, hunger would win. But Marinette had not touched any of it. It had been sitting there for so many days that it had probably spoiled—perhaps even rotted. The smell that filled the room was almost unbearable, mixed with the stale air and the feeling of abandonment that seemed to have seeped into every corner of that place.
Even so, she remained there. Motionless. Indifferent to the filth, the hunger, and her own body, as if none of it mattered anymore. As if, little by little, she had begun to believe that she did not matter either.
The dark circles beneath her eyes were deep, marked by sleepless nights. Even so, she refused to close her eyes. And even when she tried, she could not. The guilt was too great. And there was a fear that was somehow even greater.
At the same time, she felt hatred and loathing.
Hatred and loathing for herself.
She hated everything she had done. She hated having been so childish, so stupid. She hated not having thought more carefully before making the decision to lie to everyone. To her parents. To her friends. To the love of her life.
Adrien.
She replayed every choice in her head like someone revisiting a wound just to make sure it still hurt, searching, futilely, for the exact moment when everything could have been different. But there was no going back. There was no way to undo the lies she had told, nor erase the truths she had hidden. And the more she thought about it, the more her guilt transformed into something heavy, almost physical, that seemed to crush her from within. Marinette could no longer separate her regret from her own existence; everything about her seemed contaminated by what she had done. Even breathing felt like a kind of punishment. She wanted to go back in time, wanted to have been braver, more honest, anything other than the person she now saw within herself. But the past remained untouched, indifferent to her tears, and all that remained for her was to live with the cruel certainty that, in trying to protect those she loved, she had ended up becoming the reason they were suffering.
She had lost everyone.
She had lost him.
Adrien.
Adrien.
Adrien.
She had hurt him in such an unforgivable, low, and cruel way that she could no longer even look at her own reflection without feeling disgusted with herself. She of all people—the person who was most afraid of hurting someone, who feared more than anything that someone might hurt her love—had managed to shatter him. Adrien was furious. Hurt. Disappointed in a way Marinette had never seen before. He had said things he would probably regret someday, but, in that moment, none of them seemed more painful than the simple realization that he no longer wanted to stay by her side.
The truth about his father and about himself was not something easy to accept, and Marinette knew that. That was why she had lied. She only wanted to protect him. She wanted him to be okay, to be able to move forward without carrying forever the weight of an abusive father and without having to think about that man after his death. She wanted to spare him the pain, even if that meant carrying all of it alone. But all of it had been in vain, because he had discovered in the worst possible way that she was a liar and that his father was a monster.
Adrien just wanted to move on. He just wanted to finally understand what had happened, gather the pieces of his own story, and try to rebuild the life that had been taken from him. But now he was back at square one. Maybe even worse. His life was a mess because of her. He was hurt because of her and was probably crying nonstop at home, trying to understand how everything had come to this point. And she hated herself for it.
She hated imagining the tears on his face. She hated knowing that she was the one who had caused them. She hated knowing that, precisely when he needed someone he could trust the most, she had chosen to lie. She was a monster. A liar. And the reason did not matter. It did not matter that she had done all of it out of love. It did not matter that her only intention had been to protect him. In the end, she had done exactly what she feared most: hurt Adrien, destroy his trust, and drive away the one person she had never wanted to lose. She did not deserve his love. She did not deserve the love of anyone.
Monster.
Monster.
Monster.
She felt empty without his love. Although Adrien was, at that moment, the source of her greatest pain, he had also been everything that kept her standing. He was the person she looked to every day and found the strength to keep trying for, even when her life seemed completely upside down. His kisses, his hugs, and those beautiful words, always spoken in the moments when she needed them most, made her body warm and gave her a sense of safety that Marinette had never known she needed until she lost it. But now? Now she no longer had his warmth to curl up against in those moments when she wanted nothing more than to cry until there were no tears left. She no longer had his gentle voice telling her that everything would be okay in the middle of the chaos. She no longer had his hand to hold when everything seemed to be falling apart, nor the smile that always managed to make her believe, if only for a few moments, that maybe things could get better. She no longer had him by her side, even when she made the biggest mistake in the world. She no longer had him. And she no longer had anyone.
No one is with you anymore.
No one loves you anymore.
You are alone.
Even Alya had abandoned her. And was she wrong? Of course not. Marinette believed she deserved all of it. She deserved it for having been such a great liar. No one should trust her. No one would ever trust a liar like her. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe she truly deserved to be alone, isolated from everyone who had once loved and trusted her. She deserved all that pain, all that emptiness, all that loneliness that seemed to consume every part of her body. She deserved to lose everything. She deserved to feel the absence of every person she had ever loved. And deep down, a part of her believed that this was exactly how it should be: alone, completely alone, and condemned to remain that way forever.
He hates you.
They all hate you.
You do not deserve any of them.
These thoughts no longer felt like thoughts; they were almost certainties, cruel truths that her mind repeated so many times that they had stopped seeming absurd. Marinette could no longer see herself as someone who had made a mistake. In her mind, she was the mistake. There was no difference between what she had done and what she believed herself to be. If someone hated her, it was because they had finally realized who she really was. If someone walked away, it was because they had finally understood that staying by her side was a waste. And the more she convinced herself of that, the harder it became to imagine any reason to keep trying.
What for? For whom?
Adrien was no longer there. Alya was no longer there. Her friends had drifted away. Even her parents seemed distant, worried about a daughter she no longer knew how to be.
Marinette felt as though she were slowly disappearing within herself, sinking into a place so dark that she could no longer find a way out. Sometimes, she thought it would be easier to simply stop fighting it. Stop trying to fix what she had broken. Stop hoping that one day she would become who she used to be again. The idea did not come as a clear decision, but as a tired thought, almost a wish for silence—a wish for all that pain to simply end. And that frightened her. Because, no matter how broken she was, some small part of her still seemed to be clinging to life, even if Marinette could not say why. So she cried. She cried because she wanted to escape that pain, but did not know how to make it stop. She cried because she missed Adrien. She cried because she missed herself. And, between all this hard time, she realized that perhaps what she wanted most was not to die, but simply to stop feeling all of it. She wanted to breathe again without every breath hurting. She wanted to wake up without feeling guilty. She wanted to look at her own reflection without seeing a monster. She wanted, desperately, to believe that there was still some part of her that could be saved.
You are weak.
Coward.
There is no salvation for you.
“I can't do this...” Marinette's voice came out muffled against the pillow. “I can't do this anymore, Tikki.”
The small red kwami hovered silently beside her, watching her with a concern that Marinette could barely bear.
“I ruined everything...” she whispered. “I ruined everything.”
Her voice trembled.
“I hurt him. I hurt Alya. I hurt everyone who trusted me.” She took a deep breath, but the air seemed to catch in her throat. “And I can't even fix it with my powers.”
Tikki opened her mouth to say something, but Marinette continued before she could.
“I just wanted to protect Adrien.”
His name came out so quietly that it almost disappeared into the room.
“I just wanted him to be okay...” Marinette pressed the pillow against her chest, as though she could find within it some trace of the warmth she felt when Adrien hugged her. “I wanted to stop him from suffering. And look what I did.”
The tears returned with greater force. “I made him suffer even more.”
Tikki moved a little closer, but did not touch her. Perhaps because she knew that, at that moment, any attempt to make her see things differently would be useless.
“Marinette... you don't deserve to feel this way. You need to talk to someone.”
The kwami's voice was ignored. Her words seemed to pass right through her without finding anywhere to settle, like the cold, cutting wind that drifted through the window and disappeared into the darkness. Marinette did not answer. Perhaps she had not truly heard her at all.
The room was once again swallowed by silence, interrupted only by the girl's quiet sobs. They were almost inaudible, too small to fill the space, yet painfully constant. She cried without urgency, as though even that had become exhausting. As though there were no longer enough tears for everything she carried inside herself.
“I'm so tired, Tikki...” This time, there was no anger in her voice. Only exhaustion. “I'm tired of thinking. Tired of remembering. Tired of feeling guilty all the time. Tired of missing... him.” Her fingers tightened around the bedsheet. “I just want all of this to stop.”
Tikki continued looking at her.
“My head never stops. Even when I close my eyes, I see his face. I hear his voice. I keep imagining what he's doing, whether he's crying, whether he's thinking about me...” Marinette swallowed hard. “And when I realize that he's probably better off without me, it hurts even more.”
She slowly turned her face toward the other side of the bed.
“Maybe everyone is better off without me.”
Tikki finally moved closer, but Marinette did not look at her.
“I don't want to hear that it isn't true,” she added, almost in a whisper. “Because I can't make myself believe you.”
That made the kwami remain silent.
Marinette closed her eyes again. She felt so tired that even crying was beginning to require effort. Even so, the tears continued to fall, silent, disappearing into the pillow.
“I don't know what to do...” Her voice was almost inaudible. “I really don't know. I...”
Marinette opened her eyes and, for the first time in a long while, looked directly at Tikki. The tiny creature was there, so close that she could see the concern written across her face. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Marinette simply stared at her, her eyes red and swollen, as though she were trying to find some answer in the kwami who had been by her side for so long.
Then, something changed in her expression.
It was not relief, much less hope. It was merely a kind of frightening stillness, as though her thoughts had finally stopped fighting one another and chosen a single path. Marinette looked away.
Do it.
Do it.
You can't be that much of a coward.
“Tikki...” she called softly. Her hand rose to her earrings, touching them with an almost affectionate gentleness. “I'm sorry.”
Tikki's eyes widened. “Marinette, what are you—” She did not finish. Her holder did not let her.
Marinette removed the earrings and held them between her fingers for a few moments, looking at them as though she were saying goodbye to a part of herself. There was no transformation anymore, no energy and no power. Only those two small objects resting in the palm of her hand. The kwami simply vanished, as though she had never been there.
“Forgive me, Tikki.” Her voice was strangely calm. “For everything.”
Marinette slowly got out of bed, her body weak after so many days of being practically motionless. She climbed down the ladder with difficulty and opened her wardrobe. She put on whatever she found first, without caring about whether it matched, about the cold, or about the time. When she finished, she looked at the clock. It was not even three in the morning yet. On any other night, that would have been reason enough to stay inside. That night, however, the hour seemed to mean absolutely nothing. She shook her head, trying to distract herself, and did not even take her phone.
Before leaving her room, Marinette picked up a small box, the same one from when she had received her Miraculous, and placed the earrings back inside it, as though they had never been removed. She stared at the closed box for a few seconds, thinking about Alya. Perhaps it was the only thing she could still return to her. Perhaps Alya would know what to do with it. Perhaps, someday, she would understand her decision.
Marinette placed the box in her bag and, after hesitating in front of the trapdoor, walked back to her desk. She picked up a piece of paper and wrote a few words with a trembling hand. She did not want to write a letter. She did not want to explain anything. She did not even know how to explain it. She simply left a small folded note inside the box:
“Alya, please take care of her. And take care of yourself too. I'm sorry.”
Marinette walked through the house as though she were sleepwalking. She did not know exactly what she expected to find outside; she only knew that she needed to leave. She needed to get away from that room, from those thoughts, from that version of herself she no longer recognized. Before doing anything—though she did not even know exactly what—she decided to stop by her parents' room downstairs. She went down the stairs slowly, carefully, afraid of waking them in the middle of the night. She did not want to scare anyone. Much less did she want them to know that she was about to leave.
Her feet touched the bedroom floor, and she raised her eyes to look at them. They were sleeping deeply, so peacefully that they probably would not even notice her presence. Her mother's hand rested on her father's stomach, and the two seemed unaware of the world, protected by the silent peace of that night.
Marinette felt like crying, but the tears simply would not come. Her face remained serious, almost empty, and her eyes so tired that they could easily have been mistaken for those of someone consumed by anger. But she was not angry. She was calm. Too calm. Only her restless heart, unsettled within her chest, betrayed what was happening behind that expression.
She took a deep breath and walked to the bedside table beside the bed, where Sabine usually kept a small notebook. She tore out a sheet of paper and picked up the pen resting between its pages. For a few minutes, she simply stared at the blank page, as though expecting the words to appear on their own. She did not want to say goodbye. Nor did she know whether she was brave enough to do what she was thinking about doing. Maybe she would give up halfway through Maybe, the next day, she would be lying in her bed when Sabine entered the room carrying another tray of fresh croissants that Tom had prepared for breakfast—a breakfast she probably would not even touch.
But she would be there. She would be lying in that bed.
Maybe she would.
Maybe.
“I love you both. Thank you for everything. I'm sorry.
Bises, Marinette.”
...
The night was almost completely silent when Marinette opened the front door. The cold air drifting in from the hallway hit her face, but she barely seemed to notice. For a moment, she looked back. At her home, where she had spent entire days. At the life that seemed to have remained on the other side of that door. Then she turned around and began to walk, heading down the building's stairs.
When she finally stepped outside, she wandered through the empty streets of Paris without caring about absolutely anything. She was used to the stillness of that hour, but, that night, there was something different about it. The adrenaline coursing through her body like a blade made everything seem more intense, sharper, odd. She would not have known how to explain what she was feeling if someone had asked. She only knew that she felt. The lights in the buildings seemed more melancholy than usual, and the wind, colder—almost theatrical—blew her hair back while her bangs tickled her forehead, as though she were inside a movie.
A horror movie.
It was ironic. She used to hate horror movies, until her own life became one.
Marinette finally arrived at Alya's house after a few minutes of walking. The apartment hallway was silent, lit only by the yellowish ceiling lights, and her footsteps seemed far too loud at that hour. She stopped in front of the door for a few seconds, holding the small box with the earrings against her chest. She did not want to go inside. She did not want to have to explain anything. She only needed to leave it there.
Marinette crouched down, carefully placed the box on the floor right in front of the door, and rang the doorbell. As soon as she heard the sound echo through the apartment, she stood up and quickly walked away, crossing the hallway until she could hide on the other side, near the staircase. She stayed there, leaning against the wall, holding her breath as she waited. She knew Alya would be awake at that hour. Maybe she was working on a school assignment—although Marinette honestly had no idea, since she had not been to class in days. Maybe she was scrolling through her phone. Or maybe she simply could not sleep, just like her. The important thing was that her friend would be there. She knew that.
Marinette trusted her.
A few seconds later, she heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Marinette discreetly peeked from behind the wall and saw Alya appear, wearing a sleepy and confused expression. She looked both ways before noticing the small box on the floor. She frowned, as though she already recognized the object, and crouched down to pick it up. Marinette felt her chest tighten. For a moment, she wanted to step out of her hiding place, run to her, and tell her everything. Apologize. Hug her. Tell her she was scared. Tell her she no longer knew what to do.
But she did none of those things.
She simply watched, motionless, as Alya carried the box inside and closed the door once again.
Only then did Marinette step away from the wall. She had done it. Alya had found the box. That was all she needed to know. Without looking back, Marinette began walking down the hallway again, silently disappearing down the staircase.
You are going to do it.
You have to do it.
You can't be any more of a coward.
The streets of Paris were deserted at night. Marinette had realized that a long time ago, during the patrols she used to do... with him. Back then, walking through the city after midnight had something special about it. Paris seemed to belong only to the two of them, silent and almost untouched, while she and Chat Noir leaped across rooftops, talked about anything and everything, and laughed at things that probably would not have been funny during the day. Now, however, everything felt different. The same streets that had so often served as the path for their adventures seemed strange beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. Marinette walked slowly, her hands buried in her pockets and her eyes fixed on the path ahead. She did not want to think about what she was doing. Thinking meant hesitating, and she did not want to hesitate.
She was not a coward.
Not at that moment.
The Eiffel Tower grew closer and closer, rising above the buildings like a familiar presence in the darkness. She had been there so many times. She had climbed those structures so many times that she knew every detail of the way, every platform, every spot from which Paris seemed far too small to contain everything she felt. That night, however, there was no one waiting for her at the top. No playful voice. No smile. No “M’lady” accompanied by a terrible joke. Only the cold wind beginning to strike her face as she approached the entrance.
Marinette stopped for a few seconds in front of the tower and looked up. Golden lights ran along the iron structure, illuminating it against the dark sky, while Paris remained spread out below, filled with tiny lit windows and nearly empty streets. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And, for some reason, that made her eyes sting once again. She thought about how many times she had looked at that same city believing she still had time. Time to fix things. To tell the truth. To, perhaps, apologize more... Now, it all seemed to belong to someone else.
Marinette took a deep breath and entered the tower. She climbed in silence, letting her footsteps echo through the empty stairways. The higher she went, the smaller Paris seemed behind her. And when she finally reached the top, she stopped before the vastness of the city.
The wind was stronger there. Her hair blew back, and she had to hold it in place with one hand. For a few moments, she simply stood there looking. Paris stretched out before her, illuminated and silent, completely unaware of the girl watching it from above. Marinette thought that this might be the last time she would ever see that city. And, this time, there was no one by her side to make her believe there was still a way back.
Adrien.
Adrien.
Adrien.
She could not stop it. No matter how hard she tried to empty her mind, no matter how many times she told herself she did not want to think about anything, his name was always the first thing to surface in the back of her mind. His smile. His voice. The green eyes that always seemed to search for hers wherever they were. The way he said her name. The lingering hugs, the stolen kisses between conversations, his hands holding hers as they walked through Paris. All of it came rushing back at once, not like a distant memory, but like small scenes perfectly preserved somewhere in her mind.
She remembered the way Adrien used to look at her when he thought Marinette was not paying attention. She remembered the times he had appeared on her balcony just to talk, even when there was absolutely nothing important to say. She remembered his terrible jokes, the laughter he tried to hide, the nights when the two of them stayed awake until late talking about the future as though they were certain they would have enough time to live it.
They had so much time.
Or at least that was what she had believed.
Marinette felt her eyes fill with tears once more.
“Adrien...”
His name came out sounding like an apology.
She imagined how he must be at that very moment. Maybe he was still awake. Maybe he was crying because he was angry with her. Maybe he did not even want to hear her name. And, for the first time since she had left home, Marinette realized that she could not bear the idea of never finding out.
Never again hearing his voice.
Never again seeing him smile.
Never again having the chance to tell him how sorry she was.
Never again knowing whether, someday, he might forgive her.
She lowered her eyes.
Maybe she could not fix everything. Maybe she did not even deserve another chance. But she wanted one. Just one.
She wanted to knock on his window in the middle of the night.
And she wanted to hug him.
She wanted so badly to hug him.
Her feet finally moved forward. One step. That was more than enough. She wanted to do it, but not as much as she wanted him to somehow sense her absence and come save her, as he had done so many times before.
Another step, this time a longer one. Even if she wanted to remain at the edge of the tower, she would still have to climb over the safety railing in front of her; it would not be that simple. The thought made her hesitate. Then she thought of Adrien again, imagining how he would react. For a moment, a terrible idea crossed her mind: perhaps he wanted her to die. But the thought disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Marinette did not want to believe that. She did not want to believe that, to him, her absence could be a relief.
One more step, and she finally reached the safety barrier. Now, she thought of her parents. She thought of the note she had left for them. She could still go back. She could simply climb down, return home, and bury that night in the deepest corner of her memory. They would never have to know what she had tried to do. They were asleep at that moment, completely unaware of the suffering their daughter carried in silence. It would not be difficult to give up. Not now. But a part of her still insisted that going back would be cowardly, that she would be disappointing everyone all over again.
Then she grabbed the railing with both hands, gripping it tightly. The wind had grown stronger, sending her bangs flying across her face while her black hair spread through the air. For a moment, she thought she looked like a tragic painting. She could be the new Ophelia, if Nathaniel were there to witness her end. He was an excellent painter. The thought almost made her smile, but even that did not last. Then she thought of her friends. She wondered what they would say when they discovered that the happiest and most optimistic girl in their class had killed herself. Maybe they would cry at her grave. Maybe they would say she had been an incredible person, as though a few beautiful words could summarize who she had been. But that felt so far removed from what she thought of herself.
Then she thought of Alya.
She would cry a lot. Marinette was sure of it. Alya could be harsh, could sometimes say things that hurt, but she had always been far wiser and more rational than Marinette. Maybe that was exactly why she had chosen her as her successor. She was the best friend anyone could ever wish for. Tears began to run down her face as she imagined the pain she would leave behind.
Alya.
Her parents.
And Tikki.
Tikki most of all.
She always said that Marinette was the best holder she had ever had. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was just one of the kind things Tikki said to make her feel better. But Marinette liked to believe she meant it. She needed to believe it. Because, at that moment, while the wind blew around her and the tears vanished against her skin, that small certainty was one of the few things that still seemed capable of reaching her.
You are going to do it.
You are not a coward.
You cannot be a coward again.
He will be better off without you.
They will all be better off without you.
You are going to do it.