Fan Behavior

It was just a simple, stupid phone call. So why did it feel so impossibly hard?

Powder stared at her phone, her thumb hovering uncertainly over Vi's name in her contact list. The glow of the screencast a faint, ghostly light across her face, the only illumination in her room beside the faint yellow haze of the streetlights leaking through the gaps in her curtains. The screen dimmed, threatening to go dark, and she tapped it quickly to wake it again. The motion was almost automatic now—a nervous habit she'd been repeating for what felt like hours. Her finger hovered, trembling slightly, caught in a purgatory of indecision: not quite pressing, not quite retreating.

She'd called Vi hundreds of times before. This shouldn't have been difficult. Powder knew her sister's voice like the back of her hand—steady, low, and just a little rough around the edges, crackling through the line like a steady heartbeat. She could practically hear it now, teasing and familiar, asking if she was eating enough, if she'd slept at all in the past days, if she was okay. It should have been easy, as natural as breathing. But it wasn't.

The phone felt heavy in her hand, a weight that didn't belong, and her chest ached with the kind of nervous pressure that made it hard to sit still. She shifted on her bed, curling her legs up under her, as if making herself smaller might somehow make the decision easier. Her free hand twisted into the hem of her oversized hoodie, worrying at a loose thread. The tension in her chest didn't ease. If anything, it grew heavier, more oppressive, like a storm cloud gathering just out of reach.

She loved calling people—she really did. Always had. There was something inherently comforting about hearing a voice on the other end of the line, something grounding about the reminder that there was someone out there tethered to her by nothing more than a thin, invisible thread. It made the world feel smaller, more manageable, even on the days when her own thoughts threatened to drown her.

And she loved Vi. Of course, she did. Powder adored her older sister with an intensity that sometimes felt like it could burn her alive from the inside out. Vi wasn't just her sister—she was her anchor, her rock, the one constant in a world that felt too big, too loud, and too chaotic for someone like Powder. When everything else threatened to unravel, Vi had always been there, steady and unshakable.

But that was part of the problem, wasn't it? Powder glanced down at the phone again, her thumb still hovering. Vi's name stared back at her, a little too bright, a little too real against the dark backdrop of her room. It wasn't just the call that was hard—it was what it meant. It was admitting that she needed her, that she wasn't okay, that the mess swirling around in her head was bigger than she knew how to handle on her own.

Vi was the cooler, older sister. Taller, stronger, braver—the kind of person Powder couldn't help but idolize. Vi had this way about her, a magnetic pull that made everyone want to be in her orbit. To Powder, she wasn't just her sister; she was the person who could walk through fire and come out on the other side without a single burn, like she was made of something stronger than the rest of them.

Everyone else saw a scrappy kid with more guts than sense, someone who fought harder than anyone had a right to, someone who threw herself headfirst into danger like it was second nature. But Powder saw more than that. She saw the way Vi softened when she talked to Claggor about his dreams, the way her hand would rest on Mylo's shoulder whenever he got too loud, grounding him without a word. Powder saw the way Vi would give Ekko a nudge whenever he doubted himself; her words were never flowery but always just enough to push him forward. Powder saw the way Vi's strength wasn't just in her fists but in the way she carried the people around her. It wasn't just that Vi was larger than life; it was that she made room for everyone else in her story.

And the thing that mattered most to Powder, the thing that kept her heart tethered to her sister, was that Vi had never made her feel small. Not once. It would've been easy for her to do it, easy to overshadow Powder in every way. Powder wasn't brave like Vi, wasn't strong like her, didn't have the same effortless ability to walk into a room and have everyone look at her like she belonged there. Powder was messy and awkward and quiet. She didn't know how to make herself heard without fumbling the words, didn't know how to take up space without feeling like she was stealing it from someone else. But Vi never needed her to be anything more than she was. She never asked for it.

Vi's love wasn't loud. It wasn't the kind that needed to be shouted from rooftops or plastered across neon signs. It was quiet, steady, and sure. It wrapped around you when you weren't paying attention, the kind of love that slipped into the cracks without you even realizing it. It wasn't flashy, but it was always there. Powder had felt it in the smallest things—the way Vi would tug a blanket over her when she fell asleep on the couch, the way she'd split her snacks with her even when there wasn't much to share. Powder didn't need Vi to say it; she already knew.

Maybe that was why she never felt the need to compete with her. Mylo, Claggor, Ekko—they'd all tried, in their own way, to prove something to Vi. Powder had watched them from the sidelines when they were kids, throwing themselves into arm wrestling matches or daring Vi to races, trying to beat her at something, anything. Powder had lost count of how many times Vi had come out on top, grinning that smug, lopsided grin of hers, victorious every single time. But even in victory, she wasn't cruel about it. She'd ruffle Mylo's hair or slap Claggor on the back, laugh, and say something like, "You'll get me next time," even though they all knew they wouldn't. Vi didn't care about winning; she cared about them. That was just who she was.

Vi's love was like that—gentle, unconditional. She had enough of it for all of them, no matter their flaws, no matter how many times they stumbled or fell short. Powder had always felt it, too, in the little ways Vi looked out for her. In the way she'd step between Powder and the world's sharp edges, shielding her from whatever dangers might come their way. Vi was brave like that. Even when she was scared, even when she was small, she'd stand tall for them, her chin lifted and her fists clenched, ready to fight for the people she cared about. Powder had never seen anyone else like her, never met anyone who could hold so much love and so much strength in the same hands.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her phone in her hands, the faint glow of the screen illuminating her face in the dimly lit room. Her thumb brushed over Vi's contact name, the familiar letters blurred slightly as her vision wavered. Her heart was pounding—so loud, so insistent that it drowned out the soft hum of the old ceiling fan overhead. Just press the button, she told herself. It's not that hard. It's Vi.

And yet, she couldn't do it.

Her finger moved away from the screen, retreating like it had been burned. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips, and she let the phone drop onto the bed beside her. It bounced once, the motion almost mocking in its lightness compared to the weight sitting heavily on her chest. Why was this so hard? It wasn't like Vi had done anything wrong—if anything, Vi had done everything right. She had been the rock, the steady hand, the protector. She had been everything she could've asked for and more.

But maybe that was the problem.

Powder leaned back, her head hitting the wall with a soft thud. The ache in her chest spread, a dull, familiar throb that she couldn't shake. Her mind was a storm of memories, flashes of moments that felt both distant and painfully close. She could see Vi's grin, wide and confident, the way it had been when they were younger—when things were simpler. Back then, Vi was her hero. No, she was the hero. The one who stood tall when everything else fell apart. The one who carried Powder on her back when her little legs gave out, whispering stories about a future where they'd conquer the world together.

And now? Now Vi was out there living that future. She'd grown up, moved on, carved a life for herself that was bigger than anything their little corner of the world could offer. Powder was proud of her—she really was—but that pride came with an ache she couldn't quite name. It wasn't jealousy. No, it wasn't that. Powder didn't want what Vi had. She just… wanted Vi.

She wanted things to be the way they were before, when her laughter filled their cluttered space, and the distance between them was measured in inches, not miles. When they could sit together on the couch, sharing snacks and bad jokes, instead of trading sporadic texts that never quite said enough.

Powder reached for her phone again, her fingers brushing the screen as she stared at her name. It had been too long since they'd talked. Not because Vi hadn't tried—she always tried—but because Powder had been avoiding it. She wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was the guilt, that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, that told her she wasn't doing enough. Vi had always been there for her, always. And what had she done in return? Let the silence stretch too long, let the excuses pile up. She hated herself for it.

The distance between them wasn't just the miles that separated Powder's small room from Vi's new apartment. It was the way Powder felt herself retreating, folding in on herself like a paper crane crumpled in the rain. She hated it, hated the weight of it, hated the way it made her feel like she was losing Vi in pieces, one unspoken word, one missed call at a time. And worse, she hated the way it felt like it was her fault. Like if she could just be better—better at reaching out, better at expressing herself, better at everything—maybe the gap wouldn't feel so wide.

She sighed, leaning back against the chipped paint of her bedroom wall. The cool surface pressed into her shoulder blades as she stared up at the ceiling,  twirling a loose thread from her sleeve between her fingers, the small motion grounding her even as her mind raced.

"It's just a call," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely louder than the hum of the cars outside her window. "She's not gonna bite your head off, dummy."

But even as she said it, her chest felt tight, like there was a rubber band stretched too far inside her, ready to snap. She knew Vi wouldn't be mad—not really. Vi had always been patient with her, even when she didn't deserve it. Vi was the kind of person who showed up, who stayed, who never let the people she cared about feel forgotten. Powder knew that about her. She'd always known.

But knowing didn't make the guilt go away. Knowing didn't quiet the little voice in her head that whispered things she didn't want to hear. She's moved on. She's got her own life now. You're just dragging her down. The words were like poison, creeping into the cracks and taking root, no matter how hard she tried to shake them loose.

Vi had always been amazing—awesome, strong, unshakable. She was the kind of person people gravitated toward without even thinking about it, like a force of nature that pulled you in and made you believe everything might actually be okay. Powder had never felt the need to compete with her like others did, but that didn't mean she didn't feel the weight of her sister's awesomeness. How could she not? Vi walked into a room and owned it without even trying. Powder walked into a room and felt like she had to explain herself just to justify being there.

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Powder wasn't Vi. She wasn't the strong one, the brave one, the one people looked up to. She was the one who messed up, the one who broke things, the one who always seemed to get in the way. No matter how hard she tried to silence it, that little voice in her head was always there, whispering doubts and insecurities until they felt like truths.

Vi didn't think that way about her—Powder knew that. She never looked at her like she was a failure. She never made her feel like a burden. If anything, Vi had spent their entire lives doing the opposite, making sure Powder knew how much she was loved, how much she mattered. But knowing and feeling were two very different things. Right now, her feelings were winning.

Her thumb hesitated gently over the screen, and there it was again—Vi's name, pinned at the very top of her contacts list. The photo next to the name was one Powder had taken ages ago, back when things were simpler, back when she didn't have to think twice about reaching out. It was a candid shot—Vi leaning against the bar counter at Vander's, her hair swept back in that careless, messy way that was so unapologetically her. Vi had been laughing when Powder snapped it, a rare, unrestrained laugh that seemed to light up her entire face. She remembered the exact moment vividly: Vi's head tilted slightly, the corner of her mouth curled into a grin as she swatted the camera away too late. That image had been burned into Powder's memory, but looking at it now, it felt more like a relic of a time she wasn't sure she could ever return to.

Her chest tightened as she tapped on the chat, the thread opening in an instant. The familiar stream of messages stared back at her, each one short, clipped, and painfully distant. Powder scrolled through the history slowly, like she was tracing the steps of a relationship that had once been so effortless. The messages weren't conversations—not anymore. They were fragments. Sparse, scattered words that didn't say much but carried the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Her thumb paused over Vi's last message, sent three days ago.

"You good, Pow? Haven't heard from you in a bit."

It was simple and casual on the surface, but Powder knew better. She could hear Vi's voice in the words, the undertone of worry that her sister tried to mask with her usual easy confidence. Vi was good at that—hiding her concern behind a shield of nonchalance, pretending she wasn't checking in because she was worried but because it was just what she did.

Powder had replied, of course, but her response was so curt it made her stomach churn now just looking at it.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Busy."

That was it. No follow-up, no elaboration. She had brushed Vi off like she often did, and Vi, for once, hadn't pushed. 

The realization settled over her like a lead weight, heavy and immovable. Powder stared blankly at the phone in her hand, the screen now dark but for the faint reflection of her face, blurred and distorted. Vi had always been the one to reach out first, the one to keep trying no matter how many of Powder's replies were clipped or vague, her enthusiasm lukewarm at best. It wasn't hard to see why Vi was pulling back. Powder had made it hard—impossibly hard, sometimes. Vi was persistent, sure, but even she wasn't invincible. Powder could feel the shift in her sister's patience, like watching a candle burn lower and lower, the once-bright flame dwindling with every flicker. The frequency of Vi's texts had thinned to a trickle. It was subtle, but not subtle enough to ignore.

She didn't blame her. How could she? Powder could pinpoint the problem with unnerving clarity, like staring into a mirror for too long and hating the reflection that stared back. It wasn't Vi's fault. It never had been. She was the problem. She always was.

As soon as the emotions tied to someone became too much—too heavy, too tangled, too close—she pulled away. It was like an instinct she couldn't control, something deep-rooted and reflexive. Retreating into the shadows felt safer than letting anyone see her unraveling at the seams. She couldn't let them see how messy it was inside her head, couldn't let them get caught up in the chaos. And so, she withdrew. She put distance between herself and the people who tried to reach for her. It was easier. Easier to let the gap widen than to confront the feelings threatening to swallow her whole.

But easier wasn't better. It never was.

Powder's chest ached with a bitterness she couldn't shake, the kind that settled deep, like a bruise that refused to fade. Her phone sat in her lap, her fingers wrapped tightly around it, nails digging into the edges as though she could anchor herself with the pressure. A familiar, unwelcome thought whispered in her mind, sharp and unforgiving: This is why you don't have many friends.

Or any real friends, if she were honest with herself.

Her grip on the phone tightened, her shoulders curling inward as the thought echoed again, louder. She didn't know how to keep people close. Didn't know how to let them stay. It always started the same—she'd let someone in, let them see parts of her, but then the cracks would show, and things would start to unravel. She pushed too hard, or not hard enough. She wanted too much, or didn't want enough. The math never added up, and in the end, they always left. Or she pushed them away before they could.

Her siblings were the exception, of course. But even with them, the sense of permanence felt tenuous. They loved her, yes, but sometimes their patience ran thin, like they were tied to her with fraying thread. She could feel it in the way their voices sharpened when she messed up, or in the moments they looked at her with something she couldn't quite name. Disappointment? Pity? Resignation? She wasn't sure, but it lingered in her mind, a quiet fear she couldn't quite shake.

And then there was Ekko.

Sweet, unrelenting Ekko.

He didn't fit into the neat categories she'd built in her mind. He wasn't like the others, wasn't like her siblings. He was... constant. Always there, always showing up no matter how hard she tried to push him away. She'd tried, once or twice, to put up walls between them, but he never let them stay up for long. When she stopped answering his texts, he'd spam her phone with memes and random videos, the kind of silly things she couldn't help but laugh at. When she withdrew, sinking into the quiet that always felt safer than reaching out, he'd call her out of the blue, his voice warm and steady, filling the silence with endless stories, jokes, and the kind of easy conversation she didn't realize she needed until it was happening.

He didn't give up on her, no matter how messy she got. And deep down, that scared her.

The thought of him now made her stomach twist uncomfortably, a familiar knot of guilt and something else. She couldn't pretend she didn't see it—how she was beginning to treat him the same way she treated everyone else who got too close. She usually leaned on him, called him just to hear his voice, let him carry the weight of her silence because it was easier than carrying it herself. But tonight was different. But tonight, after what happened in the park, her phone had stayed quiet. She hadn't reached out, and, for the first time, neither had he.

The silence hurt more than she wanted to admit.

She wondered if he was hurt, if her indifference had finally gotten to him. The thought made her chest tighten, a sharp pang of guilt threading through her. Ekko didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of her messy, tangled emotions. He was her friend—her best friend, really. The one constant in her life that hadn't crumbled under the weight of her mistakes.

But that was the thing, wasn't it? Ekko wasn't just her friend anymore, not really. He hadn't been for a while, though she'd only just started to admit it to herself. Somewhere along the way, the line between friendship and something more had blurred, and she didn't know how to handle it. She didn't know how to stop herself from feeling the way she did when he smiled at her, or when he said her name like it was something special. She liked him—she always had—but now it was different. Now, it was more.

And "more" was terrifying.

Liking Ekko meant risk. It meant opening herself up in a way she wasn't sure she could, wasn't sure she wanted to. What if she messed it up? What if she lost him completely? He was her best friend, her anchor when everything else felt unsteady. The thought of losing that, of losing him, was unbearable.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair as the ache in her chest deepened. Her phone screen dimmed, the faint glow disappearing entirely as it timed out, leaving her sitting in the darkened room with nothing but her thoughts.

For now, she decided, she'd do what she always did. She'd pretend everything was fine. She'd see him at school tomorrow, and they'd fall back into their usual rhythm. She'd laugh at his jokes, tease him like nothing had changed, and ignore the way her heart raced every time he looked at her. She'd keep him close, but not too close. Safe, but distant. It was easier that way.

She lay motionless on her bed, staring at the cracked ceiling through the faint light of her desk lamp she decided to turn on this time. The room felt colder than usual, though it wasn't the temperature that chilled her—it was the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her heart. Her pillow, suddenly thin and lumpy, offered no comfort, and the blanket twisted around her legs might as well have been a cage. Powder didn't belong anywhere, did she? Not in this room. Not in this family. Not in anyone's life.

The idea had wormed its way into her head, growing stronger with each passing night. Vi would stop reaching out eventually—of course, she would. How could she not? Powder was nothing but a burden, a ghost of the sister Vi once knew. And Ekko... Ekko deserved better, didn't he? Someone with less baggage, someone who didn't push him away when he got too close. He'd move on, find someone new—maybe a best friend who wouldn't snap at him when she was in one of her moods. Maybe a pretty girlfriend who'd hold his hand and laugh at his jokes and remind him, every single day, that he deserved the world.

And where would that leave her? Alone. Completely, utterly alone. Just Powder and the endless stream of cruel, unrelenting thoughts that reminded her she was impossible to love. 

Her mind spiraled as she lay there in the silence, the room too quiet, too empty. She was already losing them, wasn't she? She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, that cold, suffocating feeling that settled deep inside her. The thought of spending the rest of her life like this—isolated, unseen—terrified her more than anything else. But wasn't that what she deserved? She was the problem, after all. She always had been.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into the pillow that felt like it offered no comfort, no reprieve. She told herself this was how it was supposed to be. Maybe it hurt, but wasn't pain easier to bear when it was predictable? At least this way, she didn't have to keep hoping for something better, something that might never come.

But then, somewhere in the fog of her despair, Vander's voice echoed in her mind.

"Relationships take effort," he told her earlier, his deep, steady voice like a balm to her restless soul. "Just try. The rest will follow."

He had always known the truth. Vander was a wise man, someone who had seen life from every angle, someone who had weathered storms and still managed to find a way to hold onto the people he loved. He had never given up, even when things seemed impossible. She wasn't as brave as Vi, as carefree, as bold. She wasn't as gentle as Ekko, as steady or as patient. But she could try. Maybe she wasn't good at it, maybe she didn't know the first thing about keeping people close, but if she didn't at least try, if she didn't put herself out there, then she would lose them all. And the thought of that made her stomach twist in knots.

So, with a deep breath, she wiped her tears away and wiped away her self-pity. Relationships weren't easy; she knew that much. They required work, they required vulnerability, they required more than just silent waiting. If she didn't want to lose her sister, her best friend—if she didn't want to lose everything—she had to take the first step.

And the first step—well, it had to be Vi. Ekko would come later. He would. But right now, it was Vi.

She sat up slowly, the weight of the day—of everything—clinging to her like a second skin. Her body felt heavy, each muscle protesting the movement, but there was something inside her, something flickering faintly in the pit of her stomach, that refused to let her sink back into the suffocating embrace of her blankets. She was tired, bone-deep exhausted, but there was something else, too—that uncomfortable feeling she couldn't ignore. It wasn't just her body that felt worn down; it was her spirit. The kind of weariness that went deeper than the physical. She'd been lost in it for so long that the thought of staying here, hidden away in her bed, felt like a betrayal. So, despite the exhaustion pulling her back, she pushed herself to move.

Her fingers were unsteady as they reached out, grazing the cool surface of her bedside table, and finally, her hand closed around her phone. The faint glow of the screen illuminated her face in the dark, and she stared at it, her shaky finger lingering over the unlock button. The quiet hum of the room seemed to press in on her, thick and suffocating, as doubt crept in—slithering its way into her thoughts.

Maybe it was too late. Maybe Vi didn't want to hear from her. Maybe she'd had enough.

But none of that mattered, at least not now. This wasn't about being certain. This was about trying.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, a rapid rhythm that pulsed in her throat as she pressed the call button. The ringing sound started, filling the silence around her like static, an anxious, droning reminder of her hesitation.

One ring.

Nothing.

Her stomach sank, the weight of it pulling her down into the pit of her anxiety. What had she been thinking?

Two rings.

Still nothing.

Her breath caught, sharp and shallow, like she couldn't quite get enough air. This was a mistake. She shouldn't have called. It was stupid, selfish, and the last thing Vi needed right now. She was probably done with her. Done with the mess that she had become. She could imagine the disappointment in her sister's voice, even though she hadn't said anything. Couldn't hear it yet, but felt it.

Three rings.

She was about to hang up, her thumb poised over the red button, ready to cut off the connection—to hide away again, back into the silence of her own mind. But then, just as her finger was about to press down, the ringing stopped. It was replaced by the soft, groggy sound of Vi's voice, a sound that wrapped around her like a blanket, familiar and comforting.

"Hello, Pow Pow?" Vi's voice was soft, hazy, and a little scratchy from sleep. "Is everything okay? You should be sleeping, kid. You've got school tomorrow."

Powder froze, the nickname settling into her like a jolt of electricity. Pow Pow . It was a word that only Vi used, a word that carried the weight of years of shared memories, of late-night talks, of everything that had ever made her feel like she wasn't alone. Vi didn't sound angry or annoyed—not even irritated, despite the late hour. She just sounded… tired. But more than that, she sounded concerned, and Powder's chest tightened with the intensity of it.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, and her free hand trembled as she gripped the sheets beneath her. She didn't know how to speak, didn't know what to say. She had imagined this moment so many times—played it out in her head, but now that she had it, now that Vi was actually on the other side of the line, everything felt harder.

"I, uh, no." Powder stammered, her voice cracking before she could even finish the sentence. "I mean, yeah, everything's fine. I just... I don't know." Her voice was small, shaky, and it took everything in her to keep going. "I just wanted to talk."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Powder's stomach twisted into knots. She imagined Vi pinching the bridge of her nose, tired and frustrated, wondering why her little sister couldn't just leave her alone for once. But then Vi sighed, a sound that was more gentle than exasperated.

"All right," she said, her tone softening. "What's on your mind? You sound off."

Powder's throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't find the words. Her mind was racing, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mess that she couldn't quite untangle. But Vi was still there, waiting patiently on the other end of the line, her presence as steady and unyielding as it had always been.

And that was enough. It had to be enough.

"I… I'm so sorry." She whispered, her voice so quiet it was barely more than a breath. Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her forehead, trying to steady herself, to keep from falling apart completely. Her voice felt raw and fragile, the apology lodged deep in her chest, unspoken for far too long. "I know it's late, and I know I shouldn't have called, but…" She trailed off, her chest tightening, trying to hold everything in. It wasn't enough. Nothing felt like it was enough.

"I just..." Her voice broke, and she had to pause, clutching the phone with both hands as though the act of holding onto it would anchor her. Her heart was beating so fast she could hardly keep up with it. Her breath came in jagged gasps, as though she were running out of air. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the tears back, but they fought their way out, streaking down her cheeks despite her best effort to hold them in.

"I miss you, Vi." The words were small, fragile, but they were the truth. The truth that she hadn't known how to say until now. "I miss the way things used to be. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to make things right, but…" She choked on the next words, her throat closing as though it couldn't bear the weight of them. "I want to try. I want to be better. I want us to be... us again."

The line went quiet, and for a moment, Powder thought she might have said too much, that maybe it was too much for Vi to handle all at once. She could feel the seconds stretching between them, each one filled with unspoken thoughts, unspoken fears. But then, softly, Vi's voice broke through the silence, calm and steady, grounding Powder in the storm of her own emotions.

"I miss you too, Pow," she said quietly. The words were simple, but they held so much weight, so much meaning. "And I'm not going anywhere. We'll figure this out. Together. You don't have to do it all at once. Just... just start with today. That's enough."

Tears welled in Powder's eyes, but she didn't make a sound. She didn't need to say anything else. Not right now. Because in that moment, she knew that Vi still cared, still wanted to be there. And that was all she needed. That was enough.

"Thanks, Vi," Powder whispered, her voice thick with relief. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

Vi didn't reply right away, but the quiet that followed was warm, not awkward. It was comfortable in a way that made Powder feel like maybe, just maybe, everything wasn't beyond repair. They'd both been broken in different ways, but that didn't mean they couldn't come back together.

"Get some sleep, Pow," Vi finally said, her voice soft and familiar. "We'll talk more tomorrow, okay?"

"No! Not yet," she interrupted, her voice sharp with urgency. She could feel the panic bubbling inside her, a feeling she couldn't ignore. She didn't want to hang up, not now, not when the conversation felt like the only tether to something familiar. "I want to talk now. I don't want to hang up. I missed you. I want you back."

Vi's voice softened, a light huff of amusement brushing through the phone line. She was always so calm, so effortlessly in control, but Powder could hear the faintest edge of concern in her tone. "If you say so…" she replied, a small chuckle threading through her words. "But I won't be responsible for your lack of energy tomorrow. And I promise, Cait and I will visit soon."

The mention of Caitlyn, though, had an immediate effect on her. It was like a sharp, cold spike in her chest. She could feel her teeth clenching without thinking about it. Caitlyn. Caitlyn, Caitlyn, Caitlyn…

She felt the heat rush to her face, her pulse quickening as that familiar knot of jealousy twisted deep inside her. It wasn't rational; she knew that. Vander had told her more than once that jealousy didn't do her any good, but that didn't make the feeling go away. Caitlyn had come into Vi's life, and with her, she had stolen something. She had taken her sister, or at least that's how it felt. It wasn't just about Caitlyn; it was about the space she had filled, the bond she had threatened.

"Can't you just… visit alone this time?" Her voice was softer now, a touch of vulnerability creeping into her words as she tried to hide the sting beneath them. She could already hear Vi's response before she spoke, knew it was coming, but she had to ask. She wanted to hold on to her sister, just a little longer.

There was another pause on the other end of the line, long enough for Powder to feel the weight of the silence. Vi wasn't angry; she wasn't dismissive. She just sighed, her voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness. "Powder, I know you don't like her." Her words weren't harsh, but they cut anyway, the truth in them too sharp for comfort. "And honestly, it breaks my heart to know that. I love you so much. You know that, right?"

The warmth in Vi's voice should have been reassuring, but instead, it made the void in her chest deepen. She hated that this was happening—this rift between them, the chasm that had started to grow wider with each passing day. Powder wanted to scream, wanted to let it all out, but instead, she swallowed the words, the bitterness, and forced herself to listen.

"I love you so much, Pow," Vi repeated, the tenderness of her words softening the edges of Powder's frustration. "You're my amazing, beloved, and sweet sister. And I love you to the point where I can't even explain it. But I also love her, Powder. You don't need to compete with her, because the love I have for both of you is different. It's just… different."

Powder felt the words like a blow, though she knew they weren't meant to hurt. They were meant to explain, to help her understand, but that didn't stop the way they landed. Vi's love for Caitlyn was a kind of love she couldn't quite understand, not the way she understood the love between her and Vi. And that made everything feel a little bit more fragile, like she was losing something she had never been able to hold on to in the first place.

Vi's voice grew softer, a tenderness that made Powder's heart twist. "You're smart, Powder," Vi said, her tone gentle and coaxing. "I know you get it. You're so much more than I can even put into words. But Cait… Cait is my girlfriend. And I know that's hard for you. I wish I could take away the hurt you're feeling, but all I can ask is that you try to see it from my side. I would love nothing more than for you to get along with her, because I see her as part of my family now. She means something to me, Powder, and I want you to know that doesn't change how much you mean to me."

The words felt heavy in the silence that followed, and for a long moment, Powder didn't know how to respond. The jealousy she had tried to suppress felt like it was choking her now, a bitter taste in the back of her throat. But even through the sting of it, she heard something else in Vi's words. She heard the love. It was still there, unwavering, despite the complications, despite Caitlyn. Vi's love for her wasn't less because of someone else. It wasn't something that could be taken away, no matter how much Powder resented the change.

"I'll try," Powder said finally, her voice small but sincere. She didn't know how to make it all okay. She didn't know how to erase the jealousy, how to fix everything. But she wanted to. She wanted to try. "I'll try, Vi. I just… I just miss you."

Vi's voice softened, and Powder could practically hear the smile on her sister's face. "I know you do, Pow. And I miss you too. But we're still family, okay? Nothing's gonna change that."

"I hope so," Powder murmured, though the doubt in her voice betrayed her words.

"I promise," Vi reassured her gently. "I love you. I'll always love you."

"I love you too, Vi..." Powder murmured unconvinced, her voice trailing off as her thoughts scattered. Her words felt incomplete, her mind stuck on something else. "You told me your love for Caitlyn feels... different. How do you know if you're in love, though? I mean, really in love?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, the sound of Vi pausing mid-breath. Powder could practically feel her sister's eyes narrowing, the weight of the question settling between them.

"Why are you asking?" Vi's voice came out softer, more light than usual. "You found someone special, huh? You kids grow up so fast..."

Powder could practically hear the teasing smile in Vi's tone, and her face burned with embarrassment. She laughed it off, trying to mask the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks. "God, no!" she replied too quickly, her words tumbling over one another. "I'm just curious... about love, that's all. Nothing else."

Vi's response was a soft, knowing hum. "Right... sure, kid. You're not fooling anyone," she said, the playful tone still there but laced with something more thoughtful. "Well, love is... it's hard to put into words, honestly. But when you're really in love, you just know it. You don't have to think about it; it's just something you feel in your bones."

Powder shifted in bed, turning onto her side, pulling her knees up to her chest. The world outside felt a little too loud, a little too fast, but in the quiet of her room, with Vi's voice threading through the phone, she felt the weight in her chest begin to ease. She let herself relax into her pillow, now soft and familiar, and listened, knowing her sister was offering something far more than just a quick answer.

"You know when you're in love because the other person just feels like home. They're that steady, unmovable place you want to return to, no matter how far you wander." Vi's voice softened, the words taking on a more thoughtful, distant quality. "It's like when they're around, you don't need to wear a mask. You don't need to hide anything. Even your worst fears, the things you're ashamed of, the parts of you that you don't want anyone to see—those things, you can say them, and they'll still be there, accepting you, even if they don't have all the answers. It's... it's being okay with each other's worst sides, without questioning it."

Powder felt her breath catch in her throat, something fluttering in her chest. She'd heard people talk about love before, of course—heard it in passing conversations, in whispered promises, in stories—but there was something about Vi's words that made it feel so much closer to home, so much more real.

"It's not perfect," Vi continued, her voice steadier now, like she was painting a picture, layer by layer. "You know you're in love when, even after the worst day, after the fights or the miscommunications, you still want to be with them. No matter how ugly it gets, no matter how much your pride pushes you to walk away, you can't. Because in the end, you know that all those little things, those missteps and misunderstandings, they don't matter as much as the bigger picture—the fact that you want to stay."

She swallowed, the emotions rising faster than she could process them. She clutched her pillow tighter, her fingers gripping the soft fabric like it might help hold her together. Vi's words felt so... undeniable, so real. She didn't know if it was the warmth of her sister's voice or the way everything she was saying seemed to resonate so deeply within her, but it made her want to hold on to every syllable, let it sink into her skin.

Vi's chuckle came through the phone then, light and familiar. "It's silly, I guess. But you'll know you're in love when doing the most mundane things—like getting groceries, or folding laundry, or running errands—suddenly become something fun because you're with them. It's like everything, even the boring stuff, feels better when they're beside you. Like you've found a way to make ordinary life extraordinary."

The words wrapped around Powder, making her heart ache with something she couldn't name. Her mind wandered to the small moments—the ones that never seemed important, but now felt like they held the most weight. The way Ekko's smile could make the world feel lighter, or how just being near him could make the chaos in her mind quiet, if only for a moment.

Vi paused for a beat, the air between them thick with unspoken understanding. "And you know it's love when it's not a trade, not a series of exchanges. You don't count favors or keep score. You just... you just want to make the other person happy, without expecting anything in return. It's about giving, not taking. About being there, no matter what."

She exhaled slowly, her body relaxing into the bed as the weight of Vi's words settled deep inside her. She wanted to believe in it, to feel that kind of certainty, that kind of knowing. The thought lingered, shifting like a puzzle piece she couldn't quite fit together.

Vi's voice softened again, almost a whisper now, like she was saying something just for her. "And when you find yourself thinking of someone while asking yourself that very question— that's when you'll know."

Powder squeezed her eyes shut, her breath hitching as she tried desperately to drown out the strange, electric hum building in her chest. It buzzed beneath her skin, erratic and unrelenting, like the static crackle of a live wire she couldn't disconnect from. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as if the sharpness could tether her to something solid, something real. But it wasn't enough to ground her. The feeling was still there, thrumming through her veins, wild and uncontained.

It was too much. Too sudden. Too intense. The more she tried to understand it, to pull it apart and examine it piece by piece, the tighter it all seemed to knot together in her mind. Her thoughts spiraled, chaotic and relentless, like a whirlwind she couldn't escape. Every time she thought she'd found a moment of clarity, the storm would whip back through, louder and more demanding, drowning out any sense of calm she might have grasped.

Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her like an anchor. It wasn't like this was the first time she'd felt overwhelmed—no, she was used to being overwhelmed, to feeling too much all at once. But this was different. It wasn't fear or sadness or even anger that consumed her. It was something else entirely, something unfamiliar that she couldn't quite name. And that was what scared her most of all.

Because she had someone in mind. That much was undeniable. His name lingered in her thoughts, unspoken but insistent, like a secret she was too afraid to admit even to herself. His face was there too—those sharp, thoughtful eyes that always seemed to be studying her, the way his lips quirked into a smile that made her heart burst in a way she didn't understand. It was him. It had always been him, and that realization sent a jolt of panic through her that she couldn't shake.

How could it be him? Why him, of all people? The questions tangled in her mind, looping over and over until they became an endless refrain. She couldn't make sense of it, couldn't piece together why her thoughts kept circling back to him. He was her best friend, wasn't he? The one who had always been there, steady and dependable, the one who knew her better than anyone else. But now, even the way she thought of him felt... different. Like something had shifted without her permission, leaving her off-balance and uncertain.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, as though the pressure might somehow push the thoughts away, force them back into whatever corner of her mind they'd come from. But it didn't work. The buzzing feeling only grew louder, filling every corner of her being until it felt like she might come apart at the seams.

"That cannot be it, Violet…" she whispered to herself, the words shaky, almost pleading. She wasn't sure if she was talking to her sister or trying to convince herself. Her voice barely carried over the soft rustling of her blankets as she twisted and turned, unable to get comfortable, her mind far too restless for sleep. "It can't be that simple."

"It is that simple, sis," came Vi's voice through the phone speaker, low and scratchy with exhaustion. Powder could practically hear her stifling a yawn, her tone teetering between amusement and impatience. "But it's way too late to be having this conversation. Seriously, you're gonna fry your brain if you keep this up. Go to sleep."

Powder groaned, flopping onto her back with enough force to make the mattress creak. She clutched her phone tighter, her brows furrowing as the glow from the screen cast sharp shadows over her face. "You don't get it, Vi," she said, her voice catching on the edges of her frustration. "I can't sleep. Not when I don't understand what's happening in my own head."

"Pow—"

"No, listen! I don't know if it's love, or if it's just... something casual, or somewhere in between, or—" She let out an exasperated sigh, dragging a hand down her face as if she could physically wipe away the storm inside her. "Or nothing at all. It's driving me crazy."

There was a pause on Vi's end, long enough that Powder thought she might have fallen asleep. But then her sister's voice came through, quieter this time, almost soothing. "Pow," she said, using the nickname that always made Powder feel a little less like the world was caving in. "Give it time. You don't have to figure it all out tonight, okay? You don't have to know exactly what it is right now."

Powder bit her lip, her free hand clutching at the edge of her blanket. "But what if I do ?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I have to figure it out now because—because it feels like I don't have that much time."

Vi sighed, the kind of exasperated sound that was laced with affection. "Kid, you've got time," she said firmly. "You're not running out of it, I promise. And even if you were, staying up all night isn't gonna magically give you the answer. It's just gonna make Vander mad when he finds out you were up half the night on your phone."

Powder ignored the jab, her thoughts spinning too fast to focus on her sister's warning. "What if he moves on, though?" she blurted out, her voice cracking slightly. "What if he just—just gives up? And then I don't know… what if he stops talking to me altogether?"

Her breath hitched at the thought, the idea of losing that connection, of losing him , twisting in her chest like a knife. She didn't know when the fear had started, but now it felt as if it had always been there, lurking in the back of her mind.

Vi hummed softly, the sound thoughtful. "Listen," she began, her voice steadier now, like she was trying to ground Powder through the phone. "If he's the kind of guy who'd just stop talking to you, then he's not worth stressing over. But, Pow? Honestly, I don't think he's that kind of guy. Just take it easy."

Powder's grip on her phone tightened, her eyes prickling with the threat of tears. "But what if he's not waiting around forever?" she whispered. "What if I'm too late?"

Vi let out a low laugh, one that was warm and a little teasing, but not unkind. "You're not gonna be too late, Powder. You don't have to rush this. Feelings are messy, yeah, but they're not a race. Just… let yourself figure it out, okay? Trust me, the world isn't gonna end if you don't have all the answers right now."

Powder exhaled slowly, her grip on her phone loosening just a little. The knot in her chest didn't go away completely, but Vi's words settled over her like a warm blanket, easing the sharpest edges of her anxiety.

"I just don't want to mess it up," she admitted after a long pause, her voice small. "I don't want to lose him."

"You won't," Vi said firmly. "And even if you do mess up—and let's be real, you probably will at some point, because we all do—it's not the end of the world. He's not gonna bail on you over one mistake."

Powder sniffled, wiping at her nose with her sleeve. "You think so?"

"I know so," Vi said, her voice steady and unwavering, the kind of voice that Powder had always trusted to guide her, even when she couldn't see the way herself. There was a teasing edge to it, but beneath that, something softer—a reassurance Powder desperately needed. "Honestly, I didn't expect you to start thinking about this kind of stuff so suddenly. I mean, I was pretty convinced you'd stay single until your thirties, maybe forties, tops."

Powder's face twisted into a pout, but before she could protest, Vi continued, her tone lightening with a grin Powder could practically hear through the phone.

"No, but seriously, Powder. If you don't want that to happen—if you want to avoid driving people away—you need to show them that you actually care. I know it's hard for you to express affection, especially to the people you hold close, but that's what it takes. That's what's necessary."

"But… how?" she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. The question left her lips before she could stop herself, and suddenly, she felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that made her want to shrink into herself. It was pathetic, wasn't it? To not understand something so basic, so fundamental, like how to show people she cared about them. She felt like a toddler fumbling to grasp concepts that should've been second nature by now.

But she asked anyway, because Vi had always told her it was okay not to know things sometimes. It was okay to ask for help or explanations. Vi never made her feel stupid for not understanding; she always made her feel like it was normal, like everyone needed a little guidance now and then. Even so, Powder's voice shook as she added, "I'm afraid I can't do it, no matter how much I try. I really am the worst."

"Those are lies, squirt," Vi said firmly, her voice cutting through Powder's spiraling thoughts like a lifeline. "You've already taken the first step, even if you don't see it yet."

Vi paused, letting the words sink in. Powder could hear the faint sound of movement on the other end of the line, like she was leaning back, giving herself time to think.

"You called me," Vi said finally. Her voice softened, taking on a note of tenderness that made Powder's throat dry. "Yeah, okay, it's one in the morning, and I might have a shift in a few hours, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you called me. You showed me that you care. That's what counts."

Powder blinked, caught off guard. "But… I—"

"And," Vi interrupted gently, "you apologized. Do you know how much that meant to me? I wasn't mad, Powder, but I noticed you avoiding me. I could feel it, but I was too scared to bring it up. You beat me to it. That takes guts, Pow Pow. More than you realize. I'm so proud of you for that."

The words hit her like a tidal wave, leaving her speechless. She bit down on her lower lip, hard enough to sting, her emotions bubbling to the surface in a way she couldn't control. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she sniffled quietly, trying to hold herself together. She'd missed Vi so much—more than she'd let herself admit—and now, hearing her voice, hearing those words, it was like a dam breaking. For the first time in what felt like forever, it seemed like things between them were falling back into place, like they were finally going back to what they used to be before Vi moved out.

"That's not true," Powder murmured, her voice trembling as she tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. "I could never be as brave as you. You're fearless, Vi. Nothing scares you."

Vi let out a soft, almost rueful chuckle. "Pow Pow, emotional bravery is a whole different kind of courage. And you've got that in spades, even if you don't see it. You might be scared of a fight, but you're not scared of the hard stuff. You're not scared of saying sorry, of admitting when you were wrong. That's a kind of courage a lot of people never figure out."

Powder sniffled again, her free hand swiping at her damp cheeks, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't. The lump in her throat was too big, and her heart felt too full.

"And you don't need to be scared of showing affection to others," Vi continued. "Yeah, it's hard, and yeah, sometimes it feels like putting yourself out there is the scariest thing in the world. But if someone can't handle that, if they leave because of it, then good riddance. You just dodged a bullet, Pow. They're not worth it."

Powder swallowed hard, her voice coming out small and uncertain. "But what if they—"

"No 'what ifs,'" Vi interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind. "The people who really care about you—whether it's platonic or something more—they're gonna see the effort you're putting in. They're gonna feel it. And for them, angel, it'll make all the difference. I promise."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Powder laid on her bed quietly, letting Vi's words settle in her chest. They weren't a magical cure-all; they didn't erase the swirling mess of confusion and hurt inside her. But somehow, they soothed an ache she hadn't realized was so sharp. Her tears had slowed to a trickle, and though her eyes still stung and her chest felt heavy, the tension she'd been carrying all day seemed to ebb away, if only a little. She didn't feel entirely better—there were still too many unanswered questions, too much she didn't understand—but for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel completely alone.

Vi was here. Vi believed in her. And maybe that was enough to take the next step.

Powder exhaled deeply, the kind of breath that made her shoulders sag as if she'd been holding everything inside for far too long. She apologized to Vi again, her voice quiet but sincere. Eventually, she wished her a good night and promised to try to sleep soon, though she wasn't sure if she'd keep that promise. There was something else weighing on her now, someone else she couldn't stop thinking about.

Ekko.

Ekko didn't deserve the cold shoulder she'd given him today. He didn't deserve the brush-offs, the silences, the way she'd made him feel like an afterthought when he was anything but. Her heart filled with guilt at the memory of his patient smile, his quiet steadiness as he stood by her side despite everything. How could she have treated someone so kind, so gentle, like he didn't matter? Because he mattered. He mattered more than she could put into words, more than she even understood herself yet.

Her gaze fell to her hands, the faint sting of the scrapes and bruises pulling her attention downward, the dull ache of her wounds now distant beneath the whirlwind of emotions churning inside her. She felt raw, like her heart had been scraped open and left to bleed.  So much had happened today—too much. Her thoughts were a tangled mess, and she wasn't sure if she could unravel them all tonight. But what she did know, with startling clarity, was that Ekko needed to hear something. Something real. Something honest.

The last text between them stared back at her—a simple message she'd sent this morning, telling him she'd be waiting for him outside his house. That felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then, so much she hadn't said. She wasn't even sure what she felt, but Vi had told her she had time to figure it out. Maybe she did, but that didn't mean she couldn't take a step forward.

Her thumbs began to type, the words coming too fast and too uncertain.

"Hello!!"

She stopped, staring at the screen. It was too much, too bright and chipper for how she felt right now. She backspaced quickly, rewriting.

"Hi, Ekko."

That was better. Simple, neutral, something that wouldn't feel out of place if he happened to read it half-asleep.

She hesitated, her heart thudding against her ribs. What was she even trying to say? She wasn't sure, but she couldn't stop herself now. Her fingers moved on their own, driven by the sudden bravery she knew would vanish if she thought about it too much.

"I'm sorry for texting so late. You're probably asleep, and I should be too, but I've been thinking about stuff."

She paused, rereading the line. It felt right, like the beginning of something true. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard again.

"I forgot to thank you—not just for today, but for everything. You always take such good care of me, and I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

Her stomach dropped as she typed, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel the heat rising in her face, but she pressed on, the words pouring out before she lost the nerve.

"You're practically keeping me alive, lol… And I wanted to say sorry, too—for being selfish sometimes. I know I can be a brat, and today was... rough. I wanted to spend more time with you, but I let my stupid feelings get in the way , and I chickened out."

She stopped, rereading the message, biting her lip. It was honest, almost painfully so, but that was the point, wasn't it? She didn't want to keep hiding; she didn't want him to think he wasn't important to her. He was—more than she could say, even now.

She continued, slower this time, as if each word was a step closer to something she couldn't take back.

"I hope you know you're always welcome at our place!!!! I love spending time with you, and... " She hesitated, her breath hitching as she considered deleting the next part. But she didn't.

"And that's where I wanted to get to next. Are you free this Saturday? I hope Benzo doesn't come up with an unskippable side-quest for you because I know a place. It's really cool, and I think you might enjoy it. What do you think?"

Her heart was pounding now, the words tumbling out faster than she could think.

"Anyway, I'm rambling, probably texting too much at this point—like I'm writing a whole book or something, haha. So, I'll stop here."

She paused, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed the final lines.

"I'm actually getting kinda sleepy now. I wish you a good night, little man. And… I just wanted to say thank you, and sorry, and… I don't know. I hope you have a good night. Thank you for being you. <3"

Powder stared at the screen, her eyes scanning the text over and over. The heart at the end stood out like a flashing neon sign, and for a moment, she considered deleting it. It felt too much, too vulnerable, but another part of her—the braver part—refused. It wasn't too much. It was exactly what she wanted to say.

Finally, she pressed send, staring intensely at the screen as if she could somehow snatch the message back. But it was done, sent into the digital void. The little "delivered" mark appeared beneath her words, and she set the phone down beside her, collapsing back onto her bed with a heavy sigh.

She finally managed to squeeze her eyes shut, burrowing deeper into the comfort of her blankets, hoping that sleep would claim her quickly. She had done the hard part already—sent the risky text, watched it deliver, and then immediately regretted her life choices. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, one she hadn't fully thought through, but it was too late to undo it now. The message was out there, floating in the ether, and whatever consequences would follow weren't her problem tonight.

No, that was a problem for future Powder, she told herself. A problem for the morning version of her, the one who would groggily roll out of bed, look at her phone, and have no choice but to deal with whatever awaited her there. Morning Powder could face the fallout, armed with excuses and hastily constructed defenses. For now, nighttime Powder had a simple plan: shove it all to the back of her mind, hope for silence, and fall asleep before the weight of her decision could crush her completely.

Her mistake, of course, was in forgetting one crucial detail. Ekko wasn't like her. Where she spent her nights battling restless thoughts and chasing sleep, he thrived in the late hours. He was a night owl. A chronic one. The kind of person who found energy and creativity when the rest of the world had gone quiet. While most people were winding down, Ekko was wide awake, tinkering with gadgets, sketching ideas in the margins of his notebooks, learning for school, or getting lost in whatever new project had captured his attention.

It was a habit that made him late for almost everything, much to the annoyance of anyone who tried to schedule him for a morning activity. But it also meant that, at this very moment, he was likely sitting in the dim glow of his desk lamp, his phone within arm's reach, fully awake and alert.

And Powder, in her rush to cast her problem into the distant future, had completely forgotten.

The reminder came abruptly. Her phone vibrated against the nightstand with a sharp buzz that shattered the stillness of the room. Her heart jumped at the sound, the once-cozy darkness now charged with an unwelcome jolt of adrenaline.

She froze, her stomach dropping as if the ground had just disappeared beneath her. For a moment, she stared at the offending device, its screen lighting up the shadows around it, casting an eerie glow against the wall.

No.

It couldn't be.

But, of course, it was. Who else would text her back at this hour? Slowly, reluctantly, she reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the smooth glass of her phone. She picked it up, the motion feeling heavier than it should, and turned it over to face the screen.

There it was. His name—Ekko—bold and unmistakable, staring back at her. And next to it, the dreaded preview of his message: "You up?"