hey, (: i've always wanted to write something for dance academy which was abigailcentric since she's one of my favorite fictional characters what with the flaws and how much she changes, especially throughout s2 and s3 at the academy; the beginning part of this is probably au since i'm not sure what went on for the most part during abi's childhood since it wasn't mentioned in the show, but hope you guys like this! none of the dialogue is from the tv show - there are some skins characterizations around the restoration clinic scene; abigail being somewhat like cassie except different, but sammy's not really sid.

dedication: happy birthday to abi (kiss you); i don't know you that well, but you're really nice and your stories are gorgeous so have a wonderful birthday, c:
prompt: "in the land of gods and monsters, i was an angel, living in the garden of evil {gods and monsters, lana del rey} ; teenage dirtbag, wheatus ; skinny soul, troian bellisario

i am a sea without a shore
abigail armstrongs

.

Abigail knows that she's different from the other kids from a young age.

Abigail, darling - we're going to have to leave now! Her mother calls from the bottom floor, stomping a bit around the house - there's a thud from the room next door, perhaps her younger sister waking up, complaining about how Abi got to have so much fun, while she was restrained to the limits of the backyard, left to her own amusement with toys and plastic dolls. Abigail, it's just school - how long does it take you to dress?

On the second floor of the Armstrong's residence, Abigail frantically looks throughout the room (it's in complete disarray, a mess, she thinks) for something to wear - there's a white dress with stains on its sleeves lying on her bed, something much too formal to wear to the first day of first grade, and a pair of training shorts and bright green tank top look absolutely repulsive, whether they're on their own, or even worse, paired together. I'm coming Mom, just give me a minute! The blaring alarm clock flashes at her, and she thinks, trying not to empty all of her clothes from their personally labeled boxes.

She walks downstairs, calmly, fifteen minutes later; her father is lounging on the recliner, mouth greasy, stained from French Fries and the like, her mother serving him, smiling as Paige fingers a ribbon, letting it pass through her fingers. I'm going to be a gymnast, Mom, when I grow up - I'll be in the Olympics, Paige murmurs, her voice dreamy, as if in a trance.

(Abigail feels as though she wants more to life than this.)

I want to be a dancer, she tells her mother one day, when she picks her up from school. Just like Kat's mom is a dancer - I'll need lessons of course, and I promise to practice, day in and day out. Her mother looks at her, a glimmer of pride seeping through her eyes, and Abigail thinks that it'll be worth it, if she puts in everything she has, just to get that glimpse of pride another time.

Yet, she's not meant for dance - the instructors tell her that from the beginning.

Her first one is an old Russian woman who used to work with the big stars, back in the day, who tells her you need long legs for ballet, lots of stamina and natural talent and less chubby arms; the second one comments on her lack of focus, the third one tells Abigail that no matter how hard she tries, there will always be somebody better than her, and by the time that her mother hires the fourth dance instructor, they're too scared to tell their newest student the truth, that she will never be good enough.

Abigail pushes forward, nonetheless; blood piles at the bottom of pointe shoes, and they're discarded easily along with her optimism.

.

You have two loves, Tara tells her one day, as though she's suddenly wiser than them all, one who shows you the world and breaks your heart, and one who's there to repiece it together once your first love is gone. She sits on the pale mattress of the Academy dormitory for first-year students, pressing books down upon her pointe shoes; on the other side of the room, Tara wastes her time, painting her nails a furious shade of red as though there aren't more important things to do in the world, and Abigail's almost envious of that.

Abigail rolls her eyes, Look, Tara, if this is some reference to your pathetic excuse of a love life, I'm not sure what you're trying to say - just because you have Christian and Ben and Ethan wrapped around your fingers, it doesn't mean that everybody else wants to learn from your mistakes. There's a hurt expression which forms at the corner of Tara's lip, her eyes twitching rapidly as though she's about to break down into tears, and Abigail resists the urge to roll her eyes once more - it's the second time in the last twenty minutes in which she's been forced to resist from the comfortable action. Don't cry. We have lessons in twenty minutes, and we need to find a good spot on the bar.

Since when have you cared about how I do in ballet? Tara asks, sniffling - it's pathetic, really; a valid question, all the same. Abigail Armstrong doesn't care about how other people do, unless it's somehow going to affect her performance, and in this case, it most definitely will.

She turns her head, standing up, strapping the ballet bag across her left shoulder, around her neck. I've cared about how you do in ballet, Tara Webster, since Grace moved to the National Academy of Dance. It doesn't matter whether you actually try or not, because Grace is always going to beat you - both of us, no matter how much natural talent you have and no matter how much practice I give. It's the truth of the matter, whether Abigail would honestly like to admit it or not; at some point, there will be somebody who can chew bubblegum during solos and kiss the guy that you like, and do it all with the glorious promise of a spot at the National Ballet, perhaps even as much as a primo ballerina in the near future.

I'm not really interested in how Grace does, Tara lies, blatantly. Anyway, I have lunch plans with Kat - Natasha's coming back for the weekend with Ethan, and a few other National friends, so if you want to come and ask about tips . . . she trails off, uncomfortably; a brief silence follows.

Abigail thinks that her fatal flaw is pride, so instead of remarking about how she doesn't need help from Natasha Karamakov (because, literally, only a stupid, nonsensical person would waste the opportunity to spend time with the primo ballerina of the National Company, everybody's dream goal at the Academy), she goes with a Sorry, maybe another time? I have to practice with Christian for the examinations next week. Tell Natasha hello for me, though! Abigail remarks with uncharacteristic happiness - she doesn't ignore the look that Tara gives her, as though something's wrong all over again, but then again, that could just be the spike of jealousy that goes through Tara's facial expressions every time that her ex-boyfriend is mentioned.

She finds herself standing in front of the mirror, one hand resting upon the barre which makes a slight creaking sound every time she applies pressure to the end of it, and Abigail lowers herself into a small squat, squinting at the three mirrors that surround herself - the fat still clings to the side of her thighs, and it'll never go away (there's a reason Miss Raine had called her a bag of potatoes, even if the accusation had been over a semester ago) and things like that don't change that easily.

Maybe, if Abigail resumed her earlier diet, just for a week, just until final examinations were over - after all, the Company was sending out some scouts for potential ballerinas in the corps for third-years, and it would never hurt to be slightly paler, slightly tinier. There was no limit, of course; Abigail tells herself that it won't go as far as it did in first-year, that she'll periodically eat a salad or two, maybe even one of those protein granola bars that Kat keeps on throwing in her face, with the gooey chocolate and high calorie content. It'll be worth it, she tells herself. I have better control now, so I'll be able to manage myself.

(Three years ago, Abigail's old dance instructor had told her that if you say something enough, you'll start to believe it, and it'll start to be true - she hopes that that's still the case.)

.

Abigail makes her way to the front of the barre, pointe shoes discarded upon the floor along with a translucent colored shawl that only reminds her of the inevitable growth; she extends her leg upon the wall on her left completely, nose pressed to the muscles that cling off the side of her right thigh. The words of the Academy's doctor (you're at a perfect weight for your height, Abigail, and you don't have anything to be worried about) come back to her now and then but she brushes the thoughts of her mind, pushing herself a little harder.

Miss Raine walks into the room, clipboard and a box of post-it notes in her hands, and sends an appraising nod towards Abigail's efforts and a slight grimace towards Tara and Kat who enter the room a few seconds after her own entrance, murmuring some excuse about an alarm not going off on time. Class, today we're going to be starting some work with pas de deux. I assume that all of you are familiar with the term - if not, I'm sure that one of your classmates would be happy to tell you.

Her chocolate eyes scrutinize across the room; the boys are lined up against the wall, Zach in front of them with a matching purple clipboard, ticking off names as he walks around, and Abigail singles out the best potential pas de deux partners — there's Christian who looks strong enough to carry her weight, and Michael who's had practice with this sort of ballet before, and practically nobody else that's good enough for her. Okay, Zach begins, I'll start lifting off names, and the two of you can have a chance to talk to one another before we start pas de deux practice in the afternoon classes. That's right, morning classes are canceled today — there's a round of cheers throughout the room — because you'll be getting to know your pas de deux partner. And, then the eventual groans; Abigail rolls her eyes, focusing her attention on the array of boys in front of her, hoping that she won't get put with a boy who doesn't know anything about ballet and is just lucky to even be in the Academy.

Tara, you'll be going with Christian; Kat, you'll be with Michael; Jordan, you'll be with Danny; Spencer, you'll be with Toby, he rattles off a list of names, and Abigail almost zones out staring at her stubby feet and scrunching her tones together once more, bearing the pain that shoots through the left side of her thigh and making a reminder to pick up some Advil from the pharmacy. Abigail, you'll be with Sammy —

She fakes a smile, grimacing inside, and walks over to the lanky-looking boy who stands in the corner of the room, almost afraid; Well, what are you waiting for? We're supposed to get to know each other. Hours later, Abigail rolls her eyes and wonders how in the world she had the unfortunate luck of being paired with Sammy Lieberman, who had chosen the bonding activity of being tied together with a ribbon, for twenty-four hours; she stands up, yanking him with her, I'm going to the practice rooms now, so you'll need to come with —

Yeah, you see, I can't do that Abigail, because I have to meet up with Tara and Kat this afternoon, so you'll just have to come with me instead, okay? Sammy asks, almost in a begging tone of way, as if he's already imagining his offer being turned down; Abigail rolls her eyes, checking the watch which dangles loosely off her wrist, sliding up to the fatter part of her arm — it's not really her fault for thinking in this type of way. She's a dancer, a ballet dancer at the National Academy of Dance, constantly searching for imperfections, and if she can't find any, make some up just to work harder and push beyond her limits.

I had to beg for this spot, she says, and it's somewhat entirely true; it just had to take a bit of persuasion of the upperclassmen and latest knowledge of a rumor flying around that a third-year and a Company member were in some sort of messed-up relationship which got her the well-deserved spot in the central training room. Especially with all the third years applying to the Company right about this time of year, she mutters, chocolate eyes filled with ire. So, whether you like it or not, we're going to the practice rooms. You can just reschedule your little rendez-vous, okay? This is a lot more important than hanging out with your friends. Abigail's not even quite sure why somebody like Sammy has friends — judging based off his performance at the end-of-the-week class recital, he'd need all the spare time of practice he could get to be able to qualify as a second-year student.

Maybe that's your problem, he interrupts, looking at her with some sort of expression akin to pity, and she flinches in response before maintaining a wavering expression of self-poise and false confidence that she doesn't necessarily have.

I don't have problems, she corrects, and walks quickly towards the practice room.

.

Finals week comes around the corner before she knows it —

Abigail tells herself that she won't eat a protein bar unless it's only once a day, instead choosing less real fillings, like bottles of water and healthy options from the salad bar in the middle of town. She had to get the scholarship — it's the only way that her mother will be proud of her, and she still cares about what her mother thinks, because she's the reason her parents split, and everybody knows it; that she'll be proud of herself; because she's Abigail Armstrong, and she doesn't care what other people think of her. She cares what she thinks of herself. The sessions in the practice rooms are daily for two hours each night, and Sammy's getting better and she's getting wobblier and more dizzy with each step, but pushes herself forward because it's nothing that she hasn't done before.

The midterm performance starts off well enough; the lift works out, and the two of them don't end up stumbling across one another's feet, and it's near the middle where the harbinger of ill-timed misfortune comes about. She feels the faintest bit of numbness that resounds throughout her thighs, and the unsettling feeling of dizziness echoes once more throughout her muddled brain and she feels her hand slipping from Sammy's and knows that everything's gone horribly wrong and then there's nothing.

.

He picks up his cell-phone, dialing the familiar digits, and taps his foot impatiently upon the floor, waiting for somebody, anybody to pick up on the other side of the line; the call goes to voice-mail, saying, Hi, this is Abigail. Sammy smiles a little and then, don't bother leaving a message because I'm not listening and even though the message isn't made directly for him, he feels like it is.

Sammy stands uncomfortably on the stairs, Kat dragging his arm across the front patio, children milling around near the front entrance; girls with bony legs that the ballet dancers back home would have been envious of gurgle bottles of water, some placing weights in their pockets before the daily scale weighing, others swallowing bowls of cereal and throwing it up in the dumpster behind the facility, not being able to let it stay in their throats. Come on, Sammy — do you want to see her or not? Kat asks, yanking his arm.

Kat, I just think that this might not be the best idea - I need to see her, but at the same time, isn't there a safer, uh, more legal way to do this? He stands numbly at the top of the staircase to the Happy Clinic, looking down upon the scene in front of him — there are collections of yellow, red, and purple balloons tied together in the middle of the small fountains, roses and other assorted flowers enclosed by iron-wrought fences; the grass is perfectly green and patients mill around on the heated pavement. It looks like something out of a movie, children playing in the park; he walks down the pavement and sees a girl strumming her blistered fingers across a harp, a boy launching off a rocket in the far grassy expanse, two children running in circles around one another, stringing along the assorted colored balloons. Can you see her?

I'm looking, she curtly replies; Sammy hears the distinct popping of a balloon, and suddenly one of the children starts chasing after the other, a murderous look in their eyes as they viciously attack one another, yanked away from almost killing each other by men in white suits and helmets, lab goggles on their heads who put something akin to a tranquilizer into their arms, leaving them weary (and non-murderous). On the bench, there, Kat points; Sammy's eyes focus towards the direction and smiles despite the situation.

Hi, he manages out, his voice scratchy and rough and despite trying to conceal the tone that he knew would aggravate Abigail the most, worried.

She looks up, large sunglasses upon her head, concealing her eyes which had always been flickering with a thousand different emotions, and he thinks that it's just another way for her to cloak and avoid her problems. We're not supposed to have visitors during Happy Time, Abigail murmurs, her voice low and dangerous and Sammy remembers then that neither of them are welcome here.

It'll just take a moment, Abigail, Kat says, shoving Sammy forward who almost trips over a gnarled branch, catching himself before falling upon the bench. Sammy wants to say something. I'll leave the two of you to it, she mentions, walking down the heated pavement, bare soles pacing, and Kat stares up at the sky, as if this sort of normal life is something that she wants.

Abigail removes the ridiculously gaudy sunglasses and looks up at Sammy with something akin to distaste in her chocolate-brown eyes. Why are you here, Sammy? I thought that I made myself clear.

Abi, I'm sorry that you tried to kill yourself because of the finals, and I'm sorry that I didn't tell anybody earlier so that they could have helped you work through your . . . issues, the words flow out of his mouth like acid rain hitting the pavement, and Sammy wishes that he could take the poorly phrased statements back, because Abigail Armstrong isn't the sort of person who reacts well to anything that doesn't fit into her agenda, and this whole stay at the Restoration Clinic in the middle of Sydney most definitely doesn't fall onto her agenda.

She looks up, tilting her head slightly. Let's get a few things straight — one, I didn't try to kill myself. Don't make me sound like one of those stupid girls from reality television that kills herself over a boy, because I'm stronger than that. Two, I didn't try to kill myself; I was just trying to optimize my chances for getting the midterm scholarship but things went off-plan, and I didn't get the scholarship, and that's that. Three, we're not supposed to have visitors during Happy Time, so if you don't have anything useful to say, you might as well just leave, okay?

You don't have to do that, y'know. Pretend that you're doing fine here when it seems as though all you want to do is leave and resume your old habits and go back to the Academy, which is what got you here in the first place. At least try to fix yourself, and if you're not able to do that on your own, maybe get help, but at least don't pretend and tell everybody that you're doing better when you're not. It's for your own good.

I'm not pretending, Abigail replies in defiance; she stands up and strides towards the back entrance of the Restoration 'Happy Clinic', and thinks that Sammy knows her too well for his own good. I'm not pretending, she repeats, words chanted like a mantra.

.

Abigail lies back on the hospital-styled bed, staring blankly out the window in the cloudy afternoon sky; Sydney's never looked this dull and lifeless — she thinks that it's not only the Academy that she's missed (because ballet in the Academy is more like a drug than anything else, because it can only do more harm than good, but nonetheless, she's drawn to it with a gravitational pull), but the city, in general. She remembers afternoons with her family when she had been younger, without passion and a focused mind, running down the winding streets of the city, laughing as she collapsed upon the grassy expanse of a park, invincible against the rest of the world. Everything's just got a bit messed-up now, that's all. Abigail sees a figure through the window, and the door to her room opens, familiar faces shrouded in black. C'mon Abigail, we've come to rescue you from this hole, Kat murmurs excitedly through the darkness.

We can't do that, guys; we'd be breaking the rules, and if any one of us are caught breaking the rules, it'll be another two weeks at least, and I can't bear to stay at the Clinic any longer, so I'm not going to do that. You guys go and have fun, though.

(She goes along anyway, maybe just to escape the, quite frankly, annoying sessions with Dr. Winters who will ask her if she's feeling better, what is making her feel happy, to see her eating log and diary to make sure she's on the path to a 'better life', and all the typical nonsense that Abigail just copy off the internet so the doctors will believe that she's fine again.)

Abigail walks slowly down the streets, taking in the somewhat fresher atmosphere that Sydney manages to retain; buildings and neon lights are shrouded in the afternoon darkness, and she can make out the faint figure of the moon in the distance and thinks that it's slightly ridiculous that she's wasting time out of the Restoration Clinic doing anything but practicing ballet. Do you want to stop by somewhere and eat something? Sammy asks, hands awkwardly fitting into his pockets.

Maybe later, she murmurs, staring up at the sky.

Abigail, it really might be best—

Maybe later, Sammy. Her voice wavers for a moment, her chocolate-brown eyes hardening into a steely gaze, but her smile never wavers.

.

Abigail, you've got to eat.

I am eating — I'm fine, Sammy; please stop pretending as though I'm not fine anymore. I got discharged from the Clinic over a week ago, and I haven't gone over the maximum amount of practice hours that the studio has recommended for problem-case students like me, so please, stop it.

You're not fine, though. You haven't been eating anything.

That's not true. I ate a granola bar this morning, a salad for lunch yesterday; I keep a log, now. I'm eating how I used to eat.

How you used to eat, how you used to do things in the past shouldn't be what defines your future, Sammy mutters in a way that's meant to be inspirational but comes out awkwardly phrased and Abigail refrains from standing up and leaving the outdoor canteen, instead stabbing her fork into a bowl of salad - greens and vegetables, slight bits of ranch dressing wiped off with a napkin which had been discarded long before, cheese kept to one side, and the piece of bread and anything else with disastrous numbers of carbohydrates removed.

Since when have you been inspirational? She retorts back, wiping off the ranch dressing from a tomato.

That's not the point, Abi. Just eat a bite, please.

If I eat one bite in front of you — which doesn't mean that I'm already eating, because I most definitely am — will you stop bothering me and let me go back to the practice rooms?

Sure. She eats a bite, barely being able to stomach it down, but Abigail thinks that she might be able to do this. He looks at her as though he sees something more than a stupid stereotypical ballet girl, and she can't help but smile; out of the blue, Sammy presses his lips to hers and she shyly looks away, deep down knowing that nothing like this can ever last — because there are two types of the girls in the Academy, girls who have boyfriends, and girls who are focused — but for a moment, she finds herself almost not caring. Just for a moment, though; the plan is still engraved in the back of her mind, forever imprinted on the back of her eyelids, and it's the only thing that's still pushing her forward after all these years.

Pas de deux routines become effortlessly easier when they're working together (heated kisses between routines, and sometimes his watch gets stuck to her ballet bun) but there's always the inevitable ending of everything.

.

And then, he's dead — he's actually dead, and it hurts more than it should.

Abigail thinks that she can't do this; she lets herself fall against the water, lets it pour over her, because this can't be real - Sammy was always supposed to be there for her, he had promised that he wouldn't let her go, he couldn't break his promise. She lets herself trip down the staircase, lunging steps as though they are lunging gulps for air to fill her lungs, and there's the familiar black hair and the brooding expression and Abigail moves towards it, with purpose. You, she slurs,E words foaming from her mouth like acid rain, you did this. You weren't there for Sammy - he trusted you, you know. He trusted you with his life and now, now he's dead because you weren't there to save him. It's all your fault, Christian! It's all your . . . she falls against his chest, and he doesn't make a move to comfort her, and she doesn't make a move to walk away.

It's what she needs, for the moment - not a shoulder to cry on like in some stupid teenage movie - but something to rest against, so Abigail doesn't end up falling down, spiraling into endless bouts of nothing.

She finds herself standing in front of a ballet mirror, a few days later - her mother's standing outside of the door, looking at Abigail as though she's some sort of charity case, as though she's been 'touched by tragedy' and there's no possibly way that she'll be able to continue with her dancing career, the plan that she had made when she was eight years old (it'll always still be the case). Yes? Abigail sighs, pulling off her pointe shoes - the blisters have long disappeared, though there's still the bit of cringing pain that comes from practicing for hours upon hours. What do you want, Mom?

I'm just worried about you, her mother replies, walking inside and turning on the lights - Abigail slightly flinches, but walks over, arms crossed. After what happened with . . . Sammy, I wasn't sure if you were still planning on auditioning for the away tour; after all, you can only audition once in your lifetime, and I'm not sure if you're in the best condition to audition now.

Abigail puts on what she hopes to be a convincingly fake smile, Of course I'm fine, mother, why wouldn't I be? It's been three weeks, seriously. Anyways, I've been practicing for hours lately, and I think that I'll be fine for auditions - I've already contacted Miss Raine, and she'll give me the details tomorrow, auditions will probably be in a week or two. Her mother stares at her, trying to see the weak and vulnerable points of her inside, and Abigail hopes that she's covered them up well enough - after all, it's not the first time she's put on a mask.

You know, your friend, Tara, she's not going to be at the Prix de Fonteyn — she pulled out of the competition yesterday evening; too many memories of your uh, friend for her to compete. Abigail thinks that her mother's trying to convince her not to make a mistake, as she had done, so many years prior.

I'm not as weak as Tara, Abigail mutters, her tone underlying with obstinacy. If I were in her place, I wouldn't risk dropping such a valuable opportunity just because of Sammy's death - the auditions are next week, and I'll be practicing every day until then; just because somebody died, it doesn't mean that we have to change a single thing about our lives. Her mother withdraws herself from the situation, walking out of the empty door, and as soon as she's out of sight, Abigail lets herself falter, just for a moment, before resuming the show, mask of tranquility put back on.

.

What's your story? She's walking down the streets of Barcelona, lights flickering above in the city night; the clamor and pandemonium of the clubs and parties the two of them pass by are overwhelming, and Abigail resists the urge to comment on how annoying and normal-people-like the sounds were because that was how the old Abigail Armstrong had acted, and going back to how she used to be would mean that she could never move on. I mean, why did you come to Barcelona — are you a tourist, or do you just like the city?

I've always loved the city, Wesley comments in a dream-like trance, rough fingers that smell faintly of jasmine and apricots, entwined with her own. There is an infinite amount of hope in the universe —

But not for us, Abigail completes; there's the familiar ring of her cell-phone and she quickly mutes the tone, eyes flickering quickly over the text message which originated from Tara, something about 'how are you doing' with the implied undertones of 'how are you doing after your ex-boyfriend was killed three months ago' but then again, Tara's not that rude for now.

You know Kafka? He steps back, mysterious blue eyes swirling with something akin to confusion and respect. Abigail thinks that she hates the ballet girl stereotype then — that all they do is practice hours after hours, without being able to pursue other interests, but then again, it's one of those few times where the stereotype is nothing but true.

Final recital, second year. Mrs. Raine created an adaption of Kafka's novella for the ballet. I read all of his books, the movie adaptions and the original movies too, all the different versions of the ballet - it still wasn't enough, though.

Tara got the lead?

Isn't it always the way? Abigail replies, grimacing; she pinches her eyes closed for a minute, purses together her pastel pink lips and places on an entirely too fake smile, because 'fake it until you make it' is the only way to actually make it. There's the repeated text message on her phone, and Abigail quickly types 'I'm fine, okay?' to the people who are entirely too worried for a situation that doesn't even bother her anymore; three months later, she still thinks about what had happened, but it's buried under all the other burdens and worries of her muddled life.

You don't seem like a pessimistic sort of person, Abigail, Wes replies, tone casual.

You don't know me.

Maybe I'd like to, he says and Abigail thinks that she's not quite ready to let somebody back in.

.

There was a boy, she tells Wesley four months later, back in the familiar streets of Australia, past the ephemeral Academy which looms in and out of focus as the two make their way through the winding streets, inhaling the smell of fresh air with the slightest bit of smoke in the air; something of a nuclear threat loomed in the air, but Abigail brushed the thoughts of gas masks and disaster out of her mind; there were more important things to focus on, for the moment, like her class rank which remained #2, always under Grace. Tara had drifted slightly downwards, injury reasons, of course, but even though Abigail knew that she should have felt devastated for her friend, which she of course did, there was the slightest bit in triumph and sick satisfaction (but satisfaction, nonetheless) of beating the girl who had always been one step ahead of her since the first day of first year, more than twenty-eight months earlier.

What? Wes looks at her, a mask of confusion implanted upon his otherwise tranquil features and she turns away because he looks lost for a moment and she'd rather not go through this endless cycle of lost-then-found once more.

When we were in Barcelona — you told me that you wanted to know my story. So, this is my story, if you'd like to hear it . . . she trails off uncomfortably, staring upon the pavement as if it's the most interesting thing in the world and wonders why she even cares about this anymore when there are much more pressing issues at hand.

I'd love to know more about you, Abi, he says in a kind and gentle way, and she's not used to this so Abigail flinches back from his touch, eyes closing for a moment.

There was a boy—

Are you still in love with him? She doesn't reply, and the two of them walk in silence down the winding streets of Sydney. The stars flicker out in brilliant shades of blue and red, and arbitrary blackness gallops in.

.

i'm sorry this was rushed and sucked —

have a wonderful birthday though, c: