Maya is a wreck and I am a wreck and hmu on Tumblr (mayahartdefensesquad) if you are also a wreck ty

He looked at you like you were the sun in his sky. That's the problem, you think.

He stared at you like he orbited around you, and you didn't know whether or not to admit to him that you were no sun but the moon, and even if you did, he would insist, insist, insist to you that the center of the universe was the blue in your eyes. You were his sun and he just didn't understand you when you told him that he would either end up burnt or blind when he smiled at you each morning.

You tried over and over again to pinpoint the moment that everything would've had to have started falling apart for you to be standing across from your husband of six years with tears in your eyes.

It had to have been before your sophomore year of high school when he kissed you for the first time. Before he took you to prom. Before you told each other that you were in love. Before you started dating your freshman year of college. Before you moved in together your junior year. Before his vet internship and late night meetings to make connections. Before your entry got accepted into a modern museum and your art career took off. Before Riley fell in love with Charlie and got married immediately after graduating Penn State. Before Farkle moved to the other side of the globe to work with the best scientists alive. Before you and all of your friends became adults with careers and bills and marriages and kids and ever changing priorities.

Before. Before. Before.

You tend to look back before looking forward. That could be it.

It could've been when he proposed.

The night that he asked you to marry him was a Tuesday, and you said yes before he got all of his words out. You smelled like paint fumes and he was wearing a soiled lab coat from work, but you wouldn't change anything from him shrugging like he was asking if he should pick up a movie to the twist tie he used as an impulsive ring substitute. His eyes were completely lit and his smile was unbelievably wonderful and you said yes against his lips and every other inch of his skin over and over again that night.

Riley threw your engagement party a month later. You spent hours laughing on his arm. Your mom cried and his mom cried and it was all sweet and fun until everyone left and you cried because it wasn't your story. It wasn't your destiny. You weren't meant to be studied like a star, but no other part of your galaxy mattered to him so he would never explore like he was meant to. You held him back, and maybe that was your problem.

It could've been the night before your wedding. You were both only twenty-five. Too young to lose your sight, you whispered in your mind as you watched him sleep. Too young to promise your life to a girl you met while only thirteen. Too young to let the green in your eyes fog into a mist of bleached curiosity of the world around you.

It didn't stop you from marrying him. You wanted it to, you truly did. You wanted to wake up and tell him that you couldn't do it, but he kissed you awake with lips to your neck and sweet nothings in your ear and nothing was going to stop your union. Nothing could break you until you both crumbled. No words could convince you to set him free, not even your own, and you think that perhaps your selfishness could've caused this all as well.

It was really good for a while. The married life suited the two of you. You loved your honeymoon on his family's farm. He picked out an apartment a little bit closer to your art studio than to his clinic so that your walk wasn't awful because he didn't mind an extra few blocks. You got the left side of bed, him the right, and you always ended up joined in the middle one way or another... until you didn't.

Until you started dreading trips to see family where'd they ask about grandkids and paintings you had no muse for and how they still wished that you and Lucas would've had a bigger ceremony.

Until the walk to the studio wasn't a walk you found the motivation to take anymore, so you painted in the living room with dim colors and didn't care when you ruined the couch or the floor or the table. You didn't fight when Lucas got mad. You just stopped painting. It wasn't worth the fuss, you decided.

Until you started staying to the left and sticking to the left. You curled towards your bedside table and you stopped kissing him goodnight. Maybe your lack of affection ruined everything, and that's the problem.

"Maya, you can't hide from me. Please, don't try." He's begging you to open up to him, to let him in. He's begging you to be his wife because you promised your life just as he promised his, and you're still trying to say no. You promised him everything, yet you're still holding back because all you need is an answer.

You need to know what went wrong. You need to know where the climax happened for you to be spiraling into the dark. What did you do? What did he do? Where? When? How?

You just need to know because you used to feel his heartbeat against your ear. His smile against your lips. The force of each word when he told you that he loved you.

You want that.

You miss that.

You need to know why you feel dull with his whispers each morning and why his touch no longer lingers on your skin.

"I love you so much." It's all you feel like you know anymore. You used to be so happy. You used to laugh until you cried, but now you skip a step and what do you do? What do you do when you're staring into the eyes of somebody you love and all you do is cry?

"I know you do." He steps closer to you, and you don't move. You don't have the energy to move.

You try to be honest with him. It's the least that you can do. You can be honest with him, and maybe if you are then the lingering guilt of blinding him will fade.

"Lucas, I'm scared."

It doesn't.

He grabs your hand next and your body rejects him to find the ground. You ache from standing. You still don't even know what led you there.

"I love you." There's more tears when you say it but it's still all that you're sure of, so you repeat it once more. "I love you more than anything."

You do love him. You know you love him. You've loved him since you were fifteen.

You love him, you love him, you love him.

"I know you do, Maya. Just... Talk to me." He's lowered himself down to sit beside you, his arm snaking to your waist as you feel yourself completely breaking down trying to escape him.

It doesn't make you feel safe anymore. He's touching you, and you don't feel safe. You don't feel warm. You don't feel loved. You don't feel anything.

You can't feel anything.

"Just... Maya. Babe, just try to tell me what's wrong."

You can't hold back a bitter laugh.

What's wrong?

God, what isn't wrong? You don't smile without forcing it. You haven't enjoyed painting in months. You're avoiding leaving the house because you don't want to move and you don't want to get dressed and you don't want to shower or put on makeup or even get out of bed anymore.

Why don't you want to get out of bed anymore?

"Maya, I know that something's wrong... I can see it." He's whispering, but you're still wincing at his words. "You can't focus like you used to. You sleep all the time. You haven't been eating. You haven't been the same since-"

"Don't say it."

He's going to say it. No matter that you're gritting your teeth and there are tears in your eyes and you can't handle hearing it, he's going to say it.

"Maya..."

"Lucas Friar, don't you dare."

"You know that I have to."

He doesn't have to.

You were supposed to pick her up. You know that you were supposed to pick her up. You were supposed to get your little sister from school, and you forgot. Your dad was making an effort finally and he asked you to pick up your estranged little sister to spend an afternoon getting to know her, and you forgot.

Your problem is that you're forgetful. That's the problem and that's the issue. You're the problem and you're the issue.

"Maya, you haven't been the same since he left again."

The joke's on Lucas because you don't care. He left you then, he left you now, he'll be back before you're fifty to pop in for another six months and ditch out. It doesn't matter. It didn't affect you. You shouldn't have had hope, and you learned your lesson.

"That has nothing to do with this."

It really doesn't. Your dad leaving again relates in no way to feeling nothing anymore, so there's no possibility that your marital problems have anything to do with him. Your dad was never involved in your art. He met Lucas a handful of times, and he didn't even remember his name consistently.

"It has everything to do with this. Maya, there's a problem and we need to fix it."

"No, Lucas, you're a problem."

That's it. You're not the problem at all. It all goes back to the start.

"The problem is you looking at me like I'm this prized jewel, when I'm not, Lucas. You act like I'm this giant catch, but it doesn't add up. None of this adds up. It's never added up. You were supposed to be a prince. You were supposed to find a sweet, sensible girl- a princess! Even if it wasn't Riley. You were supposed to marry a princess and love her and she'd tell you sweet things and she'd be gorgeous and she'd never make fun of your favorite shirt because you love it and she'd always be there and you could rely on her. She'd be home every night when she says and she'd want to go to dinner with your mom and she would get out of bed to do her fucking job instead of staring at blank canvases like they can paint themselves. I'm not a princess, Lucas. You act like I'm the sun and I'm not the sun. You've stared at me too long and I'm not the sun and now you're blind and you're not supposed to stare at me like that. You were supposed to find a girl a long time ago and fall in love with her and she'd be your princess and she'd want to do things and she'd be happy and she'd never feel completely insignificant in this world."

"Maya..."

"No! Don't look at me like that! Don't stare at me like I'm a kicked puppy. Don't act like you love me like this! You don't, Lucas, I know that you don't. How could you?"

His arms find you and you don't avoid his touch this time. You give into it, into him. You always do.

"Maya, I don't want a princess. Yeah, maybe someone who likes my favorite shirt would be a better change, but..."

"But, Lucas, it's so ugly," you cry harder. It is so ugly. It's this horrible dad shirt that makes you cringe and it has the sex appeal of a chewed eraser, even with him in it. It has stupid lassos and cowboy gear and you honestly bought it for him as a joke, but he tries to wear it so much that it physically causes your body to ache and it pains you.

"I know, babe... I know." He doesn't add on anything, he only holds you; a silent promise of his presence.

So maybe he's right. Maybe this is about your dad. Maybe you're scared that Lucas will leave because your father has abandoned you twice and he's trailing that record at never. Maybe you're terrified that he's going to realize that you're not great and you're not sweet and you're not reliable, so he'll go find some girl that is and that'll be his wife. Hell, there has to be some girl stupid enough to find that atrocious shirt appealing in some way.

"Maya, it's going to be okay." For the first time in weeks, you let his voice ease your mind. "You're not broken anymore."

You're not broken anymore.

God, everything may be crashing and you may feel numb to your pain, but he's right. You're not the little girl abandoned for a new life anymore. You're not the teenager who saw Riley's parents more than she saw her own anymore. You're not the senior that locked herself away on the weekend of the Daddy/Daughter retreat even after being invited by because it still hurt anymore.

You're not broken anymore.

You don't know until that second that those words are all that you need to hear, but they are. They're exactly what you need, but he knows that.

He always knows.

You're not that girl anymore. You're Mrs. Maya Huckleberry Sundance Friar. You're an artist, a well known one at that. You're a regular at the coffee shop two blocks from your apartment, and you're the Go Fish champion among your friends, and, Jesus Christ, you make the best fucking breakfast burrito on this half of New York.

You're not a broken little girl with no one anymore. You have your friends, and you have your family, and you have probably the most patient guy to call your husband that you'll ever meet. You're hopeful and you're lucky and you're happy- He makes you so happy.

You're finally matching the faith in his eyes as his hand finds yours. He gives it a little squeeze before he presses a kiss to your nose and you feel all of your tears and sobs and doubts fading, fading, fading. "Do you need help?"

He makes you ask before he helps you, just like he's done since you were in high school. Your pride won't help you, he told you, Only people that care can, but you need to ask them.

It took you three entire years before you gave into his little scheme without hesitation.

It doesn't matter how long it takes for you to improve. Three years of trying didn't matter to him. You did it. And I'm proud of you for even trying.

"Yeah. I do."

"I know."

He nods, and you smirk before he can think twice. "I need help finding a way to burn that gruesome shirt while you're at work."

He laughs and you laugh and you wonder how silly you must look; two grown adults giggling your asses off on the floor of your hallway at ugly shirts and shitty nights and deadbeat dads. You guess it doesn't matter. You could look as ridiculous as ever, and as long as Lucas is beside you doing the same, it doesn't make any difference to you.

He tells you that he will call a doctor and sort things out. "All that you need to worry about is going and showering because you look and smell like the internal organs I replaced in a cocker spaniel earlier in the week, babe."

You punch his arm and he kisses you and all you can think about is how lucky you truly are because, wow, what a pair. Your Huckleberry with a terrible fashion sense and an even worse allergy to pineapple and his mended Shortstack with mascara stained cheeks and a closet full of hoarded Halloween decorations.

"Maya, no one even comes to our apartment for Halloween."

"Lucas, I'm keeping us prepared for the skeleton war. You're welcome."

"'ey, Maya Papaya?"

"Yes, Ranger Rick?"

"Just so you know.. If you're the moon, then you couldn't have blinded me in the first place."

You're dumbfounded for a second because he's right. God damn. Tweedle Dandy is right. You could stare at the moon all you want. You do stare at the moon all you want. You have like a million sketches of the moon everywhere dating back to the seventh grade.

"No matter how bright and beautiful and so full of light I know you truly are."

"Is that what you tell your wardrobe before bed?" you tease, trying to hide the blush on your cheeks. You jump to poke fun at him as he stands up and pulls you along, leading the way towards your bedroom.

The right corner of his lips tugs up in response. "Every night, Shortstack, right before I wish you sweet dreams."

Your face falls into a genuine grin staring up into his eyes. You see shades of curiosity and hope and laughter. You can point out his little golden flecks of dreams and passions. You can even make out a hint of pride lingering in the smile he shows entirely. You find no mist and no fog and no signs of lacking deception like you used to because there's no longer the possibility of it being there.

You can no longer blind him because you are his moon. You are so bright, beautiful, and full of light. You are his moon and he is your sun.

He beams down on you, and you wonder, wonder, wonder exactly how useful sight is after all.