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i.
in the desert, nagomi dreams. it's not as if there's much else to do.
(it's the same moments replaying over and over behind her eyes; every time her path splintered from its origin. the web of lives she never led stick to her like spider-spun silk, entrapping her as she moves through each one.
the question is, of course, whether she made the right choice, now or ever. the question is: if she could go back and change it, would she?
she doesn't know. this is an equation she's been trying to solve for decades, and she still doesn’t know.)
ii.
until the first falls, passenger doesn’t let itself hope. as it turns out, it was right to have not to.
(to be fair, it didn’t hope much before nagomi came around, either. only after years of sharing the same eyes did it begin to see the light, and now– well, the darkness is an old friend, too.)
“just because it didn’t happen this year doesn’t mean it won’t,” priya says. passenger weaves itself around her wrist, tangling in her fingers, and reminds itself she’s waiting for someone too.
you’re just trying to get rid of me, it says.
“not yet.”
iii.
she blinks, and the cold hits her lips. she opens her eyes and sees the mountains she should have died in.
(retracing her steps will always bring her back to this moment. it is the epicenter of her life, the second where her life flipped from one path to another.)
randy smiles at her, a feral, knowing grin. “here to try again?”
“maybe one of these times it’ll actually work.”
“i’d wish you luck, but we both know it won't matter.”
“whatever.”
“on your marks, get set…”
one last grin, and he's gone. she follows, a futile chase for them both.
iv.
“zack said she'd take you for a little bit, how's that sound?”
if passenger could frown, it would. so you are trying to get rid of me.
priya sighs. “we need a break, bud. i’m sure you can feel it too?”
it's a statement framed as a question, and passenger can read between the lines. so, it'll go; for all of its parasitic peculiarities, this is one time it's not keen on overstaying its welcome here. can't go ruining this for ‘gomi.
(it hasn't let itself consider the possibility of there being nothing left to ruin. not yet.)
v.
the bar is crumbling as she enters it, half here and half there; about as tangible as anything is these days.
worse than the last time she’d been in, but margo spots her and has a cider in hand before she even reaches the bar so things can’t be that bad.
“so, what do i owe ya for the visit?”
“can’t i just say hi?”
“you never do.”
here’s the thing. nagomi can sense things are shifting, and she knows margo does too. so she just reaches her hand across the counter and grabs margo’s.
“told you, just came to say hi.”
vi.
for a while, it floats, flitting between cities and people and taking notes on each potential new home. but, (but, but,) it aches for familiarity in the most desperate ways– an all-consuming needs some moments.
sigmund falls, and passenger finds new walls to haunt.
(it’s not the same, being here without nagomi, of course it isn’t. the cold mountain air stings in ways it never used to, and it shivers crawling against the freezing stone. passenger is far more used to being a voice in someone’s head than the other way around, but it’s closer to home, it thinks.)
vii.
things are getting sparser, more people disappearing each time she looks back.
zack, justice, margo, howell, siggy, donia– she can't help but try to thread a string of reason between them, like it's just another equation for her to solve. but she’s not fifteen anymore, doing math sheets in the dugout as vela yells for zack to run. no, she hasn’t been that girl in a long, long time, nor does she want to be again. sometimes, she thinks, she’d be happy to never hold a bat again.
just sometimes, though.
(the truth is, she’s happy to wait it out.)
viii.
“why are you moping?”
baby triumphant is looking down at it, hood pulled over head in a picture perfect brood.
why are you moping?
“i’m stuck in Seattle,” xe sighs, “also you're in my spot.”
i was here first.
ruthless laughs, harsh and cutting. “oh trust me, i’ve been here longer than anyone. you weren't here first.”
on the couch, then.
“you never answered my question.”
why the hell do you think?
“yeah, well, my best friend’s still up there too. you're not special.”
i hate you.
“yeah, I hate you too.” ve flops down on the couch. “seinfeld?”
please.
ix.
it's not that she's asleep, exactly. it's just that she's not quite awake, either.
things are liminal here, at best; at worst: nothing at all. black holes consume everything they ever touch by their very nature, and nagomi isn't naive enough to think there are exceptions. but each day/moment/second it's getting lonelier, and she doesn't want to be the only one left.
(nagomi doesn't believe in destiny, but she's analytical to her core. it would be hard not to notice the way she keeps ending up in this position, and it's even harder not to assign meaning to it.)
x.
there's a building discontent, each time there's a fall and nagomi doesn't show. when the last one happens and kaj does instead, passenger disappears for weeks.
(the moabbey was an easy pick, barren as it is these days. it can rest within these empty walls and plan its next moves, it can try to remember how to live a life without nagomi in it. it just wishes it didn't have to.)
kaj finds it, of course, eagle-eyed as xe may be.
you can't replace her, it says.
kaj grins. “I'm not trying to. doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”
xi.
there’s a strange kind of numbness that comes with all this, it’s like– one time when they were in college, nagomi went to visit margo in boston and the power went out; it was the depths of winter and and they both got frostnip in the middle of this storm. that burning tingling numbness– that’s what it feels like, to be consumed by a blackhole.
(doesn’t matter how many stories she goes through, doesn’t matter which one is right. one day she’ll wake up from all this, maybe, and sacrifice herself to another god.
but she will wake up.)
xii.
it takes kaj nearly a week to coax passenger out of the caverns, and in the end, well–
priya’s crouched down to its level. “bud, you can’t stay here forever.”
watch me try.
“look, you think i don’t get it? really? did you see hahn on the list of players?”
…no.
“exactly. i’m not saying it’ll fix it, but wouldn’t it be better to not do this alone?”
that’s what i’ve always done.
“but you don’t have to anymore.”
…okay.
“okay?”
i’ll come meet the team.
“that’s all i’m asking.”
its tendrils meet her fingers, and they leave the moabbey.