Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer (Year 0)

When you are six years old, you are convinced that you can fly. The massive tree just south of your grandpa's farm calls to you, a promise of adventure and intrigue that you can't seem to resist. Ren, your older brother, chases you down the path - shrieking and running as fast as your tiny legs can carry you. The lake appears like a mirage in the oppressive heat and you take a sharp right. The willow will protect you. The willow will keep you safe.

You had discovered the footholds at the beginning of the summer, had made your way about halfway to the first branch before you had looked down and promptly froze, too terrified to complete the journey. But you're stronger now, you can feel it. You're braver and you are indestructible.

A foot placed carefully here, a short arm reaching up and grabbing there. You make it halfway up the trunk of the tree and then you keep going, you can do this, and your little hand finally, finally, meets the lowest branch. Hoisting yourself onto the limb, your brother catches up at the base, trying to glare up at you while the sun does its best to blind him.

"Hey!" He's yelling but you're not listening, your goal now set on what's above. If you can make it a little bit higher, you'll be able to see the whole lake. You'll be able to see the farm, the woods that grandpa had forbade you from going into without him, the turret that had cropped up since last summer with no explanation or reason. You'll be able to see everything.

"Dummy, hey - Mom's gonna kill you, come down!" If he thinks calling you a dummy is gonna get you down, he has another thing coming. He doesn't know what you know. It doesn't matter how high up you go -

You can fly.

Ren is calling your name, his voice more frantic than you've ever heard it, and you're reaching for the next branch - if you can just pull yourself up to this one, you can scoot to the edge and see it all - when a sharp snap echos. You have time for a single breath, and then you're falling.

It's a new sensation, one that makes your stomach feel like it's in your throat, your limbs feel like they're in free fall, your eyes feel like they have to widen to witness every millisecond of it.

You're falling, not flying.

And the sky is bright blue behind the pink flowers that are blossoming and a bird, a hawk you think, is soaring just overhead.

You are falling, not flying, and then there is nothing.

The next thing you remember is sitting on a doctor's table, legs swinging absentmindedly. You blink once, then twice, shaking your head a little at the disorientation.

You had just been falling and now you're here.

A sniffle to your right alerts you to your brother's presence, his head pillowed on his arms so you can't see his face.

A hand on your shoulder and Dr. Bhatti is to your left, your grandpa behind him with a face you've never seen him make before.

"You gave us quite the scare, little mouse." You liked Dr. Bhatti. He wasn't scary like the doctors back home, he never gave you a shot, and he always gave you a lollipop - even when you were just visiting.

You feel a pressure on your head and you reach up to touch, to scratch, before he gently grabs your wrist.

"Unfortunately, you took a tumble and you'll have to wear that on your head for a couple of days." Dr. Bhatti's mouth is set in a thin line, but you can see the way it's starting to twitch up at the end. "Good thing your brother was there to get your grandfather and me, hmm?"

A louder sniffle this time and Ren's wiping at his eyes, red and raw, and a trickle of snot drips from his nose. You're about to reach out, a sudden urge in you to hold his hand because you don't remember what happened after you fell, but Ren was there and he's here now. He's always, just, here.

But your grandpa is in front of you and he's hoisting you up under your armpits and you're fitting in the crook of his arm, a position so natural that you don't even think twice before resting your head against his shoulder. You rub at your eye, trying to scrub away the last bits of confusion, as your grandpa leads you and Ren out of the room.

He thanks Dr. Bhatti gruffly, promises he'll bring you back in a day or two for another check-up, promises to keep an eye on you.

The walk back to the farm is quiet and you're piecing together the gravity, the way in which Ren is silent and grasping your grandpa's other hand tightly, the way in which your grandpa stares straight ahead.

He breaks the silence, though, when you reach the wrap-around porch of the farmhouse. "Ren, go wash up will you?"

Your brother spares you a quick glance, but then he's up the stairs and through the front door, letting the screen bang shut behind.

Your grandpa sits down heavily in the porch swing, setting you down next to him but still keeping you tucked under his arm.

More silence.

You pick at a healing scrape on your knee.

More silence.

You worry at your bottom lip.

More sil-

"The Valley has many secrets, mouse." He surveys the farm. "Some are for us to learn, and others are for us to forget."

Your grandpa sighs, runs a hand down his face. You see wrinkles and stubble and sun spots. He looks like he has always looked to you. "What were you doin' climbin' that tree, little one?"

You look up at him until he meets your gaze. "I thought I could fly, pop-pop."

He wasn't expecting that. "And why did you think you could fly?"

You open your mouth then close it abruptly. Hmm. A puzzling question. "You said I could do anythin'."

A bee flits around your ear and you watch it land on your hand. It dances around (your grandpa had taught you that, that bees can dance, that's why there was no reason to be afraid of them) and then flies off.

And then he's chuckling, just slightly, just enough to feel it where your shoulder meets his chest. "That I did, mouse. That I did."

You worry at the scab again, a thought forming. "Can I not do anythin'?"

"Mhm-mhm." A shake of his head. "You can do many things, my granddaughter. You will do many things, I'm sure of it." A pause. "Sometimes, you will do things that will bring you great success and joy and a feeling that is hard to contain in that tiny body of yours." A tickle over your ribs, and you swat at him with a giggle. "And sometimes, you will do things and they won't work out exactly how you expected. Sometimes, life will take you in directions you never thought possible and it may feel hard and you may get angry or sad because you thought things would be different."

The sun is beginning to set, a hazy vision of pinks and oranges and purples.

"But I want you to remember two things, mouse." He uses his free hand to tilt your head up towards him once more. "You must always have faith in yourself. People may try and tell you what to do, may try and sell you an idea of what will make you happy. But only you know what will make you happy. Only you know what you need, what you are capable of, what is important to you."

The smell of stew and fresh vegetables wafts out through the screen door, dinner is almost ready.

"And you must remember that you are never alone. Me, your momma, Ren. Others that you pick up along the way. There may be many times where you feel like nothing is going right, but there will always be people on your side."

Two fireflies float in front of you, twirling and intertwining with each other.

"Can you promise me one thing, mouse?"

Your grandpa has that look on his face again, like he's trying to make sure you understand, really understand.

"Can you promise me that you will not fall out of trees anymore?"

A grin overtakes your face and you are laughing and you are remembering what it felt like the second before you realized you were falling, not flying. You felt like a firefly. You felt like a bee. You felt weightless.

You felt free.

"I promise, grandpa!"

(Twenty-one years later, you will break your promise to your grandfather. It will be a different tree, but the same farm. It will be a different injury and a different doctor and a different life, but it will be the same feeling.

For a moment, before your back hits the hard earth below, you will feel free.)

Chapter Text

Fall (Year 1)

Thwack.

A roll of your shoulders.

Thwack.

A swipe of your brow.

Thwack.

A last hit of your ax and the tree topples, a plume of leaves and dirt in its wake. It’s coming to the end of your first fall in the Valley and you’re stockpiling as many resources as possible. You’ve never been on the farm for winter; it was solely a summer endeavor when you were growing up and even when grandpa got sick, the visits were few and far between. You’ve gotten some advice from Robin and Willy - some unsolicited ominous warnings from Clint as well - but, well. 

You’re only incrementally better at relying on people then you were before you got here, so better to be safe than sorry, and all that. 

You heft the last of the wood to the pile next to the farmhouse. You really should try for one more - the biting chill, the darkening sky, you can almost taste the snow in the air - but you’re bone tired. All you’ve been doing the past two days is chopping and chopping, waiting for the last of your crops to come in so you can make the end of season trip to Pierre’s. 

You consider grabbing your bait and tackle for a last ditch effort at fishing, but you’re so sick of Willy bullying you for being unable to catch a single fish larger than a perch. So that’s a hard no.

Rubbing your hands on your overalls, you survey the fruits of your labor. The farm is…well, it’s something alright. You’ve managed to clear out the quadrant directly in front of the farmhouse, a shoddy fence encasing your crops. You’ve cut through most of the rocks and debris littering half of the land (those enormous buggers can get fucked) and you’ve been slow going with the mighty oaks. Day by day, that’s how you take it here on Smoky Pines Farm. 

That’s what you tell yourself at least.

It can be really fucking hard, though, when it feels like you’re not making a lick of progress. Sure, your summer crops were strong enough and your fall batch have been consistent. You’ve got a solid barter system going with Robin and your fishing is getting faintly better. (Suck it, Willy.)

But.

The summer luau was a below average dud, the grange display was a blow to your ego, and you can’t get that asshole scammer Welwick out of your mind.

Morose on the loss of a competition, you had stumbled upon the fortune teller’s tent, had leaned into the gimmick with a passing thought of why not, had paid money you didn’t have to hear -

Absolute nonsense.

Romance and danger were meaningless to you, but -

("Thanks, this was helpful.” You couldn’t help the sarcasm underlying your tone, could barely hold back the heavy urge to roll your eyes. You were at the tent flap, reaching out.

“Little mouse.” Barely above a whisper, but you had heard it.

You spin back to the fortune teller. “What the hell did you just say?”

“You’re lost, little mouse. Can’t seem to find your way. You ran away, thought you’d find home here in the memories -”

“I don’t know how much Willy paid you, but this isn’t funny -”

“- but you can’t find home, you have to make it. Open up, mouse, and recover your life.” 

A shudder you can barely see in the dim light of the tent, and then the fortune teller is blinking owlishly at you. 

"Anything else, dear?")

You change your mind and pick up your tool again, deciding one more tree is probably good for your health.

Thwack.

(Listen, little mouse.)

Thwack.

(You thought things would be different.)

Thwack.

(Have faith in yourself.)

Thwack.

(Open up, mouse.)

Thwack.

(Recover your life.)

"Enough!" The words tumble out, a cry that disrupts the tempo you had worked your way into. A ragged breath in, and one out. You drop the ax from your blistered hand and pull out your ponytail, only to viciously retie it tighter.

That's enough for now.

That's enough.

***

Freshly showered and temper back in check, you grab a basket of foraged blackberries and find yourself wandering into town.

You're nearly at the town square when your phone gives a chime. You should know by now that it's never a good sign. You should know by now that checking your phone always sours your mood. You should know by now, and yet - you never learn, do you?

"For fuck's sake." The same number, the same message. You shove the device in your backpack, blood starting to boil once more. Today has been a mistake - the entire day. You should have just stayed in bed. You should have just curled up and sunk into the depth. You should have just given up.

(You thought things would be different.)

"Fuck off." Glancing around, you try to get yourself under control again. People here don't like you too much yet - at least, that's what you assume. You're not great at making friends, never have been. You were always the one dancing between friend groups, happy to be on the margins, happy to be relied upon when needed and that's it. Convenient, you might have called yourself. It doesn't make you feel good.

The solace, though, of the Stardrop Saloon calls to you. Gus is kind to you, Gus feeds you day in and day out, Gus likes to reminisce about your grandpa and it's nice to hear stories about him, it's nice to fill in the gaps from people who so clearly loved him.

"For you, my loyal barkeep." You plant the basket of fruit on the bar with a flourish and you can't help the small smile that forms at Gus' over the top reaction.

"Well, well! A mighty haul for a weary cook!" Gus reminds you of your grandpa, just a little (and so does Willy, but you'd never admit it), and it's moments like these where you can feel him again. It's moments like these where you can picture what a magnificent life he must have led in the Valley.

(You can't find home, you have to make it.)

You shake your head slightly and then tune back into Gus' musings.

"- so what'll it be tonight, hmm? Might I interest you in a nice risotto and some wine?"

Your stomach gurgles, a reminder of a long day of manual labor. "That sounds divine, Gus, you have my greatest thanks."

"No greater gift!" He laughs, and it's a booming one and it makes your heart pang with nostalgia and grief and joy - a convoluted, beautiful mess. "Why don't you take a seat next to our dear doctor, I'm making the same for him."

Gus, you son of a bitch.

You turn, a brief glimpse to your side revealing the bespectacled man halfway down the bar. He glances up at his name, flicks his eyes to you, and then returns to the book propped open before him.

Asshole.

But Gus is grinning at you and Emily is already placing a near full glass of wine at the seat next to his and you can't just out and say that -

Harvey Greenwood fucking hates you, now, can you?

Your feet move and you gingerly sit on the barstool like it's made of dynamite and you lean as far away from the man as possible. You should have brought a book, you should have brought anything to distract you, but all you've got is a backpack full of rations and a phone that you'd rather shove up the doctor's ass than look at right now.

What a perfect end to a perfect day, huh.

"- sorry?" You don't realize he's talking at first, don't realize he's talking to you, until his finger tapping impatiently against the bar drags your attention.

You blink at him. "What?"

He blinks at you. "What?"

You squint. "...you said, sorry?"

He huffs out a frustrated breath. "I thought you said something."

"Oh...I didn't say, uh, anything." You cough once.

He sighs and turns back to his book. "Hmm."

-

The fucking audacity he has to be frustrated at you, when he's the one who -

"Actually, I do have something to say. What the hell is your -"

Your words are cut off by two steaming plates of risotto slamming onto the bar. "Why don't you two enjoy your dinner.” Emily strongly recommends, with a glint in her eyes and a smile just this side of feral aimed at the two of you.

Shooting the blue-haired woman a glare, you pick up your fork in the tense silence. The risotto is good, it always is, but it’s hard to savor when all you can think about is the man next to you, with his stupid mustache, and his stupid glasses, and his stupid face. 

Rage doesn’t need articulation. It needs direction. 

“My problem is your recklessness and abandon. My problem is that you think you’re indestructible, and you’re not.” You startle, a piece of mushroom dropping from your mouth. Harvey isn’t even looking at you, voice barely above a murmur. His face is calm but the death grip he has on the fork is enough of a tell. 

You swallow, the food like ash on your tongue. A lump in your throat.

“That’s what you were gonna ask, right? What the hell is my problem?” He’s almost scowling at you and it looks wrong on his face, it looks wrong coming from this man. There’s a slight shake to his hand, though. He’s not totally past his anxious temperament.

“I don’t think I’m indestructible. Not at all.” And it’s the absolute truth - every scrape, every sprain, every accident you've had since stepping foot into the Valley is concrete evidence that you are very much mortal, very much subject to the same laws of physics and luck as everyone here is.

It’s just that…why would you let that stop you? 

(And here’s the difference between you and Harvey that you have not learned yet, but will. 

When Harvey tried to exposure therapy his way out of his phobia of heights and it didn’t work, he took that as a sign. He was to remain forever grounded; not because he didn’t want it hard enough, not because he didn’t work hard enough, but simply because the universe had deemed it so. There was no point in trying to break his fear of heights any longer - how would it serve him?

When you climbed a tree and fell, when you attempted to break a rock in two and instead nicked your arm, when you scraped your ass on an abandoned mine’s floor, burned yourself trying to start a fire, hammered your thumb instead of a wooden post - all of these things mattered. You couldn’t abandon your life here in the Valley - you couldn’t abandon another life, not again - and so you had to learn, to teach yourself, over and over, until you got it right. There was nothing else you could do that would matter.)

Harvey scoffs, loudly, and then flushes. “Could have fooled me.”

You’re also turning red now - not from embarrassment, but from anger. “Do you think I do these things on purpose? Do you think I injure myself - what, so I can have you wrap me up every week, another 100g down the toilet? So I can hear your recycled lecture every fucking time?” You want to insult his patch up job, but you can’t fault the man his craft.

“No, and somehow that’s what makes it worse!” He’s indignant and you’re too furious to realize you’re quickly gaining an audience. “You come into my clinic on a near weekly basis, and it's the same thing, over and over again. I try and tell you each time that if you don't let yourself heal properly, you'll never recover. But it’s like you don’t learn, or you simply don't want to. You’re stubborn and, and you don’t - why can’t you just be more careful!”

He has the gall to say you’re the stubborn one.  

(You just don’t learn, do you?)

“Gotcha, Doc. Heard loud and clear.” You shove a couple of bills onto the bar and stand up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. You need to leave before you do something you’re going to regret. “You won’t be seeing me at the clinic anymore.”

And you’re turning towards the door, turning away from this infuriating man, but you see the way his eyes widen, you see the way his frown transforms into a little ‘O’ shape. Something flickers, and it’s new, it’s something like - fear. 

You’re long gone before he can get out his “Wait -!”, the cell phone message and the fortune teller and the sore muscles all forgotten in the wake of the bane of your existence in Pelican Town.

You’ll make good on your promise though. 

You’ll never step foot in that clinic again. 

***

Four days later, you’re walking home with a near impercetible limp - damn that stupid fortune teller and their stupid TV show and their stupid luck predictions. You’d tripped on the steps coming down from the community center and twisted your ankle, and isn’t this just absolutely perfect. 

Harvey was wrong. You don’t intentionally injure yourself, you’re just clumsy as fuck all. 

How embarrassing, the little voice in your head jeers at you, as you attempt to power walk past the clinic, grimacing at everything and nothing. Stupid, stupid, stupid little girl with a stupid idea to take over an entire farm all on her own. Stupid little girl who left her stupid little life behind to find herself or whatever. Stupid little girl who keeps screwing everything up, stupid, stupid -

You stop abruptly, a shuffle from down the path dragging you from your spiraling. There’s a figure, you’d be able to make out who if you were just a little closer, if there was just a little light on this Yoba-forsaken path. But there’s a hitch in your chest when you realize you never bothered to ask if there are, like, bears in the woods here.

(Why hadn’t you thought to ask, Yoba, you’re gonna die out here.)

Then there’s another shuffle and a curse and well, if it’s a cursing bear, what a way to go, huh?

Creeping forward, a devious grin begins to form and isn’t this just a sweet little treat for you after another shitty day. 

“Boo.” You state when you get close enough. You watch as Harvey literally jumps and then leans heavily against the wooden fence encircling your farm, a hand over his chest.

“Holy shit, why would you do that, I -” He drops his head. “Sweet Yoba, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Wait, really -” He’s the doctor, what the hell are you supposed to do!

“No, not really.” He rubs the back of his neck and gives you a weary look. You guess that’s fair. “But I could have.”

“Serves you right for lurkin’ round my house, you creep.” Shoving past him, you unlatch the gate and you’re halfway to the porch before you realize your mistake.

“Are you - are you seriously limping, did you hurt yourself again?”

Shit.

If you can just outpace him, you can get in through that front door and he’ll, who knows, be trespassing or something if he stays. 

You’ll figure the rest out later. 

“Hey -!” A hand grabs your arm and it’s not intended to do anything but show you he’s still here, show you he’s not leaving just yet, but after the day (week, month, year) you've had, that’s enough. Today, that's too much. 

You shove him off, hard. 

“I came to apologize.”

Unfortunately, that's also enough to give you pause. 

Your eyes flicker shut and you wish you weren't here. You’re bone tired and you’re hungry and you just want to sleep, can’t remember the last time you slept through the night.

You’re bone tired. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to fight. 

You just want to sleep.

“...what?” Nearly cursing, you realize you’ve said it out loud. Shaking your head, you finally turn back to the man behind you. Harvey looks…well, he looks like himself. Tall, sturdy. His signature green jacket, but the orange tie is missing. Curly hair, mussed, like he’s run his hands through it over and over. Bags under his eyes - hey, look, you two match. 

In any other light, in any other context, you’d say Harvey was deeply attractive in the subdued, compelling way that screams of a confidence grown from experience rather than innate cockiness.

But in this light, in this context, Harvey reminds you of ridicule and failure. He is the living embodiment of your own self-doubt.

Or, maybe you’re just projecting. That’s probably what your therapist would say. You should really call her.

“I want to go to sleep, Harvey.” You repeat. “I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but maybe we can do this whole…thing, like, later.”

He hesitates. You can practically feel the waves of anxiety radiating off of him, trying to decide what he should do. And then he finally nods, and that is a bit of a shock. You had expected him to push. (You had wanted him to push, just a little.)

"Okay, but -" A wringing of his hands. "Can I at least wrap your ankle up? No lectures, scouts honor." His hand comes up, two fingers pointing towards the sky.

You snort, a loud sound disrupting the evening din surrounding you both. "It's three fingers, my guy." And you're tired - bone tired - and sore and you're not up for company, but there's something in his face, something in the way he lets his ring finger raise up to meet the other two. You find yourself nodding and then you're hobbling slowly back towards the farmhouse, Harvey's anxious presence a shadow behind you.

He watches as you fall into the big armchair in front of the fireplace, heeds your direction and returns with your first aid kit. You toss your work boots at the front door and pull your sock off, rolling up the cuff of your Carhartts.

The doctor works efficiently, pushing your heel into his palm until you wince and rolling your foot this way and that. He mumbles something to himself before pulling out the elastic bandage and beginning the slow process of wrapping up your ankle.

It's strange to be able to watch him like this. Methodical, precise, focused. His brows pinch only slightly in concentration, his mouth set in a strong line. But it's his hands that you can't look away from - he has long, delicate fingers, nails neat and trim. There are small callouses at the pads of his fingertips, a nick or two that mar his knuckle. He moves them with the grace of a pianist and the precision of a surgeon.

You're enthralled.

"You came all the way here to apologize?" The words seem to surprise both you and him - you hadn't intended to speak, hadn't intended to continue a conversation you didn't want to have in the first place. But you were a curious, stubborn thing.

"I did." Focus still on your ankle, you don't miss the way his eyebrows furrow. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior at the saloon and...well, I guess, all the times before that too."

Harvey has always read to you as a man who falls easily into humility and self-deprecation. Around the other villagers, he shies away from attention unless his professional help is needed; he is rarely the one to initiate a conversation. He is, for all intents and purposes, the resident introvert.

That's what you had assumed.

But when he speaks to you, when he lectures you, it's like a dam breaks free within him. You know that you've been a pain in his ass, you know that you've been reckless (even if it leaves a foul taste in your mouth to admit). You know that is pisses him off even more when you scoff at his concern, when you dismiss his advice. How frustrating, it must be, to be Harvey Greenwood in the face of a self-defeating masochist.

(You're not a masochist, not really. You don't seek out pain; you don't consider yourself a thrill seeker. There's just something about this place, something about the Valley, that makes it impossible not to push yourself. Prove yourself. You have to prove that you deserve to be here. You have to prove that you know what you're doing. You have to prove that your grandpa's legacy was not passed on in vain -)

You can't deny the gross sense of pleasure you have gotten out of pushing Harvey to the limits of his tolerance.

(You're not proud.)

But, you can also recognize an olive branch when you see one.

"You were kind of an asshole to me." Again, you reiterate, not proud. "But, well. I guess I also was, like. One. To you. I guess."

His mustache twitches, just slightly. "Lot of guessing happening tonight."

You try and pull back your ankle, aiming to kick him, but he holds tightly just above where he's wrapped. (He's strong, you note, a subtle strength that sends a shiver down your spine and puts a frown on your face.) "You're lucky you're even getting an apology."

"Oh, was that an apology?" Glancing up at you through his curls, he's smiling. The sight is disarming and you feel your ankle pulse at the heat of his hand, at the pain still present.

"As good as you're gonna get, anyway." You're grumbling and you're pouting because it feels, somehow, that the tables have been turned on you in some abstract way.

"I deserve that." His focus returns to the task at hand. (You're able to stare at him once more.) "But I mean it. I'm sorry I was short and cold to you at times. I'm sorry I let my frustrations impact my professional work. I'm sorry I was callous -"

It's easy to interrupt him. "You're not callous, Harvey.” You sigh, letting your head fall back on the cushion. “You’re not callous, you’re just overprotective and stubborn to all hell.”

There’s a pause and then Harvey lets out a short laugh.

“We can’t both be as stubborn as mules, nothing will get done in this town.”

And maybe it’s the way his laugh seems to bubble up from somewhere deep. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not denying it but not backing down either (stubborn). Maybe it’s the fact that you’re bone tired and lonely and you never even hated him in the first place, you were just confused and angry at all the mistakes you were making. 

But something shifts and you let your head loll to the side, eyeing him. You let yourself smile down at him. You let yourself sit there as he clips the end of the wrapping in place (as he helps you). He gently pats your ankle twice before hoisting himself up, his knees cracking in protest. 

Harvey holds out his hand. “Friends?”

You pretend to ponder the question. “Loose acquaintances?”

He smiles. (And it really, really shouldn’t look so good on him.) “Not enemies?”

You grab his hand, a firm shake. “You got yourself a deal, kid.”

Harvey packs up your first aid kit, advises you on icing and elevating, and he sees himself out. But he’s got a hand on the door frame and he’s not smiling when he says, “Please don’t avoid the clinic. I can’t - I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you and I could have helped.”

And then he’s gone and you’re sitting alone in your rundown house, your ankle throbbing and your head pounding and a mighty ache forming in your chest. 

(Open up, little mouse.) 

Chapter Text

Winter (Year 1)

Time passes, as it always does, like this.

It is spring when you arrive in the Valley for the first time in just under ten years. For a month straight you are a recluse, speaking only to 3 people: Robin, who teaches you how to properly hold an ax; Mayor Lewis, who drops by twice to recommend that showing your face might be a good step towards 'getting involved in the community'; and Willy, who you find on your porch two weeks after you arrive, a sour look on his face.

(Willy is gruff - when was he not - and a lot less polite than the Mayor in telling you to get your ass off the farm. He complains that he shouldn't have had to come find you, he complains that he shouldn't have heard about your return through the shitty grapevine that is Pelican Town. He complains, but before he leaves, he pulls you into a rough hug that nearly sends you into tears bitten by nostalgia. This grouchy man is your lifeline to the past.)

For a month, all you can bear to do is try and clean up the mess that was left in your grandpa's wake, passing out when it's barely dark each night from exhaustion. You don't really remember what you eat, how often you shower - all of that is negligible in the grand scheme of things.

(The grand scheme of things being the total uprooting of your life, the strain of all your relationships, and the creation of an insurmountable existential dread that seems to live permanently in your psyche.)

After a month, though, you wake up to a letter in your mailbox informing you of the Flower Dance, a tradition in the Valley that you're sure your grandpa had mentioned in passing but that sounds like a nightmare currently.

Scribbled at the bottom is a strongly worded suggestion that you attend the Pelican Town community festivals.

(You missed the Egg Festival, apparently.

It's a big deal, apparently.)

So you show up, if only to introduce yourself and ward off the worst of the town's gossip. It...well, it sure is a dance. You take your leave with no goodbyes, with no ceremony. You are there and then you are not. It is not a metaphor for your life, you insist.

After the official disruption of your month of solitude, you find yourself in the town more often.

At Pierre's, picking up seeds because now you have some actual money (and some actual sense of how to plant something with the intention of seeing it grow).

At Clint's, nearly begging him to show you the proper form to wield a pickaxe (because there's no way your shoulder should hurt this much).

At the local clinic, for your annual check-up that you've already been scheduled for (and here is where you meet the doctor, here is where everything starts to go downhill. But it's important you remember that it didn't start that way. It's important you remember that your heart was beating a little faster than normal, that your thighs were sticking to the paper under you, that your eyes couldn't seem to focus anywhere - because all you could see was him, him, him. So different from Dr. Bhatti, and yet. He had asked you if you were okay. He had asked you if there was anything he should know about you. He had asked you questions and the spillage of answers had been on the tip of your tongue, no hesitation, no concern, until your brain finally caught up and you swallowed all of it back down with a wince and only a slight hint of regret.)

A month turns into two, turns into three, and all you really have to show for it is a handful of sad-looking cauliflower and kale, a growing pile of wood and stone that you’re not sure what to do with, and a lingering question of what the fuck you’re even doing here.

***

It is the summer of your first year in the Valley before you can blink. You have two sprinklers - created with the help of Robin's daughter, Maru - and you've patched up the porch swing (your first project, before the bed, before the kitchen, before the bathroom, before anything else). You watch the machine water your crops for you as you perch on that swing, a mug of instant coffee in your hand and a sunhat resting on your head. You sit and you watch and you are unsure exactly what the ache in your chest means, but at least for right now, at least in this moment, you feel like things are working in your favor. Not everything. Not much. But this? These sprinklers are working. These crops are growing. The scarecrow you haphazardly threw together is protecting.

You can take pride in this.

It is summer and it is hot and each night you find yourself at either the Stardrop or on the beach, depending on where your feet take you.

(You had never been overwhelmed by the ocean, never felt the pull of water back where you had grown up. But there is something about this ocean, something about this water, that calls to you like a siren. You often find yourself watching the waves crash to shore before Elliott or Willy or one of the boys garners your attention and distracts you from the ebb and flow. The summer makes this easier and harder; you can lay out on your less inundated work days, the heat a blanket, making your thoughts fuzzy and hard to cling onto - a relief for an over-thinker. But you also find hours passing without your knowledge, a rough grasp on time that already feels ephemeral in the Valley.)

You sit with Willy on the docks, often in silence, and he teaches you to fish. It is grueling work, both in its boredom and in your inability to be good at it right away. Willy laughs at you, tells you that maybe fishing is exactly what you need to learn that you're not gonna be good at everything, so you might as well give up on "all that nonsense" now.

You forage a little with Leah, who shows you the best places to look for spice berries and mushrooms. She also teaches you what poison ivy looks like - unfortunately, through the consequences of your own actions. You spend the next three days wearing your work gloves everywhere so you don't scratch off the skin on your ankle.

You spend more time than you'd like in the clinic with Harvey, but it's different than it was in the spring. You're a little more hesitant each visit, worried that you're starting to annoy the doctor. You walk in with a jammed finger, or a splinter you really can't get out, or a small burn, or a poison ivy rash, and it’s either Maru eyeing you with a pitying gaze or it's the doctor himself, a pinch between his eyebrows getting sharper and sharper.

(The first time he looks at you with a frown instead of one of his sympathetic grimaces, you nearly turn around and walk back out. He's quieter, the small burn on your wrist a result of a miscalculation of distance and it's truly not a big deal, but you'd run out of cream and you'd figured you could stock up. He dabs the cotton swab with some ointment then wraps a loose gauze around gently. He's as professional and considerate in his actions as he always is, but his cheek keeps twitching and for a split second you wonder if he's amused, but then -

"It's a small burn but it could easily get infected, so you need to make sure you're washing it properly and applying the ointment in the morning and the evening until it's fully scabbed over." There's an irritation punctuating each of his words. "You need to let it heal properly, okay? Infection is no joke."

You nod once, a little clumsily. "I get it."

"Do you?" The words come out sharper than you think he intends, with the way he immediately sighs and rubs a hand under his glasses. "Sorry, I - you can't keep running your body ragged like this."

And you give him as convincing a smile as possible, acquiescing. You blame your clumsiness, promise you'll do better - but really what you need is to get the fuck out of there so you can breathe, so you can go back to the farm, so you can wash this day and all the days before it off of you.

He lets you go with only a slight shake of his head.

It's not until you're back in the safety of the farmhouse that you let yourself breathe, fully.

("You can't keep running your body ragged like this."

"You can't keep running.")

You give yourself one night to fall apart, at the end of summer.

And then the next morning you are up at 6am once again, and time continues to pass, as it always does.

***

It is the fall of your first year in the Valley and your routine has become something you can look at with a burgeoning sense of productivity and accomplishment. You're trying, at the very least.

You no longer have to spend your afternoons stuck inside at the library, struggling to remember exactly what kind of conditions eggplants thrive in, what crows would even want from artichokes, and what the fuck soil density is.

You have a cow now - and hadn't that been a wondrous sight, Shane leading the little thing into your newly constructed barn. He left shortly after, a few words of advice trickling out of your ears, but you had stared at the animal before you, stared and wondered what it meant that she was your responsibility. A living thing relied on you. It should have petrified you - it did, to some extent - but the burden did not rest so heavy on your shoulders, not when the cow came over and nudged you, a small peace offering between lonely spirits, and you burst into tears.

(A somewhat reluctant friendship based on seclusion and sarcasm forms between you and Shane; the cow a symbolic olive branch - paid up, obviously - for the handful of nights you two spend next to each other at the saloon, a comfortable silence allowing for introspection. You don't know the man enough yet, know very little past his contempt for the small town and his love for his niece, but there is something to be said about silence. There is something to be said about comfortability. There is something to be said in all that is unsaid.

There's also something to be said about whatever the hell you two talk about when you're both drunk out of your minds.)

You meet Marlan and are introduced to the mines - rich in resources, he tells you, as well as horrors beyond your imagination. You laugh in his face. He doesn't blink. Not even when he hands you a flimsy sword, and what the actual fuck are you supposed to do with a sword? (It isn't until you traipse down the third rickety ladder and come face to face with a living, moving green orb - a monster, is all your mind can supply - that you wonder what the fuck you're doing here. The sword is in your hands and you're swinging it carelessly, moving on pure instinct alone, and it connects with the creature with a splat and then there's silence. You throw up. You return to the surface and drop the sword at the entrance to the mines, a faint green viscous trailing behind you. You do not return.)

You do not return to the clinic, either. Not for a while. Harvey scolds you in the saloon and you feel the heat on your face, on your neck - indignation, of course, but also embarrassment. To be treated like a child again. To be questioned, to be reprimanded, to be doubted. All of it sits like a stone in your stomach and while you operate mostly out of spite by avoiding the clinic, even when you need it, even when your body is practically begging you to ask for help, there is an underlying feeling of guilt as well. (Maybe he's right, you think. You never seem to learn. You never learned back where you came from, either. Kept making the same mistakes, kept going back to the same person, kept living someone else's life instead of your own. And look where it got you. Look where you are now, you stupid girl.)

It is still the fall of your first year in the Valley when Harvey comes to apologize, however. And perhaps it is a lesson in forgiveness, or a lesson in humility, or simply a lesson in miscommunication. (You had never hated the doctor and, in retrospect, it's clear he had never hated you either.) But when you see him two days later and he offers you a tentative smile, a small wave, you learn what it is like to drop a grudge. You learn what it is like to offer and accept forgiveness. You learn what it is like to not doubt yourself, your feelings, your reactions - and it is brief. It is a fleeting feeling. It may not stick (not yet, at least) and it’s not even that serious, in the grand scheme of things.

Except for you, it very much is.

Harvey apologizes, you apologize (in your own way, as he will joke, in the later on), and you are both...okay. Highly Fragile. 'Not enemies.' For you, though, this is a revelation.

And if you think too long about this - about the fact that you are surprised, that you expected worse, that you can't remember the last time someone apologized to you and you actually believed them, actually saw their remorse at the realization that they had hurt you - you feel sick to your stomach.

So you don't think too hard about it.

You don't think too hard about how Leah asks you to look at her sculpture, asks you what you think, won't take no for any answer, listens when you stumble through some thoughts, thanks you for your opinion.

You don't think too hard about how Elliott asks you if he can read you a small excerpt from the novel he's working on, an uncharacteristic flush on his face (he's nervous, because of what you might say), asks if it's terrible, shields his face with his hair when you say it's some of the most descriptive writing you've ever heard, thanks you for your kind words.

You don't think too hard about how Sam asks if you've ever skateboarded before and seems genuinely distraught when you say no, lights up when you say you always wanted to try though, guides you onto his board with his hands wrapped around your own, leads you slowly as you find your balance, whoops in delight when you stay on the board for longer than 10 seconds before eating shit, thanks you for spending the afternoon with him.

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.

When was the last time someone had thanked you for simply existing with them?)

You try not to think too hard about your presence in this place, the space you now take up, the inexplicable linking of lives.

You succeed, most of the time.

And then.

***

It is the winter of your first year in the Valley and there’s a camaraderie around the table that feels nostalgic, feels brimming with possibility. Alex is telling a story about some stupid gridball game and it shouldn’t be so funny, he shouldn’t be such a good storyteller, and yet. Shane and Leah are across from you, a reluctant smile (hidden behind a pint) on the former and tears of mirth coming from the latter. Even Sebastian is rolling his eyes at Alex’s antics, but he’s still there, squished between you and Sam. This table of misfits shouldn’t work, but right now, under the guise of boredom and ‘what else is there to do’, it does. And it is an absolute, utter delight. 

A light cheer goes up when Leah returns with another round, thanks and praise encircling your table in a wave. It’s a Friday night and the saloon is packed - the older folks taking up their positions near the front door or at the bar, Robin and Demetrius dancing raucously (to which Sebastian pointedly avoids catching sight of them), Harvey and Elliott playfully arguing about something at the hightop just a few feet away from your group. 

You do another once over of the pub, your eyes falling on the doctor against your volition. His tie is loose, is what your brain helpfully supplies. His tie is loose and he’s shrugging off his jacket and all you can see is back straining against white button-down. Elliott says something that makes him laugh, and he’s tossing his head back, his throat exposed, his hair starting to break free from its tidy hold. 

A sudden kick at your shin rips your attention back to the group.

“I get all my condoms from the doc.” Alex is saying as you tune back in, trying to catch up, trying to figure out when the hell the conversation turned to Alex's condom usage.

Aghast, Sam shoves him. “Wait, what? I didn’t know he gave them out!”

“Have you not been telling him you’re sexually active?” Leah starts, incredulous, just as Sebastian says, “Why would you need condoms anyway?”

Shane snorts, chin propped up in his hand. “Now that’s interesting. Not what I would have guessed from you two.”

You can’t help but interject. “Hold up - doesn’t matter who’s doin’ what, all dicks should be wrapped up if they’re goin’ anywhere near anyone else.” 

“Doc told me you can get herpes from oral, that’s crazy.” Alex shakes his head.

“Can we please not talk about my sex life, I’m beggin’ y’all.” Sam pouts, mainly in Sebastian’s direction, who looks a little too smug as he takes a sip of his wine. 

“For sure - farmer girl, let’s talk about your sex life instead.” Leah manages to turn the entire attention of the table from one end swiftly to the other before you can blink.

“You mean, lack thereof?” You try to play off the heat that is blossoming on the back of your neck - not from the topic, per se, but from the eyes all focused on you. 

“Oh come on,” Alex starts, leaning in with an exaggerated sleazy grin that makes you laugh despite yourself. “There’s plenty of hot, easy people here.”

“Speak for yourself, muscle brain.” Sebastian grumbles.

Alex just turns the grin on him. “Aw, you think I’m hot, babe?”

“I’d rather shove a stick up my ass -”

“Speakin’ of sticks up asses, is that why you’re so stressed all the time, hmm? Just need to get laid?” Shane interrupts, pushing the empty pint away (number 5, you’re pretty sure, even though you’re not trying to keep count). 

A louder snort, from Leah this time. “Pot meet fucking kettle, dude.” 

But he waves it off, scrutinizing you. It would be mildly disconcerting if it was anyone else. “Go into Zuzu if you need a one night stand, no strings attached.”

“It’s not like I can’t survive here without a fuck buddy, you asshole.” You gnaw at your bottom lip. “Plus, it’s been long enough that you stop thinkin’ about it all the time, ya know?” 

A pause. Sebastian shifts next to you. 

“Well, how long has it been?” Sam asks, and it’s so earnest and so curious coming from the young man that all you can do is shrug. 

“Mhm, well my last relationship en-ended,” you think you get away with the stumble until you see Leah’s eyebrow jerk, "like a year before I got here and we hadn’t - I - well it had been a minute. So maybe, like…I don’t know, like, 2 years?”

A deafening silence, interrupted by a whoosh of air coming from Alex like he’s been punched. 

You regret it almost instantly - saying it out loud, drinking, joining this table, coming to the saloon, coming to this town -

Sam bodily leans over Sebastian to say, “Sorry, come again?”

“She hasn’t even come once,” Shane manages to get out before he's laughing, uproariously and unrestrained. 

“Wow okay, not necessary or true.” You fight the urge to finish your drink, to hide your face in your glass.

You feel a hand over yours on the table and you look up into Alex’s eyes, Alex’s pitying eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh fuck off, Alex.” Maybe you can just make a run for it, a mad dash out the front door, keep running until you can’t anymore, don’t look back. 

What feels like hours later, Shane calms down and wipes tears from his eyes, cheeks still ruddy with glee. “Ya know, after two years, you medically can be considered revirginized.”

You can feel Sebastian’s eye roll beside you. 

Sam lets out a short laugh. “You’re lying.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die -” Shane, a hand over his heart. 

(A scoff.)

“- if you got a vagina, the good ol’ hymen grows back.”

“And if you have a dick?” Sebastian, sarcasm dripping like honey. 

“Foreskin grows back.” Shane, a poker face to kill for. 

“You’re fucking lying.” Sam again, laced with doubt.

“What if you still have it?” Alex, pretending not to be curious. 

“Uncut? I respect that.” Shane, taking a gulp of a drink that’s seemed to magically appear in front of him. (Number 6. Stop counting.) “Double foreskin.”

“Cut it out.” Leah, flicking Shane’s ear. 

“Yoba’s honest truth.” Shane, a salute and a straight face.

The back and forth is interrupted by Alex slamming the table, his upper body leaning over to get more leverage. “Doc, come over here, I got a medical question for ya.”

And now any hint of humor is gone, a clawing feeling beginning to simmer in your veins. You need to leave. You need to get out of here. You need to stop being silent. “Do not bother him with this, sweet fucking Yoba.”

But it’s too late, because Harvey hears his title and is already halfway to your table. Harvey, with his loose tie and his unkempt hair and his white button-down and fuck, he’s rolling his sleeves up, a hairy forearm exposed as he moves to the other one, look away, look away -

“You know it’s technically my night off -” And his mouth fights a lazy smile, his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose just slightly, he leans his arms on the lone chair at the head of the booth.

Sam blurts out, “Shane said if you haven’t had sex for over two years, your hymen and foreskin can grow back.” 

Another resounding beat of silence and you want to sink into the wood floor beneath you because it’s stupid, this is so stupid.

Harvey blinks once. “...maybe I should head out.”

“Sam.” Sebastian gapes at the blonde boy next to him, his face unmasked in its utter astonishment, bordering on disgust. 

Sam doesn’t back down. “What! I know it’s not true, but like…does something happen?”

Harvey, to his credit, appears nonplussed (which makes you fear the kinds of medical questions he gets asked on a regular basis). He taps his fingers against the wood of the chair. Time seems to slow down, the movement of his fingers precise and mesmerizing, beating out a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. (Look away, you have to look away.) 

“Sam, you presumably didn’t have sex until you were - well, whatever age, it doesn’t matter. But nothing happened to you during that time, right? Nothing changed?” Patience. This man has the patience of a god. 

“Well I was lactose intolerant when I was a kid, and then I, like, wasn’t?” Sam - poor, innocent Sam. 

Your eyes flutter shut. It’s so earnest, it’s too earnest, you can’t bear it, holy fucking shit.  

-

“Dude.” Alex’s voice breaks through and you have no time to process that Alex is the one who sounds so disappointed, Alex is the one who can't process the naivety. 

“What!”

Harvey’s about ready to bolt and you don’t blame him, wondering if you can escape from this hellish nightmare that is the saloon together. 

But, well.

Shane decides to open his mouth again. “Now that we’ve all witnessed the consequences of ‘No Child Left Behind’, I got a real question for you, Harvo.” 

And you can feel the shift. You’re not sure what sets you off, not sure how or what your gut knows, but your eyes train themselves on the man across from you.

The man who you’ve been willing to call a friend. 

“Say someone is real stressed, works a lot, acts like they personally gotta fight the world or some shit most of the time -” Shane, whose gaze is just a little too heavy. 

“- oh, you finally looking to get diagnosed, Shane -” Sebastian, bitingly. 

“- doesn’t know how to chill the fuck out and have fun most of the time -” Shane, whose smile is just a little too close to a smirk. 

“- he’s talking ‘bout himself, right -” Sam, uncertainly.

“- would you prescribe them gettin’ laid as part of your wise ol’ medical opinion?” Shane, who’s probably three sheets to the wind and not thinking clearly. 

You need to go. You need to fucking leave. 

“Shane,” you say instead. 

And Harvey’s amusement falls to wariness. His eyes flicker to you, imperceptibly. “Well, no, I don’t prescribe sex if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not even if you’re pretty sure that it would solve a lot of their problems?” Shane, who brought you your first cow and showed you how to pet her so gently you nearly started crying. 

“Shane,” you say instead of leaving. 

“What if this person - this imaginary person, of course - had a real fun ‘will they, won’t they’ with someone, some nice sexual tension happening -” Shane, who made you laugh so hard you nearly wet yourself when he finally showed you his Mayor Lewis impression. 

“Shane,” you plead instead of leaving, instead of stopping this, instead of doing anything.

(You never learn, do you.)

“- perhaps they have a medical kink, but who am I to judge -” Shane, who told you fucking the doctor would be easier and more enjoyable than complaining about him (and you had drunkenly scoffed, had declared that you’d rather eat glass, but Shane had just looked at you knowingly). 

Shane, who saw right through your protestations (had correctly read your righteous indignation as growing infatuation - and after the apologies, after the delicate reconstruction of you and Harvey’s relationship into something kinder and softer, had asked when you’d grow a pair and actually do the deed.)

Shane, who had asked if you needed a push. Shane, who had laughed at you when you told him you’d kick his ass if he even thought about meddling.

Shane, who won't even deign to look you in the eye as he blows up your life in real time. 

“That’s enough.” And it’s Leah who’s voice rings out clear and furious, hand coming up to scruff the back of Shane’s neck like he’s a feral cat who needs control. She shoves him back, hard, and you can see him about to laugh, about to brush her off, before his eyes finally come back into focus. 

You’re standing, shaking, hands curled into fists at your side. You can’t stop staring at the man across from you. You barely register as Harvey pulls himself up to full height, a grim look marring his face as he grabs Shane’s half-finished pint. 

“Fuck you, Shane.” It’s all the rage you can muster, all the vitriol you can pull on. You know that your outburst is confession enough, but Harvey’s not stupid and you’re too angry to care anymore. 

You grab your coat and forget your gloves and you don’t care, because you just don’t learn, do you? You just can’t seem to get it through your thick skull that people are always the same - doesn’t matter if you’re in the big city or the small town, doesn’t matter if they’re supposed to love you or hate you or be totally indifferent towards you. 

“You know, we were havin’ a good time, right? We were all havin’ a good time and you had to fucking ruin it, like always -” is all you hear as you shove through the saloon doors. 

Everywhere, people are the same. 

(You thought things would be different.)

They don’t care. 

(You thought things would be different.)

They don't care about you, they don't care about anyone but themselves. 

(You thought things would be different.)

So why the fuck should you.

-

Except. 

“These are yours.” You nearly flinch as Elliott appears at your side, shoving your forgotten gloves into your hands. 

Stopping, you glance up at the taller man. “Thanks.” Silence. “You can, uh. You can go back in.”

Elliott shoves his hands into his pockets and yawns. “Nope.” Pops the p. 

Then there’s the din of the saloon before the night quiets down again, and you watch as Leah and Harvey stalk down the steps, tying scarves and putting on hats. 

“We’re off!” Leah shouts into the winter air. She loops her arm through yours and tugs you in the direction of your farm, Elliott and Harvey trailing behind. 

And you want to protest. You want to say you do not need these three, you do not need their pity (especially not Harvey’s), you do not need them to take care of you.

And yet.

And yet.

(You can’t keep running.)

(Open up, little mouse.)

You want to protest. Instead, you squeeze Leah’s arm tighter to your own and start to skip, her cackles loud and free and contagious. You make it past the clinic before she trips and you barely keep the both of you steady. Harvey’s breathless “careful!” causes you to laugh this time instead of scowl and that is new and profound in its own way. 

“Leah, lemme leapfrog over you.” Elliot runs at the two of you and you’re shrieking and Leah is goading and Harvey is groaning but then he’s laughing, and you’re all laughing, and somehow, somehow the night has changed again. 

You crest the small hill next to the bus stop and your farm emerges before you like a painting, like a shadow, and you are still laughing, still rubbing at your cheeks that ache but in that warm and wonderful way.

Your motley crew drops you at your porch with promises of more drinks and more laughter, lingering even when they start to fidget in place to keep themselves warm. You shoo them off, with a thanks and a smile and a genuine affection you cannot bear to name. 

They’re halfway to the fence when Harvey pauses, says something to the other two, and jogs back to where you remain, hugging yourself tightly to keep out the chill. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a worn paperback.

“You forgot this, too.” Holds it out for you. “Looks like you’re about halfway through, so, uh, I figured you’d want to know how it ends.”

Like this, Harvey on the lowest step, you’re just slightly taller than him. He blinks at you through his glasses, a boyish smile forming and a pink flush, not from the cold, no, you can tell. Without the frustration, without the banter, he's shy around you, falling back into his own anxious uncertainty. But he also looks good, in this light, in this place. 

You grab the book, another word of gratitude on your lips. He doesn’t relinquish his hold. 

“Let me know if it’s any good?” And there’s something in his voice, something in his tone. He nervously pushes his glasses up and when his hand falls away, his eyes flash, they hold yours. There is no pity, like you assumed. There is only understanding and heat. 

You don’t even realize your body is swaying towards him. He doesn’t move. 

“It’s fucking cold, Harvey!” Elliott calls out and you hear the curse from Leah as she lobs snow directly into his face. 

Harvey exhales shakily, a slow close of his eyes. “Good night.”

“Good night. Harvey.” You hug the book to your chest, watch him tug Leah off of Elliott’s near prone form, watch Elliott pop up and toss an arm around his shoulder and tug the doctor in, watch until they are gone over the hill once more. 

It is the winter of your first year in the Valley, and you feel hurt and angry. You are filled with a confusing blend of sorrow and joy. You are trying to parse through the lessons you are being asked to learn, you are trying to learn them in all of their totality. 

But at least for right now, you contain all of these things inside of you and you let the messiness exist, without fixing, without solving. At least for right now, you contain all of these things inside of you and you simply let them be.

It is the winter of your first year in the Valley, and you are alive.