clementines. 🍂 a jean kirstein collection

the great pretender.

summary : you're left written by an unknown author, feeling like a lost letter. Jean helps you find a home, feel real, even if it's just for a second.

warning : hurt/comfort, kinda sad, reader might have derealization (?), there's literally no real "ending" written to this.

a/n : this is literally what maladaptive daydreaming feels like to me. wrote this fic as an assignment but then it kinda spiraled info something else. this is very self projective!!!! if you dont relate to it, that's okay, please head over to my other fics that you might like but honestly im just posting it so i know that i wrote it.

middle tile art creds - veil manga!

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the circle has always existed outside of your being.

it sounded pretentious. you suppose it is, but now you're standing in the middle of a party, trying to fit into the limiting mold - the circle that's supposed to be surrounding you but has now moved away from you, opting to take a picture to remember the moment by. away from you, again, and their arms are around each other. you know their faces, their smiles and how to get them to smile, their names and why they were named it, why they changed it into a sugary nickname reserved for their circle.

its perpetual. a cycle, really, of your longing and trying and trying and trying. it wrapped around you, and the photo snaps with a flash without you in it.

it sounds so small. you suppose it is, but now you're standing in the corner in your class as they make a group - yet another circle - and you watch as it expands and grows to accommodate more people, people you've watched answer questions you never could and make themselves known more than you ever have and you watch as it closes. it locks you outside it and it's not their fault for it either because for them it's muscle memory. it's the lack of your presence that brings them comfort even if you desperately would want otherwise.

it's infinite. it's symbolic, really, of your wanting to be eternal sunshine or whatever would make people feel like soaking around you, of your trying and trying and trying of being some warmth that could somehow be encapsulated and be kept in yet another warm pocket and be loved. it wraps around you and becomes thorny and your body becomes bloody and bruised because it's choking you now and the group laughs at some joke you're not a part of.

it's funny. whatever they're laughing at. it's funny, and you're smiling because you have to.

this isn't sad. it's not supposed to be this lonely to always feel like you have a dent in your chest that wont be smoothed over. it's not supposed to be jarring to have it be this difficult to breathe. you pretend that there are arms wrapped around you, the way they're meant to hold you, the way you're meant to be held, and you pretend that it soothes you and aches you and makes your knees crumble.

the circle - so perpetual and taking up so much space - is debating on a topic that you aren't supposed to be included in and jean looks at you. from across the room, his eyes are on your frame that's been hidden behind someone else and he moves his head only a little to see your face.

you're not looking at what everyone else is seeing but he supposes you never have. he wants to walk up to you and snap his hands in front of you but he knows it won't do anything. he shakes his head affectionately and discreetly enough that no one else would see. an action meant only for him, for you even if you won't see it.