Why I Won't Forget You

Missed time

Quick PSA, babes.

Before y’all start side-eyeing things—this part? It’s all from Dany’s POV. So, if you’re confused, bear with me (or don’t, but then you’ll just be lost, and that’s on you).

This is your chance to really understand Clarke—the chaos, the drama, the absolute mess that led us here. So, grab a snack, sip your tea, and let Dany spill all the juicy details.

🌸💕🌸💕🌸💕🌸💕🌸💕🌸💕🌸💕

Dany pov

The house was packed. Music blaring, red solo cups in hand, bodies swaying in dim lighting—Clarkes house, Octavia would run the party and Octavias parties were legendary. It wasn’t even a question if we were going after they had a Seniors’ Day; it was a given. The moment I got home from school, O had sent the text:

"Party at Clarke'd. Usual crew. No excuses."

And, well, no one ever missed an Octavia Blake party.

By the time I walked in, the usual suspects were already there. Clarke, sprawled on the couch like she owned the place because she did, Lexa sitting beside her, ever the picture of calm. Raven and Anya were playing beer pong against Monty and Harper, with Jasper drunkenly coaching from the sidelines. Octavia and Lincoln were wrapped up in their own world, and I? I was just taking it all in.

"Questions. So many questions."

I could already hear them in my head, the voices of everyone who would ask me later—because there was always something to ask when it came to Clarke Griffin.

"Why does Clarke do this, Dany?"
"Why is she like this?"
"What makes her tick?"
"What triggers her?"
"How can we help?"
"Give us answers, Dany."
"What happened that night, girl? You were there, weren’t you?"

Yeah. I was there.

I turned my head slightly, my eyes flickering between Clarke’s sleeping form on the couch and the framed photo of us on the fireplace. Once upon a time, she was my best friend.

"We lost three people that night."

I exhaled deeply, knowing there was no escaping it now.

"They want the story? Fine. I’ll give them the story."

I glanced around at the expectant faces gathered at the table. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of what was about to be said.

"I never drank before the incident," I started, voice steady but firm. "And that is important to remember. In all cases, I would either be drinking club soda, or, while we were walking, I’d be ‘spilling’ my drink on the floor or my clothes just to reek of alcohol. But that's just for context."

Because that night? That night was different.

"Disclaimer to those of you listening to understand—this story was never, and is never going to be, my own. Because in the grand scheme of Clarke’s life, I am just a background character. Not in a bad way, but in her story, that’s what I am—a fly on the wall, observing, making sure she doesn’t do something that will get her killed.

All choices were made and cannot be undone, so any unnecessary comments or questions? I’ll sort them out, and you can fill in the blanks yourself.

This side of the story is the only clean and sober version you’re going to get. Clarke and everyone else at any party or event? They were intoxicated in one way or another.

And last, but most certainly not least, I’m not telling you this because I hate Clarke, or because I want to expose her. I’m telling you this because you’re all concerned about her. Because there are gaps in the story no one could understand—times, places, and moments that never quite added up. That left you wondering what the hell happened.