﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡."

·········

.・. .・゜✭・.・✫・゜・. .

To Mom, 

Do you remember when I was little, I ain't sure how old, but I went through this phase of getting real, real mad. I don't remember why, but the reasons were stupid, like maybe dad ate my cookie, or something. 

I remember mostly dad, would be the one trying to calm me down. Tears were streaming down my face, my fists clenched, face red 'cause I just wouldn't breathe. And rather than being mad with me, he would just try and calm me down, help me control my breathing again. 

I can hear his voice, even now, it was so calm which you and me both know was so unlike him. 'Sun, baby, follow my breaths, alright?' He'd say, and somehow, it'd work. The anger would just disappear like it was never there. 

I know this seems like a random memory to bring up, but that anger I had when I was little, it's coming back. And I can't stop it.

Days keep going by, and my anger just keeps getting worse. Although, the only difference that the reasoning ain't stupid. Everyday, from every single person, I hear 'em all talking about killing Negan. I hear Lincoln passing me and saying shit 'bout how 'my daddy's finally gonna be dead'.

Every single day, it's the same thing. I begged and begged Daryl for it not to end like this, for Negan to stay alive. But, it didn't work. Apparently his death is the only way to end this.

But I know that ain't the truth, that isn't how it's supposed to go. I finally read Carl's letter, fuck, mom, it hurt so much. But, he wanted a better future for us, he understood me when nobody else does. 

I ain't sure why, but Carl thought I'd be the one to end this, to convince Rick that the killing can stop, that Negan doesn't gotta die. 

It was weird reading it, 'cause everyone here thinks I should be on board with killing Negan. And I guess I should be, he treated me like shit, he manipulated me, he killed people I loved right in front'a me. So for that, I should hate him, I should want him dead.

But I don't.

I want him alive, mom. I don't care if it's selfish no more, he's my dad, well, was, I suppose. But he is the man who raised me, who me and you loved so much. I get he's bad now, but he wasn't like this before, was he? No, he was good, so good. 

And even if it's stupid of me to be so naive, I'm hoping there's a way for him to be good again. I'm not sure what it'll take, but maybe, just maybe he can be the dad I remember again. 

Carl didn't want this fight to end with Negan's death, and it seems I'm the only one who wants to honor what he wanted. But no one agrees. Maybe it's 'cause me and Carl are both kids, all the adults are just ignoring me 'cause they don't think I understand.

And maybe they're right, maybe I don't understand. How could I? He's my dad. These people take one look at him and see a monster. I look at him and see the man who used to read me bedtime stories, who you used to sit next to on the edge of my bed and sing that Joe Cocker song you loved. 

Daryl's sure that he's doing me a favor by killing Negan, but I just can't agree with that. If anything, it would just hurt me, it'd break my heart all over again, losing him for the second time.

No one's listening. Not really. Daryl looks at me like I'm just a kid who doesn't get it, like I'm blinded by some fairytale idea of who my dad is. Maybe he's right, maybe the memory I hold onto is just a story I tell myself to make it hurt less. But I don't think that's all it is, Mom. I remember the way he'd pull me close when I cried, or how he'd laugh like there wasn't a single thing wrong in the world. I can't believe that was all just pretend.

I keep hearing Carl's voice too, that letter echoing in my head like he's right here beside me, telling me not to give up on this. Telling me to try. He believed in something better for all of us, and if Carl could believe that, then maybe I'm not so crazy to think it's possible. He didn't see Negan as just a villain; he saw him as a person who could change, a person who might still have something good in him.

And that's what keeps me up at night, Mom. I feel like I'm standing on this line between everyone here and my memories of him, trying to pull both sides closer so they don't tear me apart. I keep thinking, what if I'm right? What if he's not too far gone? Daryl and the others won't give him the chance to prove it.

I wish you were here, Mom. You'd get it, wouldn't you? You always did. Even when things went bad, you saw the best in people, just like Carl did. You would have helped me find the right words, something to convince Rick, to make Daryl stop looking at me like I'm breaking his heart for wanting to keep my dad alive.

But I'm alone in this, it feels like. I know that if it comes down to it, if they really try to kill him right in front of me... I don't know what I'll do. I don't know if I can just stand there and watch them take him from me. Not after losing you. Not after losing Carl. And the worst part? I don't think they'll ever understand why I feel this way, why I still want to believe in him, even after everything. To them, it's just black and white—good and evil, us and them.

I wish they could see what I see, that hope Carl saw. Because if there's even the smallest chance that Negan can be different, isn't that worth fighting for? Isn't that worth just one more chance?

But my questions don't got an answer, 'cause no one is bothering to listen to me no more. I'm just a kid, a dumb kid who doesn't understand shit. That's what everyone thinks, I know it.

It just makes me so, so mad, I can't even look at Daryl no more. I know he thinks he's doing the right thing, but that just ain't the truth. He's just hurting me. 

Am I such a bad person for wanting Negan to live? To have my dad be my dad again? 

Probably. Maybe that makes me weak, or selfish, or maybe just plain stupid. But he's the only dad I've ever had, and as messed up as things got, he's still my dad. I don't care what anyone else sees; I can't just erase him from my heart, can't pretend he's nothing when he's meant so much.

But here I am, holding on to a hope that feels more like a weight than anything else. And I don't know if it'll break me or if maybe... maybe it'll be worth it in the end.

So here I am, Mom, writing to you because you're the only one who'd understand. I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish I could hear you say it's okay to feel this way, even if no one else thinks it is. I wish you'd just show up at my door and hold me so I could let all this anger go.

But that's just another thing I can't have. And I guess I'll have to live with that, too.

I don't know what's gonna happen, but I'm not letting go of him. Not yet. Because I know you wouldn't want me to. I love you mom, so much. I promise I'm gonna do my best to make sure dad doesn't die. I swear. 

Love, 

Sunny.

.・. .・゜✭・.・✫・゜・. .

Sunny left her journal on her bedside table, open on the page she'd just finished. But her thoughts kept circling around the same things, her heart pounding with a mix of sorrow and fury. 

Every single day, it seemed like all she heard was talk about killing Negan—like the plan was a foregone conclusion. And the more they talked about it, the more her resentment grew, settling in her bones like a fire she couldn't put out. No one was listening to her. No one even tried to understand.

They couldn't seem to see the other side of him—the man she knew before all of this. Memories from that life before all the horror kept slipping into her mind, flashes of a time when Negan had just been her dad. 

He wasn't always the ruthless man they all hated now. Back then, he'd been her hero, her whole world. The man who taught her to ride a bike on the empty road outside their old house, running alongside her and laughing as she wobbled, one hand always ready to catch her. She remembered how he would cheer her on, voice booming with pride. "That's it, Sunbun! You got it, baby girl! Pedal like you're flyin'!" He'd scoop her up after she'd fallen, brushing the gravel from her knees and lifting her up with ease. That was her dad—her real dad.

And the way he'd make her laugh. She could still hear his goofy jokes, the ridiculous impressions he'd put on just to make her giggle. Whenever she'd sulk or stew, he'd come up with something silly on the spot to crack her out of it. 

He once put on a terrible British accent, parading around the house as "Sir Negan the Noble" just to get a laugh out of her, and it worked. She'd laugh so hard her sides hurt, and he'd scoop her up, carrying her on his shoulders as if she were light as a feather.

They'd sit at the table late at night, after he'd finished with work, and she could always count on him to pull out a random piece of trivia, something wild or strange enough to keep her interested. "Did you know, Sun," he'd say, leaning in with that mischievous glint in his eye, "that octopuses have three hearts? So next time you're feeling a little heartbroken, just think of that—they've got two more spares." 

She'd smirk and roll her eyes at his goofy way of making even the weirdest facts sound serious, and he'd feign offense, clutching his heart dramatically like she'd mortally wounded him. He'd pretend to teeter back, like she'd just insulted him so deeply he might faint. "Ouch, Sunbun! You wound me!" he'd say, until she'd end up giggling so hard she could barely breathe.

But those silly moments weren't all he was good for; he'd been the one to calm her down after her worst nightmares, too. She could still picture it vividly—the dark of her bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, her heart racing from some dream that had left her shaky and scared. 

She'd call for him, her voice barely a whisper, and before she even finished saying his name, he'd already be at her side, brushing her hair away from her face with a gentleness that somehow made her feel safe. He'd sit on the edge of her bed, his eyes soft and reassuring as he took her hand. "Breathe with me, Sun," he'd say in a low voice, his hand over hers, rising and falling slowly as he guided her breaths until the fear in her chest finally loosened its grip. 

She'd breathe in time with him, feeling the calm wash over her like a blanket, her dad's warmth grounding her. "See?" he'd murmur, smiling softly. "Nightmares are no match for a tough girl like you."

But no one else saw that man. All they saw was the monster, the killer, the enemy. Her chest tightened as frustration burned through her. They didn't know him the way she did; they didn't know how much he meant to her. Why couldn't they see that he wasn't just some villain? Why couldn't they even try to understand? 

She didn't need them to forgive him, but she needed them to stop acting like she was crazy for still loving him.

Anger gnawed at her insides, a growing bitterness that made her skin prickle and her fists clench. They all thought they were doing her some favor by deciding his death would be a "mercy," that they were somehow protecting her by getting rid of him. 

But all they were doing was ignoring her, dismissing her feelings like she was too young or naive to know what she was talking about. And every time they brushed her off, every time they exchanged those pitying glances as if she were just a kid who didn't understand, it only made her anger grow.

She knew what they thought of her—the "naive kid" still clinging to a fantasy that Negan could somehow change, that he could be redeemed. But it wasn't a fantasy. She knew he had it in him to be the man she remembered. She'd seen it in him, even after all the terrible things he'd done. 

And Carl had seen it too. Carl had believed in a future where there didn't have to be more bloodshed, where people could live without needing to kill. But no one else seemed to care what Carl had wanted. To them, it was just a kid's dream, something that didn't make sense in a world like theirs.

Sunny's hands trembled as she thought about it, and she squeezed them into fists, trying to steady herself. Daryl had told her it was for her own good, like he was doing her a favor by planning to kill Negan. But how was it "for her own good" to strip away the one last piece of family she had? 

Every time he talked about it, every time he looked at her with that mixture of pity and frustration, she wanted to scream. She wanted to shout at him that he didn't know what he was talking about, that he had no right to make decisions for her.

The girl did see the group as her family, but Negan was her family from before. She supposed in a way she understood Daryl's hurt when she was hellbent on saving Negan, but then again, he was blood. He had once left her for Merle, how was this any different?

She felt more alone than ever, isolated in her grief and anger. To them, she was just a kid with silly ideas, clinging to impossible hopes. But to her, it was real. It was as real as the memories she carried, as real as the ache in her chest. 

She was furious that no one else would even try to see things from her side. Daryl, Rick, Maggie—all of them were so sure that the only way forward was with Negan dead. They didn't care about the cost to her. They didn't care that by doing this, they were shattering the last bit of family she had left.

Why couldn't they see that her dad wasn't just some monster? Why couldn't they see that her memories of him, however flawed and complicated, were still worth something? Her throat tightened as the anger twisted inside her, and she clenched her jaw, feeling it radiate through her whole body like a heat that wouldn't fade.

To them, she was just a kid. But she knew better. She knew that Carl had been right, that there could be a different way. And no matter how many times they ignored her, no matter how much they dismissed her words, she wouldn't give up. 

She wouldn't let them take her father's memory from her.

.・. .・゜✭・.・✫・゜・. .

Sunny was trying to keep things light, to push away all the anger swirling inside her, if only for a little while. She sat with Henry on a bench outside Barrington house, grinning as he tried to guess the missing letters on the little game of hangman they'd scratched into the floor.

"Alright, Henry," she said, holding back a chuckle, "one more wrong letter, and you're done for. Think real hard this time." She knew there was no way he was going to guess 'Anachronism'.

Henry scrunched up his face, tapping his fingers on his chin. Just as he was about to call out a letter, the sound of someone yelling tore through the silence.

"You want him alive?!"

Sunny's head snapped up, her smile dropping. Her eyes zeroed in on Lincoln storming toward her, his face twisted with anger. But then she saw what he was holding—her journal. The small notebook dangled from his grip, its pages slightly bent as he clutched it like it was something foul.

Sunny's heart skipped, then pounded with fury as she quickly stood, leaving the game and Henry behind. "Why the hell have you got that?" Her voice was sharp, her fists clenching as she took a step toward him.

Lincoln held the journal up, almost like he was showing off evidence in some twisted trial. "You really want him alive, huh?" He spat, his voice shaking. "All this talk about Negan—that monster—you actually want him to live?"

Sunny's breath caught, the anger that she'd been trying so hard to keep down bubbling up, spilling over. "It's none of your damn business what I want, Lincoln! You had no right to go through my shit!" She reached out to snatch the journal from his hand, but he jerked it back, holding it just out of her reach.

"No right?" He shot back, his voice dripping with disgust. "This whole time, you were pretending to be on our side, but you're writing all this crap about saving Negan. You're just as twisted as he is."

Her face went pale, then flushed hot with rage. "Don't you dare," she growled. "You don't know a damn thing about me or him. You didn't even know him before all this."

Lincoln's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting in a bitter sneer. "I don't need to know him to know he's a murderer. He's the reason half of us are dead, the reason we're living in hell. And you—you're here writing about sparing him?"

Sunny clenched her jaw, feeling her nails dig into her palms as she glared at him. "He's my dad," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, but each word was laced with hurt and anger. "People can change, Lincoln, or don't you believe that? You sure as shit did."

"Change?" Lincoln scoffed, his laugh bitter and harsh. "People like him don't change, Sunny. People like him are the reason this world's gone to hell. He deserves to die, and you know it. You're just too blinded by your 'daddy' feelings to see what's real."

Sunny felt her throat tighten, her voice wavering despite her anger. "You think I'm blind?" she snapped. "Maybe you're the one who doesn't get it. You don't understand what it's like to have someone who mattered turn into...into a monster. He was good to me, he was there for me when no one else was! You can't just erase that."

Lincoln's face softened, if only for a second, but it quickly hardened again. "I get that you're messed up over it, but this—this isn't right. You're supposed to be with us, to want justice. But here you are, practically begging for us to let a murderer go free."

"Justice?!" Sunny's voice rose, thick with frustration. "You don't know the first thing about justice, Lincoln. All you want is revenge, and you think killin' him will fix everythin'. But it won't. It'll just make you feel better for five minutes."

Lincoln took a shaky breath, looking down at the journal in his hand. "If you're so set on saving him, maybe you don't belong with us." His words were quiet but sharp, each one cutting deep. He dropped the journal to the ground, the pages scattering as it hit the dirt. "Maybe you should go back to him, if he's really the dad you want."

Sunny stared at the journal lying open on the ground, the words she'd poured her heart into exposed, vulnerable. Her hands shook as she stooped down, getting her journal. Her voice came out low, almost a whisper. "Fuck you, Lincoln," she muttered, her eyes dark with fury. "You don't get it. You never will."

"No, you're the one who doesn't get it. You're just like him, you know that? You're just like Negan—betraying everyone who ever gave a damn about you." He growled, then as she was picking up her journal, he kicked it out of her grip.

She'd barely picked it up when his boot came down, kicking it out of her hand. The journal spun through the air, pages flapping, before landing with a wet slap in the mud. Her heart stopped as the small, fragile Cherokee rose Daryl had given her so long ago slipped out and landed beside it, the once-delicate petals soaking up the mud, destroyed.

For a moment, everything went silent, her world narrowing to that ruined flower. Something inside her snapped.

Her vision blurred with a haze of fury as she looked up at Lincoln, who stood above her, breathing hard, his face twisted in anger and accusation. And that was it—her breaking point. Every bit of pain and anger she'd been holding back rose to the surface, breaking free in a wave she couldn't control. She sprang to her feet, leaping at him, fists flying as she tackled him to the ground.

"You think you know everythin'?!" She screamed, her fists pounding into his face. "You don't know anythin'! You have no idea what I've been through, what I've lost!"

For some reason, Lincoln didn't fight back. He just lay there, frozen beneath her as she struck him over and over, like he'd been through this before, like he understood it in some dark, unspoken way. But Sunny couldn't see that, couldn't focus on anything except the flood of anger that had been building up inside her for so long—anger at Lincoln, at the way he seemed to blame her for everything that had gone wrong, anger at everyone for treating her like she was just some kid who didn't understand.

She was angry at Daryl for not listening, for wanting to take Negan's life, like that would somehow fix everything. She was angry at the whole group for not caring how much it hurt her to lose her dad, for not even trying to understand why she still clung to those memories of who he'd been. But mostly, she was angry at herself—for hoping, for being so naive, for believing things could be different.

"Do you know what it's like?!" She choked out, her voice breaking. "To love someone and have them turn into a monster?! Do ya know what that feels like?!" She didn't know if she was asking him, the sky, or just speaking to herself, but the words tore out of her all the same.

But, Lincoln did know what it felt like. And without even realizing it, he was becoming just like the monster he had once loved.

Sunny's fists kept flying, each one driven by the pent-up rage she'd been holding inside for what felt like forever. She didn't notice the shouts around her or the fearful faces of the small crowd gathering. All she knew was the raw hurt burning in her chest, the hurt Lincoln had ripped open. She had no control, not over her anger or her tears, each strike a wordless scream of everything she'd been forced to bury.

She wanted him, or anyone, to understand that impossible contradiction she was forced to live with. She just wanted someone to understand her.

Then, suddenly, she was pulled up, her fists swinging helplessly at the air as strong arms lifted her away from Lincoln. She twisted and thrashed, her whole body fighting against whoever held her back, kicking, struggling, her voice a broken plea, "Let go! No! He needs to understand! Nobody understands!"

"Easy, Sun," a familiar voice said softly, firm but calming. Daryl's voice cut through her rage, grounding her. "I got ya. You're alright, okay? Just breathe, alright?"

But her anger didn't disappear so easily. She kept struggling, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as Daryl held her tight, guiding her away from the scene. She could feel her breaths coming in harsh, shallow gasps as she struggled against him, her mind still racing with the need to make them all understand, to make him understand.

"Do you know what it's like?" She shouted again, her voice cracking. "None of you know! You don't understand what it's like to want—to need—to believe they could change!"

Daryl's arms tightened, holding her close, his quiet voice cutting through her despair. "I know, Sun. I know," he said softly, his hand steady on her shoulder as he kept her close, grounding her. "But you're gonna be alright, ya hear me? Just breathe. We'll figure it out."

But Sunny just shook her head, her vision still blurry with tears as she clung to Daryl's words, wanting so badly for someone, anyone, to understand.

.・. .・゜✭・.・✫・゜・. .

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Honestly surprised Sunny lasted this long without snapping. 

In her crazy Rick in Alexandria era.😝😝

Also!! Special mention to my bby @Daddydarnel for giving me the idea for this chap!! <3