Y'all I don't even like this that much... I just wanted to write Marelliana letter-writing trope...

Dear(est) Biana,

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

...

Marella sits with Sophie at lunch, but her (only) friend is more distracted than usual today, and Marella hates the reason why.

Sophie peeks across the lunch table, to where the Vackers sit, surrounded by their little bubble of fame and friends and laughter. Pink tints Sophie's cheeks, and Marella twists to see Fitz gazing back, a soft smile on his face. The world around them, in their minds, no longer exists. It is simply the two of them.

This is, Marella knows, a Moment.

A significant one, a fleeting one, an endless one, it doesn't matter. A Moment, nevertheless, that Marella has seen before. Back when she was just like Biana and all her little friends, with her jeweled hair and perfect smile and flouncy walk.

(the walk that she still can't train herself out of. Reinventing herself can't wrinkle every part of her she used to keep pressed and smooth)

She's seen all sorts of Moments, of course, because this is a school with hormonal and naïve teenagers who can't seem to keep their stares and smiles and star-crossed love to themselves. The star-crossed love that is more like a shooting star, there and gone the very next day.

Marella has experienced a Moment, because who the hell hasn't, but it was another one of those shooting star Moments. It didn't last nearly long enough before it fell into the sea, burning away into nothing.

She's still staring at the Vackers, and it takes her a moment (a Moment) to realize that someone is staring back.

Someone with teal eyes.

Someone with brown skin.

Someone wearing pink.

(it's not Fitz. it's not a boy. it's not anyone that she could conceivably have a Moment with. no, it's someone that is completely and expressly forbidden)

(someone completely and expressly irritating, because Moments like these are supposed to be over between them)

(of course it is. just her luck)

It's Biana.

Shit.

...

(Darling) Dear Biana,

Please get out of my head.

I'm being polite, see? You always say I'm not polite. But I am. I said please.

...

What went wrong? is the usual question Marella likes to ask herself, to torture herself with.

Usually, the answer has nothing to do with herself.

If she can blame it on Biana, then it won't hurt so much, right? (wrong, oh god so fucking wrong)

So she does, telling herself that Biana couldn't stand the secrets, the stolen moments (Moments), the whispers when they snuck out together. Biana couldn't handle it, Marella tells herself, because that's the only explanation she can stand to what went wrong, the thing that broke both of them so thoroughly that Marella is still finding cracks.

Because if she doesn't hold onto this blame, then she has no one but herself to turn it to.

And then she might start thinking about things like how she was always too scared to hold Biana's hand in public. Or how she curled into herself as soon as she felt too exposed, or how she didn't trust that Biana would ever want to choose her over her life as a Vacker. Didn't particularly trust her at all.

Thought like that are dangerous.

Thoughts like that make the cracks spread further.

Moments and dreams are separate things. What they had was a Moment, but it turned into a dream. And then they woke up.

So she just keeps on asking that question, even though she knows the answer, knows every answer there is.

What went wrong?

Eventually, she might find the truth.

...

Dear Biana,

It's over, okay? It's been over.

So why can't I stop thinking about you?

...

Marella has many, many secrets.

Some of them concern the broken glasses that she hides before her father comes home, from when her mother has lost her grip in the middle of holding one or threw one to the ground when her mood switched too quickly. Some of them are along the same lines: pillows with the stuffing torn from the case, tear-tracks on Caprise's face that Marella has to dry, the warm hugs that there are a distinct lack of in her house.

Her secrets are dangerous, all of them, because if they are shared, her father will never look at either of them the same way. No one would look at her the same way.

If there's one thing she hates (she hates a lot of things, really), it's pity. Pity from everyone she has ever known.

So they stay hidden, swallowed down with all the words Marella has never said.

Except once. To one person.

Because there is one person who knows her secrets, all of them, all the mysteries she keeps wrapped inside.

And she hates it.

Knowing someone is the easiest way to destroy them.

And she has been destroyed.

...

Dear Biana,

How pathetic am I? That's a new kind of game for me to play.

The answer usually depends on how many times in a day I think of you.

Today I put on lipgloss and imagined it tasted like yours. Today I climbed a willow tree like we used to do. Today I cried because you weren't there to make me laugh.

How pathetic am I? Pretty fucking pathetic.

Bet you can't beat me at this game.

I win.

...

There are two explanations for how it started, and millions for how it ended.

It's easier to think about the beginning, though. When it was fresh and new and exciting and they would delight over their shared mysteries. Before it became too terrifying, too real.

So there are two different explanations for how it started, and they are better to think about than how it ended.

Explanation one: Marella can't keep her damn mouth shut.

Explanation two: Biana's hair is too soft to be real, so Marella can't be expected to not let it run through her fingers.

Of course, there are other reasons that explain how it happened. Reasons like how Biana's lips form a rosebud when she purses them, and how Marella is the only one who can find her when she disappears, and how Marella's hair glows in the sun, and how her fire isn't enough to scare Biana away.

But Marella just likes to think of the two.

One: Marella's quick words (I can't fucking stay away from you anymore)

Two: Biana's hair (it slides through her fingers as they kiss, like a river that quenches the flames)

Easy. Simple.

Over.

...

Dear Biana,

Moments (Moments) last years, don't they?

Because it's been years, but ours hasn't ended yet.

It's not normal for Moments to keep on happening every time you meet my eyes. They're supposed to last for seconds, not days, not weeks, not months. A glance, a smile, and done. Like shooting stars, right?

Our Moment hasn't ended yet.

It's terrifying.

And that's why I hate you.

(Love) From, Marella

hey besties i love them a lot. my writing? eh. them? yes.