We Were Delicate, Now Meet Me in The Afterglow (Stendy)

chapter one: troubled thoughts

Wendy's POV

Stan and I, together since 8 years old, now at 15, dealing with the complexities of our relationship as the older we get, the more seriousness of relationships and their meaning become. Stan, struggling with a tarnished reputation, his mental health seemingly declining - drinking to 'help' himself, questioning if I truly like him for who he is. I do. I love him more than he'll ever know, I try and tell him all the time and express how much he means to be, but the more he becomes unsure; stuck inside his own head and thoughts. Uncertainties linger, casting doubt on the feasibility of making promises in our years. Yet, amidst the struggle, there's a longing for connection, to confront our challenges together. Yet he keeps pushing me away more and more. I know he doesn't mean to, but the hurt is real.
His reputation casts a shadow, everyone knows him as the 'sad boy', labelling him an 'alcoholic' daily, making him wonder a million things like if my affection is genuine. As he contemplates the fragility of promises, a desire for connection persists, pulling us further away as intimacy fades. The delicate 'dance' of our young love unfolds, revealing vulnerability and a cascade of questions.
Stan's drunken talk, "My reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me," resonates deeply. I do like him for him, when he's sober he doesn't get that. His uncertainty about promises mirrors our own hesitations, creating a backdrop for the intimate moments we share, like making a drink to drown our worries.
Stan's struggles become intertwined with mine. His invitation to escape to the back, the seeing his dark jeans and Nikes, look at him - damn never seen that color blue - he has style and my mind wonders if all the fun things we could do. Mostly our relationship feels like all a secret shared only between us. The tangible moments of our relationship, his hands in my hair, the echoes of his footsteps on the stairs. Yet, in the quiet moments, I wonder if he dreams of me as I do of him. Self sabotage? Maybe his doubts is his own doubts that he doesn't like me anymore, he doesn't love me anymore...
The delicate balance of our connection is painted with the hues of uncertainty, but there's an undeniable magnetism that pulls us together. Stan, like a mansion with a view, stands tall amidst the challenges, and I find solace in the thought that maybe, just maybe, our love can weather the storm.
In the delicacy of young love, we push through the intricacies, hoping that the threads that bind us remain unbroken. Is it too soon to delve into this depth of emotion? The question hangs in the air, but the connection we share persists, and I find comfort in pretending that he's mine, at least for a little while longer. Deep down I feel like it's ending.

Stan's POV

Darkness clung to my thoughts like a relentless shadow, and the weight of my struggles bore down on every waking moment. Wendy, with her unwavering presence, stood by my side in the storm of my mental health battles. My reputation crumbled, stained by the fingerprints of depression and alcohol addiction.
As my phone lit up the nightstand, a subtle glow in the pitch-black room, I longed for a connection that transcended the surface. Wendy, the beacon in my darkness, beckoned me to the back, her eyes reflecting a gorgeous shade of green  – a color that hinted at the potential for something more. Begging me to get out of this rut.
In those moments, I questioned if she could truly like me for me. The promises we couldn't make hung in the air, but she had the power to keep the light, trying not to give up on me, yet I'd mix a drink that momentarily numbed the pain every time. The delicate dance of our relationship unfolded against the backdrop of my struggles, a fragile connection that neither of us dared to solidify, or well she would more than I.
Her presence, like a lifeline in the night, offered a respite from the storm within. Amidst the dark jeans and Nikes, she saw through the facade, acknowledging the vulnerability beneath. But the question lingered – was it cool that I revealed my inner turmoil? Was it chill that she inhabited my thoughts, navigating the intricacies of my troubled mind?
The mansion of my being, once grand, now stood with cracks and flaws. I couldn't help but wonder if the girls back home could touched me like Wendy did, with a tenderness that sought to heal the wounds etched into my soul. Long nights echoed with the symphony of footsteps on the stairs, the sound of her presence a comforting melody.
In those stolen moments, I yearned for exclusivity. "Stay here, honey," I pleaded, not wanting to share the fragments of my shattered self. Yet, the uncertainty loomed – was it too soon to fully embrace the vulnerability that danced between us?
As the night unfolded, I found solace in her touch. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I wondered if she dreamt of me. Those stolen glances, when our eyes locked, became a sanctuary where I could pretend, if only for a moment, that she was mine forever, not a single thought of wanting to leave me ever, I wouldn't blame her though. The delicate nature of our connection hung in the air, a delicate dance set against the backdrop of my struggles, hoping that the fragile thread of our love could withstand the storm.