Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
006. routines
𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒. Not the kind that came with a normal life, anyway. She’d tried— more than once, actually —but it never stuck. The truth was, she thrived in chaos. The unpredictability of missions, the split-second decisions, the danger that constantly loomed— those were the rhythms she understood. The adrenaline pumping through her veins, the quick-thinking required to survive, the sense of purpose that came with being an Avenger. That was her world. But ever since the world went quiet, ever since the dust settled and the fighting wasn’t a part of her everyday reality, Ingrid had felt... lost.
Normal didn’t suit her. The slow monotony of daily life felt like a suffocating weight, like it was pulling her under. She could pretend, and she did. But pretending only lasted so long before it became exhausting. She missed the fight. Missed the feeling of her muscles coiled with readiness, missed that clarity of focus that only combat seemed to bring. She felt like she was built for something she was no longer allowed to do.
And today? Today had been one of those days she hated most. No battles, no missions. Just the endless monotony of acting like everything was fine when all she wanted to do was scream, break something, burn through the suffocating boredom.
Ingrid sat at her desk, supposedly doing her homework. At least, that’s what she’d call it if anyone asked. In reality, she hadn’t touched her textbook in hours. She sat there, still as a statue, staring at the wall with such intensity it felt like her eyes might burn a hole through it.
The wall didn’t even look like a wall anymore. After staring at it for so long, the blank surface had morphed into something else entirely. It was no longer flat, no longer lifeless. In the dim light of her room, the shadows played tricks, twisting the familiar shapes of her mind into the plaster.
If she squinted, she could almost see faces. The more she stared, the more defined they became. Her father’s face appeared first, his stubble-covered chin, that ever-present look of guilt etched into his features. Then Evelyn’s nose, sharp and defined. There were eyes, too— big, brown, desperate. Peter’s eyes. Ingrid blinked, heart sinking as those familiar brown eyes stared back at her.
It was late now— so late it was probably closer to early —but she hadn’t moved. Hours had slipped through her fingers, and she was still frozen in place, her body stiff and her mind spiraling. She was sure if she tried to stand, her muscles would protest, as though they’d forgotten how to work altogether. She was numb, trapped in this endless loop of thoughts she couldn’t escape.
Her fingers absently tapped the pen against the notebook, the steady rhythm the only thing tethering her to reality. The page in front of her was blank, save for the indentation marks from where she’d pressed too hard with the pen earlier, trying to force herself to concentrate. Why couldn’t she just focus? It should be simple. Numbers on a page. Formulas she’d memorized a thousand times over. But tonight, her brain refused to cooperate, her thoughts darting back and forth between everything and nothing all at once.
