Emma Watson, Florence Pugh, Elizabeth Olsen, oneshots (GxG)

𝐒𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 ⚌ 𝐄.𝐎

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, staring at her phone screen. Lizzie's number was still pinned at the top of her contacts, right where it had been for months. She knew every inch of that screen by heart—their last text messages, the ones before things had fallen apart. It was always the same routine: she'd pick up the phone, hover her thumb over Lizzie's name, and then drop it back down, telling herself today wasn't the day.

It had been three months since Lizzie had walked out of her life. Three months, and Y/N still wasn't used to the emptiness. The home, (though it felt like anything but a home) once filled with laughter, music, and Lizzie's constant chatter, now felt cold, like a place where memories came to die. The guitar in the corner gathered dust, its strings untouched since the day Lizzie left. Y/N couldn't bring herself to play anymore. Every time she tried, every chord seemed to pull her back to a moment, a feeling, a time when Lizzie had still been hers.

She got up, pacing the living room for what felt like the thousandth time. It was ironic, really. Y/N had spent so much time trying to maintain control, building walls to protect herself from getting hurt. But in the end, she'd been the one left shattered. Lizzie had broken through every defense, gotten close in a way no one else had, and now she was gone.

With a groan, Y/N ran her hands through her hair and stared out the window, her reflection barely visible in the glass. The city moved on outside, as though nothing had changed, but Y/N's world had ground to a halt the night Lizzie walked out. She could still remember that argument like it was yesterday—the shouting, the way Lizzie's eyes had filled with tears, the way her voice had trembled as she said, "I'm so sick of this, Y/N. I can't keep doing this."

Y/N had stood there, stone-faced, refusing to give an inch. She hadn't begged Lizzie to stay. She hadn't said what was sitting heavy on her heart, the words she should've said a hundred times: I love you. I'm scared. I don't know how to fix this. Instead, she'd let Lizzie walk out, thinking it was what they both needed—a break, some space. But space had only widened the chasm between them, and now Y/N didn't know how to bridge the gap.

Y/N's phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. For a split second, her heart leapt. Could it be Lizzie? Had she finally reached out? But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Just another meaningless notification.

"Get it together," Y/N muttered to herself, tossing the phone onto the couch.

She was sick of herself, sick of the way she kept holding on to something that wasn't coming back. Lizzie had always been the better part of them—kind, patient, forgiving. Y/N had been too afraid to meet her halfway, too afraid to be vulnerable. And now, Lizzie was probably out there, moving on, while Y/N was stuck, trapped in the ruins of what they'd had.

In a moment of frustration, Y/N grabbed the guitar. Her fingers fumbled over the strings at first, but soon, muscle memory took over. She strummed lightly, a few soft notes filling the room. For a moment, it almost felt right, almost felt like the old days when Lizzie would sit beside her on the couch, her head resting on Y/N's shoulder as she hummed along to whatever Y/N was playing.

But then, the weight of reality came crashing back down. Lizzie wasn't here. She wasn't going to walk through the door, smiling that crooked smile that always made Y/N's heart skip a beat.

As the music flowed, Y/N's mind wandered back to the last song she'd written—the one she'd never finished. It was supposed to be for Lizzie, a confession in the form of lyrics. Y/N had never been good with words, but music had always been her language, the way she communicated when speaking felt too hard. She had started writing it months before everything fell apart, but she'd never shown it to Lizzie, too scared to put her heart on the line.

Now, that song felt like a ghost, unfinished, just like them. Y/N's hands shook slightly as she played, the melody pulling her into a swirl of emotions she wasn't ready to face. Anger, regret, sorrow—all of it tangled together in a mess of notes. The music wasn't clean or polished; it was raw, heavy, just like the ache in her chest that refused to go away.

The phone buzzed again. This time, Y/N didn't look. She didn't care who it was. No notification could fix the empty seat across the room where Lizzie used to sit, or the fact that she'd let her pride ruin the best thing she'd ever had.

The apartment felt too small, too suffocating. Y/N stopped playing and stood abruptly, heading for the door. She needed air, space, something to clear her head. But as she stepped outside, the cool night air didn't do much to ease the tightness in her chest. The city was alive with sounds—cars honking, people laughing in the distance, but it only made Y/N feel more alone.

She walked aimlessly for a while, trying to escape her thoughts, but they clung to her like shadows. Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of Lizzie—the coffee shop where they used to spend lazy Sunday mornings, which was rare for them both but when they had the time they went, and the park where Y/N had insisted on teaching Lizzie to roller skate. It felt like the universe was mocking her, reminding her of all the things she could no longer have.

Finally, Y/N stopped, leaning against a railing overlooking the river. The water was calm, shimmering under the moonlight, but it didn't bring her any peace. She pulled out her phone again, staring at Lizzie's contact. It would be so easy to send a message, to call and say she was sorry, that she missed her, that she didn't know how to move on.

But Y/N knew better. Lizzie had made her choice, and Y/N had to live with it. She'd built this wall between them brick by brick, and now it was too tall to climb.

With a heavy sigh, Y/N put the phone back in her pocket. She'd always been good at moving on, at keeping things casual, but this time was different. Lizzie had gotten under her skin, and no matter how hard Y/N tried, she couldn't shake her.

As she stood there, staring at the water, she realized something: maybe the real reason she couldn't move on wasn't because she missed Lizzie. Maybe it was because she didn't want to let go of the person Lizzie had made her feel like—the version of herself she actually liked, the one who wasn't scared to be open, to be vulnerable.

But that person was gone now, lost in the wreckage of what could have been. And all Y/N had left was the fading echo of the life she'd let slip through her fingers.