Chapter Text
that day meant nothing to me,
a hiccup in my memory.
judge - alex g
--
You died on a Thursday.
That would be the third time this week, not that anyone was counting. The memory replays: on your way home, you slipped on a particularly icy patch, cracking your head against the pavement. It was ugly, abrupt, and over in an instant. Nothing you weren't used to.
By Friday morning, the sun streamed through the blinds, pulling you back into consciousness. You jolted upright, your eyes darting to your posters, to the clothes strewn in guilty piles on the floor.
You were in your room, perfectly intact. Like it had never happened.
Tentatively, you traced the spot on your temple where you had landed, searching for what should’ve been a scar, a bruise, a glaring reminder of your stupidity.
There was nothing.
The worst part? With the life draining from your lungs, you could've sworn to hear a bark of laughter erupt from behind. It was fleeting, cruel and sharp, and it pierced through the haze of your grogginess. Like your death had been just another punchline to South Park’s endless stand-up routine.
And maybe it was.
By morning, no one had remembered.
The cafeteria is alive, a cacophony of chatter, clutter, and the occasional clumsy crash of a tray hitting the floor. All around, the air buzzes with the energy of the final school term: people huddled in their cliques, predicting grades, or eagerly mapping out their soon-to-be eventful summers.
It’s a scene you’re familiar with; last year’s mashed potato stubbornly clinging to the ceiling, chairs scraping against the linoleum floor as the omnipresent smell of mystery meat dangerously wafts from the kitchen.
Your table feels equally lively, the others already slipping into their rhythms - laughing, gossiping, and trading food. Since middle school, the seats by the window have been your unspoken territory, where the sun’s honeyed tones pour in. Over the years, it grew into a sanctuary built on whispered secrets, shared lunches, and unforgettable inside jokes forged between bites of questionably edible pizza.
As snippets of conversation swirl around you, you nod, smile, and hum, making all the appropriate noises. You can’t help but be distant, your brain fogging up like cold breath on a window.
Dying, it seems, has a way of leaving you disoriented, drifting just a little further away each time.
Soon, the topic shifts.
“So.…” Lola drags out the word, her voice low and conspiratorial, excitement spilling beneath the theatrical flair. “Tolkien’s party this weekend! Everyone’s coming, right?”
With the richest parents in town, it made sense that Tolkien was the one to throw all these major frat parties. They were the highlight of the year, marking the end of exams, and a rare occasion where everyone got to smoke, drink, and let loose – before inevitably throwing up on someone’s front yard.
“Bitch. Yes." Bebe’s fist comes down in giddy emphasis – the trays thumping against the table – ecstasy spreading on her face like butter. "His parents are going to be out of town all weekend! Clyde and his group will be bringing the drinks too. And, speaking of Clyde-"
Bebe giggles. "Thoughts on him?” She utters 'Clyde' with a savouring sweetness, his name like Belgium chocolate melting on her tongue.
Nichole sucks in her teeth, unimpressed. “And prayers. Are you serious? Bebe, he's chopped as shit."
She’s joking (sort of), but to be fair, she does hold the most authority over these topics. After dating Tolkien for what feels like forever, the two are practically a power couple within the school grounds. And Clyde is… an interesting choice, to say the least.
"Fuck off!" Bebe scoffs, giving Nichole a playful shove. She absentmindedly toys with a golden lock of her hair, a habit you’re well-acquainted with by now. You recall last term when she'd religiously spend thirty gruelling minutes straightening her hair; battling her defiant curls into submission while swearing like a sailor, and somehow still lose. It never failed to amuse you.
“What’s the point?” you’d tease, your voice caught between admiration and confusion. “Bebe, I’d tongue ass to have curls like yours.”
Eventually, she gave up that phase, realising her curls were better left unfried. And honestly? She wears them better this way.
“Anyways,” Bebe continues, “We have to top last year! I have tons of cute outfits if anyone needs one!”
“Yeah, I hope we do,” Annie interjects dryly, twirling a forkful of spaghetti. “Last year had the cops showing up at midnight. And if that repeats for this year, I refuse to run in those heels again.”
“Hold on. You wore heels to a house party?” Lola teases, raising an eyebrow.
“You mean the heels that perfectly matched my outfit?” Annie retorts, unhindered. “Of course I did, hello? But yeah, lessons were learned. Never again.” She grimaces, leaning back in her seat.
“Speaking of lessons learned,” Red remarks, not looking up from her phone, meticulously tousling her crimson bangs through the camera in pursuit of that perfect swoop. “We seriously need a game plan for this year. I’m just saying, no more getting stranded at ass o’ clock because our designated driver was too busy tongue-fucking Stanley Marsh under the staircase!”
Wendy yelps, flinging a crumpled napkin at her. Her cheeks flare up, momentarily matching the pink in her beret. “Oh my god, that was ONE time! And for the record, it wasn’t under the staircase, it was in the pantry. Get it right!”
Laughter ripples through the lunch table, without a hint of malice. You weave in and out of listening, idly assembling the food on your tray.
“What about you?" Wendy’s voice breaks through, snapping you out of your reverie. "Are you able to come this time?" She asks, and the attention shifts onto you.
You glance upwards. “Oh. Um.” Your voice is clogged from disuse, and you have to awkwardly clear your throat.
What were we talking about?
"Nice... weather."
Bebe wrinkles her nose. "...Okay?????? So are you free or not???? God, I still can’t believe you flaked out on us last year.” She points her fork at you, the rubbery chicken stuck to the prongs scowling at you accusingly.
“Give her a break,” Heidi gently butts in. “She told us she was sick, remember?” Immediately, you want to fall to your knees, grace Heidi's feet and feed her grapes for the rest of your life - all of which you convey in an appreciative nod her way.
It still baffles you how someone so kind would ever wound up with someone like Cartman. You and everyone else - and memories of the late-night sleepover meetings debating and dissecting the pair resurface your brain, vividly unfurling around you. You bite back a giggle.
Nichole rests her chin on her palm, flashing you a look of sympathy. “Of all the days you could’ve missed…”
You shrug, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth – not just at the memory, but at the gnawing irony of it all.
Because the truth was, you hadn’t been sick that night. Or home.
You remember how you had shown up that night, all prettied up and ready, excitement fizzing through your veins like shaken soda.
You also remember making two steps past the curb before a fifty-truck pileup barrelled into your night.
Rude.
Curled up bleeding on the asphalt, you couldn’t believe it either.
The following day, you found yourself relentlessly scrolling through Instagram. Countless stories filled with people’s faces caught mid-laughter, dancing under the gaudy fluorescence, drinks raised high - it was all too much. And you scrolled a little faster.
It was like a dam broke, with the way notifications flooded your phone that day. Concerned messages and drunken ‘where were you’s,’ all sent without a flicker of knowledge.
That you were technically there. Only, you were sort of dying ten meters away. Through the windows, you could see the party lights flashing in rapid, obnoxious bursts that painted the night in frantic, neon strokes before your eyes lethargically closed.
You sighed deeply as you responded to each message, each reply sinking heavier in your stomach than the last. Various renditions of the same, lame excuse – you were tired, or something. It was weird; you felt slightly guilty for the lie, but what else could you do? You no longer bothered correcting people, and it was easier this way.
Suddenly, you hear your name being called, accompanied by a gentle hand placed on your shoulder that yanks you back to the present.
Wendy.
“You good? You’ve been weirdly quiet all lunch, y'know?” Her voice wavers with concern that doesn't quite reach you.
“Yeah,” Red puts in, flicking a stray pea towards your direction. “You’re not planning on bailing again, are you?”
“I’m okay,” you reply, the exhaustion laced in your look betraying your words.
“If you aren’t feeling it, that’s okay!” Nichole chimes in. “We’ll smuggle some food out for you – assuming there’s any left.”
Annie snorts. "Yeah, if Bebe's fatass doesn't devour it first- OW, bitch-"
Bebe's foot connects squarely with her shin. "Uhuh." She huffs, popping a fry into her mouth. "Anyway. You better be feeling it. You have to come this weekend. Last year was tragic without you."
You doubt that. You aren't exactly the life of the party; you're the furthest from, in fact. Most likely, your back is against the wall, or you're clinging to your group like a defibrillator. Yet somehow, the sincerity in her eyes pleading with you - as stupid as it sounds - almost makes you believe it. And you appreciate that.
But as their bright faces turn towards you, eagerly waiting for your answer, you feel a familiar ache churning within you. Their bubbling enthusiasm – though undeniably contagious – had constantly carried a painful epiphany.
A reminder of the years you will never share with them, of how they’ll grow, change, and move forward, leaving you stuck in the present.
It’s faint but persistent, and so densely bittersweet. You hate it, so so much.
Still, you lean forward, smirking, flicking the pea back at Red. Pushing your feelings down, you let their enthusiasm pull you from your reverie, if only for a moment.
“We’ll see.” If I don’t get obliterated by a ten-tonne truck again. You bite your lip, sorely tempted to let that slip in.
Even if you wanted to say yes, how can you? The future isn't something you can guarantee. Promises feel like glass, fractured before you can even touch them.
It’s your final period, and you’re already fantasising about going home to decompress. The thought of kicking off your shoes and sinking into your bed feels almost arousing – but first, you have to endure one more hour. You plough through the hallway, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a freshman, and your senses are immediately deflowered by the interesting concoction of perfume, gym sweat, and the concerning lack of deodorant. Instinctively, your nose wrinkles.
As you enter the classroom, the bell tolls, signalling the start of English – the one subject where you’re completely alone. You glance around at the cluttered desks, the biscuit-coloured walls adorned with faded posters offering ‘Tips for Creative Writing!’ before reluctantly sitting down.
With her signature clap, Mrs. Harris’s cheerful demeanour silences the classroom. “Okay, everyone, settle down!”
“Today, we’re starting a mini project. Your task is to present something creative of your choice, making sure it links back to what we’ve been studying this year about The Great Gatsby.” Her eagerness is met with a collective groan that surges through the class.
“I know, it’s the last term before we break for summer. I’m very excited too – but that doesn’t mean we get to slack off now! This will be partner-based, so make sure the two of you can sort out a schedule until then.”
You glance around as whispers disperse in the classroom, friends locking eyes and mouthing "Partners?"
Lucky for you, you've managed to be in the one class shared with none of your friends. Sighing defeatedly, you’ve already come to terms with the fact that you'll probably be working alone. Double the workload, I guess - and you brace yourself for a busy weekend.
Mrs. Harris continues, smirking. “Ah-ah! Partners will be assigned randomly. We’re not having a repeat of last term!”
The air shifts. Instantly, everyone’s eyes swivel to the middle desks, hunting for Butters and Cartman. Everyone remembers their project from last term – or at least, what was left of it. God bless the janitor that day. Poor Butters waves like a deer in headlights, while Cartman seems to bask proudly in it all, the hellfire blazing in everyone's guise only stoking his furnace.
“The groups will be put on the board shortly. This will be due in for next week.”
Mrs. Harris clicks her mouse, and a slide flickers onto the projector screen, listing the dreaded pairings. You scrutinise the board, searching for your name and-
“Guess we’re partners.” You hear a voice from behind, startling you completely.
You turn your head sharply to see Kenny McCormick sliding into the chair next to you.
Oh.
You've known of him for most of your life - and somehow, known nothing about him at all. Just the blur of that notorious orange parka, and whatever chaos he and his friends stirred up in the background. Which, frankly, wasn't exactly promising.
Up until now, the two of you had exchanged a grand total of four words. Total. And one of those was "huh?"
He flashes a lopsided smile, and you fight the urge to recoil. It's one that feels too familiar, too casual, and far too close for someone whose shaggy blonde hair you literally just noticed. You return a tight, awkward smile, praying it doesn’t look as pained as it feels.
Ffffffuuuucckkk meeeeeee.
You bite the inside of your cheek and flip open your laptop, reaching for the one lifeline left: technology. The screen powers on with a dull hum. Then it starts loading. And loading. And loading.
Next to you, you hear Kenny cough.
You don't look up. You pretend not to notice. You focus intently on the spinning buffer, hoping it’ll load faster if you make it your god. Maybe if you concentrate hard enough, you could explode the laptop with your mind, and you'll be free.
He coughs again, pointed this time.
God, it’s quiet.
“So, uh, The Great Gatsby,” he says, listlessly dragging the words out. Restlessness creeps into the rhythmic twirl of his pencil as he taps his foot on the desk, letting out a puff-cheeked exhale.
“Any big ideas? Maybe we could reenact the car crash scene. Go big, you know?”
You glance over slowly. “You’re kidding.”
He smirks, one brow lifting as he leans forward. “Of course I’m kidding – unless you’re into it. Then I’m totally serious.”
Unfortunately, the delivery is perfect. You snort involuntarily, before a mental block forces you to cough into your sleeve.
For some reason, you refuse to let this guy know you find him even remotely funny.
“Let’s just start with a PowerPoint," you mumble, avoiding eye contact like it’s radioactive.
Kenny leans forward, resting his chin on his palm as he watches you add a blank page to the slideshow. “Wow,” he remarks dryly. “Something creative of your choice, and you choose a PowerPoint? I can almost smell the A.”
You scoff, ignoring his jab as you scroll online for a suitable image. “What did you want, a diorama?”
“Actually, yeah. But- okay, hear me out." He kicks back on his chair, gesturing broadly like he's pitching a startup. "I'll be generous and handle crowd control. You can take care of the slides, notes, research, and presenting."
You roll your eyes as you copy a flattering image of the author, fighting the smile stirring your lips. “...Right. Absolutely not. You’re not getting out of this.”
He sighs in mock hurt, followed by a lazy grin, so charmingly bright you almost shield your eyes. “Worth a shot.”
You hit paste, and to your horror, an image of Microsoft Clippy promptly fills your screen.
Incredibly pregnant.
“Oh. My God.”
Mortified, you recognise it instantly – that was something you casually sent to Red in History, much to her distress. And now it’s plastered all over your laptop, loud, proud and 7 months pregnant, completely obscuring the title slide under your partner’s watchful gaze.
Before you can delete it, Kenny claps his hand to his forehead, with a sharp, incredulous wheeze. On the other hand, you pray for divine intervention to strike you down right now, preferably taking your partner with you. That's Kenny McCormick, by the way, if someone is listening.
“Holy shit, dude,” he gasps, slumping back with a teasing glint in his eye. “Now we’re getting creative.”
You groan, burying your head in your hands, your mind scrambling for a witty comeback that could somehow rescue your dignity. Between your fingers, you catch a glimpse of him still laughing, his shoulders trembling under the weight of his cackles, head tilted back like the whole ordeal just made his year.
Despite yourself, ecstasy bubbles in your throat, tentative at first, before slipping out into bursts of giggles. The sound catches you off guard, increasing in volume until it interlaces with his, filling the space between you. You feel the tension in your shoulders loosen, the air swirling with a contagious warmth.
Kenny wipes a tear from his eye, his voice dipping into a playful tease. "What the fuck man? You've ruined Clippy for me."
Your ears burn furiously crimson, yet you can't help but smile back. Finally, you mumble, “You’re presenting all the slides.”
He recovers, barely, before breaking off into chortles again.
“Gladly.”
--
By the end of the period, the two of you have managed to cobble together a total shitshow. A vortex here, the sweep of a curtain there - each transition lengthier and more obnoxious than the last.
You could have fixed it, of course. Instead, you laughed until your sides hurt, and when the bell rang, you packed your laptop away a little slower than usual. "So, when do you want to continue this? Oh, right. I'll need your number.” You pause, zipping up the contents of your bag, sliding your phone towards him.
Kenny’s face contorts into a cocky grin. “Well, I'm flattered."
Thoroughly ticked off at the implications, you shoot back, “How else are we gonna communicate for the project? Messenger pigeons?”
“Okay, okay.” He chuckles, handing the phone back in a mock gesture of surrender. You glance at your phone and, for god's sake, he’s saved himself as ‘Super Suave Six Foot Nonchalant Mysterious Dreadhead.’ Rolling your eyes, you look up to shoot him a glare, and Kenny reciprocates your look with a shit-eating grin.
“Don't forget humble.”
You scoff, though a snicker escapes. Strangely enough, you feel relatively eager to work on the project with him, and, impossibly so, English was shaping up to be a class to look forward to. An interesting way to wrap up the day, you suppose.
As you push the door open, the conversation lingers, looping in your brain, leaving a faint smile dancing on your lips.
For a moment, the present doesn't feel so distant anymore.