When A Fic Doesn’t Fit My Head Canons But It’s Well-written

I love this so much

Anyone who's ever done anything creative needs to fucking see this.

Writing Prompt #10

A is violently ill and B has no idea what to do.

10 Soul-Level Secrets Your Character Is Carrying (And Hiding Like Their Life Depends on It)

These are the kind of secrets, that keep your character up at night. The kind that twist their decisions, poison their relationships, and build a wall between who they are and who they pretend to be.

» They think they ruined someone’s life, and no one knows.

It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t obvious. But maybe they said the wrong thing. Maybe they didn’t show up when it mattered. Maybe they walked away and something irreversible happened. No one connects the dots. But they do. Every day.

They smile like everything’s fine. They help people. But underneath? They’re trying to atone for something they never confessed.

» They don’t believe they’re capable of being truly loved.

They might flirt. They might date. They might even say “I love you” like it’s nothing. But they don’t believe it when it’s said back. They think people are just being kind. Or delusional. Or lying. It doesn’t matter how good they are—it never feels like enough. So they self-sabotage. Quietly. Strategically. Like clockwork.

» They’re living a life that’s not theirs.

Maybe they took someone’s spot, figuratively or literally. Maybe they’re fulfilling someone else’s dream, wearing someone else’s name, carrying someone else’s story. They were supposed to say no. Walk away. Be honest. But now it’s too late. Too deep. Too tangled. So they pretend this version of their life is real. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

» They’ve buried a part of their identity because it was safer.

Their queerness. Their culture. Their belief system. Their softness. Their rage. At some point, they decided—this part of me makes people leave. So they buried it. Cut it off. And now they move through life like a shadow of who they were supposed to be. They blend. They perform. But deep down, something sacred is starving.

» They still love the person they say they hate.

They’ll deny it. They’ll joke. They’ll talk sh*t with a smile. But the truth? They never really let go. And they never will. It’s in the way their voice shakes. The way they remember the smallest detail. The way they get weirdly quiet when that person’s name comes up. Love laced with bitterness is still love. That’s what makes it so hard.

» They’ve hurt someone on purpose—and never apologized.

It was calculated. Or maybe impulsive. But they knew what they were doing. And they did it anyway. Now they pretend it didn’t matter. They laugh it off. “We all make mistakes,” right? But in the quiet moments, it haunts them. They remember the look in that person’s eyes. They remember the moment they chose cruelty. And they hate themselves for it.

» They think they’re a bad person deep down.

They might be kind. Loyal. Brave. But they’re convinced it’s a performance. A mask. That underneath all the good, they’re something rotten. Unforgivable. Wrong. So they wait. For the slip-up. For the fallout. For someone to finally say it out loud: “I knew you were never really good.”

» They’re still shaped by something they pretend didn’t happen.

That thing? The trauma? The grief? The shame? They’ve never talked about it. Maybe they’ve blocked it out. Maybe they minimize it. But it’s everywhere—in the way they react to conflict, touch, silence, love. They don’t think it matters anymore. But it does. It always has.

» They dream of leaving. But never will.

Every day, they imagine packing a bag. Burning it all down. Starting over. But they stay. Because of guilt. Obligation. Fear. They smile while doing the right thing. But in the back of their mind, they’re screaming. They’ve built a prison out of choices that looked noble on paper.

» They’ve built a whole personality around keeping people from seeing who they really are.

The loud one. The chill one. The one who always makes the plans or always fixes the mess or always has a snarky comeback. It’s not fake. But it’s not all there is. They’ve decided that the real them? The soft, scared, selfish, angry, insecure them? Can’t be loved. So they keep the performance airtight. But some part of them still hopes someone will see through it anyway.

the entire time i am having right now

Me reading another person's writing: Oh they missed a period there, no worries mistakes happen :) Three adjectives in a sentence? Adverbs for days? No worries I love descriptions and this story is fire.

Me seeing the same thing in my work: Wow am I illiterate? Am I actually ok? Who the actual fuck told me I can write so I can go and curse their entire family for the time it took for me to carefully craft this GARBAGE.

need more “guish” words. anguish. extinguish. languish. great for when a character is bleeding out on the floor

being a writer is having the wiki page for ancient plumbing systems open for weeks and refusing to close it because 'just in case'

sometimes intimacy is a field standing between you and the person you want most.

What the hell even is intimacy anymore? It feels like that word is everywhere. ‘The intimacy of this, the intimacy of that’. It’s a little funny, how I seem to complain of that wording in spite of the opener of this post. But truth be told— I’m not complaining. Not about the core value and notion of the sentiment. Sure, I think people could be more original with titles— but that’s just a nitpick. I’m glad people are realising there’s an intimacy in almost everything. An intimacy in life’s small pleasures, an intimacy in perhaps a breakup or a falling out. Intimacy is a word that triggers the human psyche— brings intrigue and sometimes, I think, for a lot of us— it can bring a sense of anxiety. And with that being said— if your idea and sense of intimacy is not much beyond something like physical relations, well— then maybe you won’t understand the nuance of what I and a lot of other people are saying and coming to realise. Intimacy, in my eyes, goes so much beyond the physical. To be intimate— to look into the eyes of someone, to laugh, to cry, to be perceived. It’s all sickly intimate. Oh, as I type this in my late afternoon, I’m coming to realise how much I am hating that word. Simply because it has bern dulled down to nothing. Nothing everything has to be euphemistic, my possibly close-minded reader. Not everything in life is chalked up to a human hunger, lust.

For me? There’s nothing more intimate than distance. Between me and this hypothetical person, stands a field. And what is in that field? Well, it’s whatever I want it to be. Maybe it’s empty and sun bleached, maybe it’s lovely and green with a small pond and that long grass that snakes seem to love to hide in. Maybe it’s full of flowers— yellow ones. Because I know that they’re her favourite colour. What stands between this person is something only myself and they know. It’s between us— between two souls whom shall not utter a single word to eachother, for one reason or another. However, actions always weighed more than words. A glance to me may feel more intimate than a kiss— a kiss can only portray one or two things. But a glance? A glance is a glance into the soul of the other person. A glance can mean a million things? Is it the look of love? Lust? (Seeing how my generation seems to care about not much else)— or maybe it’s one or anger? Unspoken words that stay unspoken like a sin? Maybe you’ll look at me and I’ll have to wonder why it is you looked at me that way. What it is about me that caused the twitch of your left eye. I doubt I’ll ever know. But it’s intimate. I’d be exploring and guessing the inner workings of a brain that is not mine— my calloused fingers (probably calloused from doing this a million times over, mind you) shall run their course along the curves and crevices of one’s brain, perhaps one’s soul, should I want to look that deep. Maybe I’ll run my index and middle fingers along the valve of your heart. My curiosities metaphysical body will touch your unknown soul— isn’t that intimacy? For those who chalk intimacy up to physicalities, think of it metaphorically. There is an intimacy in everything. So much so that the word holds so little weight. But because it’s so humane— so every-day— that’s why it’s so important. That’s why it’s important to appreciate it. Breathing air is normal, but losing oxygen will kill you. Appreciate things. Appreciate the intimacy of life.

Flying is effortless, landing can be a little bit harder, Cornell Lab / DoC (northern royal albatross) (part 1)