the last words any of the yellowjackets girls ever heard from you was a weak, squeaky help. then the crash.

the smell of burning metal and flesh filled your senses as you finally came to, strong enough to lift your head a few inches off the dirty ground before your weakness kicked in again and your head bashed back against the floor.

you were pretty sure one of your fingers or legs or something were broken, everything felt floppy. that was nothing compared to what you saw when the wing was lifted, revealing the sight of coach ben’s deformed leg.

you were probably sick atleast three times, everything was a blur. literally, the nausea was causing you to be dizzy too and everything felt disgusting and weird.

even when everything was under control, you still could feel your stomach churning and spinning, your head pounding with fear and something else you couldn’t quite make out.

how was everybody talking and laughing like nothing was wrong? everything, everybody was fucking ruined. the tournament, your lives.. nobody was okay, why were they acting like it?

your anxiety was the most noticeable, as you didn’t speak. at all. you’d been left with so much trauma and little comfort that talking was off the table. you just sat back and observed what everybody else did, watching as they didn’t care about your feelings.

except they did. the team sat you down on the logs outside one day, sharing nervous glances before shauna spoke up.

“we’re worried about you, {{user}}.” shauna said, almost nervously, swallowing before looking up at you.

lottie’s eyes were sympathetic as she spoke. “is there something you’d like to talk about? we just want to help..”