you want the sunrise, go back to bed
natejenny

a.n: this fandom needs a little more natejenny love, so i took it upon myself to do little drabbles of this unbelievably adorable and innocent pairing. i was actually planning to write this a while ago, but i just watched that movie, dear john (i know, i know; i'm so late) and paperweight by joshua radin and schuyler fisk inspired me to actually begin writing this. enjoy.

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Jenny Humphrey loves being right.

Nate Archibald knows this, knows her, and he probably knows her more than he knows himself. He lets her be right sometimes because she likes having the satisfaction of being right, of getting the right answers, she loves being sure and loves being told that she's right.

I was right, her text says, and he can almost feel the smirk on her lips, again.

Yeah, you always are, he replies, a little begrudgingly as he types out the words.

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She spends her days in Hudson wandering around her neighborhood, barely paying any attention to anyone in class, loosing herself at every ignored text message, and drowning her sorrows in drinks.

She's seen better love stories.

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She stumbles into the airport, her feet sliding down the floorboard, her cheeks pale, but she doesn't shed a single tear.

She'd rather break apart in the inside than fall into pieces on the outside, where everyone can see. She brushes a strand of her bleach blonde hair behind her ear and enters the airport.

She blinks and as he looks into her eyes, he realizes that she wants to cry. "I'm back," she says, lifting her bag halfheartedly as she steps forward, her eyes molding into his.

He stares at her blankly, "nice to see you again."

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As he helps her with her luggage, he notices the cigarette box in her bag, but he doesn't question it as she wipes the edges of her smudged eye makeup and as she holds up her compact, examining the vision in the mirror.

Instead, he pulls her closer; wrapping his arm around her waist, and the familiar strawberry scent lingers in the air as he kisses her glowing tendrils. It shocks her, but she intertwines their fingers.

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"I'm not in love with you anymore." she tells him one day, her eyes glued to her fingernails, and when she looks up, the intensity of his eyes are so strong she has to look away.

He blinks and calmly crosses his arms, his voice ice-cold, "liar."

She doesn't deny it.

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In the world beneath her eyelids, she thinks she could be perfect.

In reality, she's the furthest thing from it. She knows she's flawed to the bone, filled with microscopic little mistakes that blur her vision and the taste of metal is left stinging inside her mouth, but Nate wraps his arms around her shoulders and she lets her cares and worries melt into the warm summer air.

She knows better, though.

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She spends most of the summer at his house, and she sometimes crawls into his bed and sleeps next to him, only sleeps, because she knows the dangers of getting too attached.

She can't help but notice the unintentional irony.

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They take a walk in the beach one day, even though it's raining, but she wants to go because no one's going to be there in the heavy downpour.

Her hair gets wet, but she doesn't mind. He drags her along the seaside and she laughs and her voice muffled by the heavy rain, but still angelic and chime-like. He smiles.

She drags him into the ocean, her hair sticks onto her skin as she splashes water at him, screaming as he circles her waist and spins her around the ocean, laughs as he splashes water into her face.

She doesn't mind the way the sand dries up on her legs and the water stings in her eyes, not really, because he's right beside her, and for the first time, things seem so simple.

But she knows that's not the way it's going to end.

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He wakes up, and she's not there.

And he doesn't even bother to pick up the phone and ask where she is, because he darn well knows. He slides under the covers and closes his eyes, breathing in heavily.

His sheets smell like her.

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She strays away from anything that reminds her of him, spends her days focusing on her work, partying with her friends, trying desperately to forget.

He dreams about her.

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I miss you, his text says.

She deletes it.

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She wants to travel the world but she has no one to share it with, she tries to forget by putting her lips against the fabric of her clothes, straightening them out, designing new ones and selling old ones, sealing fashion deals, posing for cameras and lining her eyes with mascara to hide what's really inside.

If her eyes are the windows to her soul, what do people see when they look into her eyes?

Because all there's really to see is a pool of green that swirls dramatically, lights up when she laughs or smiles, darken when she cries and stays their natural color when she smirks, but deep down she knows that she's lost, no longer in control, her direction is off and she doesn't know where she's going, or what she wants.

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He doesn't remember who he is anymore.

His eyes are closed because he's too scared to open them, but her eyes are always wide open, looking freely, and she seemed so innocent and so sustained that he thought she was harmless, unscathed, and fearless.

He was wrong.

Because she's so damaged and masked that he's afraid to look at her, afraid to search in her eyes and see what's left of her, where the remains of the girl from Brooklyn who was sweet and innocent went and how much of that girl is still inside.

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She shows up at his house.

She doesn't know what brought her here, or why she let her emotions control her and lead her to where it all began, but something slices in her chest and she bites her lower lip as he opens the door, eyes unwelcoming as they settle on her.

"I missed you," she says quietly.

He lets her in.

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She wakes up.

It's the same thing all over again, sheets draped over her shoulders, eyes lidded with mascara and eyeliner that's dripping down her face because of the wet tears forming in her eyes, hands shaking uncontrollably as she peels the blanket off, slipping on her heels and smoothing out her skirt.

She lets go of his hand.

He's sleeping on the furthest side of the bed, as far away from her as possible, a small, tight smile stealing his lips as he sleeps soundly. She gulps, straightening her hair with her fingers and getting up, pushing the clothes into her suitcase and grabbing only the necessities as she heads out the door.

But this time, she leaves a note.

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When he wakes up, she's not there.

He's not surprised, honestly, not the least bit, but he looks to his left and finds a letter on the pillow she should be sleeping on.

You're in love with is the girl you met years ago. But I'm not that girl anymore. I never will be her ever again. You should just give up before we both end up with broken hearts.

— J.

He can't help but think that it's somehow too late.

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You were right, he says in his voice mail, and she listens attentively, waiting for something, anything, really, but that's all he says.

The second he hangs up, she saves the voice mail before she drifts to sleep, her thousand thoughts scattered, her vision blurred by the streaking tears, and yet, somehow, his words still linger and replay constantly in her head.

You were right. You were right. You were right. You were right.

She can't help but wish she was wrong.

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