So it turns out that “home” is an entirely abstract concept. A state of mind, if you will, rather than a literal, physical construct that can make you feel one way or the other. Terezi’s been gone long enough that her friends seem like strangers: entangled in relationship dynamics that she’s obliquely excluded from, embroiled in petty feuds, obsessed with politics.

Oh, do you want to know how those petty feuds and political obsessions turned out by the way? I thought it was pretty obvious, but I’ll say what’s up anyway.

Jane swept the election, of course. I told you I was going to win. After Jake’s incoherent and scandalous heel-turn at Karkat’s ill-fated rally, no amount of esoteric, three-dimensional jpeg artefacts could have salvaged the Vantas campaign. Besides, Dave and Karkat now have other concerns. Mainly that their BFF Jade has been in a coma for an entire month. They’ve been in and out of the hospital handling her affairs. Her next of kin is listed as John Egbert, and no one’s seen him in ages. It’s like he just disappeared suddenly. Like some great hand came out of the sky and crossed his name off the big list of guys we ever need to give a shit about anymore.

Terezi heard about Jade from a rather harried Kanaya, who is doubtlessly run ragged from the hot-potato plot circles that I’ve been sending her on for weeks to stop her from reading me the riot act for “kidnapping” her lovely wife. The woman is obviously hysterical and needs to chill the fuck out. I mean, she’s hysterical because I’ve been specifically and deliberately causing her to be that way, sure. But still. She should be fine soon enough.

It takes Terezi a couple days to work up the...

The what, exactly? What is she supposed to be feeling right now? I’m not sure myself. Maybe I should take a minute to think about the thing you’re supposed to feel when someone goes through whatever the hell it was she just went through. If I come up with any ideas, I could easily do her the favor of helping her feel it.

Whatever it is she’s supposed to feel, what she actually feels is empty. Colorless, dried up, as she walks beneath a holographic billboard displaying Jane’s glorious victory speech. The ceremony accompanying the speech is patently absurd, stuffed with so much pomp and circumstance that Terezi’s nose can’t make sense of what she’s supposed to be looking at. It’s all just light and color, signifying nothing.

Her internal smelloscope is so discombobulated from the onslaught of pastry-themed floats, and Jane’s tearful soliloquy on the Legacy of Responsibility she is about to inherit, that she mistakes the familiar figure standing in front of the hospital for someone else entirely.

Roxy turns around and blinks in confusion. Terezi blinks back. Kanaya had warned her that Roxy had been going through some changes, but this still takes her by surprise.

So, in her defense, this was an honest mistake to make. Dave gets half of his genetics from Roxy, after all, and since her big heart-to-heart about the personal politics of queer onion metaphors, and ten stages of galaxy-braining through the many vicissitudes of the phrase “no homo,” Roxy has decided to really step up her gender experimentation. I guess at this point she’s gone beyond Stage Ten. Which I imagine is somewhat like reaching Super Saiyan 2 of gender, and then going even further beyond.

She’s got the Shades™ now, and sports one of those sweep-over hipster cuts Dave loves so much. Nothing ambiguous about this presentation, although if I’m being totally real, it’s a bit derivative. Anyway, I can’t complain too much about her decision to crib the Strider style, since, you know. She’s family. Besides, I’m T-minus ten hours from fucking off this gay Earth forever. It’s her life, her gender, her style—she can be whatever the fuck she wants.

Roxy’s whole face lights up when she sees Terezi.

Terezi’s jaw tightens. She’s not ready to hear any words that remind her of those few hours with John. Her hand goes to her pocket, where she’s keeping the wallet. She traces the contours of it with her thumb and forces a smile.

Roxy seems almost effusive despite the circumstances. An earthy, genuine effusiveness that lights her up from inside. Terezi’s head is filled with stories about a different version of Roxy—the polar opposite of the one standing in front of her.

Pay respects? No, that’s dumb. Terezi knows that’s dumb. This is just a motion you go through. John would definitely want to be here, though, and technically Terezi is taking him with her. He may be in her pocket, but lately she’s been feeling more like he’s under her skin. She hasn’t told anyone what happened. But at least she knows she can look at him whenever she wants.

Terezi startles a bit when her phone buzzes. Who would even be messaging her now, when the only person she ever talked to is currently dead in her other pocket? She’s intrigued, but she thinks better of worrying about it. It’d be rude to look at her phone while she’s in the middle of a conversation.

Terezi’s heart skips a beat. It’s almost as if Roxy is the one reading her mind.

No one else has asked yet.

Roxy gives a shrug. A conflicted look crosses her face, but I can’t see past it. With the Dead Cherub out of the picture, the aura of void surrounding Roxy once again is impenetrable. Those baller shades aren’t exactly improving my odds of reading her, either. I’ll say again what I’ve always felt about her on some level: some riddles were never meant to be solved.

Terezi does not flinch. Her pleasant expression does not falter. She’s good at the appearance of confidence even when wracked with indecision and grief.

Roxy pinches her lips together and examines Terezi over the rim of her sunglasses for a moment.

Maybe, having watched her own friend group suffer stress fractures recently, she understands the weight of those words as uttered by this specific person. Because Terezi is a fixer, and it has been a very difficult lesson for her to learn that some things are simply out of her control. Maybe it’s just that Roxy can hear the bone-deep sorrow in her voice.

Oh, my bad. Why not send him my regards? Tell him he makes a kickass him for me. It suits the hell out of him.

Whatever was bothering Roxy, it passes quickly, and he says nothing about it. He puts his hand on Terezi’s shoulder and gives it a warm clap. The fraternal kind, which a couple of solid dudes might exchange after having just “bro’ed out.” It’s convincing, actually. Reasonably authentic, and quite masculine. He’s off to a great start exhibiting the mannerisms associated with his chosen gender. I’m genuinely proud of him.

As soon as Roxy’s gone, Terezi regrets lying to him about John. It’s a hard secret to keep, but probably a harder one to reveal. Maybe it would have been better if she had run into Dave instead of Roxy. It would have been easier to confide something like that to Dave, wouldn’t it? Well, maybe it would have been easier. Years ago, in a different timeline. And even then, she messed that up, didn’t she? But we can’t beat ourselves up too much for our teen mistakes. Let alone the stuff we can’t even remember, because it technically never even happened to us. We have enough to worry about as it is, right, Terezi?

I know you can hear me.

I feel depressed all the time. But I can’t remember ever having the luxury of feeling peaceful about it. Why should it be different for anyone else?

Come on, Terezi. You don’t belong here. You know you don’t belong here.

To be honest, I’m not sure if we’ve ever exchanged any words at all. But why should that matter? Here we both are. It’s a beautiful day. You’ve got your dead boyfriend in your wallet. And we’ve already managed to strike such a nice metatextual rapport. So hear me out.

I know that you’ve always felt out of step here on Earth C. I know that you could easily put on a brilliant act that would fool everyone. You could potentially do that for the rest of your life. But it will eat into you, hollow you out like a parasite, because you’ll always refuse to allow yourself to be understood.

You know you’ll never be happy here. And neither will I. Because this place isn’t for people like us.

You’ll see, if you come with us.

Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you bring him with you?

Yeah. You saved his body for a reason, right? Maybe it doesn’t even have to be the end for him. Endings are kind of overrated anyway.

I’ll give you some time to think about it. My door is open, but not for long.

And I do give her the time. I ease the throttle back a bit, just enough so that I’m not whispering directly into her ear when she slips the wallet out of her pocket. She clutches it so hard in her palm that she’s digging dents into the leather, and bites her lip. The gentle breeze is all she can hear. It’s louder than my voice, and in some understated way, makes my case for me more persuasively. She knows I’m right.