Chapter Text
Maya is twelve, and she considers herself the bravest girl in the world. She argues with teachers without a trace of hesitation, skips classes, and steals food from the school cafeteria as if she’s constantly testing the limits of what she can get away with. High heels and ripped shorts enter her life far too early — an attempt to look older than she really is.
Hart is almost always alone. Her mother spends entire days working at the diner, trying desperately to keep them afloat.
For the first time, Farkle experiences something that can no longer be called a childish crush: he falls in love with her — with Maya, so sharp-edged and prematurely grown-up.
Against that backdrop, Riley Matthews seems almost like a child. She still misses her stuffed bear Barry and spends evenings watching Oggy cartoons. And it is then that Maya truly begins to feel the gap between them — painful, unfair — and the feeling settles inside her like a dull irritation. At twelve years old, all she really owns is the heavy weight of childhood resentment, an old sketchbook, and a worn secondhand store loyalty card.
By thirteen, Ranger Rick enters her world, and Maya catches herself thinking — with unexpected confusion — that he’s handsome. Very handsome. It happens in the exact moment Riley laughs, jumps into the saddle beside him, and rides off. Maya tells herself it’s nothing, that it’ll pass if she just waits long enough.
But soon her attention shifts.
She notices Uncle Josh — and in that instant he stops being simply “uncle.” In her mind he becomes something else entirely. Someone unfamiliar. Someone magnetic. She starts calling him macho.
Sometimes Maya wonders who she would’ve become if the Matthews family had never entered her life. But she quickly pushes those thoughts away, as if afraid of looking too deeply into them.
It’s around that time she also meets Shawn, Cory’s closest friend. Maya immediately notes that Shawn Hunter seems reliable. Maybe even genuinely good.
Maya is still thirteen when Cory casually tells her he’s proud of her. And in that moment she realizes, with terrifying clarity, that she wants to run — as far away as possible.
She isn’t used to words like that. They sound foreign to her, almost dangerous. But somewhere deep inside she already knows: if she lets herself believe them, she’ll become addicted to hearing them.
Cory Matthews was never just her teacher or Riley’s father. Over time, he quietly took the place in her life that should have belonged to someone else entirely — and that realization fills her with a stubborn, lingering shame. She keeps telling herself she has no right to feel this way.
She’s nobody to them — and yet Topanga has been cooking for her for years as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s nobody — but Cory still invites her to family game nights without fail. She’s nobody — yet Auggie stubbornly draws her beside the rest of the family in every picture and includes her in school essays like she’s an inseparable part of his world.
Even Alan and Amy look at her like she’s their real granddaughter. Eric and Morgan casually ruffle her hair and ask, “So, Maya, how are you?” as though they’ve been doing it forever.
And somehow, that only makes it worse.
Because all of it feels wrong. Almost unforgivable. Like she slipped into someone else’s life unnoticed and occupied a place that was never meant for her.
On the outside, Maya Hart remains exactly the same — confident, sharp, untouchable, the kind of girl people say “wouldn’t even flinch.” But beneath that façade is something entirely different. During family nights she’s haunted by a dull, animal-like fear. It always feels temporary, fragile, like the illusion could collapse at any second.
Sometimes she can almost hear Alan pushing his chair back from the table, looking around the room before calmly saying:
“Well then. Family time now. Maya, it’s time for you to go.”
And every single time, she braces herself for those words.
Her friends try to reach her — persistently, desperately. Riley begs her father every day to talk to Maya, as if she can still be fixed, pieced back together from whatever remains.
Cory Matthews refuses to give up. He keeps her after class over and over, watches her too carefully, asks questions that cut too close. It feels almost like a witch hunt.
Except the witch here isn’t someone who can still be saved.
Maya barely listens. She leans back lazily in her chair, rolls her eyes, answers with smirks and sharp remarks — sometimes deliberately cruel just to make people back off faster. Guilt scratches at her from the inside, but she crushes it the same way she stubs cigarettes out against a windowsill.
Once, she called them family.
Now the word sounds almost ridiculous.
She left quietly — no explanations, no dramatic scenes. She simply stopped being the version of herself they loved.
And if it’s easier for everyone, then fine. Let them believe she ruined Riley.
“Evil Penelope Hart.”
Perfect. It suits her.
Alcohol no longer burns — it simply makes everything quieter. Cigarettes give her something to do with her hands, her mouth, the empty spaces between words. She tries stronger things too, on dares, out of boredom, out of the desperate need to prove she can.
But she stops almost immediately.
Not because of morals.
Because of fear.
She can feel how easy it would be to sink further, and that’s the one line she still refuses to cross.
Slowly, inevitably, she gets pulled under anyway.
Faces blur together. Parties melt into one endless night. Music hums beneath her skin. The people around her don’t ask questions — and maybe that’s exactly why she stays.
Maya is seventeen when she gets invited to her first college party. She goes, judges the atmosphere, stays. Then comes back. Again and again. A few months later, she’s already one of them — the girl you can drink with, laugh with, disappear onto a balcony with and sit beside in silence without talking about anything real.
She becomes easier. Rougher. More honest in her recklessness.
The skirts get shorter. Her words sharper. Her gaze colder.
She allows herself more than she used to — and almost never thinks about consequences anymore.
Then there’s Josh.
With him, it doesn’t begin with touch. It begins with conversations. Long, late-night conversations that grow dangerously honest.
He looks at her differently — not like she’s a problem, not like a child, not like someone who needs saving.
And that confuses her more than anything else ever could.
She provokes him instinctively. Jokes that go too far. Looks that linger too long. Distances that shrink just slightly past what’s safe.
Before, he would’ve stepped away.
Now he doesn’t.
And when the line finally disappears, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It feels inevitable.
Dim lighting. Ragged breathing. The headboard hitting the wall with a dull rhythm that somehow feels grounding, almost comforting — proof that this is real.
Afterward they lie beside each other and talk more than they should. About fears. About the past. About who they became and who they failed to become.
And every time, they discover there’s far too much between them to ignore.
They both know it’s wrong.
They both know that if anyone finds out, everything will collapse.
But neither of them stops.
Almost every night he climbs through her window, and Maya doesn’t even pretend to be surprised anymore.
She waits for him.
And in those nights — messy, uneven, painfully real — she feels alive.
Even if the feeling only lasts until morning.
She’s eighteen when eventually everyone — her friends, her former “family,” all those people with their careful expectations — finally stop holding on to her.
Maybe they’re exhausted.
Maybe they’ve simply given up.
Maya isn’t sure which possibility hurts more.
Josh waits for her a little way down from the school, somewhere nobody will see them. Officially she’s “skipping class” again, but by now no one is surprised. No one even cares.
She climbs into the car and immediately settles into his lap as though the space around them belongs entirely to them. They kiss greedily, confidently, with the kind of boldness that no longer carries teenage awkwardness.
As if they aren’t in Eric’s old car at all, but in a suite at the Plaza Hotel.
And that’s the exact moment everything falls apart.
A sharp knock against the window.
Cory fucking Matthews stands outside, his face twisted with disbelief and fury as he pounds against the glass like he’s trying to shatter the reality of what he’s seeing. Josh jerks his hands away from Maya as though she’s something forbidden and already condemned.
After that everything happens too fast.
Arguments. Accusations. Raised voices.
And suddenly they’re no longer people living their lives but defendants trapped in a brutal family trial held inside Topanga Matthews’ living room.
Maya has never seen Cory truly lose control before.
And she’s certainly never seen Topanga fall silent like this — heavy, deliberate silence, as though every word would only deepen the crack splitting the room apart.
Then Riley starts crying.
Not quietly. Not politely.
Really crying.
And Auggie gets sent to bed at three in the afternoon simply so someone can salvage what remains of the day.
For the first time in a very long while, Maya realizes she no longer controls anything at all.
And then the court delivers its verdict.
Josh lowers his eyes — for the first time, his usual confidence abandons him. Maya notices immediately. She always knew that sooner or later he would play his final trump card.
“Maya… I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to find the right words, but I don’t think they exist. We need to end this. What we had was a mistake from the very beginning.”
Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt.
Or maybe she’s simply too exhausted to feel pain properly anymore.
Only her body betrays her: trembling knees, numb fingers, eyes burning with tears that refuse to fall. Her mascara could ruin the scene completely, turn it into some cheap melodrama, but Maya refuses to cry.
Not in front of him.
She swallows the lump in her throat, gives a short nod — as if accepting terms in a game she lost long ago — and walks away without another word.
Another Matthews.
Another person who once looked at her like she was an entire universe and then left because they couldn’t bear the responsibility of loving her.
How did Farkle used to do it?
HA?
The thought arrives suddenly and feels so absurdly funny that she can’t stop herself. First comes a smirk. Then a short, nervous laugh slips out. And a second later she’s laughing loudly, almost hysterically, through the subway car while strangers stare at her in confusion.
And somehow there’s more pain in that laughter than there ever would’ve been in tears.
Graduation is supposed to be the best day of your life.
At least, that’s what people say.
Cory calls names one by one as yesterday’s children walk across the stage for their diplomas — beautiful, nervous, too grown-up for who they were only a year ago.
Maya stands alone.
She watches parents adjust crooked caps, mothers cry without caring about their ruined makeup, fathers hug sons proudly by the shoulders. Boyfriends bring giant bouquets. Everyone takes photos, laughs, promises never to lose each other.
Ever since that subway ride, she’s developed the ridiculous habit of hearing Minkus’s voice in her head.
That sharp, mocking “HA” lodged permanently inside her mind.
Riley, Lucas, Farkle, Zay, and Smackle stand a little farther ahead surrounded by family, warmth, noise, love.
They look happy.
And Maya is genuinely happy for them.
Especially for Riley.
Her mother looks at her with so much pride it’s almost blinding. Auggie waves excitedly beside her. Her loving boyfriend holds her hand. Cory smiles like this entire ceremony was created just for his daughter.
And it makes Maya feel sick.
Because somewhere deep inside lives this disgusting, sticky feeling that even after disappearing from Riley’s life, she still managed to ruin it.
Lucas.
He loves Riley — Maya sees it in every glance, every movement. Loves her enough to wake up almost every night beside her former best friend.
Penelope can’t even remember when everything crossed the line. At the time it felt like survival. A way to forget Josh. To drown out the emptiness. To prove something to herself.
But now it all looks different.
Like Maya Hart has spent her entire life taking things away from Riley Matthews.
She looks at Lucas.
At the person who had pinned her against the kitchen table that very morning like there was something between them besides desperation and the habit of hurting each other.
Now he’s holding Riley’s hand and smiling at her softly, gently — like he’s never been cruel a day in his life.
HA.
“Maya Penelope Hart.”
Cory’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts.
And suddenly the entire school erupts into applause.
People whistle. Shout her name. Some even stand.
God.
She can barely remember half these people.
Step by step, Maya climbs onto the stage, her heels catching against the edge of her gown. The shoes cost an absurd amount of money — her mother spent an entire week pretending they hadn’t destroyed their budget.
But it’s graduation.
Cory shakes her hand, but Maya still can’t bring herself to meet his eyes.
She’s so ashamed she can hardly breathe.
“I’m proud of you for pulling yourself together by the end of the year,” he says quietly, almost casually.
And something painful tightens beneath her ribs.
She whispers a thank you but still can’t decipher the look on his face — pity or genuine belief in her.
As she walks offstage, Maya glances up instinctively.
And freezes.
Josh.
He’s standing beside Topanga, and both of them are applauding her.
Pure hypocrisy.
Topanga nearly sent him to prison after the incident with the car, and Josh constantly complained that she treated him like a child.
But the worst part is that Maya cannot force herself to hate them.
No matter how hard she tries.
Because they are still her family.
And Josh is her imaginary husband.
The thought nearly makes her stumble in her heels, though she catches herself just in time.
There’s nobody waiting to catch her if she falls.
HA.