Which Phoebe Are You Today?

which Phoebe are you today?

Lost Boy Epilogue: Found

Summary: When his family moves from San Francisco to the town of Shadyside, T.J. thought his life would change. And it did. He just didn’t think it would come in the form of the ghost of a boy who haunted his new bedroom.

Prologue

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11

@delicatesleeper,@ibroughtachallah,@frenchtohste,@alittletooliteralleah,@tyrusmagocious,@tjskipping, @mirrorslover, @opatrickr, @lesbianrelateddeath, @justkimberley,@burning-hot-pan,@green-lemonboys,@anotherangelfromspace,@thebisexualweirdo,@likelightning-inabottle,@thedampjofangirl, @fizasdr, @awkward-bisexual-alien, @whipashwhipash, @abg-blah,@atthemomentimintothis,@emberofthefrost, @sana-drinks-isklar, @tyrusisobviouslyendgame, @delilahdee00, @lazymarvelfan, @glitch-ditch-canonbitch, @miracufan

A/N: Hi, guys! Here it is now: the epilogue. Please read this note, first! It’s very important!

First things first, I want to thank everyone who read, commented, liked/left kudos, and followed this story from beginning to end.

Second, a couple of things have occurred since the last chapter was posted and I’d like to address them here, now.

So, I know most of you were unhappy with how I chose to end that chapter but you already knew what you were getting into when you clicked on this story. So, to that one person who was very rude in their comment (you know who you are, if you are still even subscribed to this since I politely asked you to unsubscribe and I’m still kindly asking you not to bother with reading this Epilogue because it’s not for you), this is what I have to say. A writer can choose how to end their story in the way they want, it’s their work and it’s their vision. They worked hard to produce a story and, for an emotional story like “Lost Boy” that’s filled with angst and tragedy, it can take a toll on their own mental and emotional health. I have no problem with constructive criticism, but your comment was not constructive, at all. You have no idea how many times I’ve re-worked this story since last year, the effort and every bit of my own emotions I put on it. So, the fact that you said the things you did makes me believe that you don’t realize all the work it took to create this story you supposedly enjoyed but proceed to insult when it didn’t end the way you wanted. It’s MY story.

And, following up on that, if you’re unhappy with how I wrote my stories and you want to write your own version, please, please, please, PLEASE ask me for permission. My story ideas are precious and important to me, as any author will tell you. This is the second time it’s happened and both times, both stories were written without my permission. Even if you credit me in your author notes, which I appreciate, I still want to be asked if I’m okay with it because when it’s sprung up on me, I’m caught off-guard and it upsets me. I want to be able to make that choice to have something I come up with re-written and I won’t pretend I’m okay with it. So, again, please, please, please, PLEASE ask me for permission, it’s only common courtesy.

And, third, I’ll be taking a short break after this but I will start accepting prompt requests again, soon.

With that said, enjoy this Epilogue!

…………….

The streets and houses looked the same as he remembered…yet also not the same.

Mrs. Singh’s shrubs are still shaped like birds. The Caranos’ front porch had been re-painted from white to a bright sunny yellow. Mr. Lee’s picket fence was finally fixed. And the Smith’s gnomes still stare stonily right into his soul.

A breeze swept by him and he shuddered, zipping his jacket further up before stuffing his hands into the pockets. He continued down the path to his destination, his gaze swiveling around and taking in his surroundings.

Everything was familiar…yet also not familiar.

After some time, he finally made it to the gray-painted house with the navy-blue roof and white windows. The picket fence surrounding it was still intact and still white.

He couldn’t help the smile that graced his lips as he walked up the path to the front door. His stomach was filled with butterflies and nerves. He kind of felt guilty for being here and almost turned tail and ran. But, no, he was going to do this. He swore to himself that he would.

Raising a hand, he pressed his finger to the doorbell and waited.

Seguir leyendo