The Reader and the Writer (Part 4)
Anon requests: Please tell me there’s going to be a part 4 to The Reader and the Writer. Its amazing!!
WHAT’S MY REAL NAME??? PART 4 4 4 4 4
THEY CALL ME Y/N, THEY CALL ME L/N THATS NOT MY NAME THATS NOT MY NAME PART FOURRRRRR PLSSSS 💜
Can you do a part four to reader and the writer?
PART 4 to reader and the writer omh it’s amazing
Pairing: Jughead x Reader
Description: A part in which we get to read what the writer has written, and we learn what happens to both the reader and the writer.
Word count: 1,206
A/N: ok so this is gonna be a bit choppy at first because we’re just taking glimpses of Jughead’s writing, but bear with me here. I hope you guys like this part, enjoy!
Jason’s death had been announced a week ago. Our small town was buzzing with the news, and right when things couldn’t get any more puzzling, a new girl arrived in Riverdale. A new mystery to be solved.
She entered Pop’s for only a minute, and I heard an unfamiliar last name. Is she involved in Jason’s murder? Probably not, but strangers are always a good plot twist.
Three days later, I found this mystery in my booth reading Wuthering Heights. Normally, I would kick her out, but because of my undying curiosity, I let her stay. Maybe with her sitting across from me, I could learn where she fits in the story of Riverdale. I had an enigma sitting right across from me and I didn’t even know it yet.
(Y/N). Her name is (Y/N).
It’s difficult to notice because of her constant reading, but her eyes are like stained glass, tinting the morning light in a church.
She has a new book almost every day. Today it was Emma.
We haven’t spoken in three days. She’s here, I’m here, but we haven’t spoken. Although I crave to hear her voice, somehow I’m satisfied by this comforting silence.
Today it was To Kill a Mockingbird. She asked if I read it, to which I replied yes. I thought she’d begin a discussion, talk about the ghosts that occupied the small southern town, or the unjust prejudice people carry. Instead, she smiled, nodded, and turned back to her book.
“Good,” she muttered under her breath. I smiled.
What makes a person do foolish things? Is it because of the flawed spontaneity of humans? Or is it because maybe they were trying to impress someone? I read A Tale of Two Cities last night. As I read through the dull writing, I asked myself why I was reading literature that did not interest me. I could not answer my own questions; all I know is that the next night in Pop’s, I subtly quoted the book during a conversation with (Y/N). She was smiling for the rest of the night, and so was I.
I tried to tell her about my book. She started talking about The English Patient.
When two worlds collide, do you praise the workers of fate for taking two dearly loved universes and combining them into one, or do you curse the forces of nature for creating such an impact? Betty and Veronica met (Y/N), and a week later, so did Archie.
She was reading Macbeth that night. Our silence was comforting, but I wanted to talk to her more. I offered for her to help me with my book. I wanted her to be a part of something that was important to me. She refused and stormed out of the diner. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time I saw (Y/N) (Y/L/N) in that light ever again.
After extensive research, I came to a shocking conclusion: (Y/N) (Y/L/N) is not a girl living in Riverdale in the 21st century. She is a writer from the 1700s, with four published works. She is not the girl who has been sitting across from me in my booth for months.
One day after the truth: she isn’t here. I called her, but she didn’t pick up.
Two days after our argument: I am in this booth alone. I called her again.
Three days after she was reading Macbeth: she probably finished the book by now, but I wouldn’t know. She isn’t here, and she still isn’t answering her phone.
It’s been a week. She hasn’t returned, and my calls always go to voicemail.
Two weeks: Archie asked what’s wrong with me. I said nothing, but my eyes didn’t leave the entrance of the diner. She didn’t come.
Three weeks later and Veronica and Betty checked on me. They blabbered about what could be wrong, why I was brooding more than usual. I didn’t reply, but my head perked up when they mentioned (Y/N). They noticed.
She was born in Riverdale.
And so, a little light shined on the dark mystery of Riverdale’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N) like the calm before the storm. The writer becomes the reader, the reader becomes the read. I found myself hooked on her just from a little information, like a drug addict craving his fix. New girls can never hide in a small town like Riverdale, but God, I knew (Y/N), in all her enigmatic splendor, would lurk in the shadows of this town for as long as she possibly could.
As soon as she walked out of Pop’s that night, I told myself she would never return. I told myself that she would probably leave Riverdale for good, and it’d be all because of me. But lo and behold, 24 hours later, a familiar face entered my booth.
What is her name?
We haven’t spoken in two weeks; she’s still here, but we don’t talk. Her real name remains a mystery to me.
A name. Everything is given a name, but a name does not define anything. We call the number two so that we can define a value, but we could call two a horse and it would still have the same value. I refer to (Y/N) as (Y/N), because that is the girl who sat across my booth. That is the girl who I spent months developing a relationship with, and that is the girl I grew to love.
She told me her real name. She said it with tears blurring her vision and a trembling lip, and when she choked it out I moved next to her and held her as she cried. I enveloped her in a hug and I held her as all the sadness that she carried with her spilled out, and once it was all out of her system I wiped away her tears. I kept holding her. With a shaky voice she asked me why I was still there, why hadn’t I left? I replied that I could never leave her. After all, I called her every night she was gone.
Then I told her I love her.
And she smiled, because I think deep down she knew. She kissed me so softly, it felt like my lips were brushing up against flower petals. I knew that was her way of telling me she loves me too. We broke apart and I stared into her stained-glass eyes, and I remembered how it felt looking into them for the first time. But this time was different. Because now I knew the story behind those eyes, now I knew what those eyes have seen, and now I knew what emotions those eyes hid.
Now I know.
I whispered in her ear, my lips barely brushing against her skin, and told her I would call her by the name I knew her by. I would call her (Y/N) (Y/L/N) because that is the girl I fell in love with, and that is the girl I want to continue to love. She was no longer the enigma sitting across from me, nor was she the strange new girl in Riverdale.
Her name is (Y/N), and she is the girl I love.