you can't fight gravity on a planet that insists that love is like falling
So she'd spent the weekend as a hyperactive child, as Little Mary Sunshine, as Suzie Homemaker. So she'd told Logan she wanted babies, and implied that they ought to be his. That didn't mean she had to wallow. Veronica Mars had been there and done that, and she had every intention of moving on.
It was hard, though, to stop thinking of it. It was hard not to hear her own voice in her head, that high-pitched mockery of what it ought to be, saying stupid, silly, girly things, and it was hard not to wonder, because some of those things sounded like the truth. It was hard not to remember freezing in the kitchen beneath Carter's hands; it was hard not to wonder if she'd done that beneath Duncan, whatever he said of their first time. It was hard not to be able to remember, and it hurt to want to try.
And she couldn't help thinking of Duncan's reaction to her personality change; he had seemed almost at home with it after a moment. He had been okay. Is that what he really wants from me? Is that what I used to be?
It didn't matter, it didn't matter. She wasn't going to think about it. She had been someone else. Someone else had been silly and stupid and pink. Veronica Mars, however, was climbing trees in blue jeans and a tank top, barefoot again as she tried for the sky.
[She's pretty calm right now, actually, so it's a decent time to approach her. She may not acknowledge that the weekend happened, however. Find her in any tree you like.]