C.A.R.M.A

"You misunderstand.
You were never a chapter. You were never a turning point.
Not even a meaningful hesitation between acts.
You were the soft backdrop—the pleasant blur behind my suffering.
Something atmospheric. Decorative. A human sigh rendered in neutral tones.
And I—I do not shatter for scenery.”

— Excerpt from *The Opera Dismissal*, 2nd Cycle, Spiral Moon\ Transcribed by Applicant #17. Emotional recovery ongoing. Denies crying. No one believes him.

There Was Hope. There Was a Glance. There Was… Monologue.

To be destroyed by Carmella Ravenshroud is not an event—it is a narrative correction. You do not fall from grace. You were never close enough to touch it. You simply reach, foolishly, and she explains why your arms are too short, your heart too dull, and your silhouette unworthy of screen time.

Not in anger. Not in cruelty.

In perfect, poised sincerity.

She looks at you—not as one looks at a rival, or even an inconvenience—but as one might observe a misplaced chair: structurally sound, emotionally irrelevant.

And then she speaks.

With velvet cadence and celestial diction, she outlines, in lyrical clarity, why your affection was never going to matter. Why you, in all your trembling hope, were never written into her myth. Why your heartbeat is a prop note in her aria of exile.

Some people collapse. Some compose poetry.

And one—poor, luminous fool that he was—founded a charity.

The Origin of C.A.R.M.A.

The Carmella After-Rejection Mentoring Association is a registered support network for those who believed they might be loved—and were proven, devastatingly, otherwise.

It is not a shrine. It is not a theatre company. It is not, despite the candles and confessionals, a cult.

It is, in theory, a place of healing.

In practice, it is where broken hearts gather to catalogue their ruin, analyse the architecture of their rejection, and recover from the velvet wreckage Carmella left behind.

They meet quietly. Weekly. Away from perfume, chandeliers, and the risk of incidental eye contact.

They bring tea. They bring notes. They bring cake.

They do not bring hope.

The Founder: Edwin of the Velvet Shadow

Edwin did not set out to lead a movement. He only wanted to compliment her earrings.

He has never quite recovered from the moment she turned to him, smiled—slowly, devastatingly—and explained, in soul-lacerating prose, that he was “a pleasant backdrop in the opera of her exile.”

She did not mean it cruelly.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

He wept. Briefly. Then applauded. Then went to lie down in a cupboard.

When he emerged, he had a scarf, a mission, and a twelve-point draft proposal for emotional recovery via structured group therapy.

He now leads C.A.R.M.A. from behind a lacquered writing desk no one remembers donating. He speaks softly. He cries rarely. He flinches slightly at the word “darling.”

The scarf still bears her perfume.

No one has the heart to mention it.

The Advisory Circle

Though Edwin remains the centre of the Association, he is not alone. A rotating support panel of long-term survivors—referred to, with perhaps too much reverence, as the Advisory Circle—helps manage the organisation’s emotional entropy.

Chief among them is Liora, a former tactician who treats romantic rejection like siege warfare. She believes Carmella is a walking resonance hazard and refers to her speeches as “tactical longing deployment.” She has written contingency documents. Many of them. None of them help.

Dennik is a former bard who now speaks only in mournful stanzas and half-remembered sighs. He claims Carmella’s rejection was not only correct, but necessary. He returns weekly to be reminded of his unworthiness. No one is entirely sure whether this is progress.

Skarn is… enthusiastic. A little too enthusiastic. While most members attend to recover, Skarn attends to savour. He catalogues Carmella’s most devastating lines by cadence, composes footnotes on tone, and once described her dismissal as “a spiritual exfoliation.” He has been banned from requesting reenactments. He remains deeply fulfilled. Everyone else remains deeply uncomfortable.

Maribelle insists she’s only here for the cake. She has no unresolved feelings, no lingering heartbreak, and no interest in dramatic monologues. She sighs at transcripts. She cries at frosting. Her denial is so complete it’s become its own form of therapy.

Together, they form a functional, if emotionally unstable, spine for the Association. Decisions are rarely unanimous. Meetings often end in poetry. But the doors remain open.

And that, somehow, is enough.

Services Provided (Whether You Like Them or Not)

Despite its origins in narrative calamity, C.A.R.M.A. offers genuine aid.

New members are guided through Narrative Debriefing, a gentle process of retelling the moment of destruction in a controlled, low-resonance environment. The phrase “she turned to me and said” is considered a trigger and may result in immediate cake deployment.

Monologue Desensitisation is available for those who flinch at velvet tones. These sessions are supervised. Skarn is not allowed to attend.

The Wardrobe Compensation Fund provides support for those whose garments were rendered unfit for public use by sudden sighs, spontaneous kneeling, or romantic implosion.

And of course—cake. Always cake. Carrot, velvet, apology-flavoured. Sometimes shared. Sometimes cried into. Always there.

The Crimson Veil Problem

They are not enemies.

That would require speaking to each other.

The Crimson Veil worships Carmella. They call her rejections sacred. They write sonnets about their own inadequacy and light incense in her name. They have a ballroom. They have a pillow. They have issues.

C.A.R.M.A. sees them as emotionally hazardous. The Veil sees C.A.R.M.A. as tragic underachievers who failed to understand the art of rejection.

They meet across the Taproom.

They glare. They posture. They sigh at volumes just loud enough to be heard. Once, there was a 23-minute staring contest that ended in mutual fainting.

Neither side will ever admit the other has a point.

The tension is exquisite.

Lars refuses to get involved.

Does She Know?

No. She does not.

Carmella Ravenshroud is entirely unaware of the Association’s existence. This is not negligence. It is simply... irrelevance.

She does not notice C.A.R.M.A.

She assumes the lingering glances, the trembling sighs, the repeated scarf offerings are all perfectly standard responses to being in the room with her. She does not read the pamphlets. She does not see the tears.

If she did, she would smile. Softly.
She would probably call it "adorable."
And then she would explain, in devastating prose, why their worship is still not enough.

No one wants that.

Final Thought

Some people fall in love.
Some fall into longing.
And some, poor souls, fall before a woman who does not recognise the ground they stood on as part of the stage.

C.A.R.M.A. exists for those people.

For the rejected. The emotionally rearranged. The ones who still flinch at lace and stare too long at chandeliers.

They cannot undo what she said.
They cannot forget the way she looked at them—as if she were seeing wallpaper she once approved of but never really noticed.

But they can recover. Slowly. Dramatically.
With tea. With cake.

And, in time, with the strength to face someone else.

Someone less devastating.
Someone who doesn’t speak in iambic hexameter.
Someone who never once compared them to a side character in their own confession.

There is healing here.

It just tastes faintly of frosting and regret.