Yukiatsu's only comfort anymore was the delicate white dress hidden deep in his wardrobe. If only she were here now. In his weakest moments he would stroke the delicate silken cloth and wonder if it felt like the real thing. He would often strain his memory for moments he couldn't rightfully recall but severely wished might have been real once—a brush against her beautiful dress whilst in the midst of playing, tender hugs of a dear friend.
Memories were so difficult. Were his feelings well-received? Accepted? Rejected? Returned? His heart fluttered at the idea of Menma's delicate smile forming words that never once graced those lips outside of his most intimate dreams—confessions, proposals, love-struck words that hadn't the chance and never would. He knew too well that that insufferable bastard Jinta had his eyes on her too but if he dwelled too long on the fact, his fists would tremble too violently than he cared for. No man would love her the way he did.
Without hesitation he withdrew the beautiful dress from the back of the wardrobe, savoring its beautiful touch before gently placing it on his bed. With deft hands he was out of his own clothes and sliding on the little white dress as if it were made just for him. In fact, it better feel as if it were made just for him because it was—he'd had it specially fitted to hug his breastless-chest, his lack of curves, his larger, male shoulders. Sometimes he would pretend as if the white dress was Menma's loving arms holding him from all angles with delicate tenderness, her cool palms against his flushed flesh. It was certainly different, clothes meant for a petite young lady draped over his bony frame but his heart fluttered in his chest in some perverse pleasure despite it all.
He would feel more guilt if he believed Menma's angelic spirit was somewhere up there watching over he and their old friends like some guardian, but he wasn't so idealistic. He knew she was gone and he wished Jinta could understand that. Every time that prick would bring up his dearest Menma, he couldn't help but feel her memory was further being tainted, far worse than his fading memory could ever try. There were no more pure memories he could make with her and Jinta continued to ruin what he had left, so his desperation was not unfounded.
With deliberation, he escaped into his bathroom. The lights flickered to life just as he replaced the white wig over his dark hair, successfully erasing Yukiatsu and freeing Menma from the depths of his memories. The eyes weren't right, they never were. His eyes were far too sad to belong to his beloved but it was only a minor flaw, the rest was all perfect, so perfect. He ran his fingers through the wig's smooth hair with his eyes affixed on his reflection in the mirror—locked upon his down-turned mouth. His mouth twisted uncomfortably before mouthing quietly under his breath; accentuating more with each try.
"I love you." He frowned, unimpressed. "I love you, Yukiatsu."
He sighed quietly, satisfied with the moment he was able to spend with her—he was sure she would've said it herself if Jinta hadn't gotten in the way. She would've bubbly announced her affections, smiling at Yukiatsu with reckless abandon. The thought brought a smile creeping onto his face. He and Menma happy together, he and Menma growing up and growing old together, all smiles, no pain, no tears. His smile dissolved. A world where Menma was still with him was not the world he was in now. He allowed himself one left glance at his white haired beauty, before shutting off the lights and removing his wig; he could never bear to watch Menma disappear while selfish Yukiatsu emerged, still alive, still here, still missing Menma.
Before leaving the bathroom he allowed himself a moment to stand before the mirror as himself this time. In the darkness his eyes fell closed if only to hold back the tears that welled. Quietly, just above a whisper he murmured, "I love you too, Menma."