Ichigo did not open his closet. He tried his best to not even look at it. In the first few months his eyes were always drawn to it, and a slow, deep ache would reside in his chest every time it filled his view. Somewhere around his heart, he figured, or where his heart once was, or where his heart should be. But days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years; both achingly slowly and faster than he could keep up with, and now he could go weeks without looking at it. But every now and again it would catch the corner of his eye as he sat at his desk, on his bed, and thoughts of her would fill his head, and that ache would settle again.

He left his window unlocked. Always closed, but always unlocked; no matter how warm and sticky and thick the air in his his room got, no matter how much he wanted to feel the breeze or smell the spring, summer, fall.

Other things in his room changed, probably more frequently than the average teenagers'. Posters came and went, furniture was added or replaced, wardrobe updated, sheets changed.

But the closet stayed closed and the window stayed closed and his heart stayed closed as he struggled to find himself without actually looking. And yet some nights, as he lay in bed and slowly, softly drifted to sleep, her scent would drift into the room, and in his half conscious state he imagined it seeping out from under the closet door, and it would linger there until morning, fading away with the night. And he would stare at the ceiling and swallow the lump in his throat and the raw ache would be there, in that spot somewhere around his heart. And he would cover that spot with his hand, as if trying to warm it, and sigh, and if he still had a heart he was sure that with every breath he took it became a little smaller, a little harder.

. . .

Can you fall in love at fifteen? He was pretty sure that he had never had a crush on Rukia, that he had somehow skipped that part. Figured that there had never really been time for it. She had been his companion, mentor, friend, and if fifteen year olds could fall in love then she was his first. And he knew that he could never be hers; that title was filled for her long ago. These months have been unbearable for him, but what are a few months to someone who's watched centuries pass by? Did she miss him? Or was the time they spent together too short to her? Was he already forgotten?

But two years is a lifetime to a seventeen year old, and every day for two years his hope of seeing her again has been shrinking; as if it were a solid, unyielding, everlasting stone slowly weathered down by time. A mountain turned into a hill. It was time for him to let go of her and move on.

. . .

Ichigo opened the door to his room, dropped his backpack on the ground, and froze. Her scent filled his head, his eyes drifting shut as he breathed in and out, in and out, but it was already fading, and he wished that he could grasp it; capture it, but as soon as the thought finished forming she was gone. She was gone . . . had she been here? He flipped on the light and took in his room.

The closet door was untouched. The window was shut. His shoulders grew heavy and slumped. He had imagined it. Hope was a cruel thing, to be stirred up so easily, to be crushed so completely. But, he reflected as a small box on his pillow caught his eye, just as mountains wear to hills, hills grow to mountains. And then he cursed geography class for such a stupid analogy.

He picked up the box; plain, white, unsealed, and too light even for its size. He pulled the lid off and frowned. No note, no signature, only a valentine's day chocolate.

It was a white chocolate chappy head on a milk chocolate shinigami robed body, the whole candy decorated poorly with frosting and sprinkles, an orange blob stuck between the ears.

Ichigo frowned. "What the hell. . . Is this supposed to be me?"

He put his hand on his chest, somewhere around his heart, and felt its steady beat.