A/N: Brendan's name is Yuuki (his Japanese name), and similarly, May's name is in Japanese as well (Haruka)

"I see you're still in the dumps." My psychotherapist said monotonously, like she had expected this. "This is your last session with me, but obviously I don't see any improvement in your situation."

I interlaced my fingers, my palms clammy and freezing. My feet tapped the linoleum floor incessantly, not out of impatience, but simply out of cowardice. I started nibbling my fingers, which were all rough and dirty from my previous grooming sessions, and I could sense the appalment my psychotherapist had on her face.

"I don't know what can I do for you, Mr. Yuuki. I gave you all the pushes I could provide, but it's evident that you're not benefiting in any way whatsoever." She sighed. "You're not even trying."

Her words went into my ears. And out again.

"Show me your diary." She said, her voice drowned out by my own thoughts. I spiritlessly reached out for my old and dirty bag, and took out a flimsy stack of papers that were stapled together in the most uncaring way possible. She took it, albeit rather unwillingly, and carefully flipped the pages.

"You're not trying. Clearly."

A face full of disappointment. I knew I was branded a hopeless man by her long ago. I rolled my focus to the door, dreading to leave. I continued tapping my feet.

"Blank, blank, blank, blank." She muttered under her breath, before she slapped the papers into a neat stack. "What have you been thinking and doing these days?"

I ignored her, and rubbed my hands and wrists to stop the sweating.

"You need to get your act together, Mr. Yuuki. You know your father is paying quite the sum for you to attend these sessions." She said while shaking her head.

I started digging at my nails, flicking the dirt out whenever possible. I cared not for my father; he's only doing this to make sure I don't embarass him. I was the third son, and my brothers Hibiki and Akashi were talented men. My father did not want me to sully my family's name.

"Can you at least say something? Anything at all." She urged.

I stared at her with lifeless, beady eyes, my eyebags prominent and sagging on my skin.

"I want to die."

She stiffened considerably, and I knew that my words had caught her off-guard. She cleared her throat, and spoke, "You can't."

I glanced at my shoes, imagining that I was sitting on the edge of the top of a skyscraper, and maybe if I got out of this chair, I could end my life. But I can't. Because if I commited suicide, it was equivalent to splashing muddy water onto my family's reputation.

"Then can I live?" I rasped.

She looked more perplexed than ever, and tried to find the right words to say. In the end, she sat opposite me solemnly, and turned her gaze to the diary, as if trying to ignore the fact that I had asked the question.

As expected.

My family never wanted me to live. I was just an extra child. I did not need to live.

"I'm leaving." I breathed. The psychotherapist did not stop me. She could not.

I snatched the diary away from my psychotherapist's hands, violently tugged at my bag, the straps trapped beneath the chair. When it came free, I slung it over my shoulder. Slouching, I trudged towards the exit.

"Mr. Yuuki."

"What?" I gruffly replied.

"Y-you dropped this." She stood up, wanting to pass the piece of paper to me, until she saw the four letter word written on it.

I frantically grabbed the paper from her grasp, and accidentally met her eyes, which held surprise and joy, as if she had discovered treasure.

In my haste to leave, I dropped a few more pieces of blank paper, but did not bother to pick them up as I quickly escaped out of the room.

Upon slamming the door shut, I panted heavily from the emotional stress pressed onto me seconds ago, before I handled the piece of paper delicately. It was slightly crumpled, yet I held this single piece of paper dear.

I was not given the choice to live. Nor to die.

This paper was the only item that gave me a choice.

She was the only one who gave me a choice.

Haruka.

I gently folded the paper, stuffed it into my pocket, and left.

Upon reaching my living quarters, I removed my slippers and haphazardly left them near the entrance. The apartment was fairly large, but within, there was little furniture, with only a small bed, a chair and a kitchen that remained unused. This place was remotely far from being a home.

After dumping my bag into my bedroom, I headed to the toilet in order to wash up. I pressed my hands against the edge of the sink, breathing heavily, before I looked up and stared at my reflection.

Oh hell, I looked ridiculous.

My gaunt face was pale and unshaven, hallow eyes listless and narrowed, with severe eyebags at the bottom. I traced my cheekbones, which were so inward that I appeared as if I was malnourished. My lips were of a faint colour, cracked and dry.

I opened the tap, let the water run down the faucet for a few seconds, before I bent down and closed my eyes, the cooling liquid running down my hair, then to my face.

It felt as if my head was thrust into a pool of water as I stayed in that position for at least six minutes. Yet I was far from being refreshed.

I could never be refreshed in this life of mine.

I blindly reached out for the tap, and pushed it down quickly.

With my face dripping wet, I dully applied some shaving foam, gripped onto my razor tightly, before I pulled it down in one slow motion, cleanly shaving off the weeds on my chin.

Upon wiping my face dry, I re-checked my appearance. It made little difference, but this was enough.

She won't be able to see me anyway.

I plodded out of the toilet, and headed to change into a fresh set of clothes. It took me no longer than five minutes to look slightly better.

Even though she can no longer see how I look like.

Ruffling my hair, I dragged myself into my studio.

My art studio.

The interior wasn't much, and was no bigger than the size of a large closet. And within was crammed with drawings and paintings covered by rough white canvas cloth, thick and thin brushes, charcoal and tubes of paint lying around the dirty, untreated wood floor. The smell of paint flourished, and the curtains were splattered with paint, and a single easel stood silently in the middle of my studio.

Art.

This was what I was good at.

And my talent was frowned upon by my family.

But not by her.

She was the only one who accepted me for who I am.

I solemnly walked towards one of the paintings and unveiled it. A sea of flowers flooded the whole painting. And in the middle of it all, was the subject of my painting.

A single girl, with short, bountiful brown hair, was set in the middle of the colourful landscape. Her features were not yet done, and now all I need to do was to paint them in.

I pulled a nearby stool over, sat on it, and set to work. Every brushstroke was slow yet steady, careful yet certain. I drew in her eyes. Her eyes.

Every bit of my memory of her burned into this painting. And every bit of her do I missed.

She was the only light in my life. The only light that came to me as bright as a sunflower.

Oh, how she loved flowers.

We met in a small park, not any sudden or cliche meeting whatsoever, but meeting her was the best day of my life.

I had been sitting down under an oak tree, silently sketching the lush and green scenery.

Until she came.

"Hello!" A bright voice chirped.

I jerked upright in surprise, and turned to my left. A person stared at me with sapphire blue eyes, so full of curiosity and strangely, they appeared glazed and out of focus. This person, wore a white beanie, and was evidently bald. I could not discern the person's gender for a second, until I noticed her feminine shaped body. Suddenly, she inched closer and closer, and I leaned backwards uncomfortably as I studied her appearance. Her face had an odd hue, pinkish and porcelein white at the same time. She reminded me of a dainty and fragile delphinium.

She came even closer, her breath warm and moist.

"You're... too close." I gasped.

She hurriedly retracted and with a flustered expression, she said, "I'm sorry! Just needed to get a good look of you. I can't see well."

I clamped my sketchbook shut, and curled up against the tree bark as she smiled good-naturedly at me. I was not accustomed to such innocence.

"Were you drawing?" She asked as she leaned forward, clearly disregarding the distance between the two of us. She was awfully overfamiliar with some stranger sitting under a tree. I did not look particularly attractive with my grey fraying sweatshirt, thick-framed glasses that served to help me to maintain a low profile, and my bed hair that had been left untamed since morning. I cleared my throat a bit, and stayed silent, hoping that she could just leave me alone.

She moved away, seemingly getting my message.

And scooted right next to me.

I widened my eyes in incredulity as I looked at her, her unfocused blue eyes gazing at me expectantly.

"You were drawing, weren't you?"

"Y-y-yes." I finally stuttered, feeling extremely awkward.

"Can you draw me a daffodil?" She asked.

"There's tons of them right over there." I pointed towards the flower patches, hoping that this could distract her.

"I'm allergic to pollen. And plus, I can't see well." She said.

Seeing that she was not going to give up any time soon, I complied, and swiftly drew a rather slip-shot sketch of the white flower. I shoved the paper into her face, sincerely wishing that she could leave.

"How pretty! You draw well."

I blushed. Not many praised my skills. They usually looked down on it, saying that it did not have any future and whatnot.

"I can draw better than this." I said, wanting to compensate for my initial perceptions of her. "I can draw all the flowers in the world."

"All?" She exclaimed with a childish innocence.

"Y-yeah." I hesitantly replied.

"Then draw me an Alstroemeria." She said.

"A-a what?" I spluttered. I've never heard of the name of such a flower.

"Alstroemeria. A-L-S-T-R-O-E-M-E-R-I-A. It's like a miniature lily, or that's what my mother said."

"How... does it look like?" I asked slowly.

"I don't know. I've never seen any flower in my whole life."

"None?" I shouted in shock. She nodded in reply.

"But I know all their meanings. All of them! So if you draw me all the flowers in the world, I can tell you all of their meanings!" She bubbled excitedly.

I curled up more than ever, as she pushed her face before me. Our noses were almost touching.

"Like the daffodil! It means a new beginning." She explained, and then pushing herself up with much difficulty, she beamed at me, her eyes still looking unfocused, yet sparkling with such light that it was almost blinding to look at her.

"My name's Haruka, what's yours?"

"Y-Yuuki."

She thrust her hand out. I clenched my right fist, before skeptically accepting her handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Yuuki!"