1. Prologue (The Voice)

"People's hearts are unpredictable."

Eriol Hiiragizawa – Card Captor Sakura

...

I listen to you, and as your voice goes through me much like light goes through a filthy, fogged glass, I think about why it took me so long to come and find you.

It's a strange kind of melancholy, dear, the one that you pass on to me with your singing; but so fitting for someone like me, who with so little effort can plunge in the dark depths your song sings about. It's an amazing discovery, to have found you here of all places, and to hear from your lips that song that takes me back to times long gone, driving into my chest this inexplicable sting of nostalgia. To hear you like this is sweet torture; I look at you and I can't believe you're that girl who used to sing sweet and innocent verses about dreams that came true. Although deep down, even then (if one really paid attention, if one wasn't an idiot or a simpleton) it could already be seen; one could realize that it was already inside you, that seed of sadness in the bottom of your soul, that hint of hopelessness that let itself be glimpsed through the briefest moments, when in the middle of your childish song, you stopped for a second to take a breath and closed your eyes before you sang the next note.

It was obvious, so obvious, that at some point I couldn't understand how could everybody else not see it.

How sweet is your voice, Tomoyo dear, how rich, how full of shades, of emotions. Listening to you now, after such a long time of half-imagining it, of remembering it like in dreams, is like tasting a rare wine one left to age for years in an oak barrel, lost in the depths of some dark basement, and then forgot about for a while, or thought had forgotten; like some kind of expected surprise (if such a thing could be), the moment one realizes that that wine is still there, waiting for who-knows-what, and will no longer be exactly what we remember but something else, more complex, infinitely more… more what? More something, definitely much more something, but you can't know what that "something" really is and your hand trembles a little bit as you lift the barrel lid and wonder about what amazing surprises you'll find when you finally dare to get closer and sniff it for the second time (but in truth it's the first time, because before it was something else; merely a hint, a glimpse of what it could be) that aroma that, for a moment, overwhelms your senses and freezes time.

Yes, listening to you now is like smelling that wine and be delighted beforehand, imagining the flavours and textures it holds, and as I look at you it's as if I could almost taste them in my mouth, in my tongue; sweet but not excessively, with an exquisite complexity and a hint of bitterness at the end. Listening to you now is a bitter thing, dear, an exquisite and delicate but bitter sip and I drink with my ears that deep and profound sadness that eats you away from the inside.

I see you glance amongst the people, the small number of people who comes to these god-forsaken places to get drunk and listen to terrible bands no one knows; I see you search for something, and my heart quivers a little when I realize what is it that you're looking for. Really, Tomoyo? Still? In your face, in your eyes that look but don't really expect to find, I see that you didn't invite her, that she doesn't know that you were singing here today, in this dive, but still, some small part of you doesn't want to give up on the childish dream and looks for her, even though you know damn well she wouldn't casually walk into a place like this, that she must be happily asleep, -in someone else's arms, perhaps-; completely oblivious, as she had always been, of what is really happening inside you.

But who am I to judge you, or to feel sorry for you? Isn't it the same foolish way in which I searched in Kaho, in England, for something lost so long ago? And where is all that now, Kaho, England, the days when I dreamed that dream? So far away now, so much in another world as it is from you that thing you look for amongst the filthy tables and the dark corners of this trashy bar that doesn't deserve to be the stage of your song, as this dirty glass I hold in my hand doesn't deserve to be the container of that heavenly, exquisite wine I dream about while I listen to you.

You're getting close to the end, and you don't see me. Now, the dilemma; what to do with all this, and the possible scenarios start running quickly through my head.

I come to you and say hi, how are you Daidouji, remember me? We were classmates in elementary school and there was also a little business with some magic cards... oh, you remembered, that's nice. You put a very good performance up there, so... what have you been up to? And you look at me and it's awkward, everything feels just weird; you don't understand what I'm doing here and I can't explain it to you either, so we exchange some polite words, perhaps some forced chitchat, so you finished school, you're in college, that's great. Then your band comes looking for you, to go drink something somewhere else, and you look at them and I notice some relief in your eyes, but I don't say anything about it. You apologize, telling me again it was so nice to see me, and that you will call Sakura-chan and Li-kun tomorrow to let them know I'm in town, they will surely want to know; and I give you my number knowing that you'll never call me, knowing that most likely I'll never see you again, and that the next day when my phone rings it would be Sakura's cheerful voice, not yours, inviting me to hang out with her and Syaoran. And it's not that I don't care about them, because I do; but I don't really need to see them. I don't need the pretense smiles I would be forced to give them, and I don't need them to know what is really happening to me.

Scenario two: I remain here, sitting, waiting to see if you notice my presence; you finish your song and get down of the stage, with that hopeless look of someone who once more hasn't found what she was looking for. Perhaps you pass me by without seeing me, your band members invite you to go drink something somewhere else and you go with them, not looking really thrilled about it but then again, you have nothing better to do; and I stay here, sitting at this table with the look of someone who feels like an idiot. I never see you again.

Or perhaps you do see me; you hesitate for a moment, you find me somewhat familiar but can't really place from where, then I smile at you and you seem to remember, you even blush a bit and you look so beautiful that way. You come closer, somewhat embarrassed, and clumsily ask me what am I doing here; I can't explain it to you and I start talking nonsense about some business in Japan and who knows what else, and your embarrassment starts to fade away, we exchange some polite words, perhaps some forced chitchat, and back to scenario one, etc.

Scenario four: I get up and leave before our eyes meet and I keep this moment as a beautiful memory for the rest of my life. How's this different from scenario two? Because in this one it's me who chooses to leave, to not meet you, it's me who chooses to keep this picture of you, this sweet sound in my ears as a memory, instead of that uncomfortable feeling of a wasted opportunity.

Clearly that's the only option worth taking, but for some reason the mere idea of walking away seems unbearable. My body feels like nailed to the chair; I can't rip myself from here, I can't detach my ears from your melody. You've mesmerized me with your voice, and I start thinking crazy, ridiculous things; that maybe there's some other way to get to talk to you, other possible scenarios, less crude and more subtle, perhaps one I couldn't think of yet... Maybe if I...

God, but you look so pretty. I can't think like this. Your voice pierces through me, and I can't stop listening to it. I'm sorry, dear.

Whatever I do, it will surely be stupid.

Author's notes:

This story is already complete. It was originally written in Spanish (my native language) and it has 11 chapters (including this prologue), that I will upload as soon as I finish translating them. You must know I'm pretty obsessive about my writing, and even now, I'm still not sure if I should start uploading it or keep improving and correcting it… It's far from perfect, but I decided to stop that; I'm not going to let my neurosis win. All birds must fly at some point, whether they're ready or not.

(EDIT 2019: Well, neurosis has won, and this fic is currently being revisited, edited, corrected, and some parts of it may have changed slightly. Nothing too big though. Yeap, I couldn't help myself! But I think it's for the best, and all the changes I've made from the original version are improvements. Also, I STILL keep finding a few spelling/grammar mistakes, and to me that's not acceptable, even if this isn't my native language. So please, forgive me if you find any, and please let me know!)

I can't explain how much I loved writing this story! It was in my mind for a very long time, it refused to leave me; until it wore me down and I had to sit down and write it. I hope you can feel when you read it at least a tiny part of what I enjoyed writing it. Any comments, thoughts, ideas, and constructive criticism will be welcome.

Let me remind you, this is rated M for a reason. It's meant for mature readers and it contains explicit sexual themes. Anyone who doesn't feel comfortable with that, should stop reading now! Seriously!