(Chapter Title: Wilting Flower

Category: Fanfiction, Feelpasta (yes, you read that right.)

Rating: M (for trigger!warning.)

Character/s: Mouri Ran, Kudou Shin'ichi | Edogawa Conan.

Genres: It's a feelpasta. Just without the pasta… but I'm copy-pasting this from my word document… so, maybe?

Ship/s: ShinRan

Warnings:

I'm the author…

Triggers.

Read responsibly.

Anyways… as always enjoy.)

|萎れる花|

She was beautiful. Like a flower.

While there were many who were similar to her, there was only one of her—she was the only one for me. She bloomed brightly than any of them combined.

She was kind, nurturing, and gentle. But she wasn't in any means shy nor timid, or even weak. She was strong. Was.

She had the nicest smile, even if I was a jerk when we first met—I did make her cry, as a kid I did not have the best of brain-to-mouth filter. But still, she had beamed brightly, showing off—but not haughtily—but in a way that brimmed with innocence like what most children would do. She shone and wore her pure innocence like a beacon, headstrong as if nothing could take her down.

I, who had already been infected by the jaded world, was less inclined to believe in simple happiness, always striving to know the reasoning behind and killing the fun as a result. But she showed me how to enjoy things out of my comfort zone, with her kind smile and firm grip.

Of course, it didn't take even a second before I fell for her, I didn't really know how to deal with it and that made me act differently. Even if she called me an idiot for it.

That was fine, I'm her idiot. I find myself not thinking clearly when I'm with her. So, really that's expected.

I, while not as innocent, had shared a version of my own childish innocence with her as we both grew up together. Our parents were very supportive of our friendship; one I hope will one day grow to be more than that—well, except maybe for her father. He had always disapproved of it when I came around.

She always protested against it, willfully headstrong as she is. And always had been, I could remember my face heating up whenever she does defend me be it out of added embarrassment or emotional sentiment. But I knew she bore no ill-will out of it, so I could hardly begrudge her for it. Not that I could even hold a grudge against her.

No, I love her too much for that. So, I made a silent vow, an oath to always be there for her.

Even growing as close as we did, we had our own share of hobbies and interests, she took up her karate, I took up soccer as compensation. It was reasonable, with the amount of trouble we both tend to go into. When she found out I couldn't sing to save my life, I learned the violin. I told her it was a tribute to my idol—as if I could tell her that I hoped to have a duet with her, with it as my voice.

I love my mysteries, and she never complained when I drag her off to solve it with her—as long as it didn't get away with our original plans, that is. Though, yes, she'd complain, but she was never seriously grudging it, if at all. She knew why I do it, or I hope she did.

She could get along with just about anyone, so from the both of us, she handled most of the socializing with the other people our age, while I reserve mine to those with shared interests, but even then it's mostly trapped on that shared interests.

She was truly amazing in how she just manages to mingle and make it look so easy, and I wonder, maybe someday she'll find someone that she'll like even more than me and leave. I hope not, I don't know if I could—

I'm not the best guy you could end up with, emotionally speaking. Even without it, I'm a royal jerk to deal with and I don't even know why she stuck with me for as long as she did. Maybe because she was used to it?

I hope it was something else.

I could hardly think of any day or event of my childhood that didn't have her in it. In every memory, it was like she glowed against the blurry fading backgrounds of each, I could always see her clearly.

This is why I say she's bright because she is. She always is.

The curl of her lips, the twinkling in her blue eyes. Her bright laugh that always seems to take my breath away. I wanted to always make her smile, make her laugh, make her happy.

Growing up together did not stop me from seeing her as anything but beautiful. Because she is, always had been. Radiant, and I don't think anything else would ever truly take my eye off of her.

But even then, as much as I loved to explain things to her of the mysteries I've solved and how I'd done it, how the truth is practically my law. I could never find myself to tell those simple words to her. Ones that could be said easily, but mean everything and so much more—that it could bring absolute happiness or even war. Or so they say, I acknowledged it but I was skeptical. Surely, there was more to it than that.

Even so, I do not deny that I love her, very much so.

…

She confessed that she returned my feelings, but not in the way I wanted. I didn't mean to drag out her confession like that, at all.

She had warned me, as a detective, and praised for my young age and raised in my reputation. She had warned me that they will get to my head someday, but I did not listen to her. Why didn't I? I do not know anymore, but what matters is that I didn't listen.

And now, I wish could just stop and go back in time. Tell myself to listen to her, tell her what I felt because it would be too late soon enough. But that wasn't possible.

It already happened, it was too fast. And before I knew it I was leaving her.

Sure, I was here every single day, by her side. I can see her every day, talk to her. And even while she speaks with me, looks at me, call my name—but it's not me she actually sees. It's not my name she actually calls.

It's all nothing but a big fat lie.

Because now, to her I'm not who I'm supposed to be.

I want to tell her—like the truth I have always sworn to… but I can't. To protect her, to keep her safe. I can't.

(Even though now it sounds like an excuse than anything.)

This truth is one I'll take to the grave. But is it really worth it?

Was it really worth her tears?

Was it really worth the sleepless nights she spent agonizing over my wellbeing?

I did everything I could, as myself through the phone, or as this excruciating result of my carelessness. Because I was too arrogant, and she suffered for it.

…

Despite the warnings, I always did let my guard down at the worst of times. Just when I thought everything was going so well, I should have known that there were always consequences.

Consequences I have to live with.

I could still see it clearly like it was yesterday. How her face fell in devastation, tears gathering in her eyes as she broke down in heaving heart-wrenching sobs.

Every passing day got slower, dimmer. She no longer laughed, she no longer smiled. She was angry, she yelled and threw a fit in her room before breaking down crying and repeated the cycle. She would call for me—who she now believed could no longer hear her cries, her pleas anymore.

It was an agonizing cycle, I knew that she could get violent, and if she ever did. I'd deserve it anyway.

Because to her, I was forever out of reach.

I thought—hoped that she'd get better, only she didn't. And things escalated for the worse since then, but I don't think she ever noticed it. Maybe subconsciously, but she was mostly more in a trance-like state than aware.

I could do nothing even as her violent fits stopped, drained of energy that she didn't have anymore. She had stopped eating, even if everyone tried to feed her. She never could seem to keep anything down.

Most of the times she would just lean on the wall, sitting hunched on the ground, as she cradled my framed picture on her lap, caressing the glass that layer the portion of my likely immortalized face—one I'm actually surprised survived her violent fits, if not for that fact that I knew that every time she'd grab the photo that was when she breaks down, crying. But even then, it was like her eyes would never focus on anything, tinted in dull-overtones of grey.

Every single day was like that. She no longer felt bright and radiant, she now blended in with the horrid dull, and dreary background of the world I'd always feared would get to her. And now it did.

And it was all because of me.

But I still hoped, together with everyone else that she wouldn't give up—

(… just like…)

…

I had hoped that she'd snap out of it and get up, get better. Move on. It wouldn't matter, I would let her go if it meant she'd get to be happy again, even if it wasn't because of me. But as long as she was happy, while I would never forgive myself for making her cry, for stringing her along like that—even if I didn't want to. As long as she was healthy and happy that'd be enough for me.

I never thought that I would wish that she didn't love me as I loved her.

I wish she really did not love me—

When I heard shattering glass and a following thud, I had felt dread and my heart sink to the depths of my stomach, feeling like ice had replaced the insides of my body. I rushed to her, but it was already too late.

I could never forget the sight of her lifeless body as she laid there, pale and so still. Her hair making a soft gentle webbing on the ground, how the contrasts of both her clothes and hair against the dark ground had made it seemed like she was glowing again, even though she was dead.

She was smiling now, even as her unseeing eyes stared into space.

She was beautiful…

Like a flower.

While there were many who were similar to her, there was only one of her—and she will always be the only one for me. She had bloomed brightly than any of them combined.

She was kind, nurturing, and gentle. But she wasn't in any means shy nor timid, or even weak. She was strong. Was.

Like a flower, as strong as beautifully vibrant as she was.

Like a flower… she was also fragile.

And with my carelessness, she wilted and withered away.

Uncle was right to be wary of me… I am death's champion.

|End|

(Instead of being a good sane author, and updating my already strong and running fic, I came up with something else entirely. But I'm neither good nor sane [at least not completely], so what'cha gonna do 'bout it?

(Yes, instead of writing/typing ASotH chapter 4, I did this.

—This is why you shouldn't let me binge on creepypastas, feelpastas, and give me ideas.)

Not to mention, I was disappointed by the amount—the lack thereof—Detective Conan creepypasta… [Though this is a feelpasta! The Creepypasta will come… soon.]

Until the next update~

Adieu.

— DescriptivePessimism-DAA)