Embroidery
by Autumn Win-Dow
Where in the world had he learnt how to stitch?
It was a question which she couldn't answer without searching into the deepest depths of her admittedly not-so-deep brain, yet to return none the wiser.
He didn't seem like the type of boy who knew the ways of Home Economics and its many sub-categories – she would have considered cooking to be an exception to this, if only she hadn't been his best friend and girlfriend of almost five years and had witnessed almost every single one of his failures.
And yes, cooking was one of them.
It was something which she couldn't comprehend – Tsubasa, as the popular student and basket baller that he was, replacing his snacks and his video games for a needle and thread. The image itself was something which made her shudder and snort at simultaneously – and she was glad that she wasn't outside in the public eye at the time when she did think of such an image, otherwise she would have appeared like someone whose breath was sucked out of her by a high-suction vacuum.
Misaki decided that her mental images weren't going on a very pleasant path that day.
The catalyst of her strange thought about her clumsy boyfriend and his ability to stitch was a small, white handkerchief in her hand. Despite her many questions, she couldn't help but raise the thin cloth to her lips – and this time, it wasn't because she wanted to catch the germy microorganisms which could emerge from her mouth anytime that winter.
She never expected her life without Tsubasa to be this bittersweet. The teenage girl wanted to be there with him as he was forced to deal with things which he didn't deserve to, but she knew that it was impossible for her to survive.
Misaki could only believe in him, as she leaned on the window sill while watching the distinctively designed snowflakes drift from the sky, only to become one flake of many in a frozen white sea.
She pressed her lips against the embroidery on her handkerchief, as she wondered what he was doing outside of the academy.
I wonder if he's looking at the same moon as I.
Sighing, she pulled the handkerchief away from her lips to read the small word located in the corner of the fabric square, stitched in pink.
Even though Tsubasa had gained the courage to stitch her name on a handkerchief, there was no reassurance that his work was going to be good.
"This is the worst stitching job I've seen. You suck, Tsubasa." Misaki could help but mutter amusedly, as her hand made a fist around the linen fabric.
All she could do was wait in the middle of the night, for Tsubasa to come home and explain why the embroidery on her handkerchief appeared so unskilled.
A/N: It's a natural reaction, really. I stress, I cringe, I cry, and after all that happens, I write. It's as if I write whenever I've been metaphorically driven into a corner. I should go on a hiatus, but I can't bring myself to. Okay, I'm ranting. And please excuse the incoherence of this very short story.