He'd rehearsed this in his head, a thousand times, too many to count. But yet, when she says it this time, it hurts him more than ever, another scar on his chest, one that wouldn't go away so easily. He already imagined it happen, the contours of her lips, her facial expression, but this time, he can only see his soul reflected in hers, dampened with anger and frustration and loneliness.
This time, he forces himself to smile.
He pretends to be okay with what happens. He'd been the hero, but this time, instead of swooping in and killing the bad guy and falling in love, he just couldn't get the girl.
His name meant "the one who protects", but only now does it mean nothing because this time he couldn't protect her; he couldn't even protect himself from getting hurt and feeling pain and wanting to isolate the two of them from everything else unimportant and unecessary. He'd saved her, and she'd saved him, but the goodbye was inevitable and the rain was ever so deafening.
"Give everybody my regards", and then he starts to feel it even though he knows he shouldn't, the increasing aching of his chest, sharper than any blade had ever cut, something he knows that neither Urahara's special healing strategies nor any of his father's painkillers could ever cure.
So instead, he remembers.
Instead, in a tenth of a second, he takes her in: her expression, her bittersweet smile, her voice when she says "I will". In that tenth of a second, he starts to regret all the times he called her midget and refused to teach her how the straw went in the juice box. In that tenth of a second, he realizes that she is as miserable as he is, grey orbs holding back the emotion that clamored against her rib cage, trapped in her stomach, creating a void somewhere deep in her. He opens his mouth to tell her everything, to scream his feelings out, screw Inoue and Chad and Ishida and whatever they think, but only when she freezes and he stops mid-sentence does he realize that he was a tenth of a second too late.
There, in the cramped street in the depths of Karakura, she starts to disappear from his sight, and only when her eyes meet his for the last time, a speck of grey against his hazel ones, does he realize that his powers are gone.
Gone, like that dandelion from the garden, aimlessly dancing, then shattering, vanishing into the sky. And now he knows that she is too, a presence that he can't feel no matter how hard he strains his subconsciousness to search for.
Only then does he realize, that he can't be Ichigo Kurosaki: Shinigami Substitute and savior of Soul Society, only Ichigo Kurosaki: orange haired delinquent, Karakura High senior. This time, his life is perfectly normal and he would only be merely another face in the crowd, another student along the halls.
He wouldn't be interrupted by the roar of a nearby hollow anymore, or by the bang of the closet door shrieking open, or by the shouts of a certain petite, raven-haired someone, a mere voice in his head now against the backdrop of a quiet, solemn town. He wouldn't eagerly burst out of the classroom, faking sickness, fingers slithering around the handle of his sword, black robes billowing in the air, his corpse a lifeless thing hidden at the bottom of a bush.
He looks up to the clouds, trying to imagine her ascending, far away from him, into the gates of Soul Society where a few months ago, he'd promised to rescue her. He's seen this picture before, her looking back at him, telling him to not come, to not save her. But instead of collapsing into a bloody heap, swearing to protect her, he can only try to suppress the toxic lump in his throat, because this time he knows that he really can't save her or himself or anybody. He can't save anyone now, can't feel what it takes to be alive, can't fight and win and love, can't defy gravity, can't stop the rain.
So now, he only stares at the vast sky, devoid of emotion, a lifeless scowl making its way to his face, the way it always had been when there were no robes, no swords, no hollows, and no Rukia.
Her name is foreign to his lips. He questions if she was real, if she dried his world when the rain became a blizzard, if he ever fought alongside her against the world. She is now only a figment of his imagination, a being that never existed, erased from everyone's memories except his, something that will forever haunt him until the closet bangs open again, or the straw makes it way haphazardly into the juice box.
The spot where she was is empty, but he still can't help but force himself to believe that she is still there, lingering before his eyes, watching him try not to crumble, feeling the same way as he is. "Thank you", he manages to croak out, his mumble barely any more audible than a whisper, the pain of denial resonating from somewhere in him, forcing his fisted-up hand to tremble, and his jaw to clench even more tightly, orange fringes brushing against his face.
He can't feel her anymore.
Only this time does the sunlight burn into his flesh, the cement chain him to the ground and the empty sky gently, gradually transform into oblivion.