It's a nice apartment.
There's a calendar, too. She doesn't remember when she bought it. Each month is painted a different color, and has a different feel to it. It is June. June is spring, a vivid red and crimson and rose. She doesn't look at the calendar much at June. She likes the calendar, nonetheless.
It's a nice calendar.
Her desk is seldom used for writing. Instead, she chose it to be a place for her vase. The vase is not in the best of shape. It is old and quite unsightly, to be frank. But it has an odd quality to it; the moment you put flowers in it, the vase suddenly glows, looking so pretty. There are tulips in it. There weren't any roses in the flower shop. Not that Anthy minds. She likes the tulips.
They are nice tulips.
The sky is oddly blue here. The sun is bright. There are few clouds. It really is a nice neighborhood. It reminds her of Ohtori, all this niceness.
And sometimes Anthy wants to kill herself.
She's tired of searching, she's tired of walking until her legs can barely carry her, she's tired of coming back home every day and sitting next to the damned desk and looking at the ugly vase and the stupid flowers and the calendar that's red like roses and blood from a sword wound.
She wants to throw herself off the roof. To feel the wind on her face and every inch of her body itching with anticipation for pain, for an ending, but to never gain these things – because she will be there to catch her. To yell at her, "have you forgotten our promise?!"
She must continue the search. They have a date to drink tea together in seven hundred and thirty nine days, after all. It says so on her calendar. She often feels like she doesn't have enough time. Once, she had all the time in the world. Now it keeps getting shorter.
She hates that calendar.
-
Every once in a while, Anthy allows herself to picture a scene.
A hospital. Everything's florescent-white and the smell antibiotics lingers in the air. Anthy wanders the halls. They all look the same, but she finds the room, eventually. She walks in and stands there.
Utena looks at her, blue eyes reflecting years of waiting, of suffering and loneliness.
Anthy cannot apologize. She can only offer a small smile, the truest she's smiled in years, and her hand.
There is silence, except for the beeping of the machines, counting Utena's slow heartbeats.
Their hands touch and nothing is said.
It is the worst.
It is perfect.