Disclaimer: I don't own Vocaloid in any way, shape of form. I just like imagining their pretty faces in different situations.

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From the very beginning, it was selfish. But I suppose I've always been selfish. At least, what's what my mother used to say.

(I hate it when she's right.)

It starts on the T bus. It's packed, as per usual, the morning rush. One hand on the railing, another around the clasp of my bag - because pickpockets. Never. Again. - and there's you.

Your stop is a few after mine and the inevitable wall of people is too annoying to bother crossing through so you don't. But you smile, a small thing thrown my way and most days, it's enough. More than enough.

You didn't always smile at me. Not that I could blame you. You didn't even know who I was. Hell, I barely knew who you were. I knew your name was - is - Miku, courtesy of one eavesdropped conversation. I knew - know - that your stop is three away from mine. A senior, like me, though your classes never, still don't, clash with mine. And every morning, you would, still do, listen to music through headphones that were, are, practically the same color as your hair; a dizzying shade of teal, almost too bright to be real.

Hand on the railing, you never used to smile at me. In those days, I was nothing to you. But you smiled in my direction. And in those moments, you were dazzling. (And sometimes, when you think I'm not looking, you still smile that way.)

In those days, when I barely knew you and you didn't know me, I thought I knew the world. In those days, there was a way things were, the earth rotating and round, the blue sky and you. I thought I knew you.

It was all so easy and sudden.

Impulsive, getting off the bus, running up to you, pretending not to run, a breathless "Hello." I saw it then in your eyes, that slight burr of recognition. And at the time, I was too blind to see and too assured to understand. I didn't question why. Because that was all it took.

It was - we were - we are...respectable. I took it - you took it - we took it at a moderate pace. Acquaintancy, a date for ice cream, crepes, food trucks, walks in the park, movies, homework in cafes. It was - we were - we are, a cliche...idyllic. A high school romance at it's finest, everything we were - are - meant to be. It was normal, I was happy.

I was happy.

When I kissed you, the world was absolute.

And when you smiled, I thought nothing could be more perfect.

I remember once, when my mother was alive and drunk, she told me that she hated men. Selfish, the whole lot of us. Sprawled on the floor with a bottle in her hand, hair splayed about, eerily like a halo, she looked at me, the blue of her eyes matching mine. She laughed, sharp and bitter.

"And it was just my luck that I ended up with you."

I woke up once, the air trapped in my chest as I remembered the way she used to look at me. It was the first time you willingly curled up towards me, your arms holding me tight. And that got me thinking.

When I barely knew you and you barely knew me, the world started to make less sense.

You close your eyes when you kiss me. Sex in the dark, self conscious, you barely touch me, and who am I to force it on you? (You were - are - worth more to me than that.) But when we held hands, when you smiled at me? That warmth, surely, that had to be love?

But one morning, you woke up in tears, said you were fine, that it was stupid, that it was nothing to worry about. Curled around yourself, biting your lips to muffle the sound, I was scared to touch you. (I didn't want to break you too.)

And that morning, when you stood next to me on the bus, head propped against my shoulder, I finally understood.

This will end slightly different than how it started. You always joked that the T bus was a magical entity; how else could it fit so much people?

Elbowing my way off the bus, a sharp jab for that person that refuses to move, the world continues on, round and unfathomable. Pulling you to the side, just slightly out of view, it's so easy to grab you tight; I'm sure that if I decided to never let you go, you'd let me stay.

I could be selfish. God, I could be so, so selfish. I really could.

But from whatever hellhole you're looking up at me from, I want you to know, that I am, will be, better than the man you saw in my face. I am worth more than he ever was, than you ever thought of me and Miku...she deserves the world.

Because those smiles were never once for me.

"...Len?"

"When I let go, you are going to catch up to Luka and you are going to say hello."

Flinching violently, her fingers twitch against me. "L-Len...I...It's not…."

"Shhh. It's ok. She looks at you when she thinks you're not looking. Sometimes, I can feel her staring at me. I...I want you to be happy."

"L-Len...It's not...I can't...I don't….I'm scared."

Do you see me?

"The world is rather stupid at times. Hold her hand and people will just think you're really good friends. People see what they want to see."

Holding on to me tighter than she ever has, perhaps none of it was ever real.

"I'm….I'm so sorry."

"Hmmm. It's fine. I was being selfish too."

"Then why?"

Pulling back, the sky is so...blue. And maybe it was never love. But even so…

"I care for you."

And there she goes, Luka Megurine. Pink hair fluttering in the breeze, head held high, "I wish you all the happiness in the world." Please treat her tight.

Pressing a kiss on her forehead, the world turns. Stepping back, it's rather easy to admit.

"I loved you most when you smiled in her direction."

And the look on her face. It's many things. And maybe, just a little, I want to cry. A flare of hysteria, sharp and bitter. But Miku nods her head once and rushes after Luka, running while pretending not to run.

She looks back once and I smile. Because that's all I can do. And her smile back...it's….it's dazzling.

So tell me: are you proud of me now?

If you saw me now, would you have stayed?

(But I suppose I'll never know.)

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It's been a while. I'm a cliche writer with bouts of depression. Uni is...well. I wrote this when I should have been paying attention to the wonders of Audit Accounting. I'll get to the unfinished ones eventually (hopefully). I never stop thinking about them. I've been playing with this idea for a few years I think. Even so, I still managed to surprise myself with what actually appeared on paper. Should have expected that though; an old friend called me a tragedy queen once. I think, in that moment, she understood me better than I understood myself. I've certainly lived up to the title.

Thanks for reading this. I hope, at least to some degree, you've enjoyed it.

With all my love,

Sunset