A/N: Not actually for anything this time, just a thought experiment into why Madoka's romantic life seems nonexistent. It turned out a bit more...emotional, than I inteded.


The far side of Mitakihara. An alleyway. A metal barrel, in which a fire crackled and burned, heating and illuminating the area.

It is fed in small bites, pieces of paper sacrificed to it's eternal hunger. They were red, pink, purple, white, shaped in rectangles, squares, ovals, hearts, some written on in pen, some in pencil, some with art, polka dots, stripes, some wearing glitter. No matter the style, each was cast into the fire with the same casual disregard.

Violet orbs watched each death with flames reflected on the surface, casual indifference plastered over indignant hatred. No, hatred was too strong a word. Perhaps loathing, or fury, or outrage, were better terms. And she takes particular pleasure in destroying the letters she has in her grip.

The contents of these letters disgust her, horrify her, and spark a thousand different emotions inside her when she reads them. They profess love, speak of secret crushes, hidden admiration, unvoiced desire. They are questions, requests, pleas, confessions. They tell of red roses, blue violets, tired cliches, kisses, dates. All aimed at a single person.

And the sad part was, Homura knew Madoka would respond to this attention. She knew how hard it was for the pinkette to say 'No' to someone, and how she would love the entire world if it were possible. It was her innocence, her purity, her eternal optimism and ability to see the best in people that attracted them to her. And it was why she would do her best to accommodate them, even in denial. And it's why Homura rejects them for her.

On one hand, it was for the best. The more personal attachments she had, the more likely was Madoka was to make a wish. The vast majority of those she made were self sacrificing, for the benefit of others. Therefore, if she could be isolated from strong personal connections beyond those she already possessed, the chances of a selflessly motivated wish drastically decreased.

But no, it was more than that. She knew those people, read their letters, investigated them, and she knew none of them were good enough. Not for her. They didn't understand her, how she felt. They didn't appreciate her generosity, or how much she would give up for others. They hadn't seen her suffer, die, cry in pain, or succumb to despair. They didn't truly know her.

So she stood as the watchman, the gate, the administrator of a test with a foregone conclusion. None were good enough, no one measured up to her standards, and she would protect Madoka from heartbreak, even if she had to break into her locker and steal from it, or intimidate people, or send misleading text messages to do it.

She even held those standards to herself, perhaps even stricter standards. Madoka would care for her, yes, maybe even love her, but only so much as she did with everyone else. Homura was too jaded, too world weary, too broken, too useless. She'd seen too much, caused too much suffering, seen too much death and killed too many people. Someone like herself could never be worth of a person like Madoka, even if she were to succeed in her mission. It could not wipe away the scars, nor the blackness on her soul.

So she burned those letters., cast them into the fire, to never be seen or read by pink eyes. It was for the best, she told herself. There would be time enough for romance once Walpurgisnacht had been defeated, Mitakihara saved, and Kreimhild Gretchen prevented. Until then, it was necessary sacrifice. She just had to make sure that Madoka didn't find out, lest she seem petty for stealing love letters.

The fire burns down and sputters out, leaving nothing but ash and burnt wishes. Homura turned to leave, planning out what she had to do next. She has no doubt she'd be back here sooner or later.

After all, no one is good enough for Madoka Kaname. No one.