This is my Sorry note for all my story delaying. *cries*
this is Namine's letter to whoever you want who has blue eyes. So... ROXAS, Sora, *cough* ROXAS, *cough* Ventus, Roxas, Zexion, Marluxia, Roxas, Luxord, Seifer, Roxas, and so forth. Did I mention Roxas?
I don't own.
What would have happened if I never met you? Why did your eyes sparkle so brightly? Why did your hair shimmer like fine silk? Why did my heart skip a beat when I first say you? Why was I lost in the sea that was you, forever swimming towards the surface?
I met you when I was in sixth grade; you had just moved in from Twilight Town. You were instantly popular with all the girls, right away; you didn't even seem to notice me with my big rimmed glasses and French beret, Sitting all alone in the back row. Even when the teacher assigned you the seat besides me, you still didn't notice. I wasn't there. I couldn't be seen. A ghost. A mirage. Invisible.
What if you noticed me? What if you pushed me away and bullied me like everyone else? What if you hated me?
But I noticed you. Your beady blue eyes that reminded me of an ocean storm at night, perfect matches with your tousled spiky hair. The way you walked, talked, laughed, breathed. I knew it all. You were mysterious, stunning, captivating. You flirted with every girl, but you didn't date a single one. You were friends with all the guys, but you didn't hang out with them. You kept to yourself, always preferring the silent loneliness to friends.
Why? What if you liked having a large posse of followers who worshiped you like the god you were?
In freshman year of high school, my sister gave me a makeover; and now I was the eye candy. My glasses lost for contacts, my beret traded for a fedora, my wardrobe completely upgraded from drool to cool. You finally noticed me; like every other boy from freshman to senior. You don't know how thrilled I was; to be seen, (especially by you) instead of ignored, bullied, or out-casted. I had admirers for the first time in my life, but then I realized that I was more like you than I thought. I had girl friends, but I would rather draw alone in the cafeteria. I flirted - it was rather embarrassing at first - but I wasn't ready for a relationship. I didn't like the attention a month into it; until you finally talked to me.
What if I didn't change? What if I stayed the same, with the glasses, beret, holey shoes and medieval skirts? What if I liked the popularity, the friends? What if you still didn't notice me?
I remember it clearly. You walked up to me, your checkered vans squeaking across the linoleum floor, and you awkwardly rubbed the back of your head behind me locker. I smiled, and so did you.
"Hi." was all you said, and I was already sighing like a lovesick fool. I waved shyly in return, and you continued on through the hallway. That was the beginning, you see.
A year went on with the two of us handling our own group of patrons, and we didn't speak to each other again. Did you ever catch the looks I sent to you? What if you did? Would you have come over to talk to me? I didn't know.
What if you never came to my locker? What if you asked me out? What if didn't say anything? What if I didn't wave?
Sophomore year landed on us like a ton of bricks, and we both seemed to finally open our eyes to reality. On the second day of the second month, you came to my locker again; this time, with a broader smile and a ticket to the school dance. Why did you do it? I don't know. But you slipped the paper into my hand silently, without a word, and dissolved into the passing crowd.
What if you asked like a normal guy? What if I said no? What would have happened then? Would you have tried to convince me to go with you?
The dance was everything I wanted, I guess. Sparkling lights littered the gymnasium floor, tables covering in white cloth were lined up along the walls, couples rocking slowly back and forth on the dance floor. I waited for you for all of two minutes, and you arrived, looking stunning in a black tuxedo, fresh and crisp like a movie star. You made me feel ugly that night.
What if I waited more than two minutes? What if you stood me up? What if you came in jeans and a T-shirt?
Would any of it change the future?
No words were exchanged at first. We didn't even look at each other. We just stood somewhere in the center of the dance floor, swaying awkwardly to a slow love song. We did notice the envious stares of out pursuers; we were two wrapped up in our own world, trying to think up the right words to say.
What if I walked away to flirt? What if you walked away to flirt? What if we started talking sooner?
"You look wonderful," you finally said, and I knew I was blushing. I complemented you in return, and then the real conversation started. We played a game of twenty questions - which escalated to fifty, then a hundred - and pretty soon, we were recognized as a couple. Everyone in school knew I was head over heels for you, and vise versa.
But what if you never spoke at the dance? What if we didn't play twenty questions? What if you refused to ask me out?
Well, I had no idea my life was so fragile. All it took was five seconds for it to collapse and come undone.
We flew through sophomore and junior year like nothing. You always came to greet me in the hallways before school started, and we had three out of four classes together. You sat with me at lunch, and even drove me home once you got a license. Our lives were perfect; our relationship blossoming.
What if Sophomore year was hard? What if you never greeted me in the morning? What if we had no classes together? What if you didn't eat lunch with me everyday? What if we broke up?
Senior year was when it all ended. Everything. You. Me. Us. Everything.
Do you remember, wherever you are? That day, March seventeenth, that ruined my life forever? It started like every other day. You greeted me with a tender kiss, you walked me to my first class. You hugged me tightly for the entire passing period before parting with me for your next class. We met at lunch, and acted like a married couple. You walked me to third period and fourth. We walked together to the parking lot; but things changed from there.
You opened the car door for me, I got inside. But halfway out of the parking spot I remembered something; I had left my sketchbook in the art room, and I needed it for a project later that night. I left the car, telling you I would be fine. I took four steps - five seconds - and then a sickening crunch as metal folded itself, glass shattered, and bones were crushed.
What if I stayed home sick that day? What if we started the day differently? What if you were called for extra football practice during lunch? What if I remembered to bring my sketchpad with me to the car?
Would you still be alive?
Do you know how guilty I am? I raced to the hunk of trash that was your car, and I cried and cried, screaming your name. I scratched and scratched at the door; my fingers started bleeding, I was trying to hard to get to you. You didn't move - I couldn't tell that you were already dead - and blood was everywhere, but mostly leaking out of a long cut stretched across the side of your head. The other driver was miraculously unscathed; he was trying to help me pry the door off of your car. The firemen came, the police came; they dragged me away from you. It was unbearable; watching, strapped into a hospital gurney, as they pulled your dull, lifeless body out of the rubble and declared you gone. When the news had finally struck me; I had died inside too.
If you talked to me in sixth grade, you would have lived. If I didn't get a makeover in high school, you would have lived. If you didn't take me to the dance, you would have lived. If you dumped me, you would have lived. If we changed our morning schedule, you would have lived.
If I hadn't forgotten my sketchbook, would you have lived?
I do blame myself for your death. I can't help it; it's not something that would go away by simply willing it to. But I'm trying. Are you watching me from heaven? I graduated college, you know. I got a new job, a new apartment, and I'm starting a new life. I've even started dating again. Is that ok with you? I hope so. Being alone isn't comforting anymore; the memories come flooding back.
If I hadn't forgotten my sketchpad in the art room on March seventeenth, you would still be alive. We would be married. Maybe have a child.
I'm sorry. Its all my fault.
What if you could change the future? What would you change?
Love you forever,
Naminé