A/N v.2: Purging. Details on my profile.

This is the sequel to Dear Diary, but it can probably be read alone. I've tried to write this about 5 times, but it never really worked. And then my muse ate an angst muffin, and I rolled with it.

Um, reviews are awesome. :) As I did in Don't Lick It!, I'll prob do commish fics for the first ten people to review this fic. A few requirements: No crossovers, no Mpreg, I have to be somewhat familiar with the fandom/pairing/characters, and you have to give me a slight prompt so I know what you want. Let's see if we can get to 15 reviews, yeah? Just let me know when I reply to your review, because I reply to all reviews, anon or logged-in.

Going to be working primarily on Mistaken Identity right now, but I might get the first chapter of True Name out, to force myself to work on it. Other than that, enjoy Halves of a Whole, and please don't kill me?

As EDITs have no point, since I'm editing once more... After SilveringBlue from Critics United checked up on this fic, I'd like to add that this is AU and completely disregards the Winter War. Everything else is canon. Also, this isn't up to my usual standards, tbh, but I don't feel like rewriting it, so I'll leave it be.

Halves of a Whole

You sensed him watching you in the trees when you were training. You knew his eyes were watching your fluid motions as you released arrow after arrow after arrow, trying to become stronger so you could protect the one you loved. And if you just turned a little to the right, you knew you would see a slight tuft of his orange hair sticking out from behind the tree where he stood, not properly concealed, not really caring.

It wasn't the first time you caught him staring, nor was it the last. You noticed him watching your every step, your every movement, as you went through your daily life. You knew he was observing you; in fact, you observed him observing you. But you never mentioned it. You never let on that you knew.

But you did put on a show, didn't you? You acted a little more seductive, slightly more risqué, just to give him a show. And you smirked internally when you saw the frustration and anger shining in his eyes, making themselves known in his clenched jaw. You read the signs, and you knew that you affected him. And you hoped. You hoped that maybe he returned what you felt, that he loved you as much as you loved him. But you never acted upon that hope, never acknowledged it, never thought to do anything but shove it aside.

You imagine, every now and then, what might have happened if you had. What might have happened if you had gone up to him and told him you loved him, had loved him for a while now. Would he have returned your affections? Would you have had a chance?

You did, though. You tried, albeit halfheartedly, although at the time, it was just to get a rise out of him. But then, when you failed, and when it became wholly too interesting, you continued, making your advances less subtle. And still, nothing happened. You began to analyze him, to see what you were doing wrong, but you came up blank. Analysis had no part in this situation.

And then you stopped, stopped trying, stopped dreaming of a happy future. He got too close, too fast, and even you couldn't have anticipated it. He saw into your soul, and searched your darkest corners, and uncovered secrets that should have remained hidden. You drew away, because you couldn't bear to see the pity in his eyes, the worry, the plea to help.

He had seen your scars, and you didn't like that. You didn't know how to deal with it. You had spent months trying to hide that part of you, trying to heal from the last hurt. And he had helped you. That goddamned Kurosaki had helped you find closure with the hurt. Ever since you first noticed him, you felt an inane happiness settle over your life. Even when he didn't know you existed, you felt content just watching him. You kept tabs on him, really, and followed every development of his life. You knew the moment he became a Shinigami, the time he fought his first Hollow, when he battled Grand Fisher. You knew about Kuchiki-san from the start, but only because she was connected to Kurosaki.

He helped you bury the pain, bury the hurt, bury the anger, and he helped you reform yourself. You stopped digging the metal blade into your wrists, stopped letting the blood flow down your arms, stopped reveling at the pain, though you balked at the same time. And then he approached you, and you came to knew each other, and you fell more in love with him than you had been previously. And all thoughts of cutting escaped you, left your mind completely, and you never thought about for months afterwards, because he was there, Kurosaki was there, and he would take the pain away.

What would Kurosaki say? You wondered. You tortured yourself all night, imagining his pity, his anger, hi deep scowl. You berated yourself for slipping up, for forgetting to hide the scars, for letting him into your heart. And even though you didn't know it, you pulled away from him then. Just slightly, and nobody noticed, not even you; but you did. You withdrew from him, first mentally, and then slowly, gradually, you withdrew physically too. Kurosaki wouldn't want to love someone who self-harmed, you told yourself. You were just helping Kurosaki. But deep down, you knew that you were doing it for yourself, selfish as always. You were trying to avoid the pain of rejection.

Now, as you sit in bed, knees drawn to your chest, you wonder if perhaps things would've been different if you hadn't drawn away. If you had been persistent, would you have been happy?

You stopped hoping, finally, because he stopped showing the signs you had drank in so eagerly before. He stopped blushing faintly when you touched him, stopped stammering if you said something suggestive, stopped acting off-kilter when you were around him. And you tried to get over him, tried to find closure. You turned to Orihime. No, not Inoue-san anymore, but Orihime, or Hime-chan if you felt romantic. She was pretty, she was clever—not smart, but clever—she was a Healer, she was kind. And she wasn't a Shinigami. She was the perfect wife. She was hung up on Kurosaki, too, of course, but it seemed she had given up on him long ago.

So you dated Orihime for a while, and every moment, you thought of Kurosaki. When you were sweet to her, you imagined Kurosaki in her place. When you kissed her, you imagined Kurosaki's firm lips instead of her soft ones. When you eventually made love to her for the first time, you imagined Kurosaki's perfect body writhing beneath you. And you felt his absence keenly in your soul. You knew you would never get over him, but you hoped that Orihime could help you progress, and find some happiness in life.

You remember, as the moon shines on you and the darkness settles around you, cloaking you, reflecting your soul—you remember that day he was gone, on the same day as all the previous years. You asked Orihime about it, and she told you it was his mother's death anniversary. She refused to say anything else, though, or perhaps she didn't know. But you wondered, you still do, how his mother died. And you feel a dull ache in your heart, because someone as bright and caring and full of life as Kurosaki shouldn't have to go through life without a mother's love. It was a crime; really, it was.

You wish now that you had asked him the next day. You didn't, because you didn't want to disturb his mourning, or so you told yourself. But even now, months later, you can still see the grief that shadowed his normally boisterous face. Useless, you tell yourself, you are so utterly useless. You could've brushed that grief away, but you didn't. Because you're useless.

You saw his eyes on you ever more often after that day. You felt his eyes burning into the back of your head when you tucked a lock of Orihime's hair behind her ear, or stole a kiss in private, or gave her a flower. And you felt your stomach plummet to the ground, because you couldn't bear to think—

Had you been wrong after all?

But no, no, he was simply happy that Orihime had also found happiness, and was no longer pining over him. That had to be it. Kurosaki just wanted to make sure that you wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't break her happiness. And you continued with the fake smiles that slowly became more genuine, continued hiding your pining, continued attempting to push him out of your mind.

Now, as you hug your pillow to her knees, as you finally let the tears drip down your face, let your emotions show, you curse yourself for being so naïve, for being so absolutely stupid. You curse yourself for not having known, not seeing the signs, not acting upon what you felt. You think to yourself that if you had just talked to him, things might not be the way they are now. They might be different. You might be happy.

It has been over a year since that morning in the clearing, a year since you first began feeling Kuro—no, Ichigo, forever Ichigo—Ichigo's eyes on you at every moment. It has been six months since that day he was gone from school. It has been a week since you dropped your guard. It has been six days since you broke up with Orihime.

And it has been seven hours since he broke your heart.

You got the heartbroken call from Orihime just hours after his body was found, lying peacefully on his bed with a glass of water and an almost-empty bottle of pills beside him, a bottle of pills that Ichigo's father said had been almost full. Kuchiki-san had found him; she had gone to visit Urahara-san about something, and had left Ichigo alone for about an hour. By the time she returned, it was too late. Orihime told you everything between her heart-wrenching sobs, and eventually you dropped the phone, ran out of the house, and raced to the Kurosaki clinic.

You broke up with Orihime the next day. You hated to cause Orihime more pain, but you had to. It was no longer necessary to keep Ichigo out of your mind, no longer needed for you to try and ignore him, and no longer needed for you to torture Orihime, either. She could find true love now, now that Ichigo was gone. She could move on, make something of herself. You would only hinder her, and she didn't deserve to be led on like that.

You still remember his funeral. It took place hardly seven hours ago. You stood there with a heartbroken Orihime, Arisawa, and the rest. But you were only there as a friend. You could not show emotion. Why should you? You were a Quincy; he was a Shinigami. Sworn enemies from the start. You hated him; but you loved him at the same time. How cruel was the world?

Later, after the funeral, when you were still acting as stoic as possible, Ichigo's father approached you. He held out a little black book and told you that it was found on Ichigo's desk, and was addressed to you. You took it, eyes wide, hands trembling slightly, afraid to see what was inside.

You read the ten diary entries within it in the span of half an hour. Then you read it again. And again. And again. Always, you came back to those last words.

I love you, Ishida Uryu. And for that, I hate you.

Even now, as you collapse into bed, sobs wracking your figure, you have the journal open to that last page, to those words. And you yell at yourself, call yourself an idiot, call yourself worthless, stupid, murderer, and everything in between. Because you are. Because of your idiocy, you murdered a young, bright, innocent teen. His blood stains your hands, even in the darkness.

You know, instinctively, that if you had approached him a year ago, told him about your feelings, this would not be happening. You would not be crying over his death, with his journal open at your feet for you to look at and drown in guilt once more. You would be laughing with him, or bantering with him, or sparring with him, and in the end, you would hug and kiss and make up. And maybe in the future, you would get married and adopt, and celebrate all the milestones together. Because you were made for each other. Two parts of a whole.

But now one half of that whole is gone.

And you can never be whole again.

FIN