this is for sahdah. thank you.

Your hand fidgets on your phone. You keep one finger hovering over the next button on your music player. You skip, you skip again, you've skipped one hundred songs- songs that your past self has meticulously promoted from external hard drives to phone memory card. They now hold no meaning to you. Nothing has the impact that you want. You can't find the song you're looking for. You wonder if it's even in your phone. You wonder if it's even anywhere.

You resign, as you always seem to do, and you gently pull your borrowed earbuds out. You tie the cord loosely around your neck. Your mind provides a metaphor and you loosen the knot even more.

You blink and refocus your colorful army of fabric softener stares blankly back at you. It doesn't recognise you. You don't recognise any of it. Anything but the blue one, the honey colored voice in your head dictates.

'Anything but the blue one,' you mutter, as you trace the labels. Touching doesn't help with scent, you find, so you read. Iris, rose, lavender, lotus flower. You pick the green one.

The cashier asks if you'll pay cash or debit. You look for a melody in her sentence. It's not there. You look for it in the rustle of your backpack as you shove the bottle inside. You listen closely to your bike's engine as it starts. Maybe it'll be right when you decelerate and turn it off? No.

Your keys clunk together as you fish them from your pocket. If the sound you're looking for is partly the unlocking of the door you share with your meister, things will work out. Your bargain with fate crashes as you insert the key into the lock and nothing falls into place.

You call for cat. Cat is probably tailing the other, more interesting half of your assigned partnership. You kick your shoes off and arrange them by the wall with your foot. You close your eyes tightly. You think this room smells faintly of what the right music would sound like. You inwardly laugh at yourself and make your way to the washing machine.

These clothes definitely smell like nothing right. You pour your new acquisition into the provided drawer. You fill two cups of detergent and push them in with the clothes. Maybe this will exorcise the immortal presence of rotting gut smell in almost all Shibusen issued too-thin fabric.

You lower the temperature to second lowest and push start. You forget yourself watching the spinning for a while. The soapy water doesn't get the chance to drip down like it wants to before it's seized by a sleeve or a sock. You close the door behind you.

You're drowning, you think in passing. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You look at your wristwatch.

You dutifully pick up a book left on the arm of the sofa and arrange its corners neatly on the table. You sink to your knees and take a can of crushed tomato from the cupboard. The sound it makes when you place it on the countertop is pleasant but nowhere near what it would sound like, had the placing been done by other hands. You take out linguini, onions and clove spice.

You hum soothing Beethoven to yourself as you fill a pot midway with water. You check your watch. Seven minutes left. You ponder garlic. Yes? No? You don't know. You put the pot over high heat. You lean against the counter and count the seconds.

Your hear footsteps going up the stairs at minus two minutes. You hear the jingle of keys. They sound clearer than yours, they sound unblemished. The key goes straight into the lock- you had scratched a bit around it, but your flatmate is perfectly precise in all she does. The rustle of her jacket arrives to your ears before the thunk of boots on wooden floor does.

"Soul?" she shouts into the small hallway. You shake your head at the treasonous floorboards. Was this what you were looking for? Surely not. Surely not.

"Kitchen," you say.

Her now socked feet make their perfectly weighted way to you. She walks as if she controls the air around her to do her bidding, and carry her through space with the least amount of observable effort on her part.

"Hey," she calls, as her feral hand feathers across your back.

You force yourself to turn around before you're ready to fully process her sonar presence as well as her physical. She smiles at you. You check for bruises. Her blond eyelashes cast a shadow darker than themselves onto her cheeks. Her face is unscathed today. You let your gaze travel lazily to the next exposed part of skin. You pick up her hand, because apparently your own has declared mutiny. A scratch. You return to her face. Another smile, just for you and your stellar performance. You lift the hand up to examine closely. It would be so easy to direct it to your mouth instead of your eyes. You smile back at her.

"Hope you're in the mood for uh," you start. She stifles a yawn and doesn't judge your silence. "Italian?" You motion with your head toward the stove. You let her hand go when you feel your time frame for allowed skin to skin contact is almost past.

"Mmmm," she sighs approvingly, and it sounds like part two of a sonata.

You spot a bruise on the side of her knee as she bends down and considers the additional spices in the drawer. She easily makes the yes-garlic decision. "Blair's back home for tonight."

You feel robbed of the distraction. You feel robbed of it being easier with another person/ feline preventing the single-minded pursuit you've found yourself on the path of. You concentrate on stirring chopped onion while her jacket comes off.

You feel like a criminal when your first thought is to close the window and trap the scent of the articles of her clothing in the room.

She sniffs her tank top herself. She makes a sound of disgust. You feel she's ignorant. "Did you get a new scent?" she asks.

You nod in affirmation and watch over your shoulder as she steps to the small laundry room and once the door torturingly, but securely, hides her from view, you imagine the cap twist off the bottle and a deep breath drawn in. "Good job, steel boy," she says.

You scoff at the identity she graced you with and make a mental note to keep everything neat in your brain for later. There's a pat on your back. There's a cold, cold hand snaking its way under your shirt. She presses her palm onto your back.

"Have you told her?" the distant phonecall voice of your brother sounds right behind your eyes.

"Hey!"

Your reprimand is a lie, but if you were being honest, you'd always try and keep this palm on you.

Her hand obediently slides out as she takes a step back. She cocks her head towards you and raises her brow. "So, walking in the cold was boring."

"Riding on the bike would have been colder," you lie, again. You mourn the memories you've let go: her forearms squeezing your stomach, the bump of her helmet on yours at strong brakes, her proximity and her anchoring you in the world and your anchoring her on the moving vehicle.

"You're just lazy."

"Probably."

She smacks your head. Heat radiates from the point of contact and warms your cold feet. You laugh. You've come up for air. You're floating.

She keeps looking at you like she doesn't know what she's doing to you. She looks at you like she's the most innocent and simultaneously mature woman that is allowed to exist in this world, and suddenly all your thoughts and troubles are lifted, gone, weightless.

You feel the pull of gravity lessening, and the only thing grounding you is the wooden ladle you blindly scrape against the bottom of the pan. Onions suddenly smell like heaven, in the small space that she occupies.

You're floating and you're lost. You lose your identity in her stare and time stops, as you allow yourself to cherish these moments, before the rational part of what is left of you decides they would be better off sealed away, concealed, destroyed.

"There's hot water, if you'd like a shower," you tell her, and your voice is far, far away. She nods in slow motion, and for a moment she plays with the hem of her tank top. You calmly wonder if she'll take it off, right here in front of your, suddenly, unclouded eyes. She doesn't, of course. She retreats to the secrecy of a closed room, to independently cleanse herself of her training. You hate it when your weapon-specific training sessions don't coincide with her meister-specific mixed martial arts.

The onions overcook because you redirect all focus to the sound of water from her showering. You add tomato goo and spices. You hope you haven't ruined it. You stir, lower the heat. You burn yourself a little when you put the lid on the pan. You don't mind. You can almost feel the cool water on your finger as you imagine the same cool water lulling Maka's muscles into taking a rest for the day.

You snap out of you reverie when angry boiling water overflows from the pot. You're surprised it registers. You add salt to the steaming water and you hear the shower turn off and the shower curtain pulled. It's salt to your wounds that you can't wrap the needed towel around your meister yourself.

You can almost see yourself crossing the small, small distance that separates the rooms. You can almost see yourself opening that door. It would creak a bit, for dramatic effect. Her hair would be dripping onto her shoulders, down her breasts, travelling down her legs and onto the floor. She would look at you. Offended? Startled? Furious. You have no reason to be here, her body language would say. She would not grace you with words.

You would try to explain with your eyes that this is where you belong. This is where she belongs. You both belong in front of each other. Bared, in front of each other. You'd see the thoughts that'd go through her mind. You'd watch them as they'd pass through her golden crowned head, even slightly before they would. You'd ease her panic about what it truly means to you to be in the same house as her, in the same room as her, in the same doomed, murderous partnership, on the same path as her. You'd smooth out all of her past experiences. You'd reinstate the trust she's lost in your kind, in the function of your kind as anything more than a tool.

You feel horribly selfish and cocky and near-sighted. Your fantasies negate what she needs. They negate what you have to do. You have to be patient. You have to endure, and you have to be kind. The seconds tick by and you are aware of each and every one of them, but it is not your job to change her. It is not your place to interfere.

The seconds pass and you both lose time. You're looking for the song that would encapsulate the tragedy you scorn yourself for feeling. You hopelessly look for something to make you feel less ridiculous, less unnecessarily dramatic. But you're stunted in front of her self-lit eyes and all the processes in your mind are killed as she engulfs you completely. How you wish she'd choose to engulf you completely.

You admire from afar. You look at the sauce you're emptying into the large bowl of linguini, but you concentrate on the different sound her feet make on your apartment floor. She's changed into fluffy house socks. The last strand of pasta slides into the bowl and so, you can engage your vision with something more interesting. She pats a towel onto the ends of her wet hair. She lets it hang from her shoulder as she gets two plates from the cupboard. You allow yourself to touch it. You tell yourself you need to check if the towel is too wet to be on her clothes. It is. You take it and lay it on the back of a chair.

"Ah, thanks."

You nod.

You place the bowl of dinner onto the table. You time the sound of glass on table to be simultaneous with that of skin on chair.

"How did your super-stuck up, exclusive, meister-only training go?" You put on your best annoyed face.

"Star knocked me down," she says.

You hum in theatrical awe as you place food on her plate. Then onto yours.

"But he didn't stay upright for long either." She takes a deep breath over her steaming pasta and smirks at you.

"Leg sweep?"

"Yup." Her teeth show through her smile. You need to burn that, as well.

You look down at your plate and close your eyes as you hear her circling linguini onto her fork. You wait for her opinion on the food.

"Mmm," she hums. "So good." Her voice sounds muffled through her half-full mouth. You smile. You remember you also have to eat.

She narrates the parts of her day that you haven't shared. Star managed to knock her down. Then, she knocked him down without getting up. And, Kim showed her a new choke-hold.

You laugh as she walks around the table to demonstrate on you. Her forearm pushes against your neck and you suddenly are intensely aware of your own pulse. You tap on the table twice when you feel your head getting lighter. She loosens her grip, giggles, and lets go. She goes back to her seat. Her controlled but heavy steps are those of a lazy lioness.

You're still lightheaded when she finishes her food and you get up to clear the table.

"I'm so glad it's your turn today," she says as she yawns.

"You can go to bed," you tell her, softer than you intended, and look at her over your shoulder. She props her chin up on her intertwined fingers and blinks slowly.

"No... I haven't-" she stifles another yawn "-seen you all day."

You want to drop the dishes by way of statement. You haven't seen her all day either.

Your dishwasher has been broken for about a week. A month ago, she said she secretly liked washing dishes. It gives her an easy sense of accomplishment. None of the two of you has made any attempts at starting to think about fixing it.

The tableware clink as you place them on the drying rack and it goes nicely with yet another yawn.

"Is looking at my ass so worth it?"

"Pff. Idiot."

You sniff. You smile.

By the time you are finished, she has fallen asleep on her folded arms at the table. You wipe your wet hands on your jeans. You push your hair back. Dammit. You approach her. You put a hand on her shoulder. Your pinky touches the skin her loose collar leaves exposed.

"Maka?"

She easily wakes and sighs. "Yep."

"You need to get to your bed."

"Just… yeah," she says, and makes no move to get up.

You massage her shoulders. "Come on."

"Mmm."

You're so mad that the song you've been looking for isn't a song at all.

"The more you stall, the less sleep you'll get, Albarn."

She lifts her head off the table, only to let it fall back onto your arm. She looks at you and furrows her brows.

"Come on," you tell her, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

She makes a whiny noise and she closes her eyes again. "My legs are so sore…"

"Maka."

"Your poor meister's legs..."

"Maka."

"The pain..." She opens her eyes again.

"Okay." You pull her off the chair. She resists a bit, but she's on her feet. She slumps against you. "Okay," you say, again. You bend down and put an arm behind her knees, guilty of being ready to lift her.

"Hey!" she yelps. "I get it. I get it."

She binds you with her protest. You step back. She straightens and marches toward her bedroom. You let your head hang for a second, you allow self-pity for one second. Then you follow. You settle for looking at her rolling her shoulders and dragging her feet.

She would feel like truth in your arms. The cowardly part of yourself is glad you didn't get to see the light. It would be too damn close. You stop following her.

The floor creaks under her weight as she stops. She looks over her shoulder. You bow your head. She offers a small laugh.

"Thank you for dinner." She walks towards you. You keep your head bent down as she reaches behind your neck. She gives you a squeeze and hesitates when her mouth is closest to your face.

"My pleasure," you say, and it jolts her back. You're welcome, you say in your head. How come your own voice doesn't pull her in, like hers does to you? How come your own voice doesn't obey you?

She disappears behind a closed door. You avert your gaze from the knob.

You take the clothes out of the washing machine. They smell different. You like it. You hope she'll like it too. You hang the clothes by the window. They'll be dry in no time- one thing you like about the desert.

You disappear behind your own door, though you suspect your absence will not be equally noted by your partner. You reluctantly close it after you and collapse onto your desk chair.

You look at your ceiling. Stubbornly unchanging. It's fitting for a ceiling in a room occupied by you. You look at your shelf. You look at everything you can, to prevent your eyes from landing on the object that will officially wrap up your day.

Your brother has dozens of them. Your brother does well in life, he gets things done. He always did. Stealing one recycled candle from him doesn't really rob him of anything important. Wes' candle is your lucky charm. It's your path ahead in life. It's how you cope.

You concentrate. You think of the dripping strands of your meister's hair. You think of the milkshake you resisted buying for her when you passed by the italian ice cream store on your way home. You think of your buzzing phone, of how much lighter your body gets when it lights up with her name. You think about how you entirely light up at mention of her name.

You light the candle with a match and throw it all into the flame. You gather all your thoughts. You gather all of your failed attempts at finding the right music today. She is all music. She is all passion. Your brain has one focus beam and it's always on her. You have to burn all of this.

The flame flickers and you sigh with relief. Some of the weight is gone from your head.

You wish she had let you carry her to her bed, let you hold her tight, measure your steps perfectly, like always she does, and cross the living room safely. Get her under her covers, tuck her in, clear her face of any stray hairs. Slip into the bed with her. Maybe even borrow some of her courage and actually kiss her. Rid her of any doubts has about you- you, as a demographic and then, about you, specifically. Maybe you'd wing it. Start a resonance outside of battle, get everything you feel through her thick skull.

The candle still has a bit left. Maybe, when it finally, inevitably burns out, you'll be brave.

You hope it burns out fast. You don't think it ever will, though, not really. This is your balancing point. Loving her more, loving her impossibly much: this is where you belong.

This is where you belong, but maybe, should the universe surprise you, should the candle really burn out, you'll tell her. You'll tell her nothing matters anymore and she's your one basic need. And maybe she'll smile. Maybe she will open up. Maybe she'll forgive you for the sins of others and finally let you in.

You blow out the candle. You watch the smoke rise chaotically towards the ceiling, the glow from the street light outside trapped in its cloud. You hear the creak of the bed in the room next to yours, and the sigh of a person finally in bed after a long day.

You double-check your alarm, you strip down to your boxers and you get into bed. Maka's bed creaks again through your thin walls. There's silence. She's probably asleep. Your own sheets rustle with your movement and now you're asleep too, you guess.