I do not own the obvious

Ryuzaki Sakuno stared at her computer screen, her lips pursed in a moue of concentration. Her eyes blinked every few seconds or so, digesting the information on the screen in front of her. Absently, she scratched at a spot where her glasses were digging into her skin. After a few minutes, she sighed despondently, and gave up the attempt. Again, she wondered why she bothered to try so hard when the project had been doomed from the moment her English teacher had mouthed the word 'Essay'. Maybe her history of sadism had played a role. Or perhaps a momentary mental relapse, which, if Sakuno was being honest, occurred quite recently in all of her 14 years of living. And who was she, if not the harbinger of truth. Why, just the other day, she had quite honestly told her grandmother, that No, she was Absolutely Not pining her heart away for a certain tennis prodigy. She had thrown in words like 'mature', 'practical' and 'sensible' into the conversation for added effect, just in case her grandmother did not believe her.

And she really was Maria Sharapova. At this thought, she softly snickered to herself, picturing her hours spent in futile attempts to even swing a tennis racket properly. I really am going high on the nuts-o-meter today, she thought amusedly to herself. Shaking her errant thoughts away, she began flexing her fingers and proceeded to hack away at her laptop keys, hell bent on completing her essay. And for the 189th time that day, she thought to the enigmatic email she had received from The Boy Who Belonged in the Past.

'No, no, stop it dammit. Remember, I am a mature, practical, sensible young lady. I am not pining away for T.B.W.B.I.T.P I am a mature, prac-'

As if in a trance, she found her eyes slowly travelling across her small room, to rest upon the mailed letter conspicuously placed on her bedspread. A letter with a return address marked to an American residence, a world away from where she was. A letter with familiar, wiry, obviously male handwriting, addressed to her, of all people.

Well, wasn't she screwed.

Like a moth to a flame, she shakily began to stretch her arm out for it. Just as one her of fingertips was about to make contact, a shrill ring reverberated throughout the room. She froze for a moment, before diving for the handphone on her desk . The phone slipped through her hands her a few times in her skittish state before she managed a breathless 'Hello?'

'Oei Sakuno, where are you? I've been here for a century you know,'

' Tomo-Chan? Wha...What do you mean? Were we supposed to-'

' Ah sheesh, you forgot again didn't you? Remember, we were supposed to go to the library, help me with my art? I knew I should have gone over to your place first, I just knew that-'

'Yes, Tomo-chan, I know, I know' Sakuno hastened to respond. Tomo, bless her heart, despite being Sakuno's best friend, unfortunately had the capacity to rant for hours whenever she felt she had been maligned in any way. 'I'll be there in about twenty minutes, I promise. Meet you there soon?'

Before her friend had a chance to squawk her indignation, Sakuno hurriedly hung up her phone, grabbed her purse, and nearly flew out her door, when she spied on the letter again. In a sudden fit of anger, she snatched it off her bed and slammed it into her trash can. Seemingly satisfied, she turned and made her way to the library.

Something wet was prodding his skin. He came into contact with fur when he tried to push the offending object away, but it only came back to meow loudly in his ear. Determinedly, he turned on his side and ignored Karupin, his faithful companion of ten years. For eff's sake, it was only 4 hours ago when he fed the stupid cat. He squinted his eyes at the clock on the opposite wall. Ok, so it was seven hours ago. Karupin prodded at his face then with her paw, a woebegone expression on her face. He glared back at her. The exchange lasted for a few more seconds before his cat plopped softly onto the floor, gave a stretch worthy of a yoga master, and yowled at him to move his butt out of the bed and into the kitchen.

Echizen Ryoma always was a sucker for his cat.

"I'm the owner here. I do all the heavy lifting. I'm the one who cleans your litter box, stupid cat," the surly young man intoned as he sluggishly walked out of his room. Karupin meowed in agreement, although it sounded as if she merely did so to appease him.

After setting a plate of canned pet food in front of her, he settled down onto a chair and rubbed his eyes sleepily. He had no idea where his parents were, nor did he want to know. It was not unusual to find them missing in the morning. His father had had an aneurysm one day and declared that a daily morning jog was monumental for his 'aging heap of bones'. His wife had been unwittingly dragged into the whole idea, although now it seemed that she was the one who was more excited about it.

He was yawning widely when he saw the pile of mail placed neatly in the middle of the kitchen table. He cocked his head slightly to the side, a look of consideration on his face before he settled the pile in front of him. Bills, some ads, magazines, more bills, some fan mail, a swimsuit magazine addressed to their number 1 subscriber, various other ads and finally a sample of a perfume for his mother.

With great relish, Ryoma threw the swimsuit magazine into a nearby dustbin and ignored the rest. He unconsciously tapped the wooden table, contemplating. So far, so good. Ryuzaki had heeded his request and had obviously not responded to his 'accidental' letter from 2 months ago.

Thinking about the content of the letter made his face blanch. It was a horrible mistake, committed when he was in a drunken stupor. His father had encouraged him to down a few sips of sake when they were having an old family friend over. Embarrassingly, those few sips were enough to turn him into an intoxicated puppy. His father had gathered a lot of ammunition that night, damn him.

In his room later that evening, he had proceeded to write a letter to someone he had not given much, or any thought to for that matter. Why a handwritten letter, he had no idea, emails were so much more efficient. In his somewhat buzzed up state however, it had insanely made perfect sense.

Whatever was written in there, he was determined that it was never going to see the light of day. He barely recalled the exact words used, but he knew that it was not meant to be read by anyone. Especially the old coach's granddaughter.

Once he was sober, he had plowed through his room to find Ryuzaki's old email address. Luckily, he managed to find it scrawled in one of his old school diaries. Writing a short but to-the point email, he had told her, quite implicitly, that if any letter were to arrive, from him to her, to dispose of it. He had conjured an excuse that it was for someone else, was very private, and that in his haste to mail it out, he had accidentally written down her address.

Why he wrote her address on the letter, he didn't bother to explain. He just hoped that the ditzy Ryuzaki would just take everything at face value and throw the letter out. After all, that was what he remembered most about her. Quiet, unassuming, clumsy, ditzy Ryuzaki Sakuno.

So that it was it then, problem solved. The letter was disposed, Ryuzaki had not contacted him, and his cat was fed. Life was good once again.

If only he knew that the letter would later on have a bigger role to play out in the near future.

I am merely a bored office worker, with too much time on hand

Please be kind, I welcome constructive criticism with open arms