This is my first Bleach story. Thanks for reading! I actually have most of this written already and should be updating pretty regularly. Would love to know what you think ;)

Orihime Inoue was five when she moved to Japan to live with her grandmother. Her brother, Sora, was in his last year of high school and was allowed to stay in the states to finish up his education. Orihime had just started Kindergarten and was learning her shapes, her colors, and how to write her name in large block letters at the top of her paper in orange crayon—her favorite color. When her parents died in a fatal accident, her brother was allowed to move in with a family friend next door in their spare bedroom, as their son had just left for college. Orihime would have gladly stayed in a cot in their attic if it meant she could stay too. Instead, Sora helped her pack up her essentials—her coloring books, her orange crayon, and her stuffed animals—as well as her unessentials, such as her clothes and toothbrush. She wrote the name on her luggage tag herself—ORIHIME—messily scribbled in orange crayon. Her brother wrote down her new address in Japan, once in English and once in a strange—albeit very beautiful—scribbly language.

Orihime was six and still struggling to learn Japanese when she saw her first soul reaper (though she would not learn the term for many years). On her very first day of school, her teacher had made her introduce herself to her new class in her broken Japanese. As a foreigner with orange hair, she was exciting to them, like an exotic animal on display at the zoo. But when they soon discovered this new attraction had as little ability to communicate with them as an actual zoo animal and even fewer tricks, they soon lost interest. Orihime sat in the back of the class (next to a boy with hair the same color as her favorite crayon) and struggled to learn the same letters she had seen her brother write on her suitcase months ago. Unfortunately, her teacher did not let her write her name at the top of her paper in crayon, and Orihime was forced to sit at her desk next to orange crayon-head, wallowing in the unfairness of her life.

Orihime's grandmother came to pick her up after school each day. On the long plane ride to Japan, Orihime had daydreamed about a tiny, wrinkled old woman with snow-white hair and a friendly voice offering her cookies. When Orihime, jetlagged and still clutching her brother's hand, had stepped off the plane in the Tokyo airport, she was disappointed. A tiny, wrinkled old woman had greeted her and her brother, but did not offer any cookies. In fact, she did not even speak English. Orihime communicated through hand gestures, one word sentences, and drawings. When she wanted something, she drew a picture of it, waved it in front of her grandmother's face, and pointed obstinately. It had a varying success rate.

When Orihime tried to communicate to her grandmother what she saw on her walk home from school that day, she did not have her crayons to help her, not the vibrant red she would have used to color his hair, or the charcoal black for the tattoos outlining his face and robe he wore. So instead she simply pointed at the object of her fixation, the one sitting on the school rooftops, looking up at the sky. Her grandmother glanced vaguely in the direction the child was indicating, smiled, and patted the young girl on the head, then turned toward the direction of home. Shrieking children ran past the pair, clutching their school bags and their siblings' hands. No one was pointing up at the rooftops as she was, no one was contemplating why a strangely garbed boy was sitting on top of the school building. At that moment, Orihime understood. She lowered her hand and followed her grandmother. Even if she could have found the words to communicate, she knew in her six-year-old heart of hearts that the fact that she could see this boy when no one else could made her special somehow and she decided to keep it a secret. It was a secret she carried with her at all times, and this secret gave her a sense of power and purpose—as if her new life in Japan was a riddle and she suddenly had found the answer, as if she was being held hostage and now had the key. This secret burned inside Orihime like the flame of a tiny candle that she used to navigate the dark corridors of her newly orphaned life.

Though Orihime's ability to communicate with her grandmother and her classmates significantly improved over the years, she kept her secret about the Boy on the Rooftops. Still, during art she found herself drawing stick figures with red hair and black clothes, as if her crayons had a consciousness of their own. She drew picture after picture, pressing her crayons forcefully into the paper until they shriveled to blunt ends. They shrunk as she sprouted up, orange crayon growing shorter as auburn hair lengthened. Her art teacher found her drawings "charming" and hung them up on the black board next to drawings of ninjas and stick figures in kimonos, her classmates' contribution to the world of art.

The years came and went. Sora visited seldom, choosing to send letters and gifts rather than deign Japan with his presence, pleading college as an excuse. Examining a pair of beautiful blue barrettes under the bright light of her desk lamp, Orihime almost forgave him.

The flame burned lower and lower, smothered by responsibilities of school work, social life, and the effort it took to stay in one piece. Orihime was on her way to becoming Master Artist, Baker of Strange Foods, and Caretaker of Elderly Grandmothers, and that left little time for dwelling on rooftop loiterers.

While Orihime did not consider herself to be of the "athletic type," many of her close friends were. She attended every Karate match her best friend Tatsuki participated in, cheering loudly and enthusiastically from the sidelines as Tatsuki relentlessly attacked her opponent, emerging from every match the euphoric victor. It was a brisk Saturday morning that Orihime was watching her friend Michiru compete in a soccer tournament, alone, as all of her other friends had obligations. Tatsuki was training for a big match next week, Ryo was preparing for her marathon the following day (which Orihime had also promised she would attend), Mahana was visiting her sick grandfather, and even Chizuru had family obligations. Michiru had been crushed to find out that everyone in her closest circle of friends had been busy, so Orihime gallantly offered to wake up early to attend, a fact she was berating herself for as she rushed to the soccer field late after oversleeping. Orihime was greeted with the sight of a crowded stadium—it was a heavily anticipated game: Karakura High was competing against their most bitter rival from a nearby school. Orihime gave up looking for a place in the stands and headed for a nearby hill to find a comfortable spot where she could sketch and watch the match in relative peace.

Orihime found a sunny spot against a tall tree and sat down, leaning against it and pulling out her sketch book. The players were taking a short break, and Orihime could see Michiru talking to her coach. Bored, Orihime glanced up through the branches, contemplating what to draw. Suddenly, the tiny wisp of a flame that had been shrinking steadily since it had been lit almost ten years ago erupted into a blaze as if it had been in a jar, choked for air, and someone had yanked off the lid. The sounds of the soccer match and the cheering fans yards away melted into a rushing in her ears as hazel eyes took in the image of the boy she had spent years drawing—red hair just as vibrant, tattoos black as charcoal and more numerous—how had she not noticed he had a sword? He appeared to be older than the last time she glimpsed him—a man now and not a boy. She was unsure if that was because he was older or just because she was.

Orihime could do nothing but sit and stare for a few seconds. Then, mustering up her courage and ignoring the frantic pace of her heart, she called out to him.

"Hey!"

He did not seem to hear. He was examining the soccer match with as much disinterest as she had a few moments ago.

"Hey! Red hair!"

Again, he did not react. Orihime wondered if he was so used to be unseen and ignored that he could not comprehend anyone attempting to initiate any kind of interaction with him. She stood up, brushed off her skirt, and turned around to face the tree.

"HEY! RED HAIR AND TATTOOS! I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

The man almost fell out of the tree in shock. He squinted downward to see what impertinent creature had rudely awakened him from his reverie and made him lose his balance.

"What's your problem?! Can't you see I was concentrating? Who goes around yelling at people in trees?!" The red-haired man sputtered indignantly. Orihime giggled at his sudden outrage. It was such a strange situation that she couldn't but laugh, a girl clutching her sketchbook, being yelled at by a man perched on a tree branch as if he were some kind of bird. The man blushed and jumped down from the branch he was balanced on, landing lightly on the ground.

The man grinned and apologized, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm not used to people trying to get my attention. In fact, I'm not used to people being able to even see me. You're the only human being that's ever spoken to me in this world," he explained.

Orihime's six-year-old self had been right. She was the only one would could see him, and now talk to him. She hoped it meant it was because she had some special power, and not because she was just schizophrenic.

"How is it that I'm the only one that can see you? And what do you mean this world? And why were you sitting in a tree?" Question after question spilled out, years of confusion and longing for answers taking the shape of words.

He smiled, eyes full of understanding.

"Come, sit with me," he said, turning towards the hill.

No being, seen or unseen, real or imaginary, could have stopped her.

In actuality, Renji Abarai (as the man had introduced himself as) was not the only being Orihime could see that others couldn't. After dinner each night, her grandmother would watch an hour or so of television before going to bed. Sometimes talk shows, sometimes dramas, not that Orihime knew anything about what was happening, although she liked the exaggerated movements of the actors in dramas. This particular night, her grandmother was watching one of her favorite dramas and Orihime was similarly enjoying watching the main female lead sobbing and yelling at the main male lead when the news station interrupted the program with a report. The newscaster was in hysterics, and for good reason—she was gesturing to the street behind her, completely demolished and cracked inward, as if a giant had stomped a massive foot down on the concrete in a tantrum, leaving an imprint as if the street were made of clay. Smoke was rising from the scene and Orihime squinted in an effort to see what had caused it. She and her grandmother held their breaths while the smoke cleared and the newscaster kept on babbling incomprehensibly (to Orihime's ears) and—nothing. The newscaster calmed down, her grandmother relaxed and took a sip of tea. And then she saw it—the outline of a massive creature, blurred as if someone had taken an eraser to the edges.

The creature stood still for a moment, then opened its jaws and let forth the most horrifying scream Orihime had ever heard. The newscaster was still speaking and not running for her life for some unfathomable reason. Move, move! Orihime willed the woman to hear her. It's looking right at you! She glanced over at her grandmother, seemingly unperturbed, still sipping her green tea out of her favorite porcelain tea cup. On the television, the creature had begun to shift, its body solidifying, slowly making its way forward. Orihime's stomach clenched and then—a flash of red and black, another horrifying scream, and the creature vanished. The woman finished her report and the drama resumed. Orihime could not even listen to what the actors were saying, she was still in shock—her heart racing, adrenaline rushing through her body, unable to comprehend. No one had seen what she had just seen. Just like the boy on the rooftops, she had been the only who had been able to perceive him. She wondered if the two were related, if they both operated in the same strange universe where creatures wore masks and gave terrible screams and boys wore black robes and perched on the tops of buildings. She was confident if they did they must be enemies—she knew in the core of her being that these creatures were evil as sure as she was that the boy was good.

That night—and many other nights after—Orihime fell as asleep to the muted sounds of shrieking in the distance. Their screams became as familiar and common to her as a train whistle, an earsplitting noise subdued by distance, tearing its way into her consciousness as she floated between dreams and reality. She trembled in her state of almost-unconsciousness at the thought of ever meeting these creatures face-to-face and seeing her image reflected in their bloodthirsty eyes. She dreamed of it often, the imagined first meeting—standing on the cracked, rain-soaked concrete, looking up through the haze into the eyes of that beast, moving closer, dragging its body, until her dreams blurred and she melted into a puddle of nothingness and horror, soaking into street like rainwater. These were how her dreams played out, indistinctly, until they ended and Orihime awoke covered in sweat and terror.

In the ten years after arriving in Japan and Before Renji, she had never met one of these creatures—or hollows, as she came to learn they were called—outside of her nightmares. She had Renji to thank for that.

"It's a soul reaper's duty to govern the flow of souls between this world and the afterlife," he had explained. "Normal souls are easy to put to rest, but there are souls that have become corrupted and transformed into terrible beasts called hollows that wear masks and feed on the souls of people. The only way to save them is to destroy them."

"So you're here to fight these hollows?" Orihime's sketchbook lay in the grass behind her, forgotten.

"Yeah, mostly. It's not really common for soul reapers to stay in the world of the living for as long as I have, but for some reason, there have been more and more hollows lately. Multiple times a day I'm having to fight." He smirked. "Which is fine with me, otherwise I'd be bored. There's not much for me to do here."

"There are plenty of things to do here!" she protested. "The people are kind, and there's plenty of delicious food, like ice cream! And there are lots of bakeries…oh…" she paused, aware of his amused look. "I guess there's not much to do when no one can see you." She was quiet for a moment, in thought. "Well, I can see you! So if you ever get lonely you can talk to me," she spoke quickly. "I'm busy at school all day, and I have to study most evenings, but during the weekends I'm only busy helping my grandmother cook…" She trailed off, embarrassed.

He looked at her thoughtfully, then glanced back toward the field where the soccer match had long since resumed.

"I may take you up on that," he murmured softly.

That night she lay in bed, thoughts full of Renji and their conversation. They hadn't talked long after the game had ended, as Orihime had to go congratulate and celebrate with Michiru for their team's victory. By the time she had said all of her "congratulations" and "good job"s and could stop smiling and leave, Renji was already long gone, the hill where they had sat noticeably, achingly empty.

A familiar scream ripped through the night, and this time Orihime thought not just about the creature behind it, but the being she knew was already fighting it. She fell asleep and dreamt again that she was looking up at her hollow through the familiar haze, but this time she was not alone. Renji stood beside her, sword gripped in both hands, already moving to confront it. It fell easily, shrieking in pain and rage, disappearing into mist.

Orihime no longer minded the noise, or the dreams. If it meant she was now a part of the universe of these hollows, it did not matter.

Because it meant that she could finally be in the same world as her boy on the rooftops.