Title: Two plus two
Author: Tuliharja
Summary: This apartment is so lonely, yet I try to carry on by myself. I bury myself in schoolwork, but how I wish I didn't have Math. Because this problem seems so simple, yet it's so painful for me to handle. One-shot.
Disclaimer: BLEACH belongs to Tite Kubo. I'm merely just writing fan fiction about it.
Author's note: Thanks for Eljay505 betaing this.
+Two plus two+
My pen drops from my hand and I lift my gaze to the nearest wall, my eyes searching, like I heard a voice somewhere. Yet as I look around my small apartment, I don't hear a sound.
'I must be imagining things,' I think, returning to my math problems. But it seems I'm unable to continue as I hear something once again.
A little startled, I finally stand up and walk to the hallway that leads to the front door. The only audible sounds are my soft footsteps and my quiet breathing. Yet as I carry on to the door, my ears start picking up other sounds: the clock's quiet ticking in the kitchen, my heartbeat and then…I hear it again.
"Onna."
Surprised and shocked, I turn around quickly, my eyes widening as I feel my breathing get heavier. No…it can't be! He can't…
Yet my heart won't stop beating louder and faster, like it will burst out of my chest. The heart that I gave to you all those years ago, even though I didn't realize it at the time. But you took it like a thief, without me noticing.
I shake my head, telling myself there isn't anyone else in this apartment. A small, silent, and terribly lonely apartment that doesn't hold anyone but me.
Suddenly, paranoia strikes into me, filling me up and twisting my stomach into a knot. I let out a shaky breath, covering my mouth as tears sting my eyes. I know there isn't any reason to cry, but I can't stop myself. I feel like I want to scream and get this pain out of me as I blindly walk back to my room.
And there, gracefully on top of my bed is my notebook opened to a math problem. Where the answer is already neatly written, but I surely hadn't yet answered.
I gasp now as I slowly walk to my notebook and take it in my hands. My own hand writing is an obvious contrast to the neat answer. One, which isn't your typical answer to 'What is two plus two?' Since there is a name where there should be a number.
"Ulquiorra," I whisper hoarsely as a tear drop smears your neatly written name, ruining it. Just like the world ruined the possibility of us.