They never saw her real drawings.

Bent protectively over her sketchbook, her red colored pencil captured the last lock of Kairi's hair, the last piece of the last real drawing she would ever have to create for him. He and Kairi sat side by side on the curved paopu trunk, staring out at the fiery sunset. It was the last they had seen together; only fitting that it should be the last memory for her to rechain.

Naminé set the red pencil down, slowly, carefully. It was done. The finished product was beautiful, but she took no joy in it. The memory wasn't hers to cherish. It was his, and he was finally going to get it back.

She shut her eyes, tiny hands clenching into fists. How could she give it back?

"Sora…" she whispered, the single word igniting her throat.

Opening her eyes, she flipped the page in her sketchbook. She didn't want to see that picture ever again, she didn't want to see any of them ever again. None of her real ones. Scribbles were so much easier, so much less painful. They surrounded her on the blinding white walls, simple and comforting. She could draw another one. Maybe it would drain this tension in her chest.

It was the last page… the whiteness was so pure, so naïve, like she had once been. Slaving under the Organization, vainly hoping her prince would save her. And he had, but not in the way she had wanted.

Her hand reached for the brown with no command from her brain. It was so natural; every real drawing started with Sora, his adorable spiky hair. But she didn't want a real drawing. Her hand didn't seem to understand that; it filled a large portion of the page with brown spikes, occasionally switching out dark brown for light and tan and oak, different shades of brown from the enormous tin of colored pencils Riku had bought for her.

Why couldn't she feel this way about Riku, someone who might actually give her a chance?

Next came Sora's face, profile view, framing kind blue eyes. His eyebrow, upturned at the front, gave him a sad expression. It wasn't until Naminé filled in the space on the left half of the page with her own distraught form that she knew why.

"You shouldn't feel this way," she whispered to herself. "No one should feel sad… over me…"

It wasn't a memory, but it looked like one. If drawing-Naminé's hair had been red, it easily could be a real memory.

"But I wish you were," she found herself saying, more loudly, talking to the sad Sora in her drawing. "I wish you were sad over me. I wish you would remember…"

But what would it change? She could be real, the most real girl in the whole worlds, and Sora would still love Kairi. Naminé had seen his memories; seen his heart. There was no changing it. She had tried.

"I could have done everything," Naminé realized. "I could have been perfect… and it wouldn't matter."

A tear fell onto the paper, sliding off of the waxy colored pencil coating.

She had been perfect. She chained Sora's memories back together, link by link, page by page. She rewrote Roxas's memories and placed him in a fake world, just to prepare him to rejoin with his other half, even though he was innocent and ignorant of his fate. She sacrificed her only chance of freedom to save him; she sacrificed everything.

Maybe it made up for the fact that she had broken him in the first place. Maybe it didn't. What did it matter? He wouldn't remember her anyway.

"Maybe… he's better off that way…" Naminé exhaled a deep breath. "He'll have Kairi… and I'll be gone."

She knew that DiZ planned to eliminate her. At this point, she hardly cared. A thick blanket of apathy towards her own welfare enveloped her. As long as she couldn't have Sora – for a friend, or for anything else – what was her purpose? Her whole existence had been born from him and centered around him ever since.

After this, he wouldn't need her. He would have Kairi, and he would be happy. She wanted to be happy for him. They both deserved it, deserved each other. She couldn't blame either of them if she tried.

"Then why am I still…" she sighed, wiping her eyes. "Oh, Sora… I wish I could be sorry."

She was the sacrifice for their happy ending. She had known it all along; accepted it, embraced it. The chance to be something more than herself, the chance to make things right. Heartwrenching and tragic and beautiful at the same time, much like her drawings. But now that her drawings were finished…

"I'm going to miss you," Naminé whispered. "You may never think of me, or know I was here, but I will. And I will always know that I loved you."

She hugged the sketchbook to her chest and slowly stood up.

He was waiting for her.