Title: Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Inoue Orihime x Kurosaki Ichigo(?)


Spring is the colour of her blush. The gentlest hue of timid pink that always seemed to taint her cheeks; bashfully pretty against the white.

It reminds me of the cherry blossoms that scatter on the streets, of their delicate colour and fluttering petals; and every spring, I always make sure to trim some braches and place a vase in every room.

They said I was the cause after all.

--

Summer comes in her smiles and laughter. Like pollen, they tend to spread, infectious and unstoppable; that even the most petulant person like myself cannot help but become intoxicated in their presence. There seems to be infinite sunshine in her smiles, and the richest of honey in her laughter.

I remember the swirling skirts and her twinkling eyes, and the fireworks that illuminated our silhouettes. In my ears, her voice still echoes with the memory of that small warm hand in mine, and the kiss that softened my frowns to nothing.

She told me she loved me.

--

Autumn brings with it the smell of her hair. Silky strands that used to tickle my nose and sieve like water between my fingers. They were as auburn as the leaves that dance coyly in the breeze, and smelt like the plumpest berries and chestnuts that she used to cook with salt and butter.

Fall is in the wind and the rain and the crimson dusks that smear across the skies. It is the season that suits her best. In the rain, I close my eyes, and let my feet soak within damp leaves; I listen to the pitter-patter, and wait.

She said it will connect us, eventually.

--

Then came winter… then came war.

Pains were screamed. Tears had flowed. Blood was poured.

I remember only the battle.

Redness had seeped through the snow, oozing from motionless bodies, and dripped from struggling soldiers. But the snowflakes kept on falling, regardless. A beautiful sort of nightmare.

And in the middle, lying quietly on a pedestal, was her. She looked peaceful; she could've been asleep.

Her dress matched the snow in flawless perfection, like an angel amongst the massacre. Dark, auburn masses fanned out magnificently around her face (do they still smell as sweet?), and long eyelashes closed prettily over pale cheeks. Even as I crouched down beside her, she wasn't blushing anymore.

And there was blood. My hands trembled as they touched the mocking pool of red liquid that had stained her chest. It was dry. I grabbed her hand – wincing at its iciness – and called out her name. Again and again. Louder and louder. But her blue lips remained cold and soundless.

She will never know my reply.


Author's Note:
What a terrible story… Oh my god… This is what happens when you begin with no plot, you end with no plot! I just wanted to write...
Just realised, this could actually be from anyone's POV…