She never spoke.
Actually, neither of them ever did. They understood each other's silence better than anyone else could. Language was a small ant in the grand scheme of things, and the things he saw in her eyes, and the things she saw in his, were a million
more times important. So, they held their tongues and spoke with their eyes.
They were always together. The way you never truly leave your soulmate. No one tried to separate them, for fear one of them would snap; the two couldn't be titled the most sane, to other people, but their way of communication was considered, to the two, a better way of speaking. There were no words, nothing going in one ear and out the other. They understood with their eyes- they read each other with their hearts.
Neither of them were mute. The two had learned, far before their meeting, that children should be seen and not heard. That adults didn't care what the two had to say. That they were wasting their breath. So, they ruled out the adults, the bad guys, and anyone else that disrupted their understanding silence.
He was blonde, lanky, and tall. His sister had died. Was it his fault? That's what the adults insisted. That her suicide had been the product of something he'd done. Adults went crazy with grief, and at age fourteen, he'd gotten tired of listening to the wild accusations; fatigued trying to explain that it was not his fault. He began to cut- making himself feel the pain that never went away. He threw away his singing voice. He took up playing the violin, mournful melodies ricocheting of the walls as he slid the bow over the strings. She played piano with him, smooth, creamy fingers dancing over the white keys. Both their mouths were shut tight, like they were rag dolls with their mouths sewn shut; puppets that had broken free of the string, acting on their own accord. They were wind up toys, dusty and forgotten.
She was -had been- quite popular, in her old life. She wore a fake smile. Eventually, her parents got divorced. She was always bumping around between houses. She was enrolled in a new school-his school. She was considered strange-a freak. The girl with the teal hair. She became quiet- and then she stopped talking altogether. She was depressed; the little amount of friends she'd had had left her. She became worse- the day her last resort-a pink haired girl- left her, was the day she had drawn on her wrists with a knife, painted everything red, deadly roses coloring her vision. The tears tried to drain out the red, but they never succeeded. She saw herself through the distortion of a mirror- too fat: she started starving herself, her hair: she sliced the long twintails off with a scissor, not pretty enough: she drenched her lids in eye-liner. She wore long sleeves at all times.
The day they'd met was a special day indeed. The girl, pinned to the wall of the empty hallway by the enemy, the jock, her sleeves ripped up from where they revealed her paintings, her scars. The bad boys looked her in the eye, called her "attention whore" and left. She'd burst into tears. Silent tears, of course, but her tear ducts had decided to attempt to get rid of the red again. She brooded in how much she despised herself; how she wanted to die a painful death. She shrank against the wall, her drawings exposed.
He'd walked past, and heard her silent tears, the way those of your own kind can find you in the sea of outsiders. He'd seen her paintings. And he raised his sleeves to reveal his. They gained a mutual understanding of each other. Through their connection, they grew to be the the greatest of friends. Past that- the boy loved the girl from the bottom of his heart. She had started to eat again. She quit cutting, and he had as well. He'd started to draw butterflies on their wrists. One for each month they'd stayed clean. Both wore red woven bracelets around their right wrists.
The end of the month drew to a close. They met up at his house for their ritual.
Their forearms were full of beautifully drawn butterflies in black ink. She loved watching him draw. The pen ticked her skin as she admired him, her savior. She had fallen for him, as well, and her heart was bursting as he finished. He made eye contact with her.
Slowly, he brought her delicate butterfly-filled forearm to his lips. She stared wide eyed as he kissed every butterfly picture his beautiful blue eyes could find. Then, he gently pulled her into him, putting his lips to hers in a chaste, loving kiss. This was the most love she'd felt in a while, and kissed him back passionately.
"I love you. So, so much. And I am so proud of you." These were the first words he had spoken in three years. She thought he had such an attractive voice, she was dumbfounded. It took a while for he to muster up a good answer.
All she could say in return was "I love you, too."
And they stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a very long while.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. This was an easy thing to write. Also, the "she" was Miku and "he" was Len. I was having LenKu feels. ;.;
This is a one-shot ONLY. I WILL NOT CONTINUE IT.
