I am a witch looking for love …
It isn't as if Beatrice enjoys scowling in the Meta-World for most of her days.
Maybe it's because she finally grew bored of the countless games that she played. Who wouldn't? Maybe it was because chess ceased to amaze her like it used to, and she simply needed a new hobby to help her pass the time.
Maybe she does enjoy frowning her hours away. It isn't as if it's prohibited; she could be as melancholy as she wants. Almost everyone has their days where they want to be left alone, right? It doesn't strike her as normal, being drained of every true emotion but sadness and anger, but at least she's feeling something.
It's that little bit of hope that keeps her attached to the world. At least she can touch and smell her surroundings; at least she can hear the sound of butterflies in flight around her. At least she can see that red-haired opponent of hers pace around the Meta-World, thinking of his next counterattack.
Despite everything, however, the very thought of seeing him, hearing him, touching him chills her to the bone. It's as if she's blocked him away; she hasn't looked in his eyes for days. It's like she's avoiding him entirely.
She doesn't want to avoid him, though. She just wants to avoid the words that spill out his mouth.
It isn't the occasional "Useless! It's all useless!" that he would exclaim, and it isn't the absurd and incomprehensible explanations that he gives in blue text. It isn't the fact that he rejects her philosophies and beliefs; she's encountered a numerous amount of humans who criticized her methods and strategies. It's how he leans back in his chair, exchanges eye contact with her, and practically spits out that there's no such thing as "witches" and "magic" or anything of that sort. Everytime he mutters those words— everytime his mouth comes close to emitting that horrible opinion— she could feel pure rage take birth within her; rage that simply blinds her for what feels like forever.
But after a while, that rage subsides, and it morphs into sadness and distress. Because the last time she looked in the mirror, she noticed that she is a witch. The last time she dissipated into golden butterflies, she was reminded that magic itself had the raw ability to teleport her to her destination. The last time she checked, her entire existence hung on the string of supernatural powers that were exclusive to sorcerers and sorceresses.
It was like he was leaning back and spitting out that she doesn't exist.
And it hurt. It burned. No matter how hard she tried to laugh it off, the reality always came crashing down on her. He didn't accept her; he didn't even consider her to be real. She was some kind of made-up, fairy tale character to him, the kind that he would read before he went to bed as a child. No matter how hard Maria tried to drill it in his skull, he would brush her off, exclaiming that her "odd" obsession of witches was just a phase of adolescence.
And she can't put her finger on why he affects her so badly. There are thousands, maybe millions of people on Earth who regard witches to be fictional, but he stands out from the crowd. It's like his words weigh more than everyone else's combined. He's like a double-edged sword; he's her main source of hope, but he's her main source of despair.
… It isn't as if Beatrice purposely sits down and scowls in the Meta-World for most of her days. It isn't as if her mind is preoccupied on the fact that the one human who continuously denies her is the only human who she wants to be accepted by.
The Golden Witch only frowns in her chair as she contemplates on what to say to him; what to do to change his mind.
In this world where my heart vanished
I'm left behind all alone…
—Katakiri Rekka, Golden Nocturne