a never ending fantasy
"You don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—
the way the mail stops coming,
and her scent fades from the pillows
and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.
Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone.
Just when the day comes—
when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone,
forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part."
.
.
.
Disentangling himself from his past life is a burdensome concept—one of which that is inevitable with time, patience, and effort. It's about shifting gears, moving forward (even when it feels more like a leap backwards years and years and years), and it is supposed to be as expected: easy.
He's always been the cavalier type, all emotionless gazes to accompany the signature scowls, monotoned responses, and the entire minding his own business facade. He keeps to himself, just as he had at age fifteen—
before adventure before passion before fire and light and sparks and a girl that made him question what not the world has to offer him, but what he could offer the world
—when as expected: things were easy. Convenient. (predictable) Realistic. (boring)
For the most part, he's decent at pretending. And he might not be truthful, may seem in denial, but he is certainly not stupid. He's aware, he's a liar, and either he is weak beyond belief or he is wrong (because it is not easy even in the slightest.)
The longing for excitement has never been as strong as the months after his final battle up until now. The want to be doing something (anything) for the greater good for both worlds has been excruciatingly incessant. The crave for his calloused fingers to wrap around the handle of his zanpakutō makes his amber eyes flare gold. The need to see her again makes the pace of his heart beats increase tenfold. The desire that comes with that one girl's presence is beyond him—
because she stops rain and brings sunlight and lifts spirits and breathes relief and gives him opportunities, purpose, something (everything) to believe in
—and the chances of specifically disentangling the memory of her, to his misfortune, are slim to none.
Tomorrow, he will get married.
Having no choice but to allow reality to settle into his (anything but) mediocre life after resigning from Soul Society, he conforms: finishes school, earns a degree, applies to med school, eats three meals a day, goes to the gym (since living an average life requires you to conventionally exercise in a room full of machinery in order to maintain one's physique), dates. He thinks that's what they would call it—with Inoue having asked him to possibly join her for lunch one Sunday, which too, adds to the continuity of routine in his life, since she cues herself to ask every week. And he goes every time, because why wouldn't he? This is what he's supposed to do. This is where life falls into place. This is what life is supposed to be like: repetitive itineraries, predictability, academics, time moving forward a little too quickly than preferred, and—
although it doesn't come significantly close to the intangible sense of fervor exhilaration spontaneity thrill he had had for a period of time long over and due to a girl unattainable
—he is content.
He accepts his fate, deeming it less difficult with the very girl out of sight, out of mind.
That is, until he dreams of her the night before his wedding, and he is forced to acknowledge the fact that even when she is away she has the power to fuck him up with her words her smile her voice her eyes—her overall resonating presence.
They're centered amongst the trees of the Karakura Cemetary. It's raining. He's fought Grand Fisher (unsuccessfully so) and he is fifteen. He's bleeding from head to toe, yet is still managing to direct a boyish smile in her direction as he leans his body's weight against a sword that had continued to grow with him. She, too, is drenched in rain, dress clinging to her small frame. Her skin is moon white and goosebumps paint the expanse of her arms. She is shaken by him. Her eyes are a deep purple, as he remembers them, and are soft against his, flaring gold and bright despite having lost a battle. Their gaze is gentle, and she is beautiful. She calls him a fool, and he falls weak to the honey silk sound of her voice, being weighed by the gashes along his body.
When he falls, she catches him.
He falls asleep to light rain on his face, washing away streaks of running blood. His head is on the soft of her lap, her fingers are combing through his hair, and he feels the anxious heaving in her chest slowly come to steady breaths. She hums, and he wants to thank her, for understanding, for being here, for simply being. His consciousness subsides before he has the chance to.
When he wakes, it is instinctive to immediately sit upward and look to see if she is there—if he had been thrown back in time, or burdened with the idea that a memory had been replaying itself as a dream. He isn't prepared for the unsettling feeling in his stomach, but he knows it's his own fault for hanging onto the twinge of hope that coexists with the memories ingrained in a heart that once burned of elation. Ichigo isn't fond of the concept of needing someone, particularly a girl long departed, whom he has no choice but to forcibly separate from the reality of the human world with the recollection of his past life.
But today, he will get married.
His eyes will not flare, the rhythm beneath his ribs will pace no different—lacking skipped beats and nervousness and anticipation. His heart will burn in a need a want a crave a desire ignored. And time, without his control, will go on. He will grow old, grow numb, grow without the girl that ignited flames within him, having weaved her way into his life and somehow conjoined her heartstrings with his own—the girl that had changed worlds once upon a time ago.
He'll be alright,—
she is gone and he is older and the boy can only dream
—he pretends.
(He'll believe it soon enough.)
.
.
fin.
_a/n: beginning quote from A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving.