Shorty for Ichiruki month - Angst. Takes place too long after she fades and the chance of never seeing her again.
Disclaimer: Nope, Bleach isn't mine.
.
.
0000
He supposes it is the 744,601th minute.
(Not that he's been counting.)
He walks to school, to home, to the store, to anywhere, his feet a distant machine. He simply walks, and it doesn't matter whether he is walking to or walking from. He just moves. He has to, because the world already is.
The wind creeps up on his back, its gentle breath stirring up leaves and bits of grass and debris, and he morbidly wonders what else it can carry - dust, songs, voices, the ghosts of murmured goodbyes -
744,602.
It's dangerous to let himself wonder.
(Not that he's been wondering.)
He imagines the clouds must be crawling overhead in this breeze, but he can't bother to check. There is only his gaze at eye level, perhaps below. But never, never above. He keeps his shoulders even, chin straight. Honestly, his posture has never been better.
He cannot recall the last time he has lost himself in the clouds.
(Oh, but he can, the memory forged in a quiet thank you escaping his lips. Too late.)
Instead, soft blue blankets once woven with white fluffy cotton have given way to ashen earth and muddy sneakers a faded red with frayed laces and a growing hole near the left heel.
His gaze snaps back to eye level, and it takes him a moment to note that he has lost visibility, the sun sinking below the horizon as a drowning hand would in dark waters. As he trudges home, the expanse of black compresses around him like a heavy cape draped over his shoulders, stripped and bare of beaded starlight.
He cannot recall the last time he has seen the stars.
(Oh, but he can, too strange to look at without their glow reflecting in eyes reminiscent of endless twilight.)
The stars fell a long time ago (744,601 minutes to be exact), coalesced into a burning blur of hands made slick, fingers clawing into up churned dirt.
The upside of the world digs into his knees, his starless cape too much, crushed by the weight of all that he isn't.
Then he feels it. It's just one, barely a flick on his skin, sliding down the outside of his hand before soaking into the ground.
He knows more will come.
His eyes are already unfocusing, the earth and his hands and the sky and the minutes blending into a wet, hazy mass that looms before him, but he can't bother to move. Not anymore.
He lets his hands sink lower into the earth. And for once, just for once, he wants them to. He feels another wet flick at the nape of his neck, and his breath hitches as if he's been stabbed. Too soon, yet another drops, creeping down the top of his head to the bridge of his nose, and the smell is enough to make him gag.
He supposes the scent of rain has always been a promise.