Title from "The Scientist" by Coldplay.
you are surrounded by guests in the music room
and you are alone.
he is across the room, smiling at someone.
the girl next to you speaks to you.
you cradle her face in your hands,
giving a sense of false romance
to put a smile on her pretty face for a while,
and you are alone.
he seems to have forgotten that he loved you once
and you loved him once.
(and you do still)
now he holds another's heart in his hands.
and it is not who you want it to be
and you are alone.
his glasses and his smirk are still there
but your boisterous laugh is all but non-existent.
and it is not fair
how he has changed little, and you so much.
and that sits deep in your heart,
and you are alone.
and the piano is no home for you,
like it was before.
it's ivory keys do not match his ivory skin
that you once wrote beautiful melodies about.
the piano sits, dusty and unused
and you are alone.
the other hosts are not aware of these feelings of yours,
they believe the smile you put on everyday.
and you are happy they do, but sometimes
you wish they'd see through it.
because this façade is tiring,
and you are alone.
your heart is cracking in two, it seems,
and so is your smile, your voice.
you are requested less and less,
the others, more and more,
and you are alone.
he apologizes to you one day,
and he hugs you, and promises you
that he loves you.
but you aren't deluding yourself, you know what kind
of love he means
and you are alone.
the façade does fade,
and so does the remaining gleam in your violet eyes
when he gets married to the girl.
you refuse to go, at first, but you relent
because everyone else is going, and he's your best friend
and you are alone.
he says his vows with her and slides the ring on,
and you wonder when he grew up, when they all grew up
because you sure don't remember.
you especially don't remember when he stopped being Kyouya,
and started being a stranger behind a familiar face,
and you are alone.
their baby announcement goes out a year later.
a year which you spent playing the piano in bars
because you did not want to take a company
that was too closely connected to him.
the baby looks like him, and like her,
and you are alone.
the whole old gang settles down,
with each other, with new people, with old friends.
and yet you remain companionless,
because there is only one person you want to be with
and he is married with a baby,
and you are alone.
the day he dies is perhaps the day you do as well,
and maybe it'll be okay, but it probably won't be.
you scream and you cry and you shout and you—
you shouldn't be acting like this, you weren't married to him.
but I should've been, you think,
and you are alone.
his funeral day. It is raining, and your eyes are raining
and your face seems permanently crumpled.
and his wife is glaring at you, but why?
is she not as horribly broken as you are?
she is not,
and you are alone.
everyone surrounds you afterwards, trying to comfort you.
they do not realize you cannot be comforted, cannot be calmed,
your grief knows no boundaries, no end, no way out,
and you are alone.
days turn to weeks and weeks to months and months to years
and you are finally visiting his black marble headstone.
you bring a bouquet of orange poppies—remember? Your favorite?
and you set them down gently, and begin to talk about anything, everything
and you are alone.
you are still alone.