"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the afterglow of her cigarette, Ginoza couldn't help but think that Akane looked resigned. To what, he had never been entirely sure. Before he had learned to decipher this behaviour, Akane had worn her heart on her sleeve. Her thoughts had been predictable and green, bursting behind the whites of her eyes as if her features were nothing more than a map, equivalent to tangent lines. If it had been possible to untangle her mind back then, she would have unraveled as easily as a ball of yarn. Her eyes would have remained translucent and brown, devoid of Makishima's influence. Kougami's name would have never passed through her lips in vain. Silence occupied the spaces between their desks instead, halting their conversations and muting their lives. Ginoza considered himself unworthy of her mind. Cigarette dregs brushed by him far more often than her thoughts, even the ones he had been able to understand, yet the thought of knowing her, really knowing her, continued to entice him.
Unlike Kougami, Akane had managed to stay afloat in the torrent that had become their lives, lingering longer than any of them had thought possible. She had grown strong but had lost the characteristics that Ginoza had found endearing two years earlier. Her naiveté had been replaced by bitterness, as though she had decided to shoulder the world without aid. Where he had failed, Akane had flourished. She had learned to tolerate betrayal in the same way she had grown used to Kougami's cigarette smoke, coiling around her lithe form like a noose, drawing her in. Her resolve hadn't diminished. Floundering in the spaces between each snaking tendril, Akane had begun to drown in her own thoughts. Ginoza had grown tired of standing idly by as though she were nothing more than a book, scrutinizing the curve of her brow and the lines around her mouth in an attempt to read her mind. Akane had become a mystery while Ginoza had remained very much the same.
His father had been right in calling him a worrier. He had never been as laid-back as Kougami, composed in all but mind. Ginoza had been polished, pressed, and tightly bound, a little tarnished at the edges but altogether whole. Embracing the system had been easier than confronting his conscience, especially after Kougami's descent into chaos. Ginoza had yearned for something more than intuition, instinct, and impulsiveness in those days, something concrete and by the book. Makishima had changed everything. Ginoza had allowed himself to fall apart for Kougami's sake, shedding his inhibitions in an effort to survive. His faith had been crushed under the weight of his own warped psychology. Despite these misgivings, Akane had given him something to hold on to. Blaring brightly in the darkness like a torch, she had dragged him from the abyss Kougami had dived into, urging him to move forward, neglecting herself in the process.
He stepped outside, approaching her from behind. The cigarette between her fingertips had drooped a little, its weight too heavy to bare. A strangled noise slipped through her lips from somewhere deep within her throat, ambers fluttering to the ground in tandem, kissing the soles of his shoes. The cigarette sputtered and went out. Akane began to silently cry. Ginoza reached out, enunciating her name slowly, tasting each syllable before touching her shoulder.
In the afterglow of her cigarette, Ginoza caught a glimpse of her mind. Akane uttered one word in response.
"Why?"
A/N: I have no soul.
Valēte,
TeaAndWarmSocks