Disclaimer: No own.

Inspiration: Random poem by random person, which was narrated by Micky Yoochun of TVXQ on a radio show.

I cleaned my room today.

--x I will love you x--

She knew she looked ridiculous at the moment, with a cut-up trash bag wrapped around her body to act as an apron. Her blonde hair was being strangled against her scalp with a colored pencil, several strands rebelling against her and obscuring the vision of her sad-colored eyes as they made their escape. She held what looked to be the other half of her 'apron' in her left hand, while she tossed objects into the bag with her right hand. Anyone looking at her would wonder three things:

One. Why was she using a trash bag as an apron?

Two. Why was she cleaning an already spotless room?

Three. Why was she throwing away clothes, notebooks, art supplies, a cork board of pictures...?

All the answers connected.

Namine was using half of a trash bag as a makeshift apron, because her real apron was at the bottom of the other half of her 'apron' that she held in her left hand. She wasn't cleaning her room, she was simply redecorating. She was throwing away so many items because they all reminded her of him. And her. Everything reminded her of Sora, either by himself or with Kairi. None of it belonged in Namine's room. Not the apron that Sora bought her when she went through her cake decorating phase, not the notebook that she used to doodle in with Kairi, not the art supplies that they both bought for her birthday, and definitely not the cork board that was decorated with their bright and sincere smiles.

She tried to hate them, but every angry thought ended up as, 'Those stupid, selfless, over-generous friends of mine. They should choke on their smiles. Those kind smiles that have never said a single word of cruelty.'

So she decided she would be better off pretending she had never fantasized that she would end up Mrs. Sora Aoi. She never wanted to have two girls and one boy, who would grow up to be a doctor, a writer, and a college professor, respectively. She did not want to move into a small house with Sora after their retirement and spend their last days on the very same island that they grew up on...

...and she was never going to send him the gift sitting on the table right across from her.

The half of the trash bag that was actually serving its purpose was dropped onto the floor, as she quickly tore the other half away from her body. She opened it up and stared inside of the tiny box. This gift, this box that was no bigger than her palm, was never going to make it to the boy she loved. He would never find it on his doorstep and open it, realize who it was from, and then run to her house to confess how much he loved her back.

It was only a small white box. There was a folded-up tissue lying at the bottom of the box to act as a cushion, with a small silver key lying on top of it. It was one of those paper-thin keys that came with a drugstore journal, the kind that can be easily opened even without the key. The kind of journal that every girl has at least once in her lifetime. Sora bought it for her when they were young, and she never replaced it. She carefully picked only the most important things to write in the journal to make sure she didn't run out of space. She wanted to save that last page for her letter to Sora.

The letter that she never got to write.

She pulled the journal from a shelf on the table, gently taking the key from its home and shoving it into the cold, cheap lock that protected her heart and her thoughts. Pulling the colored pencil from her hair, she turned to the last page and carefully wrote a few words, before abruptly ripping the page out of the journal. The pencil was tossed into the half-trash bag and the journal was locked once more.

Only three items remained on the desk.

One. The journal, which was white from cover to cover.

Two. The little white box, which housed the key in darkness once more.

Three. The last paper of the journal, entirely white, save for the words crafted in bright yellow:

I will love you for the last time today.

--x for the last time today x--

I haven't written in forever.

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