Characters: Ishida, Orihime
Summary: But not quite.
Pairings: onesided IshiHime
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers
Timeline: Post-manga
Author's Note: Once again, sad and angsty.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
It's taken you—you can literally count the days—one year, three months and fifteen days since you came to this realization to work up the courage to finally approach her.
The list of what has discouraged you, kept you at a distance until now is being thrown out the window, somewhat nervously—you cling to your rituals and your excuses and finally you have managed to see that you're probably better off without them.
Your own shyness cripples you—shyness around her, anyway. You've always seen that she has eyes for someone else, and that's kept you from saying a word to her too, but she seems less enamored now, or so your mind likes to tell itself—you hope it's true, hope that you're enough of a good observer that your observations aren't incorrect—so you think that maybe you can do this without it becoming a complete catastrophe.
You pick up snatches of her voice, and the familiar, uncomfortable but not quite disliked symptoms take place. Your pulse picks up a bit, your breathing a little harder, like you ran all the way from home to where you are now—and in a way, you did, but not like that. A sharp giddy note makes it even more difficult to breathe, but you push that down and pray your voice won't fail you this time.
Catching sight of flash of emerald and burnished copper, she smiles at you as she turns the corner and you are inordinately relieved to see that she's alone—no gaggle of friends to distract and stare curiously at you; they're still getting used to the idea that you even know how to talk at all, let alone that you're close to their friend.
She nods and smiles amiably, her face sweetly serene, and you can't help but smile back, a foolish catch in your throat—she is the first one in a very long time who has ever made you want to smile.
You see your moment come when the conversation reverberating around the cool walls and high windows starts to fade away. There will be no better time than this.
Apprehension nearly overwhelms you; your nervous mind wonders how she will react. Maybe you were wrong?
But there is nothing to be gained by vacillation.
You turn to her, your eyes open very wide. She tilts her head and smiles quizzically, that childlike gesture you've always found so endearing.
You say the words, shaking, curling on your tongue, and she says not a word.
She only shakes her head to say she doesn't understand, and smiles as if confused. You close your mouth tight, and when she finds it clear that you won't say any more, she reaches over and touches the top of your hand, feather-light—the feel burns—and says she'll see you in class.
You were so close this time. And you shook so much on the words that she couldn't understand you—or maybe she did, and just didn't want to acknowledge it.
Maybe you were wrong.
You fall back against the wall, weary and enervated and unfulfilled. All the courage you could muster has come to naught.
You feel sick, and wish you'd had the sense to just stay away.