I do not own Spirited Away. strangles air

Hajime.

It wasn't what she expected. It wasn't as if she didn't know what love was – she remembered as well as any one else at the bath house what it felt to be cradled in her mother's arms. But she also remembered the feeling of being torn away from them, and the bitterness and hard work that had followed. She had gone for such a long time without even indulging in the minor crushes that the other girls sometimes laughingly joked about, playing the role of the tough older sister, that she forgot about it entirely.

Contrary to common belief, she wasn't that young either. In fact, she was almost as old as the bath house, purchased in the early days when money was still tight and everyone had to work hard, with little or no food. She had met him then, and struck up a conversation, delighted that there was someone that she could really talk to, someone who knew practicality.

She didn't age. He did, albeit slowly. However, she always saw him as the young, tired out being who had come knocking at their door looking for work. It was he who had devised the clever spell that created the soot sprites, freeing half the workforce to more domestic tasks.

It was always nice, taking the food to the soot and chatting amiably to him. She was so rough and brash, she didn't notice the shy looks that he gave her, and the soundless remark on his lips when she left. The bath house was top priority then, and nothing else.

As she grew older, those priorities changed. She grew up. She found herself angry at the restrictions placed on her, the freedom denied her. She started to dream of a time where she could leave, and walk the streets of the town that she could barely see in the far off distance. She didn't notice his well hidden expression of regret and sadness when she told him about her goals.

Then the girl came and left, and everything changed. She thought less about the bath house and her dream, and she saw more of what was happening around her, underneath the surface. Finally, though she didn't let on, she saw the feelings that he had for her, and she didn't know what to do.

The boy left soon after, and she had no one to turn to, no one who could empathize, help her figure out what she was doing. She already knew that he had a special place in her heart. She let him get away with the occasional sly remark that from any other mouth would have warranted a tongue lashing, and she found that she was always a quieter, gentler person with him. She just hadn't known that he meant that to her.

She had found a piece of paper on her futon, with her true name written in a neat, elegant script that could only belong to the boy. The gift had left her excited, then apprehensive. She found she did not want to leave him, did not want to go out of the bath house by herself. So she stalled, and kept it all inside herself, unsure, until it was too late.

He died a quiet death, brought on by old age. He was buried in a remote section of the garden, where no customer would look. She would visit the grave everyday, talking as if he was still there. She could not believe that he was gone. She stayed in that state of denial, until the replacement came.

It had been a shock, when she first walked in and saw a completely different person there, operating the machinery awkwardly. She had left as soon as she could, avoiding his attempts at conversation, and ignoring his confused expression at her rough personality. The day after, she handed in her resignation.

Before she left, though, she felt the compulsion to see him one last time. As she placed the small bouquet of flowers on his grave, she began to weep. She had never gotten the chance to tell him she loved him.

Owari.

I wrote this in a spur of the moment type thing, and posted it right after. The ending is bad…but I want to see what you all think about it. I'll leave you guessing to what the pairing is, though I made it a bit obvious.