Author's Note: Ironically written after a rant about how I've got writer's block. Short snippets of Yuna's life soon after the end of FFX. "Olvidarse" is Spanish, meaning "to forget oneself."
olvidarse
She is passing by the ocean, walking down the beach as if she has a destination in mind. She is wandering and thinking of you, and she is biting her lip red-raw-throbbing, and her hands are in fists and she is kicking at the sand. Pebbles fly. Waves lap at her feet in a futile attempt to calm fire. She is glaring out at the horizon, at the place the ocean stops and meets land. She is biting and kicking and glaring and she thinks to herself, I miss you so.
She is wandering the library, fingers skimming the bindings of books, eyes glazed over. Her mind is somewhere else entirely. Pale hands pick up a book and put it down. She is on autopilot. She is remembering and she is in pain, and she can't think how to heal this sort of wound. The holy texts do nothing for her now. Fingertips lightly, quickly, kiss another book, but they part in equal haste and she wanders on, on, farther and farther into this future that looks so bleak and she thinks to herself, I miss you so.
She is in the temple and she is kneeling. She is trying to pray, trying and trying and failing so gloriously that she is briefly tempted to laugh. She is alone. The stone floor is harshly cold against her knees and her feet rub anxiously against each other. She is kneeling and she is praying and she is crying, crying, crying all alone and she is thinking to herself, I miss you so.
She is climbing a mountain, wind switching back and forth between a caress and a scorned lover's angry punch. She is feeling betrayed by this wind, for shouldn't it know that this sort of trek deserves a tender touch? She is huffing and puffing and her breath is coming out white, and she is shivering and losing her footing and she climbs higher, higher, until she can peer down and see the world's edge below her. She is wishing for her friends and wishing for joy and thinking to herself, I miss you so.
She is watching the sun set at the world's edge, and she is crying again and hating herself for it. She is weak. She is sitting with her feet kicking into open air, defying and almost spiteful of gravity's pull in their carefree swing. She is on the edge of a mountain and the edge of patience, and she knows she is on the edge of something metaphorical but she can't put her finger on it. She is watching the sun sink and wishing she could sink too and she thinks to herself, I miss you so.
She is at the place where the journey changed, looking at the seal upon the ground and screaming for the dead. The unholy ghost does not come back, does not lecture about hope and revival and sacrifice, does not tell her about liberation; there is no unsent figure that appears from the back of the room. There is only her, standing and shaking in fury and screaming, screaming, feeling like her throat is tearing and she is thinking all the while, I miss you so.
She is returning home, walking slowly up the dirt path from the beach, her head hanging low. She is feeling the loss all over again and the ghost of your fingertips is brushing her cheek and she is trembling. She is wishing she had died, she is wishing she could go back, she is wishing for a way for dreams to come true and she is wishing, wishing, wishing waiting hoping praying loving, loving you. She is loving you so hard that it hurts to breathe. She is passing through the village and she is walking up the temple steps and she is kneeling before her own statue and she is thinking it should be you there, it should be you because you're the reason she is alive and she almost hates you for it because she's alive and you left her here alone. She is kneeling and crying and the floor is harsh-cold and her lip is red-raw-throbbing and she is loving, loving, loving you and you aren't coming back, and she is whistling anyway and it echoes through the hall. No one comes running. She is kneeling and she is loving and she is thinking to herself, I miss you so.