The flowers are withered.
First she is crying, then screaming madly, then pinching her cheeks with bloody hands, again again again—
Madotsuki stares at her hands and pants, sheets tangled around her and her pillow on the floor. The television is on in the corner, colored bars flickering and lighting the dark room. The low electric hum makes her want to throw up, and she struggles out of the sheets, bare feet thumping across wood and carpet to the balcony—she needs air, her room feels stifling for the first time, and she doesn't even think about writing this in her journal.
For once, the sky is clear of smog and Madotsuki can see the stars above her apartment building.
She cries herself back to sleep.