Motoko
I've been called many things over the years. President. Fan girl. Slut. And Motoko, of course. But I've always preferred Minagawa-san because that's what he calls me. Or 'called' since we haven't spoken since I graduated high school six years ago.
Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers me, but even if he does, it's probably not to the extent that I remember him, nor can his memories be as vivid as mine.
Sometimes, I wonder what he thought of me in high school. I could hardly speak whenever I ran into him. Though I confess, those meetings were hardly accidental. I followed him a lot those days. I had been quite obsessed with him back then, and that hasn't changed much, even with these last few years of separation.
Sometimes, I wonder if he even thinks of me anymore—or even ever.
Sighing, I set my framed picture of him back into the small box. That gaudily decorated shoebox contained everything I had that could pertain to him, even in the slightest bit. I had accumulated a bunch of handmade trinkets from the fan club and hundreds of candid pictures of him. I also had a copy of each of his school pictures. This collection of pictures forced me to acknowledge something I hate to. Browsing through all the photographs, anyone can trace his development. The first picture I have of him is his first year class photo. He's smiling, but after much scrutiny and comparison, I realized it was just a mask. Then in the handful of photos from the next few months, taken without his awareness, he's always alone, aloof, and frowning.
In the first picture I have of him grinning with genuine happiness, he's standing beside her. Actually, every picture of him smiling is of him standing beside her, and if she's not in the photo, I know she had been around during the time. The first time I heard him laugh had been when they were together, and that sound still echoes in my head every time it's silent. Those were the high points of my life. Then I graduated. I'd sneak back ever so often to steal glimpses and snap photographs, but month by month his last year, he seemed less and less happy. He still smiled just as often if not more so, but it was back to the mask. He had improved the mask though, and if you didn't study his face as much as I did, he'd definitely have you fooled. He had finally perfected it.
I didn't understand why he had returned to masquerading until I saw Tohru and Yuki's orange-haired cousin walking together, hand-in-hand, and Yuki passively watching by the school gate, forgetting to smile for once. For some reason, this infuriated me more than when I saw Yuki kiss that Machi girl in the park. I think it's because it confirmed that Yuki really loved Tohru Honda, and denying those signs had been my main preoccupation in high school. This doesn't mean that seeing Machi together with Yuki doesn't anger me—it just doesn't incense me as intensely. Tohru Honda will always be the witch to me because she's the only one who has successfully enchanted him, and she doesn't even seem to care that she did.
So right now, I don't know whether to feel ecstatic or vexed.
On one hand, I'm walking right behind Yuki. I'm so close that I'm inhaling his familiar scent once again. On the other hand, it's Machi's hair that slaps me in the face with every strong gust of wind. Luckily, the street is rather crowded, so they don't notice how close I am pressed against them, but if I had my way, I wouldn't choose to be here, forced to watch them together like this. I've already endured this for the past few blocks as I try to get back to my family's grocery store. Thankfully, they're not talking, just walking shoulder to shoulder.
He holds her hand as if it's a duty—first, loose and detached, then too tight. Both their hands soon grew white, but neither let go. I can't stop staring at their joined hands. The unit—I can call it that because it does seem that lifeless—doesn't swing with each stride of their legs. Rather, it hangs stiffly between them, completely motionless and unnatural. If this had been any other couple, I'd suspect they had just had a fight, but it's them, so I considered this normal.
At times like this, I wonder if it'd be different if he had won Tohru Honda—not that either of these wretched women deserve such a divine creature as Yuki, but he seems to consider them worthy, or in the case of one, acceptable.
I would wonder what it'd be like if I had won him, but that's even less probable. There's never a reason to replace a replacement lover. Besides, I've imagined us together enough these past few years. I imagined to the extent that I lived more in my fantasy world than the real one. For years, I had no friends, no job, no life. Just an imaginary boyfriend. Then my mother started charging me rent to continue to stay in her house. Of course, then, I had been appalled and condemned her for being such a horrid mother, but really, it forced me to confront life and actually start helping my mother with our grocery store. It had been the first time I noticed how old and weary my mother had grown. It made me realize that I had aged too, and fantasy worlds are no place for a grown woman.
But with Tohru Honda, I think he would be different. I think his real smile would return, or it never would have faded in the first place. I think he would be happy. Yet, I doubt she'd ever appreciate him as much as I do. I doubt she keeps a hoard of his pictures under her bed. I doubt she collects every scrap he discards just because he touched it. I doubt she stares at his photo for hours. But despite this, I know she understands him better than I do. She knows more of his quirks than I do. Friendship does reveal more than stalking after all. But most importantly, I know he loves her.
So Machi doesn't scare me like Tohru Honda does. I resent Machi too for being able to wear such a neutral expression while walking with him, but I guess being a replacement isn't the same as being someone's love. Though I think if I were in her place as Yuki's second resort, I'd still be grinning because he'd be holding my hand. Because we'd go on dates. Because he would kiss me. Even if it was all a farce and just his way of ignoring the inscriptions on his heart.
I try not to hate them because truthfully, I've hated a lot of people. The only person I've truly loved through the years was Yuki Sohma. I saw the other fan girls, my so-called friends during high school, as nothing more than nuisances and competition. I looked down on them and every other girl in school for failing to understand his magnificence. I had abandoned all my previous friends from childhood for him. Then Tohru Honda and her friends cultivated the fiercest hatred that ever surged through my veins.
Nobody. I cared for nobody. Still.
I'm the complete opposite of Tohru Honda. I think that's what lets me know that he will never love me as he loves her. With all my years of observation, it'd be impossible for me not to suspect that Yuki has some dark secret, some tragic past, some agonizing flaw that culminated in his need for care, delicate care that she excelled in giving. The care that I lack and that Machi also lacks. I think that's why Machi never made me as nervous as Tohru did. Because Machi and I are the same. We're not enough.
Speaking—well, I guess thinking—of her, I see her across the street. Actually, I didn't notice her first. What I did notice was the sudden break in the joined hands I had been watching. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Her hand is flung aside as he tears his side from hers and dashes across the street. Then I spot Tohru Honda seated on the sidewalk with paper bags and rolling produce scattered around her.
And I'm not the only one who looks on with disgust to see Yuki dodge traffic as he rushes across the busy street to help her up and gather the fallen groceries for her.
I know I missed the last update :c That's what happens when you go to a nerdy school on the quarter system and two of your classes want to end two weeks early. But the next one should be on time! I'm sorry because this story advances at a very uneven pace and it's slow right now. Hopefully still entertaining though! Please continue to tell me what you think c:
