Shadows and outlines.
That is the world that Rika wanted him to see from the very moment her pretty little shaking fingers pressed into him, her manicure sullied by the color of his blood caused by his inadequacy and the rage he inspired. Immediately, he had missed her expression, too engulfed in his own agony to admire the way she so effectively brought him into her world simultaneously as her other booted him out of it.
She's never been cruel, no. She's troubled, cursed with overwhelming empathy and haunted by those demons. Shadows and outlines. V can see it, now with his failing sight. So many things he now notices that had gone ignored when his eyes were healthy...
There's so much darkness in this world.
And with darkness, there is void.
He loves her. Both of her.
All of her.
Her pain, her innocence; every single aspect that is 'Rika.'
With her admittedly false mask of cheer and strength she held on so long, fought so bravely, but being unable to understand he allowed himself faux pas. He became greedy, trying to fix her in ways that only wore her down more, making the other stronger.
He broke his light, letting her calignosity reign and feeding it with his grim misunderstandings.
Many times, the teal-haired man thinks about that day in the gallery. How he observed his world in such vivid colors and high-definition. No detail went unnoticed, he would have claimed... But ignorance is bliss.
The happiness and curiosity he felt as the golden haired angel descended unto that place and described his own photograph cannot possibly surpass the longing and torment he now feels. How hard had she had to look to see it in such a poetic way? She came back nearly every day and stared for hours... Is that how difficult? Or, did she only convince herself of the content, staring only at shadows and outlines?
No one but her could answer these questions that he himself never considered to ask.
Even now, half-blinded and barefoot, stumbling along mansion home of his lost love, trying to guide himself through the halls with a clumsy gait and a questionable moral compass, V hasn't the slightest idea of how to approach.
He feels more, thanks to his scars. He sees more the less he sees.
Conventionally, he knows what should happen. Emotionally, he wants to be the one closest to her, kneeling at her side the way a princess would have her knight, or her slave.
You, though... You are surrounded in darkness; smothered to the point that your outline is a match for Saeran's own.
There's a burning in V's chest that rises, spreading, growing dense and heavy. He can't watch any more. Can't half-witness you drink away your sanity with drugged water and hurt yourself until you fall asleep. He can't watch that poor boy type away the happy life he should have had with a normal family now doused with confusion and ebullient rage.
This secret scalds, searing through his veins.
His sins, his failures, his guilt.
He hobbles as quietly as he can through them all. For, this place is his doing. He is at fault for all these lost lives, those buried ashes and false prayer. The lies he's told follow him everywhere. They pile up, the chanting grows fiercer, louder, faster.
He has to end all of this.
The suicides, the murders... Too many families are grieving. This seed of doubt, of misconception has grown too large, the roots too deep.
He needs to see her, to talk to her, reason with her because he knows that part of the woman must still be within, sleeping; dim is the light no matter how deeply buried. He must rouse her. He wants so desperately to feel her sweet touch, smell her scent and wrap himself in Rika's warmth.
V wants her back, now that he knows her vision and can understand her plight... Now, they can help each other, right? It's not too late to go back to what they were, with less ignorance and more understanding?
Together, they can achieve contentment and normalcy... Right?
Or, are his sins too much to bear?
Ears tuned into every corner, every crevice, he lets his fingers drag along the walls; running over frames and metal decor as he makes his way to the entrance. The little cabin meant for what would have been their honeymoon getaway isn't too far off and the moon, he's quite positive, is high enough to showcase the vague beginnings of his step-worn path.
The wind bites at his cheeks as his hands ease the door ajar and he slides from the mansion in hush, twisting the door handle and putting it back into place before letting it go. Chirps of insects and howls of air through leaves whistle and rattle as he sticks to the shadows in trail of the dim light and trampled grass.
So close, yet so far.
His love is bittersweet and overwhelming; as soft as the petals from a rose and as violent as the stem's ragged thorns.
...He can't help but keep reaching.