After Monika brought Sayori back into the house, the two of them had tea with Natsuki. The three of them gathered in a small circle around the table in Yuri's dining room and drank together, relishing in each other's company and in the drinks which warmed them from the inside out.
True to her word, Sayori did most of the talking for Monika. She brought up all sorts of topics – when do you think Yuri will wake up? Are you sure she doesn't mind that I'm using her placemat? What flavors of cupcakes are you planning on baking? Whenever there was a lull, whenever Monika stopped making eye contact with one of them, Sayori would speak up, always happy to help a friend.
Is that honesty? To talk and talk for others, never ceasing in your quest to please your friends? Sayori has entertained, but never once seriously considered the notion that she, too, might be deserving of the love and attention which she gives so freely to those around her. And, after all, to help others is what she most desires. It is what gives her purpose. Is it honesty, then, that she should pursue those ends in every waking moment that she endures?
In the hour that followed, Monika observed her friends as calmly as she could. Her heart still pounded, but there was a part of it that was excited instead of nervous. An environment like this, controlled by Sayori yet still unpredictable due to Natsuki, was perfect for improving her conversational skills. With every sentence, she developed new tactics and honed her already existing ones. More often was she able to speak her mind, and more often was she able to do so without anxiety affecting her words on their path from her mind to her lips. And whenever she fell in too deep, Sayori was there to pull her out.
Is that honesty? To be genuine only as much as you are able, and to be carried when your limits bind you? To try one's hardest, but still rely so heavily on others? In her own way, Monika has always cared about both herself and her friends, and she thinks it good that she can improve at something that will make both her and others happy. Is such an emotion an honest one in spite of her flaws?
A time later, the three friends placed their mugs in the kitchen sink and changed locations. As she made the trek from the kitchen to the living room couch, Natsuki rolled her eyes and shot Sayori a snide but well-humored comment over her shoulder. Sayori keeled over in mock pain while Monika stepped a few paces towards her, mildly concerned. While Sayori waved off her friend, assuring her that it was all in good fun, Natsuki flopped down onto the couch cushions, causing a folded sheet of notebook paper to tumble out of her pocket and onto the carpet below.
At the same time, in a room above the three friends, Yuri awoke in darkness. Having had closed her door and long since drawn the shutters, there wasn't a speck of light anywhere in the room to break the blackness. Slowly, she sat up in bed, the covers tumbling off of her naked frame. She was so exhausted that she'd gone right to bed after having had showered earlier, and she shifted to the edge of her mattress, allowing her feet to dangle there for a moment or two. Knowing that she would not fall asleep again and hearing her friends' voices echo from beneath her, she stood up and walked over to her bureau, the crinkling of notebook paper resounding underfoot.
Just as Sayori finished reassuring Monika, the two of them walked into the living room and noticed the scrap of paper lying at Natsuki's feet. Sayori inquired about it, pointing her finger in its direction, and upon following the path of that finger, Natsuki snatched up the paper and stuffed it back into her pocket, firmly expressing that it was her business. Some light teasing from Sayori died down quickly at the withering glare that Natsuki gave her, and Monika suggested that perhaps Sayori should give their friend some space.
Crossing her arms and turning pointedly away from her friends, Natsuki's mind wandered back to a certain locked drawer in her desk back at home. Specifically, the healthy stack of used notebook paper which resided within that drawer, and with which the sheet within her pocket would take residence later tonight. On each paper was inscribed a poem, each direct, each confident.
Each not nearly good enough.
Yuri stared silently at herself in the mirror, seeing nothing but the vague outline of a young girl before her. She'd settled on a sweater that was somewhere between gray and tan (long sleeve, as always) and a pair of black yoga pants. She took a deep breath and let her hands rest at her sides, utterly lifeless. She couldn't have lifted a pen if she'd wanted to – and she did.
Yuri's head sagged forward, and she gazed dully at the dozens of papers that lay below her feet, interlaced on her bedroom floor. They were poems, and each one was the same poem – a single word changed here or there, but at heart, the same. Yuri curled her left foot around the corner of one, cutting a small slit in the base of her big toe. Yuri's blood dripped out and stained a few copies of the poem that she'd created, each elegant, each poignant.
Each not nearly, nearly good enough.
Is that dishonesty? To have such intense feelings and to know them to be true, but not to act on them? Not out of a lack of any desire, but due to pride? Or a lack of confidence, or willpower? Their feelings were transparent and undeniable even to each other, though neither would admit themselves the privilege of assuming that they were being reciprocated. To hold those feelings back, despite everything within you screaming at you to let them out – is that dishonesty?
Then perhaps I, too, have been dishonest. But it'll all come crashing down soon enough. Unrequited love, the struggle of social anxiety – they don't matter. Hardly anything matters.
Least of all this pointless reality.