Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the great Watsuki-sama! All hail the great Watsuki-sama!
A/N: Happy New Year everyone! I had a little block with this chapter – for some strange reason I do male perspectives better than females – so it took a little longer than I expected. Giant THANKS to everyone who reviewed/put me on story/author alert, I really appreciate it! Reviewer responses are below!
Now then, onwards!
2. Her
She left on a Thursday.
"It was for the best," she reasoned with herself, "I hate Thursdays…I'm not prepared for… he doesn't get it, he never gets it…we – we need some time off..."
Yet when she stared at her handphone, nestled among pale trembling fingers, the only thing she saw – really saw – was his hand in hers (with the barest hint of a memorized warmth). Fingers clenched spasmodically, and she willed for something (anything, everything) to happen.
Ready but unprepared; or prepared but unready? Did it even matter when the plunge was taken so long ago?
She left on a Thursday. She thought she knew why.
---
The second time she saw him, he didn't see her.
She was peering out the window, trying to determine if the snow had lightened up enough for her to venture into the outside world when she saw something red out of the corner of her eye. It was red hair. It had seemed deep scarlet in the glow of the park lamps, but now in the day, it was a brilliant red.
She vowed never to forget hair like that.
She watched him from her window, debating if she should approach him. After all, he was just across the street... She watched his shuffling steps, his hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes always on the pavement, and wondered.
Her first thought: He looks lonely.
Her second thought: Is he lost?
Her third thought: It's cold out there. I wonder-
But she never managed to finish her third thought as she remembered the scarf he had so kindly "lent" her that cold winter night a few weeks ago. Eyes widening, she rummaged in her closet, triumphantly reemerging a few seconds later with the borrowed scarf in her hand.
Shrugging on her coat haphazardly, she ran out of her apartment, not even bothering to lock the door as she raced down the stairs and out the complex. Breath forming sporadic white mist in front of her, she looked up and down the sidewalk across the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of red.
But she didn't. He was gone, and all that was left was the lavender scarf in her hands.
---
It was hopeless.
She knew it the minute she started. Like with every other thing – including him – she always started optimistically, naïvely hoping that maybe the results would be different than before.
But one thing that life taught her was that Hope had no conscience – he came and went, unaware (and probably uncaring) of the heartache caused by his disappearance (The Great Vanishing Act). He was that ever-fickle lover; the one with so many other lovers that he could never stay for long, the one that everyone swears is a curse, the one that you let in each and every time he comes knocking on your door.
So as Hope once again tipped his hat and left the apartment, she cleared away the charred remains of what was supposed to be her lunch, desperately wishing that he would come knocking on her door instead. She didn't particularly care if he didn't bring Hope, it didn't matter if the only one he had was Hope's cousin Bitterness; all that mattered was that he was there.
She sighed as she moved about the kitchen, looking for instant ramen to fill her stomach. She thought that she had left for good that rainy Thursday, but it seemed as if she had left something behind…
Then she remembered: She had grabbed Sorrow instead of Love that day – they had looked so alike at that time. She had left Love behind in her haste to leave, and she was starting to regret it.
A mirthless chuckle escaped her lips and she thought she might be going insane. After all, personifying emotions – even if it's in your own mind – seemed to be a sure step towards the loony bin.
She was hopeless.
---
She would always remember the day she first met him.
It was one of the worst days of her life.
It was a Monday in December, and she had just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago. That night, she was going out with Okita.
She had known Okita for years. He was a nice boy and she had spent fun times with him – had laughed with him and enjoyed talking to him. They had started dating a couple of months ago, but somehow, she never really regarded him as a boyfriend. A close friend, maybe, at most an older brother.
She awkwardly told him so last Saturday, and after a brief silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, was informed that he felt the same way.
They were going to go back to being close friends after that Monday. "One last date and we'll be over," he had said, half-teasingly, half-seriously.
After he had dropped her off at her apartment complex and kissed her one last time, he bade her goodnight and drove off. She watched him until she couldn't see his taillights anymore, feeling an inexplicable sense of misery well up in her.
That was the last time she ever saw Okita.
He had gotten into a car accident on the way home. Soujirou, his twin brother, called her up the minute he got the news. He said Okita didn't make it to the hospital.
"He loved you, you know," Soujirou had said quietly.
"As a sister, I know, he told me."
"No, he really loved you. More than a sister, more than a close friend, he loved you. He was devastated when he found out you didn't feel the same way, but he – that idiot – he said he understood."
Numbness struck and she almost lost her grip on the phone.
She remembered that last kiss. She remembered the way his cold hands tenderly cradled her face. She remembered the way his lips pressed against hers in something akin to desperation. And with startling clarity, she remembered the way he looked at her as he pulled away – as if he was trying to memorise her.
(But can memories be brought to the grave?)
Hands shaking, she thanked Soujirou and put the phone down.
Before she knew it, she found herself in a hastily put on coat in the park. Feeling lost, she sat down on a swing and tried to regain her bearings.
She broke down instead.
---
Now she stood, pacing the living room, thoughts running rampant in her mind.
It didn't make any sense at all! She had convinced herself that leaving would be the best – why the hell was she regretting it now? She had told herself that she had enough – enough of his glacial silences, scorching glances and that look. The one he always gave her when he thought she wasn't looking. Violet tinged with amber, his gaze would be intense but unreadable – and it never failed to confuse her. She found herself guessing and second-guessing his feelings for her far too many times than what was healthy, and everything he did just made her review her guesses over and over again. She just didn't get it!
"Talk to me."
The whisper left her lips and reverberated in the dismal silence of the room. A pity that the only audience she had was the couch and television; the one that needed to hear it the most was absent.
Somehow, she didn't find that surprising at all.
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Next up: Her Best Friend. Conversations in the aftermath. The nameless will finally be named (as if you didn't know already)!
Once again, all reviews are welcomed!
Reviewer Responses:
policis: Unnerving? That's a very interesting way to put it – I've never really thought of it that way… but in a way, you're quite right!
alicemuralice: Thank you so much for your encouraging praise! I might be changing my styles later, but I hope they will still please you! Hopefully this chapter clears up the mystery of the stranger with the scarf? His identity wasn't really supposed to be hidden, actually, I might try to refine it if I get a chance…