Author's Note: This was inspired by the song "Chasing Time" by Alan Pownall. Learned this song while binge-watching David Tennant stuff on Netflix. This was originally written in third person but found second person-voice more fitting.. so.

Mixtapes
You Can (Not) Undo

.

"I only ever wanted to make you mine,
but I was always too far from your side,
I got left behind,"

.

.

Her voice, neither music nor noise could really match to it. You immediately recognize, raising your head up to the direction of the sound. She comes running to you (meaning everyone), and comes in with a happy reunion hug with her green companion. She talks some more, and everyone does too, except for you, because she's this unwelcomed thought that came barging in midst of your ponder, and it's making a great mess in your head. Mimi Tachikawa eventually wins over your sour thoughts; could only hear her voice, and no one else. Not even yours.

You take a goddamn look at her.

You notice she had finally let go of her pink hair and she was still as pretty; the thought isn't even original or new, but you have a bad habit to put her face back on the blank space of your mind, to disassemble the curve of her lips, to deconstruct the meaning of her eyes, to take her apart until you could understand. You end up not being able to anyway, but you do it every time you see her.

For instance, she's kneeling down to their creature-friends, being the Father (Mother?) Christmas they never had, giving them novelty-sweets that you would refuse if she offers, seemingly completely oblivious of the scenic aftermath, and how much of a dysfunctional and restless mess the rest of you are right now. There were more important things that matter, you remember, and you are more than urged to confront Taichi of his sudden and unexpected incompetence, but hey, she's here now, and suddenly it's a pretty big deal to everyone, even to you.

You're here.

You allow yourself to smile, silently relishing the sight of her, and all those buried thoughts about to her came and spread like a virus somewhere around your chest, and it's painful – you don't know why, but it's either your heart stopped or you've gone breathless. And when you are done focusing on her, you could now hear everyone else ask her how she is, why she's here, if she's all right. You want to give her your own welcome too, ask her if she came back alone, how she feels after her sixteen-hour flight, if she's interested in joining your new hip band, or just answer her that you miss her too, but somehow you always find yourself turned mute, even cautious about mentioning her name. Perhaps, you think, it was the lingering fear you always had since you met her – that your voice might crack, turn fragile just as you are with her. You think you are the moth and she is the fire, and you're not just some fucking moth, you are the smartest among them because you know anyone who gets too close will only burn. You curse yourself for even sparing time to make metaphors.

Shortly after, you and everyone get a ride home thanks to the conspicuous suited men who brought you here in the first place. You don't trust them enough, but it seems she already does – and so you could not help but put your confidence on her. After all, her fair judgment of character is more reliable than yours.

The space at the back of the vehicle is cramped and tight, and you find yourself sitting a person away from her, and for you it's already dangerously close. The conversation still revolves around her, and you could only listen intently as it develops, until she says something really forward to Koushiro and you find your insides panicking the same way your red-headed friend is. Everyone is just as disarmed as you are, but she brushes it off naturally with a giggle, unserious and light-hearted, just the way you like her to be.

How openly playful and sweet, without even a sign of discomfort. You laud the friend next to you for being more experienced in dealing with her, you envy that he can call himself as her friend. Friends, you repeat the word in your head, and convince yourself you do think of her as a friend, and you do care about her a lot, and she's just as important as everyone else, but there's just that wall you can't seem to break through or jump over. You wonder where your earned confidence goes, frustrated how it magically disappears when you need it most, especially when you feel like you're in the mood to nurture a relationship. You and her, specifically.

One by one your friends leave the vehicle, see them get down and enter the comfort of their own homes. And when you and the remaining others reach her old house, she bids goodbye and tells the group she'll be seeing them soon, maybe over ramen or some other Japanese delicacy. You'd sigh in relief to know you have another day, another chance to do what-you-were-too-fucking-afraid to do. You hope that by the next day you see her you'll make things right, fill in the void of whatever's between the two of you.

But as the vehicle starts to drive away you do the usual, overthink of how to talk to her, because after five years or more you still don't have a clue how to bid her 'hi' or 'bye'. Every opportunity you had to start a decent conversation with her was blown off by you being absurdly mum, and quite frankly both of you are used to the shared, understood, telepathic silence, and now it's all too late, or so you think. So in the end, as much as you hate it, you accept it. You graciously accept that in the next days to come you'd spend your time with her staying behind and become the outsider once again as the rest take pleasure of her missed company while mulling if you'd ever get yourself to utter her name.

It only takes two fucking syllables, and they even sound the same, you arse.