Disclaimer: I don't own Puella Magi Madoka Magica.
Author's Notes: As previously stated in the description, this story contains HEAVY Puella Magi Madoka Magica spoilers, so if you haven't seen the series, DO IT! Otherwise, this story may not make a lot of sense... This is a little dabble I thought up one morning, and thought I might put it to paper.
The Girl Who Doesn't Exist
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. She is as beautiful as the morning sunrise, but as ethereal as smoke blown into a westward wind. Her visage is the same each time, a young girl with hair of the spring cherry blossoms, and a kind, innocent appeal. She tells me of things; wonderful things... horribly wonderful things that await me when this life is done. Yet, even with this promise of utopia at the end of my life, she tells me to fight.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. She touches me and hugs me and kisses me and cuddles me like a friend and lover who I've known my whole life, yet I can neither forget nor remember her name. Each Friday is different from the last, our meetings becoming like two war-torn lovers, brought together only by the passing of the guard in the night watch of my dreams.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. This girl, who gave everything, even her very existence in history to save the people she loved, will never be forgotten for what she did, but will also never be remembered, even by those she called friend. I tell Sayaka and Kyouko about my girl who doesn't exist, and they insist I get more sleep, stop seeing figments. Even Kyubey thinks I'm crazy when I stare into space and speak of my girl who doesn't exist.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. With each of my visits, I am filled with as much hope as I am despair... I know this girl who doesn't exist means best, speaking soft, kind words in my ear in a voice both familiar and foreign, but I know with each visit I grow closer to succumbing to the same fate that becomes us all... fading into obscurity, our actions never known by those not under a Contract. Yet I fight... hoping one day to see my girl who doesn't exist with my own eyes.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. She holds me in powerfully loving arms and kisses me with the tenderest of lips, the cares of my duty melting into a mixture of pain and agony she drinks like a bitter drought, yet speaks nothing of the deed, smiling like it doesn't burn her.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. I meet her in a parlor every night in which through the north window shines the midday sun in all it's blazing glory, and through the south window reflects the midnight moon, illuminating everything below in it's pulchritudinous glow. We sit at a table made of flowers and bone, reminiscing about the happy memories we never shared, and reliving all the painful heartaches we never suffered. She pours us tea of a foreign flavor which is both delicious and vile at once, softly calling my name as I sleep, ever mindful of my very concious.
Every Friday night... at about the same time each night... I have a dream about a girl who doesn't exist. My girl who doesn't exist is the reason I live each day, fighting the Demons that threaten this city and this world. My girl who doesn't exist is the reason I live each day, dragging myself from the sheets with a promise of a good day... a bright day. My girl who doesn't exist is the very reason I breath, my whole life nothing but to wait for Friday... to see my girl who doesn't exist once more in my dream world.
Every Friday night...
At about the same time each night...
I have a dream about a girl...
Who doesn't exist.