The bed feels silken, smooth, thicker than usual. His heart feels heavy. He knows why, but he thinks it's better to not think about it. Why, he thinks, poke an already aching wound? It's not like he's bothered.
But this is how it always is.
He comes home, devoid of emotion.
Eats, devoid of emotion.
Showers, devoid of emotion.
Flips through the pages and pages of books on his desk, devoid of emotion.
Lies in bed, devoid of emotion.
There is a nagging sense at the back of his head. Something that he cannot ignore. It's a mixture between guilt, and regret. Something, that if he could visualize it, he knows it would be a single raindrop on a window, entirely alone.
He thinks he feels wetness behind his ear, maybe on his face, maybe from his shower. Perhaps. It may be something else.
Truthfully, he has not been sleeping well.
It is a different kind of exhaustion, this one. Different than his usual, physical weariness, quite different. It is more of a heaviness atop his head, an unwillingness to do anything. It is as if the fervor for life has been stripped away from him, like an exasperated mother might snatch her child's marker away, after the wall's been covered with it.
Still. He can manage, he thinks. What does managing entail? When he is at the hospital, everything is straightforward. Do what you must. Do what you can. Do what you are supposed to do.
Sure, it's akin to an android, but he is accustomed to that.
After all, things that disrupt his life are no longer welcome.
He's made the mistake of welcoming spontaneity into his life, made the mistake of 'letting loose' and it's cost him now. Cost him severely, because what are these aching emotions creeping up on him? What are they? What is this ache in his throat, this heaviness in his heart, this blurriness in his vision?
Why can't he ignore it? Is this all that's left? He has become a swinging pendulum, an emotionless droid on one swing, and a blubbering, aching mess on the other.
He thinks about her.
Wonders what she's doing with him.
He thinks some more.
He thinks until his mind is a flurry of rapid thoughts, a flurry of emotion, a flurry of nothing but anger, anger that melts into a choking up of his throat.
Because why doesn't she understand? Why doesn't she know? Why doesn't she care? Was it all a ploy? All a sick joke? Was it? To mess with him this much, to muddle his brain and heart and invoke a certain indescribable sadness in every living cell of his?
Doesn't she get it? Doesn't she?
Doesn't she know that he loves her, that he truly does, that he can't function a day without her, that he can't sleep at night without hearing her erratic breathing, that he can't leave the house without knowing she's right behind him, that he can't work efficiently without knowing she's safe, that he can't live without her, and it's true, he can't, he can't do anything, he's stuck, he's just so stuck
Why doesn't she get it?
Why?
He's leaving the house.
He's walking to the park.
He's in a tattered shirt, hair messed up from laying on her pillow, rocks, pebbles, dirt, seeping into his house sandals.
There is no one at the park at night. He knows, because he used to take her there, some nights, some long, nostalgic nights ago when they were still in college, sit on the dirt and kiss her, hold her, pretend not to smile around her, pretend to not notice the way she'd stare at him.
Another ache.
Another ache in his chest. A devastating twist, turn, pull in his chest, and it is so painful that he wonders if he's suffering a heart attack.
It'd be better, he thinks, to sit here, entirely gone.
Because she'd promised, through her words, her actions, hell, she vowed to never leave him, to never let go, to never stray far away from him, to never stop loving him.
More wetness on his face. The forecast never said anything about rain. He makes no move to wipe the sprinkling of rain off his face, makes no move to get up from the cold, hard bench.
Nothing like her soft pillow, nothing like the big bed where he should be right now, laying next to her, his arm on her tummy, her silken soft hair tickling his nose, her body heat warming him up, her love invigorating him.
The streetlight flickers, blurry in his vision.
Right now, when everything is this dull, this boring, this painful, this drab, this ugly, he needs her. To be there. To stay.
To do trivial things for him, like wave at him in the halls, to surprise him with a hot, filing morning breakfast, to buy new socks for him, to kiss him goodnight, to lay a hand on his shoulder.
To mend his broken heart.
His shoulders sag. He would do anything to escape this torment. If he could, he would hide and duck from this onslaught of emotion, this endless depression. It seems it has reached its peak tonight, and then it will fade into a dull, yet ever-present ache.
Until it builds up, and he cannot take it any longer.
There is no one else that will ever love him, he knows. Love like hers, love that he is so undeserving of, no, no one will ever give him her love again.
Right now, this moment right here, when she is gone, away from him, he will simply have to adjust. There is nothing more between the two of him, he decides.
It's wholly over, he decides, entirely over.
If this is how it is, too late for anything to ever change, then Irie will accept, he will oblige.
He looks up into the sky, sees a starless night. There is no sound, save for the rustling of grass as he walks, walks, walks into the darkness.
Thinks about what she's doing with him right now. Wonders why Keita deserves that happiness.
It's not a battle worth fighting for, he thinks, if he is unwanted, then, Irie will deal with that.
He knows Kotoko hates him, but he does not know why.
Why? How could she hate him, after loving him for so long?
Why doesn't she love him anymore?
Did he cause this?
Did he scare her away?
Anger her?
What could he have possibly done?
He walks faster. There is a sharp stone pressing into his toe with each step, and when he notices, later, in the empty room, it has cut him. Blood all over.
He crosses the street like a madman, walking, paying no mind when a car beeps, honks loudly at him.
There is nothing that he could have done to anger her. The truth is, she has never loved him, and it is simply showing itself now.
A part of him knows that is…wrong, but it quells his tears, no, that is also wrong, it does not, nothing can, nothing will ever.
If he sleeps well tonight, he will ignore Keita. Ignore him, ignore the man that has taken everything from him, the man that has wormed his way into his life and made it miserable, the man that has flown in as an unneeded savior, the man that has taken his everything.
It isn't love, what they have, what she has fallen for, what he has fooled her with, it is deception, and Keita has taken advantage of her naivety. A wolf in sheep's clothing, a lying son-of-a-bitch, a sick bastard that has ruined his life in every way possible.
He picks that sharp stone that was actually a glass shard, inspects it for too long, thinks about Kotoko and Keita, thinks and inspects and clenches his fist and there's blood all over.
Irie does not sleep at all.