Tokyo mew mew – Mia Ikumi.

Shoujo-ai.

Xxx Prophecy-sama

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

The world does not revolve around you. For the longest time, my pathetic little world did but I'm not the same girl who happily stalked you and fainted whenever you spoke to me.

That angry girl in the hoodie, yelling at you just five minutes ago?

Yeah, that's me now. Now you're just a tiny part of my world and you don't like it.

What? Don't like me? Or the fact that I've changed?

I'm not stupid.

Grow up. Fine, that is your face on TV, yes; your name is on the cover of every magazine in every shop from here to London and Paris and Milan. You've always been so cool and composed it threw me to see you throw a proper hissy-fit like some spoilt teenage pop star.

I thought I knew you better than that.

Screw it, I thought I knew you.

I thought I loved you.

Love you. Whatever.

Truth is we shouldn't argue this much. I don't think so anyway – the rest of the world is fucked up and seems to think we should scream at each other until we get bored and hoarse and then it doesn't matter any more.

Example? Ok, the magazine with a picture of you on it (you in a bikini, natch) along with where you can get pages of celebrity scandals and 'The top five greatest sex tips' also says you need to work through all of the little things and your relationship will be stronger because of it.

My mother said the same thing.

You said we needed therapy.

Bullshit! If all that was true we would have stopped fighting about shampoo months ago.

And now? Our living room has turned into an arena.

Today's match: Beautiful model Zakuro Fujiwara, the most wanted girl on the planet, has a screaming match with her girlfriend, the well known socialite Minto Aizawa.

I don't remember the last time we actually sat down and talked. Together. In the same room.

You have so many interviews and premieres and lunches with famous people, and I have to deal with the insane being that is my mother and just about every other rich heiress there can be in Tokyo.

I should have been with you at the interviews.

Walked down the red carpet with you at the premieres.

Called you to check how you were.

I didn't do any of that. No wonder you think I don't care.

But saying it about five times is pushing it, my darling.

This is not entirely my fault. It takes two to tango, Lady Zakuro, and we have been dancing this horrible, twisted dance so long my feet ache.

All those times you promised to show up at those formal balls that I hated so much. And didn't.

Promised to call. And never did.

And when I woke up in the morning you weren't there. Nothing but the faint smell of vanilla.

You're never there.

Don't pretend you were giving me space. You had practically sent me to Coventry!!

There's a pregnant pause. We both are trying to get our breath back after screaming for so long. Your usually pale face is flushed and your fists are clenched at your sides. Your lips are tightly pressed together, a sure sign that you're stressed.

A silence in which one of us could have said something. Neither of us does.

Hey! Can I remind you of something here? You said you loved me! Yesterday. The day before that. Once you said it for the first time, it was like a gate opened. You've told me that every day since.

But you just told me you hated me. Screamed it.

And then I said it back. Quietly. Like I meant it.

And that's when you walked out.

When the door slams shut I drop to the floor, like you just ripped out my heart and took it with you.