Oh, God. I unleashed this on you innocent readers. And you didn't massacre me on the spot. That's a godawful miracle if there ever was one. It's a good thing I'm anonymous to you guys, because if I wasn't, I'd have a lot of people to avoid out of unbearable shame and utter humiliation. Anyway, before I re-read this whole thing, I can't even for the life of me remember what this was about anymore. But I'll try to do better, I swear. I'll try to edit each chapter to a readable-without-puking level. Then, I'll try to actually finish it. God help us. Here goes.
Observation 1: The summary is bullshit. Let's fucking scrap it!
Observation 2: The grammar is, at best, at snotty pre-school level.
Observation 3: Rukawa is so OOC that I'm starting to hate him myself. Let's do a turnaround before he chokes me.
Observation 4: I'm about to embark on one hell of a roller coaster ride. It's officially your responsibility come save me from myself.
So here we are, almost five years later. My chance of redemption, or eternal self-deprecation. Here's Chance, version 2.
Her large luggage stands beside her. He stares at the dust that has settled on top. It's been a long time coming.
It isn't long enough.
The tiny wheels screech as she drags the suitcase across the wide room to the open door. She then turns and faces him, and, looking at everywhere but his eyes, she releases a heavy breath.
He realizes that he's been holding his own. There is a thudding somewhere, dull and hard and begging to be heard.
That isn't what he wanted to say. Not "why". Because "why" doesn't mean a thing anymore. It questions a failure, it implies that something cannot be understood. (And they both understood.) It's not the solution. It's not something that could hold together what's now falling apart between them. (That's a lie, because it's already finished falling apart.)
"Why" isn't what he needed to say. But the day when he could find the right words still eludes him.
She pauses. The sunlight slanting through the window casts a shadow on the right side of her face. The other side is marked by tear streaks. She never could hold her tears.
"Will you stop hating me?"
Her eyes flicker up to meet his.
"Will you stop hating me?"
The words ring true. Even when he has never thought it, never allowed himself to consider it, coming in her deep voice right now, he knows it's true.
"I don't know."
"I don't know what to do, but I'll do it," is what he wanted to say. But it dies somewhere in his throat.
"I want…" she looks up, trying to stop the tears from falling. She fails. As always. She chuckles in self-mockery.
He knows what he wants. He always knows what he wants. He wants to crawl under the sheets, to sleep. He wants to wake up with her sitting beside the bed. He wants to cook breakfast (a chore he hates) and see her smiling, wanting to try again because of the pancakes and hot chocolate and the way he's still there.
It isn't a lie. It's all the truth in their world, stifled in one ugly disguise.
The door closes behind her, the light slowly shrinking from a wide wedge to the thinnest slit. Every step she puts between herself and their sprawling house (designed the way she wanted, the way he hated, the way he grew to like) is a step taken away from him.
Them. Days spent under sakura trees. Nights spent listening to music in a garage. Defiant staring matches no one else would ever decode. A mutual understanding no one would ever hear. A story—it isn't a love story, it definitely isn't—that has just ended.
He stands as still as a statue. He lets it end because as it stands the last words were tragic. But the next chapter could be worse.
They are a scar. They are a beautiful mistake.
She never could quite hold the waterworks. And he never could turn the tap on.
The perpetual disorientation jumps in first, slowly ebbing to the perpetual disbelief. Rukawa Kaede could not believe it yet, he has yet to truly understand his reality as part of this world's reality. His clothes are drenched in cold sweat. He palms his face and realizes that it is wet too. Sweat, or something else, he doesn't know what. His heavy breaths fill the room. As if in auto mode, he grabs a small canister from the bedside table.
Pop. With the moonlight bathing him from the window, the two white pills drop on what appears to be equally white hands. As he stares at it, Rukawa imagines that the pills are part of his hand, of himself. It isn't such a strange thought as it should be.