crossing escapism

There’s snow on her grave, and flowers underneath.

He comes here every now and then, talking to stone and earth and trees. He talks to no one but ghosts who aren’t there.

They’re dead, the ones he wants to talk to. They’re gone, and they—are not coming back.

He used to keep hoping he’d find their ghosts if he came on that cursed day. But they never do. And he ends up waiting for nothing, like an idiot who missed every memo.

It’s the fourteenth again. And he’s standing before her grave—waiting.

How pointless.

“It should’ve been me.”

.

Hibiya’s dead, again. For good, this time.

He’s not coming back. She’s not going to see him again.

She won’t see him pushing her away from a truck, from steel beams, from wrecking balls. She won’t be pulling him away from the knife, from the cliffs, from the edges again.

He’s gone, and this time he’s not coming back.

Hiyori should’ve beat him up more. Made him treasure his life a little bit more.

Hiyori doesn’t know where she should go anymore. It’s just her, and him.

It’s over.

It’s over, but...for her, it isn’t. It’s not over yet.

Marry keeps looking at Kousuke like he isn’t real. (He keeps seeing flashes of red and green when he looks in her eyes.)

“It’s alright,” he tells her. “Take your time. We have all the time in the world now.”

(Kousuke has so much he wants to tell her, but she comes first.)

Her voice is small as she whispers. “Promise?”

“Promise.” To you, and to me.

And if Marry holds his hand a little tighter that night, well. That’s for him to know and never tell.

.

Kousuke’s breath feels warm on her cheek. Her heart beats a little bit faster.

It still doesn’t feel real. She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. She keeps waiting to be woken from this beautiful, hurting dream.

Kousuke hugs her and brushes his hand through her hair the way he always does when she needs grounding. She’s never told him how guilty it makes her feel to be such a burden. She thinks he knows anyway.

It feels terrible to know how much he wants to tell her but doesn’t.

(Kousuke couldn’t hide those flower rings fast enough.)

For one reason or another, Hibiya dreads the fourteenth. It’s usually for good reasons, though.

It’s Kisaragi—February—now. Valentine’s.

Hibiya looks forward to it a lot. No sane person refuses free chocoloate, after all.

Speaking of which, he only gets some from Hiyori.

Every time, he asks her.

Unfortunately...

“I like you, Hibiya, but I don’t like like you, Hibiya,” her eyes soften, crinkling in pity.

Almost immediately, Hibiya slumps. The disappointment stung, even when he expected it.

Well, I tried.

Extending his hand, he smiles helplessly. “Still friends?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Hiyori pouts. “Always, duh.”

.

“Whaaaat, she doesn’t like you?”

Shintarou and Kano’s heads turn to them, slowly, hearing Momo’s exaggerated gasp. The former whistles, while the latter’s face splits into a teasing grin.

“Ooh, is that spring’s coming I hear?”

“Wow, chibi, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

His face flushes red. Groaning exasperatedly, Hibiya glares at the big-mouthed idol for a moment, before giving up and just burying his face in his hands. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.

Oops, she mouths. Forgive me?

Too little, too late, Hibiya thinks, blurting, “It’s orange hearts on white laces today.”

Hibiya you dirty little brat~!

Sometimes, he sees her. The ghost of her, that is.

Ayano is dead. He knows that. He saw her corpse. He laid flowers on her grave. And yet he still sees her.

It was the fourteenth when she died. (It was also still the fourteenth when they disappeared.)

He hates the fourteenth.

It’s always there in the back of his mind. The guilt, the shame, the regret. The uncertainty, of not knowing who died.

(He doesn’t even know which Ayano died then.)

Still. Even though it hurts. Even though it’s hurting him. Even so—he doesn’t want her to stop.

.

Shuuya’s gained a terrible habit as of late.

(That’s a lie. It started long ago, way before then—)

Maybe it’s a disgrace to his big sister’s memory, to her last will.

He keeps wearing her face, when he doesn’t have to—when he doesn’t need to—all to haunt her crush.

(She had terrible taste. And so does he.)

He doesn’t know Shuuya, though. He only knows him as the other face of Ayano.

It changes nothing.

Shintarou-kun is just too pitiful to hate.

(And maybe that’s not a lie.)

Today is the day.

Ayano’s been preparing for this day for months. Her hands feel cold and clammy with sweat. It’s probably the cold from the winter.

Her heart feels full to bursting. It feels too good to be true. Ayano convinces herself that that’s because it is true.

Shintarou told her likes her. (Shuuya said so.)

“Shintarou,” she hands him her chocolate, the one her brother helped her make, “I made this for you.”

And Shintarou takes it, muttering, “You’re...different today.”

“Am I...?”

(Her heart feels full to bursting.)

“...I liked you better yesterday.”

(And burst it does.)

.

“It was never me, was it?”

Ayano’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Even so, she smiles, as if it doesn’t hurt her to ask.

Shintarou can’t bear to look at her.

(She’s always been the stupidly brave one. Doing things she knows would hurt... He doesn’t hate that, about her.)

The smile he makes mirrors hers. “I still like you anyway,” he looks over her shoulder, “Tateyama Ayano.”

Her image before him flickers, and the illusion breaks. (Kano breaks.)

His eyes are trained on the girl whose face is a red blush, and he sees—himself.

His eyes burn red.

Thereʼs steak. Thereʼs salad. Thereʼs cake and biscuits and creams. Thereʼs soup, broth, stew.

Itʼs a mouthwatering spread, and your belly is just empty. Your stomach begs you to eat. Your hunger demands a feast.

And why shouldn’t you?

Itʼs a full-course meal, prepared just for you.

You reach for the steak.

You do not bite—you grasp, ensure there is no escape. Tempered in suffering, it is firm.

You do not chew—you savor, tasting the inky blood-and-sweat juices seeping from torn flesh-and-bone. Its connections make it soft.

It is perfect.

The soup is delicious, their tears taste heavenly. Bitter loss and salty regrets meet the spice of drive. And they become.

The broth is and is not the dregs. It is something else altogether. Relics of old, yet their flavor has only been tempered by time.

The stew is thick with clouded desires. What did they want? What did they truly want? The uncertainty it holds is simply delectable. When it is finished, you find that the question is still unanswered, the irony is not lost on you.

Imperfection does not taste so bad.

The cake is sweet, soft, sugar-sweet happiness. It’s the last thing on the menu, yet it leaves you wanting still.

The biscuits come in varieties. The sweet ones are few and far between. The salty and bitter are a shock at first; later, they come as a change but even then they are still a surprise. Some are sour, you don’t know if you like it or not. Decidedly, you do not.

Most of the biscuits, however, are flavorless. And they come in droves. You neither like nor dislike them. Yet you eat them anyway.

It’s all gone. How long until the next meal comes?

Your hunger is king, and you want to eat. (You want it more than you need it.)

The creams...what can you say about them?

A clock ticks.

You say nothing about them.

The plates are taken away.

And new food is set before you.