#heyyyyy omg...

when the chill wind of october first grazes against suguru's cheek, he is of the half-mind to feel offended — the seasons change as they did last year and the year before and the millenia before that, too, and that itself adds insult to injury : that there should not be a manifestation of the world turning on its axis, and into itself, and inside out, ripped apart so meticulously that now there is something wrong to its core, on a molecular level, like the first cell in its self-destructive path to a tumour. all of it should have been turned into its opposite : summer-spring-winter-fall-summer or summer-winter-fall-spring or, or, or, something — ABSTRACT-MADE-CONCRETE.

he glances sideways at shōko, unlit cigarette hanging from his parted lips as he looks at her, at the pleading scrunch of her eyebrows and the glint in her eyes — ( the call came when they were together, and for half a second he almost thought this was then and not now — he almost saw the glint of white hair in the mirror, but when he stared back there was nothing but a boy in too-big-a-shirt, and they were again singular where there was had been plural. )

the sunset spills against the sky of tokyo — an hemorrhage of the sun in violent hues of red-orange-purple-blue, a fitting metaphor for what is to come. he understands shōko’s request — the desperate edge of it, the tingling on the tips of one’s fingers for some type of action. or maybe he doesn’t  ( not anymore ). suguru is not sure what he would do for what she has — a week hidden under the nook of his bed, forgotten to the world, the taste of a curse nothing but a forgotten bitter memory. he doesn’t have that luxury — most of them don’t.