「 please just show me a smile 」

[traumereii]

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「xxxxiix
笑
っ
て
見
せ
て
く
れ
ii！
xxxxiix」
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idea snippets, thoughts, rambles, and everything in
between. love letters to people who don't exist, to the
"me"s i've killed with my own hands, to memories that
hardly even matter anymore. apologies. mourning.
characters who matter and characters who don't. it's all
a part of being human and feeling, however horribly, but
feeling nonetheless. just know that this too will pass. ♪
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01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.
27.
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iぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！ぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！
iぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！ぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！
iぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！ぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！
iぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！ぐだぐだうだうだああうるせえな！
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[traumereii]

strangely enough, there are thoughts in your head—loud—rather than the static that you so often hear instead. a lot of things happen simultaneously; your heart cools, hardens, breaks, and you think that little else matters in the world.

the person you see in the mirror is a stranger, their soulless eyes bearing deep into your own. yet, undeniably, it's still you. you feel the fragments of them pulse in yourself, and it's all you can do to resist slamming your fist into the empty face because just the sight of it alone is so infuriating. it sickens you, how different yet similar you are.

but you stand still, unmoving, because you've never been a person of action. you feel a phantom pain on your knuckles, and then follows a trickle of blood and the familiar ache.

you wonder if the world would be kinder to the you in the mirror.

you reach out.

they vanish the moment your fingertips touch smooth glass, dusty and cold. you're cold. your mouth tastes like ash. maybe the room is covered in ash, because suddenly you're coughing and wheezing and grabbing at your throat in an effort to breathe. such an action confuses you—why do you still cling so dearly to life when you were ready to throw it all away just moments prior? your hypocrisy makes even you laugh.

you hug yourself tightly, and the person in the mirror returns. you think that for all you hate them, you can't truly live without them. you ask a silent question, begging them to answer why it is that they haunt you so. they, of course, offer nothing in return but the solace of silence.

and solace it is. your thoughts have shut up now, and you think that they're the only person you'll ever need anymore.

some god you are. how broken. how laughable. how pitifully sad, to be haunted by the ghost of someone who never died, not when they still live in your flesh.

it's you, after all.

[traumereii]

it happens slowly, as all things do. it's dawn, but as always, not a new day; it's the 294th repeat of the worldline, and maki thinks that she's tired of it all. it goes without saying that fighting the world is an exhausting ordeal, never mind having to do so again and again, every time the clock strikes midnight and resets. she thinks that she's fighting a losing battle, watching misha have their memories wiped with each reset, pondering as the secrets build between them.

once upon a time, maki would have challenged the world just to save misha's smile. now? she's not so sure.

it's simply the cost of falling out of love, after all.

even though all the mishas from all the previous worlds are ultimately still misha, they aren't the misha that maki had known, grown up with, fallen in love with, pledged to be the only barrier to stand between them and everything else that threatens their existence. maki hates the ugly feeling bubbling up inside of her because it doesn't hurt like it should and the more she thinks about it, the more she begins to doubt the reason for her own existence.

in a world where misha is doomed to always meet serve as a sacrificial pawn to the higher powers, maki now understands that resistance is all too futile. it's always misha who would willingly walk to their doom because they've always been too selfless and too kind and too unaware of the kind of impact they had on the others around them. it's always misha who falls, even after maki pushes them out of harm's way, intercepts blades for them, sheds blood and fights for both of their lives. and yet, it's not enough. it's never been enough.

it's dawn, and maki goes through the motions of the day mechanically, dreading the inevitable, despising how fate had locked her into this endless stalemate. she wonders if misha knows how much they've suffered in the past and knows how much this is killing her on the inside.

she thinks—no, believes—that misha is blind.

how do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved? how do you save someone whose only desire in the world is to be of use, to shine was brightly as a star and burn out in an explosion of flame, swallowed and consumed by transcendental beings who hunger for their bodily sacrifice?

and so, when the day turns to night and misha's hollow eyes are boring into maki's own, she wonders what it'll be like to be the one to push misha down the edge. she thinks about wrapping her calloused, scratched up hands against misha's pale expanse of throat, bobbing up and down with each swallow. she questions the existence of the world again, and when she comes to, she's only mildly surprised to see misha's eyes widen imperceptibly as her blade lodges itself between their ribs. she doesn't exchange any words with the person they love—loved.

maki swims in pools of remorse and regret found in misha's eyes, but neither she nor misha could choke out a final apology before the stars claim them once again, stolen away.

she destroys the world again in a fit of anger and grief—

—and it starts all over again, ringing tower bells echoing the sound of midnight in her ears.

misha's blood is still on her hands, and maki sinks to her knees and weeps for a person who isn't really truly here anymore, sword clattering on smooth linoleum until the only sound that exists are maki's cries.

[traumereii]

does it make you happy to turn every little thing into a competition? does it make you happy to stew in your inferiority, boiling away until you've had enough and redirect the conversation back to you again? does it make you happy to have the attention always on you, talking as though no one will ever have it as bad as you do?

you're so sad, clinging onto anyone who pays you more heed than a passing glance.



the tip of your pencil snaps against your notepad. you give your writing utensil a sort of cursory look, appraising it, before shrugging and tearing the page out. you crumple the paper into a ball and toss it behind you, into the infinitely wide and empty void. you wonder if it'll ever fill up, growing into a mountain and spilling over the edges and burying you. it doesn't seem likely, but you think that you'd like to try anyways.

it's not like anyone else needs to see this ugly side of you. for all the pleasantries and sweet (but honest!) words you say, there are those of barbs, of poison that you keep firmly locked up, and for good reason. people sometimes comment on your stoic demeanor, the unflinchingly empty stare that your eyes adopt, and you might chuckle in good nature, but there's simply never a reason to emote more than necessary.

it's not your fault that you're brilliant. you've learned this early on, slowly collapsing under the weight of the expectations on your shoulders. yet, you're an excellent faker, and you only drop all pretenses when you're in your lonesome, away from prying eyes. it's not your fault that you've learned to cope and struggle and resist and loseyourmindandstillbebetterbebetterthanmostothersbebetterwiththelittleeffortyouveputin. it's not your fault that you're gifted, blessed, favoured by the heavens.

you think that this is a royal joke at your expense and that all these things, packaged into you and tied prettily in a neat bow, are nothing more than shackles weighing you down. a curse. if everything in the world seeks equilibrium, then it's only fair that in exchange for your existence, you yourself must be haunted by the endlessly cruel thoughts that you've come to acknowledge as a familiar partner.

it doesn't really matter if you're a monster on the inside, because you'll just overcome and consume everything in your path, just like you've always done. it doesn't matter what other people think of you; the only one you're living for is yourself, after all. you don't owe them anything.

your lips curl into an ugly sneer, an unseemly smirk. there is still enough sense in you to withhold your tongue for this flimsy peace, but eyes are windows to the soul and you wonder if they betray your thoughts.

pitying, patronizing.



pathetic.

[traumereii]

"say, i'm curious about something."

"yes?"

"if i were to disappear one day, would you try to find me?"

the girl next to you stiffens in surprise, and you merely cast a sideways glance at her. her eyes are wide and trained directly at you, lips opening and closing as though struggling to put her thoughts to words. smiling helplessly, you tug at her hand with your own and decide to drop the subject. "sorry, bad joke? i didn't think you'd take it to heart like this. it's cute that you care."

the half-lie sits heavy on your tongue, weighing down on your chest. something in your expression must give it away, because the frown on her face only deepens. "you don't have to try to be considerate of me, i think i know you well enough to read between your lines. i don't think this is as much of a joke as you're making it out to be."

hook, line, sinker. to this you turn away, chuckling mirthlessly. you're no longer in the mood to continue some farce you can't even keep up, and you think the girl knows (for when did she never not know?) because she pushes forth with her words, staggeringly, hesitantly, quietly. it's a kindness you know you don't deserve for putting her in this situation. "if it makes you feel any better, i would, but i think you know that already."

you inhale. exhale. "you're right, i do." you kick at a rock on the gravelly path, choosing to focus on how every step is greeted with a crunch. she's quiet, and her silence only makes the distance between you two—only a meter or so—seem much larger than it really is. it just makes everything else seem louder, like the crunch of rocks under your feet, the wind echoing in your ear, the pounding in your heart.

"then, why?" she inquires, and it's such an innocent question that you genuinely cannot fault her for. your face twists, and you're grateful that you're no longer facing her. "why ask at all? why downplay this any more than you need to when we both know how volatile you are?" her question echos in your mind. why, why, why. why indeed.

"dunno," you mumble, "didn't think you'd be so serious about it." an honest mistake on your end, however distasteful, but still a mistake begging to be dropped and forgotten. a plea for affirmation, perhaps. the sun's rays are harsh and unforgiving, and it feels like everything in the world is scrutinizing you. she sighs, and you can't help the sharp rush of pain that shoots through your heart.

"... that makes me feel like i should apologize to you instead. sorry, i think."

"no! i mean. no. no, it's not your fault." you bite at your lips, distressed, and the girl must've noticed because she backs up slightly, giving you a little more room to breathe.

she doesn't continue to prod or pry, but having said this much, you feel obligated to continue talking. "it's really just something i thought of on the whim. i kind of blurted it out without thinking too deeply about the implications, and i know I don't have the greatest track record. i'm sorry."

and that is the simple truth. your mind wanders to empty, dilapidated train tracks, to withered flowers, to the ghosts whispering and beckoning to you in your ear. you think about all the times you've visited the beach and wanted the waves to crash over your head and take you in. you feel sweat beading down your neck, and the cool breeze that washes over you brings you back to reality, where the girl is staring at you with an unreadable face.

"you—" she starts, then cuts herself off. she shakes her head and walks a little faster, and by habit, you feel the muscles in your legs straining to match her pace.

"are you mad at me? don't be mad, or else i'll cry," you hum, but it's teasing and lighthearted and an attempt to change the mood, regardless of how effective it actually is. she groans, but that too is familiar, soft. she's forgiven you already: just like she knows all your telltale signs, you know hers.

"i'll just get you to shut up," she answers swiftly, harshly, but you break into a small grin at the ease you two fall back into your banter. you laugh, but it quickly fades away as you take note of the solemn look that settles in the girl's eyes again. "just... know that there's people out here in the world that do care for you, yeah?"

your throat closes up against your will, and you can only force yourself to nod, resisting and pushing back against a sudden surge of emotion. your lips curve upwards into a practiced smile, but the girl's face contorts in a way that shows that she knows your smile isn't genuine. "i'm serious here. don't just bottle everything up like you usually do. if you need someone to talk to, i'm here, aren't i? well, i might not be the most available, but you're my friend and so of course i'd go to extra lengths to make time for you if you needed it and—"

"thank you," you interrupt, because you know that if she continues, you will hurt even more. she shoots you a cross glare at being cut off, but she drops the issue and huffs. you're not sure why she's so insistent on pretending like she doesn't care, but it's part of her charm and you still find yourself smiling, despite everything else. "seriously, thank you."

she stares at you for a couple more beats before a satisfied smile finally slides across her face. "so long you know. in any case, thanks for walking me this far. you'd better hurry along if you want to get back before the sun sets."

you hiss out a curse at having lost track of the time, and she laughs—laughs!—at you. the gravel path alongside the forest leads into a residential area, but this isn't your destination and you need to get going.

as you turn to leave, she calls out one last time. "see you tomorrow!" she exclaims, and you only raise your hand in a wave as a response.

it isn't until you were out of eyeshot that you sigh and dig out your phone. your fingers navigate to her contact, spelling out g-o-o-d-n-i-g-h-t and sending it. then, you power off your phone, setting it down on the ground with a heavy heart. you are volatile, which is exactly why you're going away.

it'd be better if she didn't come to look for you, despite everything she had said. you hope she doesn't.

it doesn't matter since you're leaving for good.

[traumereii]

there's a million things you could say to the news and yet none of them would even come close to the shock that sweeps through you in that moment. like a deer caught in headlights, you stand frozen to the whispers traveling through the air, the unceasing notifications that sends vibrations through your whole body, the video—a news segment, to be exact—of. of—. well. you don't process any of the words, but you think you recognize the person in the video (who are you kidding of course you recognize that face they walked you home they stuck by you despite everything you had done who are you to feel this empty grief Who Are You To Mourn Like This). there's nothing special about their features, you say to yourself, but you're all too aware of how artificial they seem behind a blinking screen, how void of life their expression is as they stare unblinkingly beyond you, seeing something that you can't possibly begin to comprehend.

the story goes something like this: once there were two girls, and then there was one. not like much changed in the end, but suddenly the emptiness is just so much more pervasive and unbearable. your legs bring you to school as always and you ignore the chatter of your classmates, the glances, the pity, the murmuring, the understanding that they don't deserve to have. you stop in front of their desk. the flower vase sitting delicately on top of it now holds a different meaning, and you can't help but feel your breath catch in your throat because wasn't this all your fault, anyways?

you think you should've known better. you know you should've known better. not like this regret can change anything now that things are done and over with.

not like you could've done anything, though? yes, you are deflecting, but—but you weren't the only one at fault. it just so happened that your actions hurt the most, cut the deepest, because you were the one closest to them. even so, you feel nausea begin to rise up but you force it down because there's a time and place for everything. no one can know how shaken you are. no one can know disgusting you feel.

what's worse than trying to fight back against your own emotions is how people keep trying to tell you that it isn't your fault when it clearly is. they don't understand a thing. they don't understand how haunting it is to just want them to depend on you more and have all this happen instead. even more so when you know the way you feel about them. the way they feel about you in turn. no amount of apologies can right this wrong, and at this point, you know that you're only repeating the words in your head just for your own sake. to satisfy your own needs, to relieve your own guilty conscience.

you're not—have not ever been—a good person. you've said this to them so many times, on so many accounts, and yet they always laugh freely with you, resting a hand gently over yours, allowing a smile (however fake however strained however unnatural however pained) to put you at ease. or maybe that smile is more for themselves. not that you'd ever know now. you think of all the times you've been blind (ignorant?) to the bruises that bloomed across their arms and legs, the increasing number of bandages used to patch up their skin, the barbed words hurled behind their back. you can try to find a million way to make amends, but none of your efforts would actually reach them.

and the story continues like so: you stay in the classroom even after the final bell sounds and red climbs high in the sky. you sit facing the flower—a white chrysanthemum, a fitting funeral flower—and though your thoughts are frenzied, you feel strangely at peace. there's not much to say about the situation; you're framed by the dying sunset embers to look more holy than you deserve, and you thumb at the petals of the flower, trembling at how it's already withering. it was never a fresh flower, a new flower. it's been there for a couple days now.

for all your mistakes and imperfections, you miss them terribly, terribly so. you don't know if you have to right to say such a thing, but it has to be the truth because why else would you be so reluctant to let them go? you're yearning for something you no longer have, for something you can't reach, and it fills you with a rush of disappointment.

unless...

no, you tell yourself firmly. you'd just be running away from the problem otherwise, and that's not what they deserve from you. it's not something that you'd let yourself do so lightly, so carelessly. you've always been aware of your own lack of regard, but even a person like you have limits.

you don't dream of the same things they have dreamed of, but surrounded by the sunset and the cloying scent of chrysanthemum refusing to dissipate, you think that you're beginning to understand why they always speak of wanting to swim in the ocean and sink into its depths. they talked about walking along railroad tracks, following a path that leads to somewhere and nowhere. you remember the way their eyes grew distant whenever they were lost in one of their reveries; face slack and eyes glazed over, yet their posture was still always firm, poised, collected.

how long had they been living in a world that didn't include you?

understanding was lost on someone like you, but you come to the conclusion that it's pointless to ruminate too much on things that won't change itself. you're sure that it's your way of escaping from reality, and you grab a fistful of the flower, feeling a sick gratification at seeing the crumbling petals scattering across the desk, the tiled floors, the chairs. a parting reminder, a proof of your existence, or so you think. things will continue as normal until it doesn't.

and it does. you go back home, wash up, do your homework, eat, carry on with your life as though the events of the day aren't still weighing on your mind. you answer questions when asked, speak when prompted, exist when necessary. you feel less of a need to announce yourself, your presence, now that the person you've been living for had taken the initiative to walk elsewhere.

and thus the story reaches its conclusion: there came a day where that singular girl vanished too, chasing after something she had lost. she speaks of loss but in broken apologies and stuttered pleas, and—

then it is her face that appears on the screens, grave and unblinking. it is on her desk that a new flower vase resides, with—this time—a fresh flower. chrysanthemum, of course, and white, because that is the standard and the expectation.

summer had never felt so long, with the echoing of cicadas serving as a harmony to a shriek, and then nothing. the train whistle blows for no one, and the railroad crossing bells ring incessantly until it too fades into emptiness. under the midnight sky, the illusion of peace couldn't have been more real. the stars shine on.

time keeps moving.

[traumereii]

heartfelt words don't come easily for you
nor for me, but immaturely, childishly,
i lay the bird in my breast to paper
and offer up my world, my paradise
and maybe it's wrong of me to see
our magic fading, the fairy tale dying,
a desolate winter blowing out the candle
emptily, promises lost and unfulfilled
but you can't lie and neither can i
and all that's left are tiptoes and shadows,
fragments, slotting a puzzle, finding
remnants, throwing them out, forgetting
yet for the "i" who hasn't moved on
inexplicably, inexorably, the bird,
once full of life and song and cheer
falls silent without another trace
when the frigid frost passes by, perhaps the vicious, vile bird
will return to beat my heart (but for you no longer) and live on

[traumereii]

as maki raced through the empty halls, the heels of her shoes clicking against the smooth marble with a frenzied clickclickclick, the only thing she could think of was misha's glassy eyes, glazed over with unshed tears. though their words had been harsh, damning, she knew her friend better than this. "save me," those lips had whispered to themselves, unbeknownst to the rest of the world but not maki. "i'm so tired. what am i even living for again?

"what am i supposed to do with these memories that i don't even have?"

teeth clenching, maki's pace quickened. there wasn't much time until the day reset again, and as someone who had received misha's—not this misha, not the current misha, but still misha nonetheless—words, it was only her duty to carry them out. tirelessly, despite the odds, and unwaveringly—this was the proof of maki's belief.

but of course, thorny paths were never easy ones to tread. who was maki? was she really nothing more than a loyal soldier of the tower, the personal guard of the next prophet? could she have truly fought this hard for just her sanctimonious beliefs in the gods that reigned the world and not for anything else?

well—of course not. she was maki, yes, and she was all of the above. above all else, she was also the one who had opened up her heart to the prophet, and received their heart in turn.

misha.

if she had known about the tower's deeds or of the tower's plan to sacrifice misha, then maki would've trampled upon her honour and righteousness without a second thought. there was no world worth living without misha, and even if maki had to spill her own blood to realize her path, then so be it. nothing worth having ever comes with little sacrifice. many cycles ago, maki pledged to misha, an unblinking, statuesque, cold misha, that no matter what it takes, she would rend the world itself if it meant that misha could finally know peace.

her words had fallen on deaf ears, for that misha of that timeline had already passed the mortal realm. yet, it wasn't that big of a deal anyways because the day restarted with not a scratch, not a scar on misha. nothing new had been sustained, nothing unfamiliar, nothing else. however, to make up for the things that don't exist when misha awakes, more and more were taken away—such was the fate of misha's memories. because they had always been a reclusive person, maki was the only witness to misha's plight, their breakdowns, their screams of feeling loss yet not knowing truly what they had lost.

it was during these moments that instead of doing anything else, like the futile resistance against the ceremony or delaying their inevitable demise, that maki holds the trembling prophet close to her and breathes in silence until their choked sobs trickle into nothingness, too. a comforting weight pressed against her body, the tight clench of a thin hand against her own rougher one, two hearts beating in tandem; it was an escape from their life and the reality that they faced. misha, for dying over and over and losing more memories in the process, and maki, who has to bear it all.

as maki reached the end of the hall, the all too familiar sense of trepidation filled her body. "what was the point?" her doubts sang, and she simply pushed past, hardening her spirit, and slammed open the doors.

and, as always, at the other side of the room stood misha. dressed in a loose white robe, they leaned against the altar, turned away from maki's entrance. yet, maki knew that misha could hear her footsteps, for with every click of her hells, the muscles in their neck only tensed further.

when she was only five steps away, maki breathed out. "misha."

"maki," they responded in turn, quiet, despondent, pained.

"you don't have to do this." the words flowed out in a rush, like a dam refusing to hold back any longer. "just take my hand and be selfish for once. aren't you tired of being lied to? the world doesn't deserve someone like you. neither do the gods. you've done enough."

"but have i really?" they asked sardonically, finally turning towards maki, and as always, her heart drops to her stomach at the sight of their stone-cold gaze. "you sound like you know what's going to happen. tell me, then, what else could possibly occur if i don't plunge this dagger into my heart right at this moment?"

maki's throat close because ah, this is the closest misha has ever gotten to remembering.

nothing would change, and misha's face twisted into a laugh as they buried their face into their hands, dropping the dagger and letting it clang against the ground noisily. "i see the look on your face, you know. i... i know that i know nothing and that i can remember even less, but you've always been an open book, my dear.

"yes, so if i don't die right now, i'll live, perhaps for another hour or so. maybe more, maybe less. who's to say? i'll be the one to live as the rest of the world comes crashing down around me, taking even you, right? and regardless, the gods will come after me. so there's no point." at their declaration, misha looked down at maki, and though their features bore no ill will, misha's gaze, tired and broken, always made maki's heart stop.

"you don't have to do this, though," maki heard herself pleading again, trying to reason. "there's... surely there's still a way we can break this cycle to save you this needless pain. you've given more to the world than anyone else possibly has. there has to be something we can change, something we can do. please."

her only answer was only a quiet laugh and the splash of blood against solemn, sterile white of the floors. even the way misha's body fell is familiar, like maki had seen this exact enactment before.

not that it matters anymore, because she'll have to prepare herself for a new day and try to find another way to convince misha to stay, even though she had never once truly succeeded.

[traumereii]

for someone like you who has always lived so heavily in the past, the only way for you to move on is to forget. when you close your eyes, you can almost see your memories fragment and dissipate into nothingness. what remains is you and an empty, unfeeling heart.

you don't know if this is for the better. is releasing all those puzzle pieces of "you" a fair enough trade for loosing the shackles on your neck? is it enough of a sacrifice? is it fair enough of a trade? you have no way to answer, and when you look at them, the object of your pain, the source of your misery, the reason for your existence, you. well. you falter.

you feel like you should almost apologize for blindly throwing out everything that you ever shared with them just for the sake of saving your own skin, the last shards of what truly belongs to you yourself. yet, you think that by doing so, you're letting them go free, too. just because you refuse to move forward doesn't mean that you have the right to shackle them down with you. not like they would've been happy to stay beside you, but still. the thought counts, you think.

it's for them that you slice at the last ropes binding the two of you together, and you bid farewell to a future that never came to fruition. you tell yourself to just keep moving, to not look back, to not hold regret anymore. you can't be the one to hold yourself back. not like this.

maybe you loved them at one point. the thought burns at you like how acid burns your stomach, your throat, and you struggle to breathe. do you still love them?

well. that's information privy to you and god and no one else. you think that people won't think you to be despicable if you mourn just one last time.

you bid them adieu, and you let these carefully cultivated embers flicker out and die.

good riddance.

[traumereii]

“你对你现在这样子满意吗?” 他突然地问。蓝天里的白云静静地飘，可是你只能感觉到你的心跳。

你不能说你完全听得懂他的话，但他的表情比任何他能选的字都更清楚。

“我现在高兴，” 你回答。你再想了一会儿，然后再最后加上：“这不是我们共同的语言。我们这样没法交流，不像以前一样。”

他呼吸的声音变快了。你觉得他这样的人不可能会知道紧张的感觉。

终于：“你没完全回答我的问题。” 安静。“其实，我也是那么想的。如果是这样的话，那继续谈话应该没有意思了吧？”

你点了一下头。“对的，” 你说，故意不理他的脸。


he hadn't realized how long it'd been since that day until his eyes fell upon that familiar back again. the sun burned as hot as it did in those bygone years, and he couldn't help the way the words caught in his throat, unmoving, refusing to come to his tongue.

memories of those misunderstandings flooded his senses, and he cringed, faltering in his steps. the back continued to walk away. he'd never been good at speaking─never really made it a secret either─but he hadn't expected how much it'd hurt to just... say things in his mother tongue. not that he was good at that either. it was just a forgotten accessory of his childhood, of a person who belonged to simultaneously two worlds but having a place in none.

the clouds floated on as quietly and lazily as it had on that day, too, and he recalled those words that the other person had said to him.

"are you happy with the way you currently are?"

he had said yes then. it was the truth, but not the full one. he'd never been good with feeling seen and understood, and being subject to his scrutiny terrified him. and that was the thing; he was someone who never stopped striving for more, never would be satisfied with how things just were. he wasn't without his faults and he had wanted to do everything in his power to rectify that. his actions only hurt the both of them more, and so had his own words; short, biting, blind to the true weight it held.

frankly, it was a match made in hell, and they both knew it, so they both let each other walk away.

he wasn't without his regrets, though. in a language that he could barely call his own, he had fumbled over his words, botched the sentences, and eventually hurt him. he wondered what he could possibly say to him now.

an apology would be a start.

he tore his eyes away, feeling the familiar thumping of his heart, until he knew that he was nothing more than a little dot in the horizon. it wouldn't do to live in the past. if he moved on, then surely so could he.