Fakiru Week 2015
Violet

"Where do you find such inspiration?"

"… A few years back, I met this beautiful girl by a lake.

"She sat on a tire swing and spun around with her legs splayed out and her head thrown back. The sun was setting. Ribbons of pinks and purples bounced off orange-red hair and blue eyes. She wore a violet dress, and walked on the grass with bare feet, kicking at the water and disturbing the calm with her toes. She almost fell backward right off the swing at one point, but she righted herself and laughed.

"Her laughter danced and bounded across the fields, the tree's branches rustling with its music and the wind carrying her voice to my ears.

"She might as well have been a dream.

"My hometown was a small one—the kind where gossip traveled like wildfire and everyone knew each other's birthdays. When her family moved in, the town welcomed them with stifling warmth. They were greeted with enough green bean casseroles and bread puddings to last them years, I think.

"I ignored most of the excitement. My head was elsewhere. My studies, my writing. I didn't care about the mundane doldrums of a small town like that.

"My parents encouraged me to at least attend the block party held in honor of the newcomers. So I went, and I kept to myself. No one in that town liked me, and that was fine by me.

"I saw her again, though. She had violets in her hair.

"She danced with the other girls in the center of the party. With an awful sense of rhythm and laughable clumsiness, it was a wonder she could keep up with the rest of them.

"But, God, I couldn't take my eyes off her.

"It didn't take long for me to figure out that the lake was her favorite spot.

"It was mine, too. Sitting at the base of that oak helped clear my mind. I'd spend hours with a pen in my hand and a notebook in my lap, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks as they passed.

"I was looking down at my half-empty page one day, feeling stuck. I had no direction, and what I'd written so far was as forced and shallow as stories came.

"Then, violet slippers stepped into view, shifting the grass. I looked up.

"She was smiling, her freckled nose crinkling. I remember the sudden flutter in my stomach and the strange heat of anxiety in my chest.

"Maybe it was because I wasn't used to someone like her. Or maybe it was because she was so darn pretty just then.

"She sat on the tire swing like she had when I first came upon her, and she asked what I was writing. As she spun, I, once again, wondered if I just dreamed her to life.

"… That must sound pretty stupid.

"Point is, after meeting her, writing became easy. Like breathing.

"But nothing came easier to me than loving her.

"God, there were just—so many things … I can't even begin to …

"… Like the way she loved bread. Bread. She didn't care if it had cheese, or meat, or fruit in the middle. Sometimes, she'd just buy a loaf and bite right into it, like it was the tastiest snack in the world.

"She scraped her knees so many times, and had a fondness for climbing trees.

"She was so … short. She didn't even come up to my shoulder. I'd ruffle her messy, red hair and she'd give me this pout that—

"—I bent forward pretty far just to kiss her. She smelled like strawberries and violets.

"… Her parents passed away.

"Her only family left was her aunt. She lived far—across the country, I think. The details are a little fuzzy to me now.

"Not that I was particularly paying attention. The only thing I knew was that she was leaving.

"… I should've paid attention. I should've written her every day. I should've been there for her every step, and I should've—God, I should've tried. She was mourning, for crying out loud, and I still—

"—When she showed up at our oak by the lake to say goodbye, she was crying and grabbing at my chest. I knew she needed me. But, like an idiot, I told her …

"I told her that … it was fine. I told her that we were just kids. That life went on and she would find someone else in due time. Her aunt would take care of her and she would be … okay.

"It was easier, trying to be strong, than facing the fact that I'd be losing her. That'd I'd fallen so hard, and I loved her so much that I couldn't even stand it. I couldn't make this about me. I couldn't—

"I hid my feelings, to protect myself in some pathetic, twisted way of trying to 'be strong' for her.

"I was a coward and she deserved a hell of a lot better than anything I could give her.

"The next morning, I ran to her house with a bouquet of violets, intent on telling her the truth, and to hell with my fears and insecurities and whatever the hell could stop us from being together even if we … weren't together. She needed to know how I felt. Maybe it would've helped—maybe my feelings could've given her something to be happy about. They could've reached her. Even if we were far away, if we had just tried, if I'd insisted that we'd try to give it a shot–

"But she'd already left.

"… Sometimes, I wonder what could've been, had I asked her what she wanted.

"If I could, I'd have stayed by her side forever.

"… Why the hell am I still talking about all this?

"… Forget it. This is stupid.

"I shouldn't have—"

The interviewer is speechless at first, before swallowing and wiping the tear from his eyes. He thanks the writer profusely for his honesty and his rare display of openness, before moving on to a far less personal topic for the sake of his comfort.

For the rest of the interview, however, Fakir Blackwell, best-selling author and extremely private person, remains stoic, and keeps his answers short and curt, as if to make up for his obscene talkativeness earlier.

He returns to home that night and clutches his head, cursing himself.

A month of so after the interview is published, there's a book-signing in which Fakir spends none of it conversing with enthusiastic fans. He opens up the next book to the front page mechanically. "Who should I sign this to," he mumbles.

"Um …! A-Ahiru, please?"

He drops his pen and glances up, his heart stopping in his chest, and he feels it the moment he looks at her—the painful clench of his chest and the sudden sensation that makes him think he must be dreaming of her all over again. His vision is blurring and he might just damn well cry.

She's already beaten him to it, though, and she's smiling through her blubbering. He doesn't know what she's trying to say beyond her sobs, and somehow, it doesn't even matter.

She's older, but he recognizes her anywhere—from the brightness in her tearful blue eyes, to those freckles and bright red hair, to the way she fits into his arms and has to lift up to her toes to kiss him. There's that familiar taste of strawberries, and that sweet scent of violets.

No one bothers to question why he leaves with her halfway through the book-signing.