record of a weather-exposed skeleton

X.

—

i. Ichigo sighed and rolled over, burrowing his face into the pillow. It still smelled of her. It was faint—a touch of summer rain, mango, and raspberry jam. His arms slipped around the pillow, his fingers digging into its soft belly. He angled his head towards the windows. From the corner of his eye, he caught a ripple of blue flame.

A blue dress was suspended next to the valance. The windows were half-open, and through them passed a breeze, rustling curtains and the dress. Light bled through the blueness, rendering it transparent, shapeless, and hypnotizing. In her blue dress, she gave him flowers, sodden with rainwater. In her blue dress, she stood in the middle of his bedroom. In the circle of her blue dress around her feet, she stood nude, unabashed with her nakedness, soft, supple, and smiling.

Ichigo closed his eyes. Her absence and memories were crushing, and he was helpless under their weight.

The phone rang and it sparked energy through him, whipping him back to reality. With shocking quickness that contrasted his earlier stupor, he shoved himself off the bed, raced to his study, and picked the receiver.

"Hello?" he huffed, breathless from his sprint.

"Ichigo?"

Energy left him. His height sagged. Ichigo grit his teeth and closed his eyes, leaning against his desk.

"Hisagi," he grunted. He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck.

"Um, sorry, did I…?"

"No."

"…"

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting his terseness. "Sorry. I was waiting for a call."

"Oh." A pregnant, awkward pause followed, and then: "Um, sorry. It's just me."

"It's alright. What do you need?"

Ichigo listened with half an ear, making affirmative sounds when necessary.

"Are you alright?"

He jerked back to reality. "Yeah."

"…Okay. See you soon."

"Yeah. Thanks."

After replacing the receiver, he planted both palms on the desk, gazing at the dark wood, but not really seeing it. He checked his phone—five missed calls, all from work, and seven unread messages, none from Orihime.

His jaw tightened, eyebrows drawing together. He dropped his cell phone, making a loud thudding sound, and dragged both hands over his face and through his hair. He looked down, brow furrowed. Peeking from underneath papers was a handmade postcard, filled with doodles with his tiny frowning face with different hair styles. A twinge pierced him, a soft cut from the knife of memories: she'd taught him how to make postcards; he'd teased her about her hoarding stickers and postage stamps.

His gaze swept across his desk, and amongst his stacks of books and papers were sketchbooks and journals. Their covers marked their owners: his journals were plain and standard black, mostly ruled; hers were decorated with fabric scraps, dried flowers and washi tape. With a grim expression, he reached for one, but pulled his hand back, knowing he'd miss her more if he saw what's inside.

With a sigh, he turned away and left.

—

ii. Three days passed without any response from her, and the fourth day was Tuesday. His apartment felt foreign, quiet without her silly songs and laughter. He still put out two plates and two glasses on the table, and later, in the middle of making dinner, he would realize his solitude, abandon his dinner plans, and tread to the bedroom and sleep.

The blue dress remained shapeless without her in it. He prayed for patience, refrained from flooding her with calls and texts, gave her space and distance. He was so distracted, missing her, he cannot work at all. When he can, very little work got done. To derail his thoughts of her, he channelled all his energy into his work, poring over page after page, consuming cup after cup of coffee, leaving multiple mug rings on papers. When he wasn't at work, he ran laps to the brink of exhaustion, went to gym, sparred with Sado, and Orihime did not call, not once.

Hisagi and Urahara noticed his dark mood, his stony reticence. Urahara had to slowly and very gently note the final touches he had made and remind him of their timetable. Ichigo nodded, wordless. Normally, Urahara would provoke him with sly comments, but even he knew this was something else, something very fragile, and thus he held his tongue. Hisagi did not dare comment, too, but told him in his subtle way that editing required thoroughness that came from time and patience. He offered to give him a break, which Ichigo declined.

Ichigo was grateful for their patience and tact. The last thing he needed was some needling. He was too wound up and he knew the result, if aggravated, will be catastrophic.

The florescent lights blinked maddeningly inside the train. When he checked his phone, he found, in his dismay, that it was only a week since he had last seen her. Where did those days go? The week felt a very long, exhausting day. He felt as if nothing from the past year had actually happened, and that he had just opened his eyes from a dream, a very long and deep sleep.

Ichigo ventured a text, hesitated, but sent it nonetheless.

The doors opened, and he stepped out and climbed the stairs out the subway.

Two days passed. The text went unanswered.

He dressed at nightfall, washed the dishes, watered the morning glories, took out the trash, sat at his desk and poured all his energy into his work. Hours after, he took a break, stretched, and his gaze wandered to the stacks of sketchpads. After a sequence of reflection, his hand reached for one. With a sigh, he braced himself, and opened it.

Stuck between the first and second pages was a preserved aster, a memento from their Kamakura trip. His fingertips traced the dried petals, eyes softening at the anecdote in the corner: I walked home with you.

He spent the evening poring over the pages, doodles and sceneries in watercolor and acrylic paints, documenting her thoughts, illustrating their trips and the affection found within the micro-moments like the comfort in sharing a carton of homemade ice-cream, his face and silhouette, his expressions and gestures, his unmade bed and book-cluttered nightstand, the open windows and billowing curtains. She left love letters and washi tape in the margins of the pages. Each page revealed her thoughts, observations, a memory, a confession. We ate Italian for dinner; you didn't like fusilli very much. Your face when I stole the last bite of tiramisu. You have lovely hands. Your morning glories bloom. The moon smiles through your windows.

Let me be brave.

Thank you.

pleasewait I want wish I

I wouldn't want formore but I want

i'm sorry for wanting more

He leant back, the sketchbook open and flat on the desk, and gazed at the ceiling.

Do you believe in magic?

He closed his eyes and dreamt.

—

iii. On Thursday, Ichigo sparred with Sado. They grabbed a quick bite afterwards, and now Ichigo sat in the passenger seat, brow furrowed, the window opened. The noise of traffic muffled the stillness he felt inside.

At the intersection, the light red, something surreal happened. Sado rarely initiated conversations, but he did, now.

"Are you alright?"

Ichigo blinked and glanced at his friend. He pondered, choosing his words, but opted to shrug, knowing Sado will understand the gesture.

The light changed. Sado's grey 4WD moved forward.

"You should talk to her."

Ichigo pressed his lips in a grim line. After his meaningful sentence, Sado drove in silence. He navigated through the streets with ease, and pulled over at the spot where he usually dropped Ichigo off.

"And once it's done, let it be done."

Ichigo frowned, and then gave his friend a nod, a hand on the door. "Thanks." And he meant it.

Sado nodded and flashed him a thumbs up sign.

With a snap of his wrist, he closed the door and watched the 4WD drive off. Ichigo did not know how long he'd been standing there. The November breeze bit at his bare neck and ears. The moon shyly peaked out from behind frothy clouds. Stars bloomed out of the sky. The streetlights switched on, lights flickering for a moment before stabilizing, and for a moment, he thought he saw her underneath the circle of light. When he blinked, she was gone, and realized he was recalling a scene from one of their night strolls, lit by an off-focus light cast by the moon.

Leaves crunched under his shoes as he walked to his apartment building. Ichigo felt stifled, suffocated. The city seemed to close in on him. And with it, came the sounds and the visions.

She laughed when he griped about mp3s and iPods, called him old-fashioned, teased him about his ancient CD player. What's this, he said, when she slipped an earphone into his ear. She grinned. It's called T'en va pas. French, huh? It means 'Don't go away.'

His steps slowed, as if his skin was too heavy for him to carry. It did feel heavy for she'd left her mark underneath his skin, in the marrow of his bones, stained his soul with her touch and kiss. He saw her smile in the streetlamps. Was it a memory or a hallucination? He did not care. He let the visions take over. He heard her voice.

Ichigo-kun.

A strip of flame-like hair, the sun streaming through the strands. The curve of her neck against his pillow. She laughed, loud, open, free, the click of her camera as she took a photograph. The taste of peaches on her tongue, her soft sigh, I wish summer would last forever. The feather-like touch of her forefinger, drawing constellations on his back. The brown of her eyes, the rings and the flecks, golden in the sunlight.

Abruptly, he changed directions.

I'll race you! She looked over her shoulder, her hair tossed by the wind as she ran, forming a cloud of auburn around her head, obscuring her face but not her smile.

You'll lose.

Nope! She sang playfully, skipping. But she stopped, turned, flushed and smiling and hair dishevelled. She stretched her arms towards him without moving from the spot. He rushed over and embraced her, and she laughed.

His throat constricted. The universe was melting and soft and all blurred. Only her laughing outline remained, beautiful and transcendental.

Ichigo reached her building, took the stairs and arrived to her floor. Rubbing his palms together, nose red from the cold, he made a turn, and down the hallway was her figure, her head bowed, her loose hair cascading down her back, thick and luminous.

He stopped short. He swallowed, overcome, and then soldiered on.

Warmth bloomed in his chest as he neared her. He was opening his mouth to call out to her, when she glanced over her shoulder, apparently hearing his footsteps.

Their gazes connected. In the next instant, her curious expression transformed. Her eyes had widened, her mouth ajar, and a look crossed her face, something that looked like fear, longing, or both. He hurried.

"Orihime."

Her eyes blazed. She stepped back. They were in the same place, but Ichigo felt they were very far apart. A hand rose, pressing to her heart, and then she clenched her mouth shut. A veil came down over her face. She was hiding something, something very painful; something she did not want to share, judging by the sudden tenseness of her body.

"Orihime," he repeated, rooted to the spot. He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her tight, but he was unsure of her response. She looked down, a slight crease marring her brow. A high, invisible wall surrounded her, holding him at arm's length.

"I—" Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. "I have to go."

"Why didn't you return my call or reply to my messages?"

She swallowed.

"I was worried," he continued. "I thought something happened to you. Were you sick?"

Her gaze met his briefly. "I'm fine," she said softly, ducking her head. A sheet of hair fell to cover half of her face.

"Why didn't you call?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together.

"Did you go somewhere? Took a vacation?"

A muscle moved in her jaw.

"Orihime."

The sound of her name on his lips seemed to undo her.

"I don't have time for this."

It hurt. The pain spread through him like a spidery crack. Ichigo surged forward to touch her arm. "Orihime—"

She shocked him with her quickness, wrenching her arm free from his hold. Her eyes were flashing, shiny with tears and emotions he could not comprehend. As quickly as she twisted her arm free, she withdrew. She seemed to curl into herself, as though she wanted to be as small as a comma. He staggered, wide-eyed, blown away by her rejection.

"Orihime, what…"

Her expression wilted, and then closed up. Ichigo clenched his fists, feeling his chest swell with hot emotion. Pain stabbed his heart, and the world seemed to shrink and wither. Her silence made it worst. With her listless, remote expression, quiet as a stone, she looked foreign and as far and distant as a star.

"I'm sorry."

Her gaze fell to the ground, and to his horror, tears streamed down her face. Her eyes widened; she seemed shocked at the appearance of tears, and quickly, she wiped them, but they continued to fall. She swiped at them again and again.

"Please, just go home. Please."

He just looked at her, feeling utterly helpless. He did not know what he was supposed to do or say to her.

Let me stay. He wanted to say, but did not, cannot.

He was powerless and wordless. His broiling, confused thoughts paralyzed him. His doubts and insecurity threatened to overcome him. All he could do was watch her disappear through the doorway, the door shutting with finality.

—

iv. The look on her face, that veil coming over her eyes and face haunted him. There was grief, longing and more grief in those eyes, a wound in her gaze that shook him.

So, two days after their previous encounter, he stopped at her doorstep. He knocked. Twice, thrice. He tried to call her through the door, but did not. He rested a hand and his forehead against the door.

He imagined her, on the other side, mirroring the gesture, their hands separated by the wooden barrier.

He lingered for several minutes, harbouring a tempest within, confused, worried, and feeling unwanted. He headed for the elevator, steps heavy, aching and full of longing. Behind him, the door was unmoved. No footsteps followed.

"Ichigo?"

His steps faltered. Frowning, he looked up. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Tatsuki?" He straightened up. "What are you doing here?"

Dark hair framed her face, short and layered. She was lean and looked strong, her blue gaze straightforward and surprised.

"To visit a friend." Her brow furrowed. "And you?"

He paused and without thinking, he glanced in the direction of Orihime's door. Tatsuki frowned, craned her neck, following his gaze.

"…Same," he replied falteringly.

Her frown deepened, studying him, the ruin on his face, the wound in his eyes and voice.

"I see." Tatsuki narrowed her eyes. And then, she shook her head and grinned. "Hey, how about we hang out later?" Ichigo blinked at her. He looked tired, vulnerable, and he seemed so far away. The powerlessness he radiated did not seem to stem from lack of physical strength.

Tatsuki tried again. "Or maybe tomorrow? It's been ages, right?"

Ichigo pressed his lips in a tight, grim line. Frankly, he was not in the mood to meet people. But Tatsuki was an old friend—one of his oldest friends.

"Sure."

Tatsuki grinned. "Cool. You have the same number, right?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. See ya." She watched Ichigo shuffle to the elevator, and when the doors opened, he stepped inside and nodded at her. Tatsuki waved a hand; he tried to smile, but failed, and as the doors slid close, when he thought she was not looking anymore, he leant against the wall, closed his eyes and sighed. Tatsuki dawdled, still eyeing the elevator doors, thinking about Ichigo, Orihime, coincidence, and fate—now that's magic, eh? She chuckled; it'd be funny if her two oldest friends—

She froze.

Oh. No. Of course it won't be funny. Tatsuki wanted to kick herself. Alright, back to the present.

She reached Orihime's door and knocked, her urgency and anxiety palpable in her pounding.

"Hime?" she called out. "Oi, I know you're in there! Open up!"

There was a click. Tatsuki turned the knob and pushed it open. In her haste, she almost hit Orihime with the door.

"Hey! What are you doing there?" Orihime was standing close to the door, as if she had been standing there for quite a while, waiting, listening.

Orihime tried to smile, moving away, rubbing her forehead. In the dim entryway, Tatsuki faltered, struck with an image of Ichigo. They had the same expression, the strained smile, the ruin and the longing. She swallowed. A sense of foreboding crept up her spine, chilling her.

"Tatsuki-chan…" Orihime cleared her throat and forced a smile. Tatsuki winced. "Welcome back!"

After slipping on slippers, Tatsuki followed Orihime to the living room, catching a whiff of newly baked bread and batter, and saw the devastation. Orihime wore a dirtied apron, and her hair was swept up in a messy braided bun. A smudge of batter was on her cheek. She was wan, and her eyes were bloodshot, ringed with purple. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, sharpening the edges of her features.

Raising an eyebrow, Tatsuki glanced around the half-lit living room. Orihime blushed, embarrassed at the state of her apartment. Blankets were crumpled and sprawled on the couch and rug. A box of tissues, books and an empty mug were scattered on the table.

Tatsuki rounded on Orihime.

"Um…" Orihime fidgeted, not meeting her friend's gaze. "I'm sorry for all this. I…" Her brow creased and she cleared her throat. "I'm just a little under the weather."

Tatsuki's eyebrow twitched. "That's all?" she said, her voice cool. "It doesn't sound like a 'little under the weather' on the phone."

"Tatsuki-chan—" Orihime's eyes widened. "Excuse me!" She darted to the kitchen. Tatsuki sighed, gazing at the disorder. "A little under the weather, huh?" she muttered, picking up the blankets, the afghan, and the scattered books. A title caught her eye. The author's name sent her eyebrows rising. Two more books bore the name of the same author. She stacked them up on the table. As she rose from bending over, from the corner of her eye, she spotted the half closed door to the studio. She turned towards it and through the gap saw a familiar face.

Her jaw dropped. It took her a full minute to recover from shock. She shut her mouth and glanced in the direction of the kitchen.

Tatsuki followed the scent of cake batter, cinnamon, and bread. Mixing bowls, trays, pans, different shapes and sizes of cakes, tarts, cupcakes, scones, bread, muffins and cookies covered every inch of the dining table and counter. Curiously, chocolate was lacking. She loved chocolate.

"Jeez…" Tatsuki looked around at the amount of food and appetizing scent of pastries and cakes. "It smells good in here but you baking non-stop like this means only one thing."

Orihime looked up from the mixing bowl, smiled and nodded at the tray of newly baked cookies on the cooling rack. "You're just in time for my new recipe, Tatsuki-chan."

Tatsuki surveyed the floor, speckled with drops of batter. Dishes, bowls and utensils filled the sink to the brim. Stepping further inside, she fanned herself idly.

"You've been baking since lunch, haven't you?" It was toasty in the kitchen, perhaps a little too much.

"Un… I want to try new recipes."

Tatsuki straightened up. It was time to drive straight to the point.

"Orihime, what's going on?"

Orihime returned to mixing batter.

"I'm trying new—"

"Orihime," interrupted Tatsuki sharply, "I know you like the back of my hand. I know every tone of your voice. When I called you two days ago, I know something happened. It was the same tone of voice you had when you told me about what happened to your brother." She saw Orihime stiffen, but continued mixing, her movements turning vigorous. "And the last time you did this," she gestured to the assortment of cakes and sweets across the room, "was four years ago. Please tell me."

Orihime bowed her head, her mixing arm slowing down until it stopped. Tatsuki waited patiently, giving her space and time to collect her thoughts. Orihime wiped her eyes. Her shoulders began to shake, and then she seemed to get a hold of her emotions and took a deep breath.

"It's… nothing."

Tatsuki pursed her lips. There was a pregnant pause.

"Does it have anything to do with the man knocking at your door minutes ago?"

This time, Orihime lifted her face and looked straight at Tatsuki. Once again, she was struck with the parallels, the ruin on her face matching the devastation that Ichigo wore. It seemed impossible, unreasonable, the parallels unrelated, but here displayed before her eyes were the wreckage of ruined love.

"Does it?" asked Tatsuki, her voice quiet.

Orihime squeezed her eyes shut, her chin trembling. Tatsuki held her ground, watching sorrow roil across her friend's face. She held her tongue, not saying his name, convinced it will undo and confuse Orihime. She needed confirmation first. A verbal confirmation from Orihime herself.

"You…" Orihime began, "You saw him?"

"Yes."

Orihime opened her eyes, and Tatsuki cursed fate—that stupid, stupid magic—and its cruelty. So this is how it ends, she thought. Separated by the river. That river has a name and it's 'the past'.

"Orihime…"

She swiped at her face, hiding her tears.

"You know it's not your fault, right?"

Orihime stared at her, but Tatsuki knew her friend was not really seeing her, only remembering.

"I'm sorry, Tatsuki-chan…" She rubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I was so excited to see you again, but… look at me."

"Orihime," Tatsuki sighed, in pain at the sight of her distress. But Orihime turned away, went to the sink and began washing the dishes. Tatsuki shook her head, but did not press her further. She left the kitchen, ambled to the bookshelves and picked a book.

At length, she felt Orihime's presence and glanced sideways. Orihime was staring at the book in her hands. Tatsuki looked at the cover and exhaled when she saw Ichigo's name. She watched Orihime, watched her wobbly façade slowly crumble away. Tears poured steadily, landing on her collar and apron. She did not make a sound, her face shiny and stained with tears. She sat on her heels, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, and Tatsuki joined her, putting her arms around her.

—

v. Ichigo meandered into a café, hands shoved inside his jacket's pockets. Frowning, he looked around the quiet, quaint snack shop. A hand shot out and waved at him. He walked towards it.

"Yo. Glad you came."

He sat down, the corner of his mouth quirking. "You demanded."

Tatsuki crossed her arms. "Well, it's been a long time." She smiled. "It was nice to see an old face."

Ichigo nodded. "Yeah."

"Order whatever you want. My treat."

Ichigo eyed her warily.

Tatsuki narrowed her eyes. "What? Oi, be grateful, you orange brat."

A vein twitched above Ichigo's eye. "Orange brat… you—Fine." He hailed a passing waiter and ordered coffee.

Tatsuki shot him an irritated look. "That's all? Come on. This is a one-time thing."

He shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

"Fine. So…" Tatsuki began, making Ichigo raise an eyebrow. "How have you been, huh? Saw your books. Didn't get around to read them, but I got to gloat to people that I personally know you and used to beat you up when we're kids."

Ichigo rolled his eyes. "Figures it'd be the thing you'll brag to people."

Their orders arrived. Tatsuki thanked the server and retorted, "Of course. They didn't believe me, though. They think you're a thug with that scowl and weird hair of yours."

"I'm a published writer and some people still think I'm a thug. Wow. Very surprising," he deadpanned.

"It's the orange hair. Plus, they're stupid, so whatever."

Ichigo grunted, and took a long sip of his coffee.

"How are your sisters? Karin's still in the league?"

"Yeah. Division 1."

Tatsuki whistled. "Awesome." Ichigo flashed a quick grin. She bit the inside of her cheek, pondering, then, "Can I ask you a question?"

Ichigo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Have I ever stopped you?"

"Well, this is quite different."

He arched an eyebrow. "Alright. Go ahead."

Tatsuki squinted as though examining Ichigo through a slot. She then squared her shoulders. "Why were you in that apartment building?"

Ichigo stared. A look crossed his face, but it faded. "I already answered that." Tatsuki stared back, unyielding. He stifled a sigh. "I'm visiting a friend."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he replied promptly. "What about you?"

"Same," she said just as promptly. "Ichigo."

"Yeah?"

"I want to tell you a story. Would you listen?"

Ichigo's eyebrows drew together. "Er… Sure."

—

vi. "I don't remember exactly how we met, but I know we're in high school when I first met her. She's a bit weird, crazy pretty and the sweetest person ever. We're polar opposites, but somehow she became that weird little sister to me, and I love her to death. It was so easy to like her 'cause she's sweet and always smiling. Even though she went to a different high school, we managed to hang out often. We went to different colleges later on, but we stayed in contact.

Anyway, she had a brother who was loads older than her. She's always talking about him, and when I met him, I knew instantly why she talked about him like he was the reason why chocolate and everything nice exist. They didn't have the same father, but it never mattered.

Her brother's everything to her; a dad, a mom, a brother, her best friend. He's all she's got. Well, she's got a mom, but she's kinda… unusual? She's got a wicked reputation, though. So, she's this really, uh, really interesting person. She's a stunner—I've seen her pictures, but didn't really met her 'cause, well, um, I'll tell you later—wicked smart, famous and… a frightening person. Yeah, frightening. Well… How do I put this?

Okay.

She was really intense. Like, intense in a way a hurricane is crazy intense? Anyway, she was awfully neglectful. She frequently disappeared for days. She seemed to forget she had children. My friend and her brother got hungry often, surviving on food given by their kind neighbors. Her brother took odd jobs despite his young age to earn money to get them something to eat. What's crazier was that their mom hated it that they got help 'cause she believed receiving help was shameful. She told them there's beauty in struggle, that hardship nurtures and it's essential to suffer. What the heck, right? Who does that to their children?

Anyway, she would be gone for weeks, only to leave again in a few days, gone again for weeks. Finally, her brother turned eighteen. Their mother left to stay with a paramour and travel, and after a day or two, they left home. When their mom got back, she didn't ask them to go home. She didn't mind that her children ran away. In fact, she was relieved. Unbelievable, right?! My best friend thinks it's 'cause they were reminders. Her first love—her brother's father—abandoned her. She fell in love again, got pregnant and was abandoned—again. She said the same thing had happened to their grandmother and her great-grandmother; the women in their family, it seems, all died forsaken by the men they loved.

Okay, so, they left, but her brother and mother stayed in contact. She showed very little interest in her youngest, though. Rarely mentioned her in her letters. In fact, the only memory my best friend has of her mom was when she asked about her father and her mom went, "You have no father—I am your father. You sprang from my forehead. The stars cast you out of the Heavens. The moon split open and you fell, covered in yolk. I cut open a giant peach and out you sprung."

(I know, right? What a strange lady!)

Her brother had kinda forgiven their mom for being a shitty parent, but her disinterest in his baby sister—that he can't forgive. She continued to write him letters, though.

Oh, right. Did I tell you what their mom did? She was a poet. I told ya she's got wicked reputation, right? It wasn't just 'cause she's crazy brilliant; she's a devious storyteller, too. She claimed she hated being famous, but it was all pretence 'cause she just wanted to be seen as a mysterious, otherworldly, glamorous writer. A lot of women didn't like her; they think she's crabby, cruel and selfish.

Despite everything, though, my friend didn't hate her. She was, hmm, around four, I guess, when they left, and she hadn't met her since then, not even once. Her brother, despite his feelings, never made their mom look bad to her. He told her the bare facts. That's all. When their mom, um, died, she was distraught; she wished she got to know her better or understand her better.

So back to her brother: like I said, he was everything to her. He was her sky, the center of the universe, her guiding star. She wanted to honor him and to share to the world—to show to the world how truly amazing her brother was. So a date was set. For what? For her first solo exhibit. She made him promise to be there and to be on time because he was the star of the show. He promised he would not miss it. No one—nothing in this world can stop him from being there. But… Sorry, give me a sec, okay?

Alright. It was raining hard that day. He was late. So he rushed, he drove faster—but the roads were slippery, and he cannot see very well because of the rain. He got into an accident—a two car collision. There were two victims. They were brought to the same hospital and both died on June 17, four years ago."

—

vii. "My friend's," she faltered briefly, composed herself, and went on, "her brother—His name was Inoue Sora."

Ichigo stiffened. His heart twisted—that name was a knife, a rotating force, a shift in tectonic plates. He gripped the edge of the table to tether himself to the present.

"Tatsuki—"

She replied with a grim expression and a punch to the solar plexus in the form of a simple sentence.

"And his sister's name is Inoue Orihime."

—

viii. News from the front, news from the front / We're living in troubled times / So many fighting for their lives / Why do the troops despise the news from the front?

Ichigo slowed down and stopped, plucking the earphones out from each ear, breathing hard. His shirt was soaked, his face flushed and drenched. He wiped his furrowed forehead with his arm. The park was quiet, occupied by joggers and early risers. He looked up to scan the sky, still tinged with pink, soft and milky. In the stillness, he recalled a memory. Even now, one week later, he could still feel the shock chilling his bones.

Tatsuki told him that sometime ago, Orihime found out about the accident, or rather, refreshed her memory, and realised his mother's involvement. Tatsuki figured it was the reason why things got complicated and why she won't see him. Ichigo wondered what took Tatsuki so long to tell him. Didn't she know about them? Tatsuki admitted she did not know that it was him Orihime was seeing. His expression fell, hurt, but Tatsuki explained that Orihime talked about him all the time, but Tatsuki had never asked his name. She'd wanted to meet him in person and be surprised.

"All I know is that she's dating a guy with funky hair color and," she made quoting gestures, "'funny' expression." She shook her head. "I didn't know 'funny' meant scowling, grumpy sourpuss. But I know that she loves his funky hair color and funny expression."

Ichigo glowered at her, but inwardly, he was relieved.

Tatsuki then asked if he knew anything about Orihime's brother.

He looked away.

"No." The word tasted bitter in his mouth. "She didn't tell me anything."

Tatsuki sighed. "I'm not making an excuse, but I hope you understand that the accident is something she cannot tell to anyone. Even to the people she loves." She looked him straight in the eye. "And most definitely not to you."

Ichigo frowned.

She glared at her coffee mug.

"But—"

"She's convinced she killed her brother," interrupted Tatsuki. "That it's because of her and her pride he died. If only she didn't make him promise… If only she didn't…" She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Well, you get the idea. I mean, isn't it normal to keep our dark secrets from our loved ones in fear of being abandoned?"

Ichigo opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Look," Tatsuki took a deep breath. "I don't know how you feel about this. And I won't ask. But I remember how devastated you were when your mom died. You even hated—Don't deny it. You did." Ichigo looked away. "The wound is probably already healed, but underneath the scar was a hole in your heart and soul. I'm glad you've managed to grieve because it gave you a chance to move on. But Orihime…" Tatsuki paused, sombre. "The grief, her guilt… they run deep. His death had robbed of her everything she'd ever had. And even though four years had passed, she still mourned him. She just wouldn't let go of the pain. I think she's afraid that once she let go of her sadness, she'll have to let go of him too. So she trapped herself in the past. She'd sealed everything he had, everything with him on it, in her studio."

Ichigo frowned, then his brow relaxed in realization; that guy on the paintings—it was him.

"Her grief and guilt still burden her, and who knows how long she'll carry them. That's why she won't see you. She couldn't bear to face you. She thinks she doesn't deserve this happiness," she gestured to Ichigo, "when she caused so much pain."

Tatsuki rubbed her temple, exhaling deeply. Silence fell between them. The bell tinkled as the door swung open. A girl laughed. A fork struck porcelain. Finally, Tatsuki's grave voice cut through the quiet.

"I know it's not my place but I'm still going to say this." Her expression hardened, catching Ichigo off guard. "I told you everything 'cause I want you to make a decision. If you can't deal with her baggage, you better leave her alone. She could not take another blow. I won't let her."

—

ix. Later, an hour before midnight, he called his father. Isshin instantly knew something was unusual for his son rarely called him. Still, he poked fun at his son. His antics did not elicit the usual reaction, though. Ichigo remained quiet. It was a quiet that bespoke anguish.

"Ichigo?"

There was a sigh.

"Did you know?"

Isshin's face turned solemn.

"Did I know what?"

There was a long pause.

"I met Tatsuki today," Ichigo finally said.

"Oho! Tatsuki-chan! How is the terrifying dragon?"

"Still terrifying," he replied dryly. "She…"

"Ichigo?" Isshin prompted when Ichigo remained wordless.

Ichigo cleared his throat.

"You know, don't you?"

"About what?"

"…Orihime."

Isshin pressed his lips together, mirth leaving his face and voice.

"I was shocked at first, but thought nothing of it. After all, Inoue is a very common name. They don't alike, either."

"…Then?"

"I found the coincidence… interesting. I cannot seem to get rid of the feeling of… destiny. I was curious, too. I couldn't help but revisit the records."

"…"

"Ichigo?"

"You didn't tell me."

"What you two have has nothing to do with the accident. I don't care if they're related or not. I saw the way you looked at each other. I saw how you smile. I want that happiness for you."

On the other line, Ichigo squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his free hand.

Isshin continued, "We mustn't let the past spoil the present and the future."

"But it does."

"Ichigo—"

"She won't see me. She—" Ichigo's voice was edged in desperation, ragged with supressed emotion.

"You told her?"

"No. She found out that Mom and her brother died in the same accident. That… her brother…"

Ichigo paused. "He was overspeeding because he was late for her solo show."

Isshin gripped the phone tightly. "…I see."

Ichigo exhaled. "I don't know what to do or what I should say. I wanted to tell her…"

"It's not her fault."

"…"

"You believe that, don't you?"

"I do. But she doesn't think that way. She's suffered for years because she believes it's her fault. And now she won't see me. She thinks I'll hate her."

"Do you?"

"No. It was an accident. I've spent the first two years mourning her and angry at everything. I grew tired and just let go. You said anything we lose comes around in another form and I believed that."

"And Orihime-chan?"

"She thinks she doesn't deserve happiness when she caused so much suffering."

"Hmm."

"It was Tatsuki who said that."

"Tatsuki-chan?"

"They're friends." Ichigo sighed. "Best friends since high school. She's the one who told me about Orihime and her brother."

"Another coincidence. How strange. But was it one of your books or writers who said there are no coincidences? Something like, this is the magical universe…"

"There are no accidents and there are no coincidences. Nothing happens unless someone wills it," Ichigo deadpanned.

"Ichigo." Isshin sounded tense. "What are you going to do?"

—

x. He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket. In the kitchen, he chugged ice-cold water and gazed out of the window.

After a quick shower, shirtless and wearing sweatpants, Ichigo went to his study and saw the green light on the phone blinking. He hit a button, turned to leave the room and Tatsuki spoke.

"Yo."

Ichigo stopped in the doorway, his back to the phone.

"I don't know if you're interested—I figured you're still interested so I'm gonna tell you. She's leaving."

Something lurched inside his body. He stiffened and, for a moment, he was unable to breathe. Then he turned to the phone, his face frozen.

"I don't know if it's for good or just a temporary stint. Look, I'm not saying this to make you stop her or beg her to stay. I just thought—well, I figured you'd want to say goodbye. Properly. You know, closure. That's all. Anyway, I emailed you the details. Just in case. Bye."

Click.

He let out a breath.

I figured you'd want to say goodbye.

He clenched his fists.

—

xi. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel so much for her but it won't be enough, would it? No matter how much I feel for her, it won't make any difference to how she feels about the accident."

"Ichigo—"

"This is fucking stupid."

"…"

"I've finally…" He paused, his breathing ragged. "I thought I've finally…"

"Son, two people don't have to be together right now. If those two people are meant to be then they will be together somehow at some time in life."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Give her time. Give her space. Let her roam."

Ichigo went very still.

"Let her go."

—

xii. As a token of his gratitude, Kuchiki sent a team of movers to pick up her belongings for shipment. His executive assistant personally managed the move and informed her they will be in her new apartment about a day after her arrival. They'd found her a cosy two bedroom apartment, the best they could find as per Kuchiki's instructions, and asked her to message them if it did not suit her needs.

Ukitake and her co-workers from the bakery called the day before to say goodbye. Kiyone had sniffled before passing the phone to Sentarou, who similarly snuffled through his goodbyes before Ukitake took the phone to end the call. He was quiet for several seconds, and then wished her luck and told her to stay safe and keep in touch.

Tatsuki could not see her off to the airport, uncomfortable with goodbyes, but she came before her taxi arrived with volumes of the manga she loved. Orihime had decided to keep her apartment, unwilling to let the memories attached to her home crumble away. Tatsuki promised to look after it and its beloved contents. She had left behind her paintings and other treasures she could not bring overseas. Orihime brought Sora's picture, a box of her mother's journals, notebooks and papers, photo albums, some of her brother's books, and her sketchpads and notebooks. She pressed several Polaroid photos of Ichigo between the pages of her notebooks, peeled the size A4 paintings from the walls and slid them into her carry-on baggage. She brought his novels and the little gifts he gave her, slipped his notes in between the pages. A CD or two. A notebook filled with his scribbles—you are sunlight moving—notes, jottings—There sings no bird but calls your name to me / Each memory that has left it's trace with me / Lingers forever as a part of me. She could not bear to leave those things behind.

"Are you sure about this?" Tatsuki's voice broke through her musings.

Orihime glanced at her best friend, and smiled. Tatsuki had taken custody of Orihime's mint plant.

"I'm sure."

"You're not… running away, are you?"

A look flickered and then faded in her caramel-colored eyes.

"It's a good opportunity."

Tatsuki shrugged. "You were never serious about Kuchiki's offer. Until several days ago." She got quiet, uncharacteristically reserved. Then, voice thick with emotion, she said, "Alright, then. I'm off."

"Thank you, Tatsuki-chan."

She sighed. "Sorry I can't see you off at the airport."

"I know."

They both knew it will be harder to let each other go if Tatsuki went to the airport with her.

Orihime squared her shoulders and smiled her brave smile. "I'll send you lots of postcards and letters!"

Tatsuki smiled a little. "Good."

Orihime beamed, though her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and the corners of her smiling mouth were wobbly.

Tatsuki pushed her gently towards the waiting taxi. "Alright, off you go. You'll be late. Don't worry about your apartment." Orihime flung her arms around Tatsuki.

"See you soon, okay, Tatsuki-chan?"

Tatsuki patted her head. "Yeah. You'll do great over there. I know it."

Orihime tightened her arms.

"And you know, I agree. This is good for you. So, have fun, okay?"

"Un!"

They stayed entwined for several seconds until Tatsuki broke off, and within minutes, Orihime, her luggage and carry-on were in a taxi driving toward Narita Airport. The cityscape whizzed past her, a blur of skyscrapers, traffic lights and drifting snowflakes. She arrived with minutes to spare. She idled at the terminal, gazing around and when she got tired, she sat, alone in a row of seats. The noise and chatter barely penetrated her roiling thoughts.

She gazed at her hands, imagined his fingers slipping through the gaps as he tugged her close as they walked down the avenue of bustling pedestrians, oblivious to the approaching footsteps. Said footsteps stopped three steps in front of her.

Her gaze lifted a little, focusing on the pair of worn canvas high tops. Her pulse skipped. Slowly, she raised her head, her eyes following the length of long legs clad in threadbare jeans, navy shirt and black duffle coat, corded neck, a defined, lovely jaw, and finally—finally their eyes met, four portals of universes, and between them, silence stretched, punctured by airport noises, broadcast and background chatter.

Orihime clenched her jaw and balled her trembling hands into fists. She must portray a brave mask, but her eyes betrayed her thoughts, her longing and the ache. He looked back as though he felt the same.

"Orihime."

She went still at the sound of his beloved voice saying her name. She could not stop staring; she was hungry, absorbing every detail like a sponge. She'll need these memories in days to come. Her throat constricted, and her vision blurred a little.

He took a step forward, and she smiled.

Ichigo's face softened at her brave smile, her shiny eyes. He noticed her sharp cheekbones, her slight drop in weight. Her hair was the same stream of copper, browns and auburn under the lights.

"So," he began, voice light, "you're not going to say goodbye."

"Wh-Why—" She swallowed and then cleared her throat. "Why are you here?"

Ichigo locked his jaw and did not answer. He dropped his gaze, frowning at the floor, and then met her eyes.

"I wanted to see you."

Her lips parted, and then she pressed them close as she swallowed, her eyes watering. Orihime looked down at her fists to hide the perched tears, unfurled her fingers and clasped her hands. Boarding calls on public announcement system resounded.

"I'm not here to stop you. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But I need you to know that what happened four years ago," Orihime looked up, stricken, "will not change how I feel about you. But I know it won't make everything alright. It won't give you the peace you seek or help you find what you're looking for. I—I wanted you to know. Whatever happens, it was worth it to me. Being with you, it was all worth it."

She closed her eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I'd do it all over again, if I had the choice."

Orihime opened her eyes and rose to her feet. She looked right up at his face, and Ichigo looked right back, their eyes communicating the things better left unsaid. This is it. They both thought to themselves. I will never fall in love again. This will be the last time.

Ichigo swallowed. "Go wherever you want to go. Then maybe years later, we'll meet again and…"

Orihime nodded, understanding the words he left unsaid. She smiled despite her tears.

"Thank you."

Ichigo smiled back. Her smile widened even as a tear fell, and he reached out to wipe it off. His touch lingered, and Orihime's eyes fell close momentarily. She took a deep breath and with one last smile, she stepped forward. She walked past him, their shoulders not touching. As she did, a crack splintered Ichigo's composed façade, but he did not move. He would let her go, he would let her roam. He let out a breath and turned to watch her.

Suddenly she stopped. Ichigo counted; one, two, three and four, but Orihime did not look back. A pain stabbed his heart. She kept on walking, her back disappearing in the queues and crowd.

Ichigo hung around for what felt an eternity before leaving the airport. Outside, he pulled out his cellphone. An airplane tore through the sky toward the west.

There's still time. Not now, but one day.

She looked out of the square window. The city was in the remote horizon, silent as a large white stone. Orihime fastened her seatbelt, felt around her coat for her cellphone. She gazed at the lit screen, the wallpaper staring back.

Life will go on. They will get used to lonesomeness again.

Ichigo tugged the hood up his head.

"Excuse me," said a passing attendant. "We're about to taxi right now. Please switch off all electronic devices."

Orihime apologized, switched off her mobile and put it in her pocket.

But there will always be hope.

We build bridges. We send spaceships. We endure.

—

xiii. And somehow, someday, eventually, we will be in the right time and right place.

.

.

.

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disclaimer. BLEACH © KUBO

notes. 1) News from the front, news from the front / We're living in troubled times / So many fighting for their lives / Why do the troops despise the news from the front?—bad religion. 2) you are sunlight moving—rumi. 3) There sings no bird but calls your name to me / Each memory that has left it's trace with me / Lingers forever as a part of me—I am yours, nizami & clapton.

HI SORRY THIS IS SO LATE; I WAS ADULT-ING ): THIS PROLLY DOES NOT MAKE SENSE :D :D but omg omg omg ichihime is so very canon? im ! still not over it and frankly, will never be over it :)

Thanks so much for reading! It'll be over soon!