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There are those who, when driving west, feel as though they are chasing the daylight. Making their time in the colors of a sunset last a little while longer.
She drives west to stay in the night. Under the stars. Only under the stars were they ever, almost, together in knowledge of the truth.
The car is not going fast enough to keep her under the stars. And the space between what was said in the night and what was true is sometimes painful to see reflected on the windshield.
The sickly sweet taste of the familiar. People drive west for the illusion of movement divorced from change. She knows this is an illusion. She drives west.
She drives an automatic, yet her hand remains on the gear shift. Touch something long enough, and eventually the sensation reflects: the object holds in return.
She knows this is an illusion. Her hand remains on the gear shift.
The moon glosses along the road. Wet. She is careful, the brights are on, pushing the moon onward. Her breath frosts against the windshield. Frosts, and stays even as the moon departs.
Her hand remains on the gear shift. Touch something long enough, and the sensation will reflect. The windshield is growing translucent with frost. She considers not being careful.
She lets go of the gear shift and cuts on the heat. The blossoms of frost go up in pantomime flames. She is so tired of pantomime.
Both hands on the wheel now, only a moment to pull back the lights in light of the driving snow. She can feel the car wobble beneath her as the brakes work against the shifting flakes.
She can feel how white her knuckles look, clamped around the steering wheel. Stay entwined around something long enough, and one will never stop reflecting what was once held.
Her arms are shaking. The stars are submerged, subsumed under the snow. The only lights left are the ones leading her west.
In the snow, any direction carries an illusion of movement divorced from change.
The sickly sweet taste of the familiar.
Taste is a memory.
Memory can be an illusion.
She doesn’t know what is illusion anymore. Her fingernails are digging into the bases of her palms, but that too might be an illusion. She can’t remember if her nails are long enough to reach, if clamped around a steering wheel.
The road ahead is a blur. Of snow, yes, but also. She blinks this away. The tires are still skittering across the road.
She sees the light before she hears the sound. A warning, she’s running out of fuel. She can’t help but laugh as she slows the car, pulling over to what is probably the side of the road. It comes out a strangled bark, barely a sound, painful to hear.
She rips the first flare open too close to her face and drops it straight down into the snow. It’s a twisted delight to discover that did not put it out, even as she blinks the stars out of her vision.
Her footprints are already filling with snow as she scuds back into the car. Even as she unfurls the silvery blanket, she wonders if her effort was worth it. Not for herself, but for the others who come this way. She is careful. Too careful not to know what will happen to her.
She rests a hand on the gear shift and closes her eyes. Touch something… but she can feel heat seeping from her hand, heat that is not being reflected. There is nothing to feel. And she wants to feel… no.
No.
It is not that she wants to feel that touch again. She has to feel it again. Slowly, her hand retreats into the warm shell, pulls it closed. And there she waits, clinging without hands to the spark, the need, the hope that she will survive the night.
The uncomfortable warmth wakes her. She pushes the blanket back from her face, and at once her eyes squint closed in the face of the sun. She blinks until the world outside her windshield comes into focus. The surroundings are lush with springtime flowers. She knows immediately, is relieved to know, that none of those flowers are roses.
Her eyelids droop, and her hand drops to the gear shift. Touch something long enough, and eventually the sensation reflects; the object holds in return. She knows it is an illusion, but enjoys the fantasy that fingers are entwining her own.
“Thank you for bringing your problems to me.” The voice shoots through her, more shocking than lightning, more heart-stopping than an arrow. Her eyes snap open. There is no windshield, no car. She is suspended in a warm embrace, fingers entwined with a pale hand--
She twists to look, to see, to know, and is face to face with the widest blue eyes she’s ever known. Those eyes crinkle in a tearful smile, one she can feel, one she knows she’s reflecting.
A cloud drifts over the sun, and she can feel her own eyes widening, knows the arms holding her can feel her shaking. But the expression facing her is still smiling, only softer. “Don’t be afraid,” Utena says. “Together, we’ll both shine.”
There are those who, when driving east, feel as though they are chasing the future. Let those who concern themselves with illusions determine the truth in that. Anthy is walking east, hand in hand with Utena Tenjou.