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they had all become silhouettes, as if they had walked from a photograph and left behind blackness. the quiet days in this school used to be the eye of the hurricane –– giving you a false sense of hope before despair wracked the battered shores once again. and even though the storm had passed, the ache in your stomach ebbs and flows like the tides.
stepping into the hangar, you could feel it rising again. the iron bars in the ceiling crisscross over you, a massive cage threatening to trap you inside. the misty silence seeps into every pore and turns to lead in your bones. with every step, your legs become more gelatinous, the clicking of your heels slowing to a crawl. you can’t stop –– you need to mourn. though the thought of lingering in this place makes you sick to your stomach, you have to accept that they are all gone, turned into taken pieces in shirogane’s chess game.
the press looms above you, momota’s sleeve still dangling out between its steel jaws. you sink to your knees, eyelids lowering with the motion. you rub the jacket between your fingers, the galaxy lining winking at you with every pass. for days following his death, you reprimanded yourself for being a fool, the lashes of self-doubt still stinging on your back. you couldn’t help thinking that if you had known ouma for who he truly was, you would have stopped him before it was too late. If only you’d been in the right place in the right time, maybe – just maybe – he would be standing out in the courtyard with harukawa and yumeno, waiting patiently for your return.
no, there’s no way you could have known. even if you could see glimpses of the truth behind his stepford smile, he would have found a way to put his rube goldberg plan into motion. even if you had somehow woken to the sound of his bones cracking and snapping and melting into a gruesome jelly, it would have been too late. would’ve, could’ve, should’ve... the english words keep repeating in your head, disjointed and jagged like a scratched cd.
before you can rise to your feet, he flashes in front of you, features knitted in pain. the knife drops from his hand with a clatter as he brings his bloodied finger to his lips. you reach into your pocket, haphazardly dressing the wound with an old handkerchief. for a moment, you want to hold his hand a bit longer, brush your thumb against his soft knuckles -
“there you are.” a familiar voice jolts you out of your reverie. a wave of shame laps down your back as soon as you turn around. harukawa and yumeno stand before you, concern etched upon their brows. “we were looking for you…” yumeno mumbles, clearly exhausted from the effort.
“oh ah…” heat flashes through your cheeks. “s-sorry, i just...needed some time to think, that’s all.”
“you look terrible,” harukawa says matter-of-factly, extending a hand in your direction. “come on, saihara, let’s get out of here.”
“h-hold on a second, i –” please, just one more minute, you want to say. just one more moment to process, to see his face one last time, tell him what you’ve been holding back all this time –– ”don’t start that.” her red eyes narrow slightly. her voice slices through the tangled web of thoughts–– quick, efficient, ripping the bandaid off before you even knew it was stuck to your skin. “the past is the past— it’s time to move on.” nodding, you stagger to your feet. the exertion catches up to you, and for a moment, all you do is stare at harukawa blankly –– mind sluggishly processing. she has the right idea: just get up. move on. mourn once you leave.
but your heart dwells on the press. harukawa grabs your wrist, the force breaking through the static. “harukawa-san—“ you protest, but you know she’s right. your gaze drifts up to hers, “we all had people we lost, saihara-kun,” yumeno says, a wistful cloud falling over her gaze. "isn’t that what you said in the trial?” “yeah, it was… i guess i need to take my own advice, huh?” a rueful smile pulls on your lips as you follow the girls out of the warehouse, heels clicking on the floor with greater uncertainty. the knot in your as soon as you reach the shutters, you swear you can feel a reassuring squeeze on your shoulders from two sets of hands. you’re sure it’s a pretty lie that your mind created, but the sadness of losing them is real.
standing on tiptoe, yumeno presses a button & the shutters clatter open, the stream of light growing into a yawning cavern.