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It's easy to understand even when gone unspoken, for it wouldn't be heard anyway if she did speak.
Miku is a failure — too average, lacking a spark, lacking everything. Tears glimmering in her cheeks like crystal, feelings caged in a hellfire-forged cell. She is tumbling, falling, drowning — but it doesn't mean a thing, it doesn't go anywhere.
It's a cycle, which she cannot escape.
.
.
She wonders if she's locked away in a loop, heat haze fogging up all exits. A haunting chorus in her head, sounding too much like her mother and her classmates and herself. They're saying the same thing; useless, worthless, pitiful, why won't you grow up, why won't you give up?
She wonders because he is too familiar to be the first time. The hair is different, bright gold like a halo, wind-chafed and curly like no comb could ever fix, the ponytail resting in soft waves. But the eyes are unmistakable.
Blue eyes, like a bottomless sea. Like rain falling during a funeral. Like the tears and snot that leak from her eyes and nose when she's kicked around like a ragdoll by her classmates.
Then, in front of the mirror in her bathroom, she realizes: oh. Oh, he has eyes like mine.
.
.
Len doesn't look at her. He never does.
And why, Miku thinks bitterly, would he look at her? Why her? Miku, the failure. Miku, the crybaby. Miku, the rolling girl. She's another forgettable face in the crowd to him, and it doesn't make her stomach drop because it's okay. It's okay.
It's okay.
She expects it.
But there's that disgusting part of her who's desperate for attention and wants to care for others, even if her voice is the silent whisper of the wind and her feelings are an anvil far too heavy for anyone to carry — there's that part of her that wants to shake off that sorrow from his eyes, to see that sea gleefully reflecting sunlight.
Anxiety coils in the pit of her stomach, flutters up to her heart and squeezes hard. There is not enough oxygen to quell this. She's choking, choking in what talking entails.
She crushes shut her eyes and forgets.
.
.
They say eyes are windows to the soul.
This makes Miku want to gorge out her eyes.
Because if that's so, she doesn't want others seeing it — seeing her. Not like this. She stares at her reflection for as long as she can before recoiling, and sees too many contradictions for a single soul. Someone who dreams, yet gives up on them; someone who's smiling, yet also wailing; someone who wants to exist, yet to disappear.
She's everything and nothing at all.
It's overwhelming, it's unsightly. People don't like when one is too much. It drives them away. Makes them hesitant. Miku can't fit the molds society has built for everybody. Expectations set too high, at the risk of isolation.
So she doesn't bother. Fatalistic as she is, the thought of her inevitable failure is infectious and Miku always was a sickly child.
Surely, she thinks furiously, there should be a cosmic rule against people like her existing. So why is she here, an irregular being defying reality?
She can't think of an answer.
"Why won't you give up?" she asks her own reflection, as if it — a parallel Miku, who's better than this — would reply.
.
.
The cosmic joke is how her life is a series of repeating events.
Her heart may ache now, but soon it will bounce back to its happy fantasies before the stained-glass barrier shatters. Her eyes might be swollen now, but they will return to normal once the waterworks are closed. She may feel like disappearing, but the anvil of her feelings keeps her deep into the ground, chained to whatever sliver of hope or guilt she has.
She will only stop rolling when a rock appears in the endless hill and her head is smashed open, like a pomegranate staining the floor with juice and seeds.
.
.
And then—
Things abruptly change.
.
.
It goes like this: Len catches her staring during History class, a tired frown on her face, and Miku swiftly averts her eyes away the instant their gazes briefly meet. Even so, she can feel the mournful sea rising up from her ankles to her waist, to her throat.
Her heart springs up to her throat where it doesn't belong, scrapping itself against muscle and inside her esophagus. It still pulses despite the hot sting of anxious pain. If she forgets, it'll stop aching.
The sea swallows her up anyway.
.
.
It's not that Len is a bad person.
He's like the sun — bright, beautiful, warm, but also uncontrollable, merciless, destructive. Miku is a shadow hiding in dusty corners and crawling aimlessly behind others, because sunlight hurts her.
Because sunlight reminds her of hope and dreams and all things that ground her to this world, which doesn't need nor want her.
And Miku... Miku is the moon. Reflecting off a mocking, shallow parody of the sunlight that nurtures people. A replacement that will never match the sun or electric lights or candlelight — will never match anything.
It's not his fault if she flinches back when he tries reaching out and talking to her. It's her fault that she's jittery, wishing to jump out of her skin. It's her fault that she slips away when he turns his head away for a second.
It's her fault that he witnesses her beaten up and wiping the blood from her lip, gathering up pieces of her heart that some person scattered because she's not and will never be enough.
.
.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah..." She's not, but he doesn't have to know.
Len is kind. He follows her to the restroom where he stands outside, waiting for her to clean the blood from her skin. There's no need to call anyone, after all. This has been going on for months. They wouldn't care, now.
Miku doesn't know what to think of this — of him. This is not what should happen; he shouldn't care. As the sun sets in the horizon, unaware of the moon rising slowly to take its place, he shouldn't care about her.
But it's so, so easy to let him hug her, arms wrapped around her protectively, as though that alone could shield her from further harm. He's kind and warm. Len is the sun coming to comfort the moon, even though his light might be too hot for her, searing her skin whenever he touches.
His eyes are the deep, bottomless sea. Blue, infinite blue. Calling for her to drown if only for a moment, a siren's song lulling her with lost hopes and dreams.
(But she can see the skeletons rotting in the depths.)
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.
Miku is haunted by the reminder of her worthlessness, the chorus of screeching banshees in her brain. Above them all, a semi-transparent copy of Len whispers little words of comfort, picking her up into his embrace with nonexistent warmth ghosting up her spine.
And his eyes, his eyes, his eyes—
Too much like hers. Too understanding.
She doesn't want to think about the implications. She doesn't want to soften up to another person and be discarded once she proves to be useless.
.
.
Seeing her hurt, it seems, awakens something feeble and annoying in Len's tinted glass heart. He steals concerned glances when he thinks she's not looking. He's wary when she's near and the hallway has more people than the two of them. Miku could practically feel in her bones the fear rattling inside his body.
Miku wants to scream. This isn't how things should be. People like him shouldn't care about rolling girls.
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.
"Why won't you give up?" Miku asks him, finally. It's been weeks, now, and she's tired of this. Whatever this is.
Len is frighteningly quiet for a long minute. It's only during this suffocating silence that Miku realizes she wasn't clear on what he should give up. The question comes out of nowhere. It's confusing.
She fumbles with herself to clarify, but then he firmly says, "Because I care."
Her stained-glass barrier shatters. She plummets into the blue sea.
.
.
It's weirdly fitting that a sea-eyed boy would care about a rolling girl.
.
.
Even if she closes her eyes, she's still rolling. Still a failure. Still... Miku.
Therefore, it's no surprise that she finds herself choking and dying in her own worthlessness when a conversation goes wrong. Apologies stuck in her throat, sobs in her chest. It doesn't matter because it's her whose soul is digging her own fingers into her chest to carve out the stupid, anvil-heavy heart and squash it under her shoe.
She fumbles a bit more with her phone — maybe she sends a message to someone, but can't see a word beyond her tear-blurred gaze and fogged mind — and pulls the covers over her head, pretending not to exist. The chorus is louder than ever, her own voice berating her, wishing that she wasn't a coward and interrupted this farce right here with the red glint of a knife.
It goes like this for god-knows-how-long, until Miku hears a knock on her bedroom's door and her mother saying, "Miku, someone came to see you."
Who would want to see her? She's tempted to tell her that she's not feeling well, but the door creaks open anyway. Quickly, she wipes her face clean of tears before she peeks out of the covers. Whatever she thinks of saying withers before it forms words.
Wind-chafed, golden hair. Sea eyes.
She doesn't know how Len convinces her mom to leave them alone, but considering how she's feeling, she's grateful to not have her mother's condescending gaze upon her. It would be worse.
Len sits at the edge of her bed, hands resting on his knees. Miku hides beneath the covers again. "I... received your message."
Ah, so that's why he's here. "Mm."
"I don't know if you want me here, but it didn't feel right to brush it off." She feels him pat her shoulder over the blanket, warmth seeping in and making her cower. "Be honest: how are you feeling?"
"Like shit," she replies without thinking.
"Can I hug you?"
She wants to scoff. She wants to snark at him so he can leave her alone and stop lying — he doesn't care about her, he's just doing this to rub his damned ego or something. That knight-in-shining-armor, holier-than-thou crap, because he supposedly cares about a rolling girl.
(What if he cares? What if he just wants to help her? She can't be a bad person. Can't push people away just because they want to help a broken little girl. She knows she's pitiful and doesn't deserve anything, but she doesn't want to be the kind of person who wallows in self-pity and then bites on helping hands.)
Because she's a coward, a walking contradiction, she mutters, "Why?"
"I think you need one."
She kicks off the covers. When she doesn't sit up to fall into his arms, he comes down to pick her up. Chin resting on her shoulder, his hair ticking her cheek. Honestly, she feels too tired to reciprocate, but thinks it's the least she can do for now.
The blue sea, swallowing her up, is too welcoming for her to care about how hypocritical this is. In the back of her head, the banshees screech and thrash against the current washing them away. Cold water for the burning frustration in her chest. She's rolling, underwater this time — floating, sinking into the abyss. A deep sea girl.
(What does this turn him into, then? Boy kicked out of Eden, plucking the forbidden fruit from the tree as the snake sneers?)
.
.
Maybe it should bother her that they fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces, but she's too tired to care.
She's too tired of everything.
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.
"I heard it's your birthday."
Len hands her a small box of assorted chocolates and a colorful notepad with cute drawings on the sides. Normally, Miku would be vibrating in euphoria, but her day has been too awful to bother about masks of feigned happiness. Besides, Len would see through them either way.
Still, it's not like she didn't like the gifts. "Thanks, Len."
He smiles, a centimeter too shaky to be fully cheerful. She thinks this is the same kind of smile she makes. Somehow, it no longer disturbs her how understanding he is; she's accepted it as fact.
"Do you want me to come to your house later? We can watch something. Or, I don't know, do whatever you want." He rubs his neck, an awkward gesture that almost makes her laugh. It's cute. He is cute. "It's your birthday, after all."
"Okay."
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Once upon a time, a rolling girl goes astray in her never-ending tumbling across the hill. She rolls over the rock, the angle perfect so her head doesn't crash on it, and goes flying through the sky.
The sun notices her the first time in years, brilliant and glorious in all his might. Because she has no wings, she plummets into the sea that awaits her.
She thinks the sun is watching her from above, no matter how deep she sinks. But she can't ever reach for his hand.
.
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At some point in this month, Len started kissing her. Forehead, cheek, knuckles — his touch is feather-light yet scorches her through the skin, her nerves buzzing with something that reminds her of him.
And he's kissing her right now. He makes trails upon trails of little kisses across her fingers and wrist. The sea in his eyes is placid, but there's a storm roaring inside her. When he deems it enough, he allows her to curl up in his arms and forget her surroundings.
It's not like Len is in love with her. Why would he? Miku, the failure. Miku, the idiot. Miku, who's lost in a sand planet searching for something long dead and gone. The sand really is the ashes of the dreams she had burnt down.
He kisses her, but it doesn't mean anything. It's not like she's in love with him, either. It doesn't really, really mean anything at all.
.
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They say that you have to love yourself before you can love someone.
Miku thinks this is a lie so those like her die alone. Lies for rolling girls and boys and women and men. Lies made by the bastards with maggot-eaten eyes and mouth foaming black blood, who cloak themselves in dull gold and shallow compliments and ordinary, small hope as if it would ever hide how repulsive they truly are.
The funniest thing is that Miku dies, but doesn't truly die. Because she's a coward. Because she thinks someone would care if she disappeared. Because she's an idiot. Crybaby, idiot, pathetic Miku. A failure.
.
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And besides, even if she thought of dying now, the sea would bring her back. Replace her blood, kiss her heart to beat, fill her head with fleeting joy.
She's not rolling anymore.
She's only sinking.
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"Why won't you give up?"
"Because I care."
"Why do you care?"
"Because I think you deserve a chance."
"Why?"
"Don't you think you do? There's nothing wrong with having dreams."
"No — but it's not for me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a failure. I only build expectations that I will never meet."
"How many times did it happen?"
"I don't know, I don't know. Too many to count, or perhaps I forgot."
"You're trying your best."
"I am. Is it enough? No, not at all. It's never enough."
"Perfection is impossible. Even those you think are so great have their own misery to deal with. We're all lying to ourselves."
"Yeah."
"It doesn't mean you should give up on yourself."
"What do I do, then?"
"Try. Keep trying until luck finally knocks on your door."
"You're too understanding for your own good, you know?"
"I do."
"How many times have you been hurt?"
"I... A lot. Way too many times."
"You're good at crafting solid masks to hide your sorrow. Better than myself."
"Yes, I suppose."
"What does this mean, then? This— the two of us together. Two wrongs can't make a right. They say two broken people can't fix each other."
"A half truth. It depends of how broken they are."
"Can we fix each other?"
"I don't know. We can try."
"We can."
"One more time."
"One more time."
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Miku was born without wings. She can't fly towards the sun.
Len doesn't seem to care. She can see him now, forging a pair of wings out of seashells and rock and seaweed, hopes and dreams for feathers, stitching them up with red string. He tries to help the best he can despite himself — despite herself.
He wants her to meet the sun, she knows. But is she ready to face its heat?
(Is she ready to dream again?)
.
.
They're hidden beneath her covers, cuddling. Due to their heights, Miku can't bury her face on his chest and pretend to be an extension of his being.
But that's okay — Len can kiss the side of her head and nuzzle into her neck. When he presses her against his chest until she can feel his heartbeat, jumping inside his ribcage as though about to burst out and fall into her embrace, Miku feels safe for once.
A haven, however small it might be, is better than wandering in the darkness.
He doesn't wish her a happy birthday and she's grateful. There's nothing to be happy about being a step closer to death. Another year of divine, karmic punishment for some crime that she cannot remember.
But he does breathe in her ear, "I'm glad you are trying."
He doesn't see it, but she smiles on his shoulder. She hopes he can feel it, though; the feeble candleflame of her soul trying its best to warm him up in the cold.
.
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If he can't be the sun that births new dreams into her, he can be the sea in where she floats aimlessly until she's ready to leave.
To her, it is fine.
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She's still a rolling girl when she wakes up in the next morning, after her birthday. Still a deep sea girl who's washed away by the currents.
Len messages her, though she only reads it when she's done wearing her school uniform — good morning! im sorry for asking this so early but do u mind if i copy ur notes for kiyoteru's class? turns out i forgot i finish it
Miku chuckles to herself, the fact Len was so worried about her that he forgot to finish his homework causing a tiny burst of amusement to pop in her head. Because it's only natural that he's so understanding, so kind, that he forgets about himself.
(She wonders how many times was he taken advantage off. A gentle soul like him... he doesn't get rest in a ruthless world such as this.)
She types down a reply — sure. dont be late — while sliding her books into her bag one by one.
Her phone pings before she puts it beneath her pillow.
thank you
For some reason, this alone makes her feel more like a lovestruck schoolgirl than all the times he'd kissed her.
.
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Being appreciated is weird. Terrifying. Rolling girls don't have the privilege of being appreciated. They are born to tumble and die unloved, to hurriedly sing a song of farewell before the rock appears and kills them.
Miku knew she is doomed to sing out her feelings before the end, everything that she wished she could've had but didn't get, until that inevitable, sickening sound of splintered bone. Just a moment of solace — thank you and goodbye — and then her mind would be simply static.
The banshees screech that Len is lying, Len hates her, Len doesn't like her for who she is. Seeds of doubt in her chest, sprouting parasitic blossoms. That semi-transparent version of Len isn't loud enough to overpower it.
Although when she sees him and the mournful sea of his blue eyes with the rotting skeletons and the icy fear he himself has, Miku feels a little more confident that the banshees are lying and Len does care.
.
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Sometimes, she thinks, if she ever witnessed him being caught in a fight, she would jump in the middle of the conflict to get him out of there.
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"How are you today?"
"Okay, I guess."
"That's good."
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This might be a mistake, but Miku doesn't care anymore.
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"You don't kiss me back," Len says against her forehead, then presses his lips on it. It's not meant to be accusatory, it's a mere statement of the truth.
Miku flinches nonetheless. "Sorry, I— It's not that I don't like it, I just—"
Immediately, his behavior shifts; he leans back and laces his fingers through hers, a concerned frown forming on his face where previously a playful smile had bloomed. The sea is rising up to her waist, always present when she falls backwards and starts rolling.
He bumps his forehead against hers. "I didn't mean to upset you," he murmurs, his warm breath tickling her lips. "I don't mind if you don't kiss back. I— Um."
I'd like if you kissed me, but I don't want to force you if you're uncomfortable, is what he thinks but doesn't say.
"I'm sorry." She made things awkward as usual. She briefly thinks of removing his hands from hers, but her heart screams for them to stay.
"There's nothing to apologize for."
"Still."
"If I, uh, forgive you for not kissing me, will you feel better?"
"That's a weird question," she blurts out, flinching even further into herself at how cold she sounds. "I'm—"
He smiles softly, warmly. The apology dies in her mouth.
.
.
He avoids kissing her until she tells him that it's fine, it's just that she doesn't feel ready to reciprocate, it still feels strange to be appreciated. She's trying to take things slowly. Absorb them one by one.
Len nods, his grin radiant like a morning sun. "That's okay. Just tell me once you're okay with me kissing you on the lips."
Miku weakly punches his arm and he laughs. She doesn't notice that she's smiling.
.
.
He really is a boy kicked out of Eden. The forbidden fruit in his hands, the mark of gunshot on it. It rots to a ugly reddish gray, and Len throws it into the sea.
Miku wonders who hurt him. Maybe she will never know.
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Maybe it doesn't matter — not when Len smiles to her and says, "I'm glad you are trying."
Trying to live rather than exist, trying to dream, trying to hope for something better, trying to be happy.
Miku looks up to the sky and smiles to the sun above. "I hope you are trying, too."
.
.
Rolling girls will always be rolling girls — but there's a difference between those who drown in their tears and those who drown in the sea.
And Miku... Miku is waiting until Len is done with her wings. She thinks about flying more often, though her feet are either rooted into the ground or floating in water.
Len has wings, though they are broken. She nurses them the best she can. Bandages them up. Cleans the feathers of dried blood. If she presses a bit too tight, she risks reopening the wounds so she's careful.
(The thought of someone so gleefully, so cruelly splintering his wing bones is sickening. It fills her with boiling rage. It disgusts her. This was done deliberately, not accidentally.
Someone broke him, and a part of her demands justice.)
But then Len looks at her and smiles, the sea slowly growing peaceful, letting go of its sorrow. The damage's been done. It's over. There's nothing they can do but nurse the wounds, even though they will scar.
There's nothing they can do but try again and find something else to live for.
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"I wish this was easier."
"What, exactly?"
"Healing. Moving on. Getting better."
"Nothing is easy. Life isn't, for example."
"Well, that's not true. Loving you is quite easy, for example."
"I— Um, thank you?"
"Why are you thanking me, you dork? Wait, are you blushing?"
"Excuse me, you were the one who said that loving me is easy. It's not my fault that you didn't specify which kind of love."
"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry..."
"Huh? No, no. It's fine. I don't mind."
"You... don't really like when people say that they love you, do you? You're blushing, but your eyes are sad."
"A-ah, I forgot how transparent I am. Really, it's fine."
"Who hurt you?"
"...Nobody important. Not anymore. You are here and I don't need that person anymore."
"I'm not a replacement."
"You aren't. You're you — that is what makes you important to me. You're someone I can trust with the worst of myself, someone who understands."
"You're not a bad person, Len."
"Neither are you, Miku."
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They're trying.
Keyword: trying.
And that's what matters.
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And the first time Miku kisses him is right after school, in their way home. A street before they part ways, Len kisses her forehead and whispers, "See you tomorrow. Call me if anything happens."
This time, however, she leans forward and presses her lips against his in a swift, chaste kiss. In the back of her head, she hears fireworks exploding the dark skies of her subconscious, feeling them bloom like fire flowers. He tastes like the pastry he's eaten earlier today, caramel and something that's undeniably him.
For a split second, she thinks he tries kissing back. She steps back before he can whisper a promise on her skin.
She grins. "See you."
.
.
It doesn't mean that she's not a rolling girl anymore. It doesn't mean that he's not a sea-eyed boy kicked out of Eden.
But she's trying. He's trying. They're trying.
She lulls herself to sleep, thinking that even if things go awful tomorrow, she can pick herself up later. She can always pick herself up tomorrow, as long as she tries to be happy. Healing is a slow process. She can't rush it. She does things at her own pace.
She dreams for the first time in years.