Work Text:
it’s a friday night when she realizes her closet is overflowing.
she doesn’t think much of it, it just needed some spring cleaning, that’s all. her hand brushes against the brass handle, pulling it open with little effort. there’s not many things of note, really, just a few jackets, and that old red button-up coat she always brought out during winter.
it’s not until all the contents of that old, chipped, wooden wardrobe are sprawled across her bedroom that she notices.
a purple cardigan, with the bottom button missing, lies long forgotten, within the dark depths of her closet.
the bright shade of lilac can’t help but catch her eye, even in the light of the small lamp that sits on her bedside table. she’s been meaning to replace that lightbulb for months, now that she stops to think about it.
gingerly, as if the fabric will burst into flames if she’s too rough with it, she pulls the sweater into her lap. the sleeve’s still got that tiny rip in the cuff, she notices. she’d always say she’d go and get it fixed, someday.
a moment of silence interrupts mona’s spring cleaning. it’s solemn, but she’s careful with it, because if she lingers on the feeling that comes with it for too long, it’ll crash over her like a wave, and once again she’ll find herself drowning in that unforgivable ocean.
unfortunately for her, she’s always been terrible at being careful.
as if in a trance, her hand slips under the hem, searching. it’s somewhere by the left sleeve, if she remembers correctly— and of course, she’s found it with little to no error.
a pocket. she’d sewed it herself, back when she could get up and have the motivation to learn new things. things like sewing. her fingers fumble a little further, and—
and there it is.
the waves are tugging at her feet now, as if trying to coax her to wade further into the water. it’s not that bad, they tell her.
it’s a photo. a simple polaroid print. nothing more. of course, it’s a photo of her. but he’s there, too. it’s just the two of them (and who else would it be, really?) on her birthday.
they’re smiling, and it looks as if he’d taken the photo from a bad angle— you can’t see much of their faces.
one thing that’s painfully clear to her, however, as her gaze stays glued to the small photo in her hand, is that it’s no wonder the angle is so offcenter— he’s not even looking at the camera. his eyes are on her. how many pictures like that were still on her phone, despite everything, she wonders.
her eyes sting, remembering the reflection of their faces in the candlelight, and the small cake he’d brought her from the bakery down the street.
birthdays are funny things. for one thing, they’re guaranteed to come back at least once every year.
birthdays come back. people don’t.
a year after eating that small cake in the darkness, with no light but that of a candle, mona sits in front of an open closet, as the waves come crashing down, the water roaring in her ears as she gives in, and allows the current to tug her down into the depths of the sea.
it’s mona’s birthday, and once again, she finds herself struggling for air.