Work Text:
And if I said, Satoru types, her fingers tapping aggressively on her laptop keys. She’s always been a loud typer — it affects everyone but her, because she wears earphones when she works; but without the familiar presence of music playing directly into her ears, everything sounds so much louder. Tap, tap, tap. Her heart beats louder than her keyboard, and Satoru who can’t handle too much noise wishes to tear it away from her torso and stuff it into the nearest drawer, if even just for a moment. Rage bursts through her, and she spams the delete key until her fingers hurt. She stares at the blank text box, addressed to her dearest, most beloved, one and only best friend Suguru; and Satoru wonders why she’s prioritising Suguru’s comfort when her heart is torn open from the inside, turned out, drained empty, and shoved back in again — a ribcage stuffed full of grief, pain, regret; words left unsaid dripping out of her and wasting away.
It feels wrong when Satoru rereads the rejection letter again, and again, and again; scrutinising the way Suguru words her intentions in the worst ways. Satoru counts the word ‘love’ thrice in the two-page letter, Satoru notices the poor choice of vocabulary that still hints at something more behind the handwritten words, Satoru cringes at the signoff — ‘with love’. You don’t just say something like that in a rejection letter, Suguru. You can’t just say that. You can’t just play with me like this. Satoru closes the tab and buries her head in her hands. Suguru says in the letter that she still wishes to be best friends, even though it may be selfish of her. Damn right you know that’s selfish—I’ve abandoned trivial labels like this, treating you like you’re my lover, because we’re romantic in everything but title—but now you dare to imply you wish for things to stay the same when you admit that you can’t offer me what I wish. You can’t, Suguru. You can’t just—say things like this, and act like you do when you know I want you so fucking bad.
Satoru sends multiple voice memos to her friends, ranting about Suguru’s choice of words. They all agree with her, and Satoru feels a little less insane. Still, when she texts Suguru, the first thing she does is ask Suguru to tell her if she ever makes her uncomfortable. Suguru says she will. Like Satoru, she needs time because both of them feel lost. Satoru agrees, it’s a natural feeling after all. Suguru agrees. Satoru can be so fucking stupid at times, because she texts Suguru that she hopes she’s doing okay. Suguru says she’s fine, but that she should be the one asking Satoru that. No shit, Satoru thinks as she types out her response. It’s okay, she tells Suguru.
Damn, Satoru’s such a hypocrite. When she’s feeling anything but okay, she’ll admit this to everyone else but the exact person who needs to know she’s not feeling okay. She’s always been a non-confrontational person, after all. Satoru has negative balls, and whenever conflict comes she shoves it all deep inside her and smiles and says nothing, only to turn away and rage and scream and explode when she thinks no one’s watching. She’s scared, she’s always been scared. Words cause harm, and Satoru hesitates to wield hers. Words can also heal, so she writes when she’s at her lowest. It’s like breathing — the way the words come to her when she’s sitting in front of a word document, yet she’d die before she says any of them with her own voice.
Satoru likes writing in third person, because it feels less like her suffering, and more like portraying someone else’s pain. She feels less weak and pathetic like the loser reject she is, when her words are put into someone else’s mouth. Satoru feels catharsis when her characters get the happy ending they deserve, while Satoru can only write and write and write about destruction and hope it’s not writing on the wall. She can only yearn for the utopia she crafts with her own two hands, create lovers much happier than she’ll ever be and live through the soul of one of them. It’s easy to project herself onto a beautiful girl with trauma woven into her very body, and give her a love interest who holds these threads with gentle hands and treats her so delicately and gently like a flower. It’s easier to live this way — the main character of many double lives, creating fabricated identities that she can hide behind whenever she doesn’t feel like herself.
If Satoru were stronger, she might be texting Suguru right now, or sending another voice memo. She’ll pour out her soul for the second (and perhaps, final) time, she’ll bleed in every hue and sob into the phone as if it’s her last time doing so. And maybe, it’ll actually be the last time she ever exposes so much of her beautiful, fragile heart to Suguru; because she doesn’t deserve to see any more of it, with the way she easily squeezes and tears at tissue like it’s nothing to her. But it’s everything to Satoru, who loves with all she is. And maybe there’s no taking back that part of herself that nestles in Suguru’s heart, but if Satoru could take it back she’ll snatch away all of it. Maybe then, Suguru would understand the pain of a broken heart — people learn from experience, after all, and Suguru is no exception.
But if Satoru is given a redo — she knows she would suffer like this over and over again, as long as she’d get to be with Suguru. What a loser, she scoffs, clutching at the spot where her heart used to be. Satoru really, really thought Suguru would take good care of it, considering Suguru knows her best and is most aware of the amount of people who have trampled all over Satoru’s heart, spat on it, and left it to rot — but apparently not, Satoru laughs. Apparently-fucking-not.
Satoru wipes away the tears that gather in her eyes and refocuses on her document. Today, her mission is to write down everything she wishes to say to Suguru, and everything she’ll never, ever say to Suguru. That’s it. That’s all. It shouldn’t be too hard.
Dear Suguru, Satoru types.
After second thoughts, she deletes the ‘dear’ from the document.
Suguru,
You really don’t know what you do to me, don’t you? You have such a damn hold on me and you don’t know it. You—honestly, I don’t know if you’re genuine anymore. If you’re just playing—
Satoru chokes, yanking her reading glasses off the bridge of her nose and slamming them onto the table. She snatches up a giant handful of tissues and rubs her eyes. Back and forth, back and forth, until all the moisture is gone. She puts her glasses back on, nearly breaking the frame.
—with me, stop it. You know my heart is fragile. You now know you’ve had it for god knows how long, so just be fucking serious or I’ll tear you apart. Like you did to me. I can’t believe you have the nerve to tell me you love me, ‘as a best friend, nothing more, nothing less’. Do you hear yourself right now? Do you really think that would fly in a rejection letter? You’re not stupid, Suguru. You cannot just say that and expect me to take it all lying down. For me to accept that all we’ve done meant nothing romantic to you, despite how you tell me you love me nearly every night. You can’t just take and take and take every single thing I give you, not return my affection, and then turn around and say you don’t mean your words of this ‘not being platonic, but not being romantic either’. You told me that on Valentine’s Day, for fuck’s sake.
Satoru pauses, and leaves her seat for a cup of water. She pours water from the jug into her Cinnamoroll cup, the one her parents got her. She raises the porcelain to her lips and drinks, water splashing all over her rainbow tie-dyed shirt. When she swallows, she does it so fast that the water burns her throat in the rush. So she washes the sting down with a massive gulp of water, nearly choking and spluttering in the process. Satoru places the cup next to her laptop, and she goes back to work. Just another typical day of a wayward writer.
Can’t you grow some balls and just admit you love me too—can’t you? You’ve been loving me all this time. All I ask for is a change of title, a little more to the equation. Do you really find it so hard to give me what I wish for? Don’t apologise for not giving me what I want, apologise for owning my heart and ruining it this way. I don’t need anything else. I’m not a person who asks for much. And all I ask for is you. I’m easily satisfied, you know that. I’ve been satisfied with you all this time, or so I tell myself, while my heart burns for you to recognise that I’ve been yours for as long as we’ve been close. You have me all this time, and I can’t believe you might lose me. Well, you say you don’t want to lose me, for all this to end so suddenly, or you’ll break. You—you just can’t say something like that to me in a rejection letter. You need me, but you don’t love me, but you love me as a ‘best friend’. Do you hear how fucking stupid you sound? Just want me.
Tears prickle at Satoru’s eyes, but she persists.
And if you can’t let yourself want me, don’t blame me if I take back the love I’ve given you, until I treat you in the same way I treat my other friends. Honestly, I can’t believe you. You have best friends, and so do I. But I don’t run to my other best friends’ messages to whine about how much I miss you, and I doubt you’d respond this way to any other person. I don’t make matching lore for my other best friends. I don’t spend so much money on my other best friends. And you don’t draw your other best friends as much as you draw me. You don’t share your voice with anyone but me. As much as you are incapable of admitting this, I’m special to you too. So give me the exclusivity that comes with being special because I’ve been yours for so long now. I’ve only ever been yours, so why are you throwing me away? Just—throw the fucking labels away if you need to throw something away, not me. We’ve always been treading the line between ‘platonic’ and ‘romantic’ anyway, and on some days the line is our jump rope we play with. So why not break the line itself, and admit that you want what I can give? I want someone who’s down to bleed, Suguru, so don’t waste any more of my time if you can’t do that.
We spent three years together. I thought we’d spend forever together. And I know you’ve thought of this too, so don’t you dare lie to me. Just let yourself love me. Is it that hard to love me? You’re in such denial I can’t even laugh about this anymore. You can’t have everything, Suguru, so you either give something back in return or let go of what I have to give.
You can be so selfish, Suguru. You’re so selfish, and you just don’t realise that. You take and you take and you take but when I ask you to give, you pull all the excuses in the world and say you ‘can’t’ when you just won’t. There’s a difference. So stop saying it’s something you can’t do and admit that you’re just scared of committing. To me.
And unlike you, I won’t sign off this letter with ‘with love’.
Good luck to you,
Satoru.
Satoru saves the document and leaves the tab open, while her and Suguru’s direct messages sit right next to it. Still, Satoru makes no move to send her message. She opens social media and scrolls away, knowing she’ll only stop when she sees some post that reminds her too much of her and Suguru, then tears will come to her eyes and the cycle will start all over again.
And if I said, maybe I'll text Suguru— Satoru doesn’t allow her mind to finish the sentence. She and Suguru both need time, so they’ll get all the time they need. She won’t text first for a while. It’s a bit petty, she realises, to use ‘texting first’ as a metric for how much Suguru actually cares. But Satoru is a petty person, and she’s even pettier when she’s wronged.
“And if I said,” she voices the words to herself, so she can prove that they’re real. “That I’ll never send the letter.”
It’s just a catharsis, a therapeutic rant, a way to heal.
Nothing more, nothing less.