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Riko dreams, sometimes, of the color white—of the way snow glimmers in sunlight, of the way sunlight shines through the densest of clouds, of the way lilies open up their petals towards the sun, kissed by the morning dew, of the way her parents' string reflects and refracts the most beautiful, breathtaking, bewitching colors and paints rainbows on every surface when it catches even a hint of light. She dreams of its humble presence, the way it lets itself be used to make everything else lovely, illustrious; and she finds a comfort in it, somehow, some sort of peace.
So it hurts—a squeezing, aching pain in her chest, kind of—all the more every time she wakes up and sees that red string tied to her pinky, to feel the nausea churn in her stomach and throat and her blood run just a little colder because she's somehow still not come to terms with that unequivocal, macabre string she's had all her life quite yet. Riko hates the color red, how it stains and ruins everything it touches—if her string was white, then maybe her parents would be able to stand her presence (and be happy, because the only times she's ever heard them laugh were hours after she had locked herself in her room, and she hates how she's the reason they're always so—so emotionless and tired and jaded), and maybe her classmates at school wouldn't be scared to be near her (her skin still crawls every time she hears them talking about how she's cursed, how she might as well not even be alive, how she's just a freak who'll taint anyone she interacts with), and maybe she could be worth something (because how can some freak of nature ever amount to anything?), and maybe, maybe, maybe... maybe she could be happy.
Riko hates the color red with every bit of her being, but she almost hates herself more, because she knows she's lucky, she knows what usually happens to people with red strings, and she has so much more than them, and she still isn't satisfied with what she has, as though she even deserves to have anything. But she can't stop herself from wishing desperately that she had a white string, or that there was something more to her than being that red-string girl, something so she wouldn't be defined by that thread—she spent so much time with her piano as a child, shunned as she was by the other children, but now she hates to even look at it, hates to be reminded that her anxiety and her string ruins everything she does.
(The silence in the auditorium, that expectant, deafening silence ringing in her ears as she just couldn't force herself to play, as she couldn't force her fingers to press any note, the bile that rose in her throat when she closed the piano and caught sight of that red string mocking her, like it was evidence she would fail in everything, that she can't overcome the fate it commands—she hates it. She hates that she can't forget how so many of the crowd simply rose and left, with barely any noise, when she came on stage, when she walked onto it with her string shining in the spotlight, and she hates how her legs shook as they took her to the piano, and she hates— )
So her piano collects dust, and the thought of playing is gut-wrenching, because she knows she'll fail again (and again, and again, and again, because it's her fate), and her days both drag on and blur into one; it feels like she's barely alive, like she's a puppet going through the motions. And she's not happy, but there's some part of her that's gone numb after all this time; so she retreats into it, and it's enough.
Then her parents tell her they're moving Uchiura, some small, sparsely populated seaside town, and Riko's delicately-crafted mask shatters. Having to relearn her place, who to avoid, how to best stay out of sight, having to navigate the attention that could be heaped on her—the thought makes her blood run cold. Maybe she's not happy with how things are now, but she has a routine, some semblance of comfort, and to think she'll have to recreate everything from scratch is terrifying. It feels like she's never experienced a worse fear, like this utter terror could never fade.
/
But it wanes, a little, eventually.
Riko almost feels as though she could fade from existence here. The town really is small, far smaller than Tokyo, far smaller than she could've imagined; and she feels like a ghost walking through it, through its unnervingly quiet streets, across sidewalks full of sprouts and cracks. She feels like she barely even exists at all, like “Riko” could be just a figment of someone's imagination, something completely temporary.
It's the most peculiar feeling—she feels as though there's nothing keeping her here, but also that there's nothing weighing her down at all, like she's not restrained by the usual threats of failure and fear. It's the strangest thing, feeling so detached from herself, and it should be unnerving, but nothing's disturbing her now, not even the thought of school or her string and its repercussions; so when she finds herself at a beach, quaint and deserted, she really doesn't know or remember how she came to be here, doesn't even recognize the buildings she had to have passed by.
This sort of weird disassociation happens sometimes, with varying degrees of efficacy: there are times when it's honestly terrible, when thinking or doing anything is about as easy as running a marathon through quicksand, but then there are other instances where that detachment from herself and her stress and emotions is a blessing, when it lets her function when she should be overwhelmed. It's the latter, this time, and it really is a relief—the fear that had enveloped her ever since her parents told her about moving here was unbearable, and to be free from it is wonderful, even if she feels rather like a stranger in her own body, like it couldn't possibly be hers.
So Riko walks towards the beach, down the dock, towards the steadily setting sun—she remembers it had only just begun to set when she left home, so she couldn't have gone too far—that's making the sky its canvas, gentle pinks and soft oranges thrown about without a care, and the sun's reflection in the quivering sea—it's beauty like Riko's never seen before, something she wishes she could become lost in.
So, of course, it's then that Chika quite literally charges into Riko's life and shoves her right into the sea.
/
They're both shivering and soaked to the bone, clothes sticking uncomfortably to their skin, once they manage to get back to shore. Chika starts rambling before Riko really has a chance to actually get out of the (absurdly cold) water, which is still lapping at her ankles, and Chika is far too animated for someone who, by all accounts, shouldn't be able to feel half her limbs. “I, uh—this is really the worst way to make a first impression, isn't it? I'm Chika, and I—I'm really sorry! I just saw you, and I got so excited, and—wait, wait, are you okay?” She fidgets a little as she glances behind herself at Riko, who's wrapped her arms around herself (still shivering, because unlike whatever superhuman Chika is, she doesn't get over being plunged into ice-cold water in just a few minutes), looking down at her clothing to survey the damage, and doesn't bother waiting for a reply. “The water is really cold this time of year, isn't it—give me a moment, I'll go ask one of those shops for a towel or something!”
She runs off and is out of sight without ever giving Riko a chance to get a word in edgewise, and Riko has never been more confused before in her life. She's never been physically assaulted or anything along those lines because of her string, just avoided like her curse was contagious, definitely not anything anywhere near “almost drowned because of it,” so she can't help but doubt that was what this is, and Chika seemed to—actually care about her?
That's the strangest part of this whole thing, actually: that Chika is even speaking to her like an equal, that she cares any about Riko's wellbeing, that she cares enough to go out of her way—well, maybe she hadn't seen Riko's string (Riko hadn't caught sight of hers, hadn't thought of looking or even had the chance to look down at Chika's string and the state of it, what with the compelling distraction of "suddenly being pushed into the freezing-cold ocean" and all that comes with such a situation—she only really saw Chika's face) or she's using the excuse of finding a towel as a way to easily flee from... whatever this is, but there was a sense of sincerity and openness emanating from her that Riko can't help but believe her, despite everything. (Even considering the fact that Chika shoved her into the ocean? She's not really sure what to make of that, especially since Chika fell in, too, and she would think someone with ill intent on would have more tact than that.)
Honestly, Riko just doesn't know how to process this. She's never had someone be kind to her before, not really, and certainly hasn't ever had someone inconvenience themselves for her sake, talk to her like she's worth anything, like she's—really someone, and it's so foreign that she doesn't know if she should be scared, or if she should take as much happiness out of this as she can before they notice her string isn't white and realize she's cursed, or—anything. The very idea of this was so far beyond the realm of possibility to her that she never even considered that someone could not care about the color of her string, or not notice, or—whatever happened.
She's so vexed that she almost doesn't hear the quick pattering of Chika's footsteps as she runs back, towels in hand, and when Riko looks up and sees it, she can feel her heart sink down into her stomach like a rock, can feel the blood drain from her face as her hands start to tremble again, can feel the grains of sand shift under her feet as she subconsciously tenses them.
Chika's string is a deep, ghastly shade of red, and its trail ends at Riko's little finger, tied to it in a dainty little knot. And Riko can hear Chika's voice—I was just so excited—again, ringing in her ears, and everything just clicks. She feels the bile climb up back of her throat—which is tight, constricted, as though something's choking her, and she kind of feels like she can't breathe, or like the breaths she's managing aren't sufficient at all—like she's going to puke her guts out, and she feels this all-consuming need to run, to do anything to get away from here, but her feet feel as though they've been rooted in the sand beneath her, and she can't make her voice work, like she's some sort of statue. It's a good enough analogy, with how she can't really make any part of her body move, how she feels like she's just trapped within it like it's not even hers.
Riko is breathing a little funny, breaths all quick and short, and she's getting a little light-headed as she keeps her eyes trained on the string that binds the two of them, as Chika takes an eternity to close that distance between them. Or, well, an eternity to Riko, who's feeling so unbearably sick that a millisecond is a century in and of itself—and, God, Riko might just bite through her cheek at this rate. Some small part of her manages to be surprised that she isn't tasting blood yet.
By all means, Riko is really not composed enough to try to make herself seem levelheaded and unaffected at all right now. Putting on a mask is the furthest thought from her mind, actually, so it's not surprising that Chika notices that something's seriously wrong with one glance at Riko, even from a few feet away; but Riko, discomposed and disconcerted as she is, barely even notices as Chika rushes over, dropping the towels near their feet, and asks as soothingly as she can manage (not very, but it's obvious she's trying to keep calm), “Are... are you alright? Did something happen?”
She glances around hesitantly, as though she'll find the source of Riko's agitation somewhere on the beach she knows is completely empty, before turning her gaze to Riko's face and following Riko's eyes to their string. “Oh,” she says, voice quivering a little, “Is it—are you...” She presses her lips together, turning the words around in her mouth for a moment. “Does the color of our string... bother you? This town doesn't think much of the—” She flickers her eyes back to Riko's face and cuts herself off.
Riko isn't actually speaking, just mouthing the words, but even through the stunted shakiness of her lips, Chika somehow knows exactly what she's reciting, can recognize the rehearsed quality to her words, like this is something she's repeated to herself constantly, like this is a phrase that she's long since memorized. Riko doesn't actually realize that her lips are moving, either, can only focus on the archaic, age-old phrase running through her mind again and again: blessed be those joyous lovers bound by the white string—
“But woe be to those cursed ones trapped by the red string,” Chika finishes, voice barely audible, “whom are doomed to perish only knowing misery.” Riko stops shaking at her words (they seem so unfitting coming from her, somehow) for a bit, stops breathing altogether for a moment, like she's only just realized Chika's even there, and Riko looks up at her, and—oh, Riko hadn't realized that she was crying, but Chika's face and the worry that contorts it look all blurry and unfocused, and Riko somehow regains enough control of herself to wipe the tears from her eyes. It burns a little and doesn't really help, and her chest is kind of heaving, now, stupid, pitiful half-sobs working up from her throat even though she really isn't crying that badly, and she—doesn't know what to do.
For all her obsessive thinking about her string, Riko had never actually considered the possibility of her soulmate in this sense. Her mind always created nightmares about her soulmate absolutely loathing her, nightmares about ruining her soulmate's life because they just had to be bound to her, nightmares about being the reason her soulmate died, but never a situation where they were here, safe and alive, caring about her like a white-string soulmate would. It was so unlike the things that were supposed to happen that she just... never even considered it, and now that it's happening, now that she's in completely unknown territory, it somehow feels even worse than any of her nightmares possibly could have—at least she prepared herself for that, had some sort of acceptance of it, however meager. But this...
Well, this feels... Meeting her soulmate in and of itself would be cause for Riko to feel like this, like there's not a drop of blood in her body and she's just eaten all the rotten food in the world, but this is beyond that. Riko is so terrified of the unknowns this situation flaunts, of the idea of having to be with her soulmate day by day and knowing she's why her soulmate can't be happy (at least without Riko around, they could pretend, but how can they, with Riko constantly reminding them? Ignoring a person is on a different level than ignoring a string), knowing she's ruining everything day after day after day that she just feels so sick with guilt, because Chika seems happy despite everything, and now it's... Riko's here and she's just—going to steal everything away.
“I'm sorry,” Riko chokes out. It's all hoarse and grating, ugly, and she cringes a little at the sound of it.
Chika, to her credit, doesn't cringe, and Riko's a little unnerved about the patience she has. “There's nothing to be sorry for.” Her voice is gentle and so laced with kindness that Riko almost misses the firmness behind her words—she really believes Riko isn't at fault for reacting so harshly, for burdening her with this, somehow. Riko can't see how Chika believes that, but the gentleness in her voice calms her a little bit, like maybe this isn't something to be so scared of.
Chika hesitates for a moment before holding out her hand, glancing up to meet Riko's eyes, and the question is obvious, but Chika clarifies anyway: “You aren't in any state to be standing.” (Her legs feel a little numb, and Riko's wrapped her shaking arms around herself so tight that she might cut off circulation soon, not to mention that her breathing is still off and she's not quite done crying; so, well, Chika has a point.) “It'd be better if we sat somewhere and let you rest, dry off a little?” She phrases it like a question, and the need to respond pulls Riko out of her reverie a little, something she's grateful for.
Riko just hums her assent and nods a little, places one of her hands in Chika's, and the warmth of Chika's hand is unexpectedly reassuring, comforting, like it's telling her that you're real, things will be okay, don't worry. It's strange, Riko thinks as she swallows, wipes her tears with her other hand (it still stings, still doesn't really help), but it's—a good kind of strange, for once. Something that warms Riko's chest a little and soothes the shakiness of her heart, makes a bit of calmness trickle through her veins instead of fear. It's... nice, to say the least.
Chika stoops down to pick up the towels at their feet before popping back up and closing her fingers around Riko's hand, tugging her towards one of the larger rocks higher up on the shore. “Try to steady your breathing, okay? In for a few seconds through your mouth, then out through your nose—or whatever works for you? That's how I do it, at least.”
So Riko does, focusing on the feeling of her chest rising and falling, trying to keep the sharp, hiccupy gasps to a minimum, and she sits beside Chika on the rock when they reach it. Her hands are still shaking a little, but she feels— better, all things considered, certainly came out of that state far more quickly than she usually does. It's weird to her, to think that Chika's presence must've helped her that much, when it was Riko's fear of her that started it in the first place, when that fear should still be present—it kind of is, actually, but it seems so... inapplicable in regards to Chika that it just doesn't hold any sway here. Like Chika's warmth renders her fears completely powerless, because how could one of her nightmares come to life with Chika is so—so contrary to everything she imagined about her soulmate? Her soulmate was always cold, callous, not at all excitable and warm like—
Chika putting a towel on her lap jars Riko out of her thoughts, a little. “I shook the sand out of it best I could! I really am sorry about, um, the whole thing that happened on the dock,” she says, at least having the decency to look embarrassed about it, “but I—I was walking by, and I was looking at the sunset, and all of a sudden I noticed that you were there, and how our strings were one—and, and, I just felt myself running towards you, 'cause I was so excited to meet you!” Her voice progressively rose throughout her apology with all her bounding enthusiasm, and it abruptly lowers as she continues: “And, uh, I... didn't think to stop in time, I guess.” She loses steam and laughs a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.
Riko's breathing has calmed, mostly, and she bites the inside of her cheek as she feels a cold trepidation drip through her veins again. She takes the towel from her lap and dries her hair with it, more so she has something to do to occupy herself than anything else as the silence turns a bit awkward. It remains for a bit until it starts to unnerve Riko just enough to force her to speak. “Why are you—” Her voice comes out all hoarse and throaty, and she coughs a bit as she tries to think of a way to put it. She can't really ask “why are you so happy about meeting your soulmate when you can never be happy with them,” or “why are you so excited to meet someone that just further proves you're some cursed, hopeless mistake” without really ruining things, so she settles for just “Why are you... so happy about it when our string is red?” (Her chest squeezes a little uncomfortably at confirming it out loud to someone.)
Chika's whole face scrunches up like Riko said one of the blunter options she passed over, her eyebrows furrowing as she frowns. She takes a few moments before responding, like she's tasting the words in her mouth before she says anything. “The people here are really kind. I've never gotten excluded or looked down on because of the color of my string—they treat me just like it's white, so I don't really know what it must've been like for you wherever you came from. I mean, there are random instances where someone's insensitive about my string, but it's not... it's not at all like what I've heard it's like in cities or more traditional places.”
She looks down at her hand, quirks her little finger and watches her string bounce up and float down. There's something vulnerable and meek leaking into her voice when she continues that makes Riko's chest squeeze even more. “So I'm lucky, I think. I don't have people... constantly telling me that I'm a freak, or drilling stuff from the legends into my head like it seems like they've done with you. But I still think it, sometimes. That I'm just some... accident, or that I shouldn't exist, because—what reason is there for someone like me to exist over someone with a white string? By scientific standards, or whatever, I'm a mistake and don't... have the right to exist.”
Riko's hands have started trembling a little again, hearing Chika say all of that out loud, hearing her say that she's a mistake—confirming that the red string makes her one. And if Chika thinks that about herself, does that mean she thinks the same of Riko? That Riko's just some freak of nature, or— “The thought upset me a lot when I was younger,” Chika continues. A small smile graces her face as she says, “But I talked about it with one of my friends—her name's You, and we've been close since we were kids. I really owe a lot to her, and she always knows how to cheer me up, and when I talked to her about my string, she told me that she didn't really get what I was so worried about—that she saw it completely differently than I did, I mean. She has a white string, so I was always kind of worried about bringing my string up, but...”
Chika has a certain air about her now, this muted aura of happiness, like it's just barely contained within herself. “She told me that she didn't think of the red string as meaning I'm a mistake or cursed at all. That it just reflects my fate and doesn't mean anything else—that it doesn't mean I'm cursed or doomed to never find happiness ever, but that it just means that my life and love won't have a fairy tale ending.” Riko's breath hitches. “Um, how did she put it...” Chika closes her eyes for a second before popping them open again, and, completely oblivious to Riko, quotes with unconcealed joy, of all things: “Maybe you won't die happily, but when is dying ever fun? And since when does how you die determine how you live?”
Chika's fighting back a smile (and losing the battle badly), but Riko's just frozen. “She... completely turned my perspective around,” The awe in Chika's words seems palpable, and she can't force her grin to disappear even as she speaks. “I had always thought of my string as being something that commanded my life, you know? But she overthrew that and made it something that was just... a warning that the very, very end won't be happy, nothing more, nothing less. And the end's going to be terrible for everyone, isn't it? Even for people with white strings. Ours will just be a little worse, and... all our string is is just a warning so we can brace ourselves for it, don't you think?”
Chika fidgets a little, drawing meaningless little patterns and figures in the sand with her foot. She looks over at Riko, and how much Chika's honestly kind-of-rambling spiel has rattled her is very, very clear on her face and in her posture: her wide eyes, the way she's worrying her lip, the way her nails are digging into her legs, how her hands still have a slight shake to them even then. “I know it's a lot to take in,” Chika tries. “You don't have to start thinking that way immediately. Or at all. It's just how I try to keep myself from getting too... well, you know. I want to live life to the fullest and have every bit of happiness I can before I die,” she says, voice quivering a little, “so I'll... be able to go through whatever happens and think, 'yeah, this was worth it.' So I can face whatever it is and whatever pain there is and not have regrets.”
Chika's voice is unusually, unnaturally soft as she trails off, and it leaves Riko a bit unsettled as she swallows. She's known Chika for all of—what, a hour? and she knows that's just not how Chika is supposed to be. Chika's supposed to be cheery, a bit ditzy—not all unsure and timid and scared . Riko squeezes her eyes shut for a second, pushes her fingernails into her skin a second more, before breathing out, clearing her throat—“I've never... had anyone.” It's awkward , uncomfortable, and her words sound too jilted and stunted, but Riko forces them out anyway, because Chika deserves some sort of response, some sort of explanation for her behavior, something other than dead silence. So she talks about the only thing she really knows. “My parents, they—they're not bad people, but whenever I'm around them, it's so obvious that I'm... a stranger to them. They can barely force themselves to speak to me, and when they do, it sounds like—like they're hollow. Like they're a puppet or something. But whenever they're alone together. they're so happy, and I can hear them laugh, sometimes, when I'm up in my room, and I've...”
She breaks off for a moment, inhales shakily, swallows thickly and trudges on. “I've never heard them laugh, or seen them smile, or—or anything when I'm with them. They're only ever happy when I'm gone. And it's been that way for as long as I can remember. Most of my childhood memories with them are... wondering why Mother and Father are always so sad and always so busy and wondering how I could make them happy. Trying to think of ways to entertain myself alone. And if that's not because of my string, then—what is it? I had to have done something— terrible to make them so frigid, but what could a toddler do?”
Chika's got that scrunched-up look on her face again, and she looks like she wants to cut in, but Riko hurries on before she can. “I... started to figure it out in elementary school, I think. When none of the other kids would ever play with me or even sit near me unless the teacher forced them to. But that didn't stop them from whispering about my—my string, or stop me from noticing that I was different from everyone else. I mean, I had noticed that I was different in preschool, but I didn't really understand until my classmates would start—talking about me while I was right there about that 'cursed girl' with the 'death string,' and when kids would run up to me on some dare and just... yank my hair, or something, then rush back to their friends to see if interacting with me curse them, too.”
Talking about this is—amazingly cathartic, somehow. Riko expected it to drain everything out of her, to make her start crying again, but it's liberating, makes her chest feel a thousand tons lighter. It's still uncomfortable to hear her words as they tumble out of her mouth, uncomfortable to present herself like the victim (and even with the short amount of time she's known Chika, she knows Chika would say that she is the victim, she's not faking anything or looking for sympathy, she didn't deserve that—but didn't you?, some part of her mind whispers), but to finally all of this out loud, to have someone who's listening and not shooting her down, is... staggering, to say the least.
“I had learned by that point to not bother my parents, and it... I was scared to be an annoyance to my teachers, too, especially since I could bear with it on my own. I hated it, but if I could deal with it, how could I rationalize bothering someone else with it? So I... kept to myself, and my teachers let things be. But it's hard to let—to let people constantly stage-whispering about how you're... some cursed, demonic freak who should just die”—her voice cracks on the last word, and she falters a little—“before it spreads its curse to everyone else not bother you. So I... didn't attend class often.”
Chika's gripping the edge of the rock, knuckles white, straining, and she looks— terrible, honestly, as she stares down at her feet. They're still, the fidgeting abandoned before, and she blinks once, twice. Like she can feel Riko's gaze on her, she just bites out, “I’m not… upset at you. Please don’t think that. Keep going, if you want,” and her voice is hard, emotionless, and it's... unnerving, even if the harshness isn't directed towards Riko.
Riko spreads her fingers out, stretching the space between them wide as she can. Forces herself to keep going, keep going. “My elementary school had a band room left from when it used to be a middle school, and some of the equipment was still there. Nobody was ever there, and I don't think even the janitors bothered with it, but there was this... piano there.” Chika doesn't notice the pause or doesn't bother to comment. “It was out of tune at first, and some of the keys were worn away or didn't work half the time, but I still thought it was beautiful, even with all its imperfections. So I'd slip away from class a lot of the time and just... go and play that piano until I forgot about everything. I assume one of my parents must've played, because we had a piano at my house, too—that's probably why I was drawn to it. Because I thought it might... connect me to them, somehow, and maybe endear me to them.”
She smiles to herself, all wry and bitter. “They moved the piano into my room after the third time I tried playing it and never said anything of it, and, well, piano became—my life. It was the only thing I had and the only thing that made me—something other than that red string girl. So I put everything into it, and eventually it happened that my teacher suggested me as a participant in a music competition. Where I could do a piano recital.”
Riko can feel her mouth go dry. She can barely think about this without that familiar wave of loathing washing over her, without wanting to lock herself in her room for days, without sometimes doing just that and leaving only for absolute necessities. Keep going, keep going. You've gone this far. “That was in high school. People... mostly ignored me after the first month or so there, and although I still—hated myself and my string, I started thinking that maybe, if I could just override their perceptions, maybe I could... Maybe I could prove I was more than it.”
Deep breaths, in and out. “I... was stupid to think that. I couldn't force myself to play when I walked on that stage and people just—the murmur of their whispers, and how some of them left, and all they knew of me was my name and grade and the string they saw, I... If my string is so repulsive that that can happen without them even giving me a chance, then... S-So I... I just couldn't do it. I sat down, and I saw the music sheet in my mind's eye, and I positioned my fingers, and I just—couldn't. And it was like a slap in the face. Because if my string was white, none of that would've happened, and I would've been able to play, and I wouldn't be a failure in the only—” She breaks off, swallows thickly. Her throat burns, feels like there's something stopping her from breathing, and she blinks away her tears. “Sorry. Sorry. I—I'm sorry.”
Chika stands up suddenly, and Riko's almost convinced that she's managed to repel even her soulmate. With someone as pathetic as she is, it wouldn't be a surprise, she thinks as she closes her eyes tight as she can so she doesn't have to see Chika walking away—but instead she feels hands on her shoulders, firm and sure and safe, and she opens her eyes to see Chika standing in front of her, staring at her with pure determination and unshakable purpose. Riko can feel Chika's warmth, like a fireplace while there's a blizzard raging outside, and her breath hitches. She doesn't know why, but she can't break eye contact.
Chika's gaze doesn't waver whatsoever, but it softens a little with something like wonder as she speaks. “You're incredible, you know that?” Riko's cheeks burst with color, and she opens her mouth to stammer out a reply. “No. You are—you've gone through so much, and you're still here. You're amazing. I'm... I'm sorry you had to go through all that.” Riko swears she sees fire in her eyes and hears its crackling in Chika's voice as she continues: “But—you have to know you didn't deserve any of that. None of it. And that you're not a failure. That your string doesn't—doesn't condemn you to a life of failures, or mean you’re any less of a person. Please. You have to know that. Or at least—at least know that I think that. You’re so much more than your string, Riko, and—”
Chika’s voice breaks off, and she slides her hands off Riko’s shoulders. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she echoes, that same firmness from before behind her quivering voice.
To say Riko is lost for words would be an understatement. To say that Riko has forgotten every single word and character of kanji, hiragana, and katakana she knows still is a bit of an understatement, but it’s good enough. She wets her lips, opens her mouth, closes it again, blinks a few times—and ends up managing just a “thank you” after some struggle. Chika smiles—a genuine smile—in understanding and doesn’t press for more reply.
Chika sits down on her knees in front of Riko, catches her gaze again. “Our string doesn’t mean we’re going to fail.” Riko’s eyes widen, and she wants to say something about how she didn’t mean that she thought Chika would be a failure, too, but Chika seems to get what her flustering is in that way of hers. “It’s our string, not just yours, you know? If it’s a burden, it’s one we’ll share. But that’s not what I wanted to say—I wanted to ask if you’ve heard of μ’s.” Riko shakes her head. “What, you haven’t?!” Chika shouts in a mix of shock and… horror? “They’re—they’re an amazing school idol group, and they won Love Live and saved their school, and—”
She… goes on, for a while, rambling and positively overflowing with happiness, and it’s endearing, Riko has to admit (she’s still flustered over the “our string” comment), but she has no clue what Chika is even talking about. So she takes a chance and breaks into Chika’s spiel with a tentative “Um…”
“Oh!” Chika catches herself, stopping immediately, somehow not even needing to recover from talking for so long with literally no break. “I’m sorry, I—get really excited when it comes to μ’s. Uh. Um…” She tilts her head to the side and closes her eyes in deep concentration, crossing her arms, until she suddenly opens them again and is just as animated as before. Riko is a tiny bit frightened. “They’re the most well-known school idol group in the country,” she tries again, marginally calmer this time. “They’re… my inspiration for a lot of things, and I’ve listened to all their songs. Know them by heart by this point! They were just a group of regular high schoolers, but they banded together to try to save their school from closing, and they became—they became something wonderful! A legend, even!”
Chika’s only just barely not shouting, getting more and more worked up as she goes. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of them or heard any of their songs—they’re so, so amazing, they’ll blow your mind! Leave you with nothing to say but ‘oh my goodness,’ and—sorry, sorry. The important thing is that you know they’re a sensation. Something truly, truly wonderful.” Chika pauses for a moment, and a grin takes over her face as she lets the silence linger just a moment too long. “And—and their leader, Kousaka Honoka, the one who formed μ’s—she… she has a red string.” She watches Riko’s expression turn from expectant to shocked to amazed in record time, and any other time, she’d start laughing at the pure speed at which she cycled through those emotions.
“One of the first songs μ’s wrote was… what made me believe what You told me.” Chika’s voice turns to something heartfelt, personal, but still unbearably Chika. She hums something, a tune that Riko doesn’t recognize, and, unbearably soft, sings something it’s clear she’s long since memorized: “Being closed in by sorrow and just crying… that isn’t you. With your blazing heart, you can definitely clear the way to the future. I’m sure your dream’s power, right now, can set things in motion—I believe in you, so start. And it made me think… if someone like me can have such hope and determination and make something of themselves, then—maybe I really could be special. Maybe there really isn’t anything to my string. Maybe I could shine like her, even though there’s nothing really amazing about me. Because Honoka said to never, ever give up on your dreams, and she’s proof that your string can’t stop your dreams from coming true.”
Chika’s smiling down at herself, and she looks so, so happy and hopeful that it’s like it’s spilling up out of her, and Riko feels her heart skip a beat. (In the back of her mind, even behind all the emotions stirring and stirring until they’ve become a veritable hurricane, she can’t help but notice that Chika is beautiful. Even without the hues of the sky, all pink and orange and red, framing her face and the sun lighting it just so—she’s so beautiful it makes Riko’s heart hurt a little.)
Chika’s still beautiful even as she jerks her head up, eyes fierce, and in a tone just as forceful, tells Riko: “So you—you have to believe that our string doesn’t mean that you’re a failure, or a mistake, or anything! You’re none of those things, and never have been, and the only power our string has over you is the power you give it. And I believe you can overcome your fears in time. So that’s… that’s why I’m happy about this, even though our string’s red.” She takes Riko’s hands in hers, looks right into Riko’s eyes, as if to emphasize her point. There’s an undercurrent of something to her voice, something that complements the hope bleeding through her words, something that makes it seem like more than hope. Something that makes it seem like reality. “Because you and I are more than the color of our string, and no matter what the future is like, we can still make happiness now. And keep making happiness until we don’t know what to with it, until it’s like we were never afraid. Because—red is just a color, and we can overcome that if we believe we can.”
And somehow, through all of Riko’s emotional turmoil, through all of her fear, all of her doubt, all of her self-hatred, all of her anxiety, all of her worries, all those things storming in her mind with every bit of the strength of a hurricane—something breaks through, like a ray of sunlight, and it’s the thought that, maybe, just maybe, they can.
And it’s weird, because that beam of light keeps shining through the vile winds of her hurricane, never wavering, just standing its ground, waiting for the hurricane to tire itself out. And maybe it’ll take a while, days, weeks, months, years—but it feels like, yes, the hurricane will die down eventually. And the sun will take its place.
So Riko squeezes Chika’s hands, because it’s all she can really manage right now, and gives the smallest of smiles, and Chika beams right back at her; and there’s a genuine happiness curling around Riko’s heart, cradling it. And Riko looks at their hands, intertwined, sees their deep red string; and even it doesn’t banish the light shining through the eye of the storm.
/
Riko stops dreaming, eventually, of the color white, and starts dreaming of anything but. Her dreams vary, but there’s always that constant array of color, too often strong oranges and weird half-pink, half-reds; and the hurricane dulls to a low roar, after a while, though it never really disappears.
There are days where it’s like the sun never burst through it, and days where it’s like the sun couldn’t possibly exist. But for each of those days, there are days where there isn’t any wind at all, where there’s not a cloud in the sky, where “red” becomes something Riko can almost find hope in; and it’s more than Riko could have ever dreamed of.
Riko wishes she could remember everything clearly, but some things are more blurry than others, like just how she phrased this or that or just what exactly Chika looked like on the day they met. But she’s learned that it’s okay, because they can keep making memories; and as long as Riko remembers those most precious moments, like the moment when maybe we can became just we can like the moment when Chika kissed her for the first time (on the beach, sunset, sitting on that rock, because Chika caught onto how sentimental Riko was; the way Chika’s voice sounded, all excited and sweet and hopeful when she asked if she could; the way Riko could feel Chika’s warmth when she did, the way her heart pounded, stuttered in her chest, the softness of Chika’s lips against hers, the way it made her whole body feel warm and tingly; the way Chika gasped for breath after, because she forgot to breathe, the way it was so perfectly Chika that Riko had to laugh even as she rolled her eyes), or the moment when Riko first told Chika she loved her (the sight of Chika so happy that she was teary-eyed, smile all wide quivering like she couldn’t force it any bigger, is honestly one of Riko’s most treasured memories; the hug that was so tight she couldn’t breathe less so, but still up there, and the way Chika murmured I love you, I love you, I love you back to her like she couldn’t say it enough is a contender for Riko’s happiest memory), or the moment when…
Well, there are a lot she’s labeled “precious.” But all the same, she holds them near and dear to her heart, all in that little cradle of happiness; and with these memories and the ones she and Chika will continue making, she can’t help but be certain that, when the end comes, she’ll be able to go through whatever happens and think, ‘yeah, this was worth it.’