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Ages. Agnes Tachyon wasn't sure exactly how long it'd been, and so it was just that—ages. Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months… and months didn't pass easily on an empty stomach. She was on such high alert that her ears twitched at every hint of sound that reached her. She could swear there were movements in the corners of her eyes every other minute. She had begun to think that maybe, if she were fast enough, she could catch whatever it was.
She couldn't. She was too slow, too fatigued, too deprived of everything that she needed to keep herself in the right shape. Permanent bags had dug themselves under her eyes, and her thin strands of hair splayed in all different directions. The whites of her eyes were strained and pink, and her hands had developed tremors. Every little movement of hers seemed to happen in less than an instant—the snap of her gaze from one corner to another, her mindless swipes to catch whatever was causing motion in her peripherals, the twitches and perks of her tail and ears when something felt off—and yet, it was still too slow.
It would always be too slow. She could never catch up.
Within an instant of standing from her desk chair, a sky of stars cascaded her vision, and she lost her balance, croaking weakly as she fell to the floor. Her small dorm room shook with the impact, sending various loose papers fluttering to the ground. One particular page landed delicately in front of her, which she only noticed when she had found the ability to raise her head from the ground. She used her shaky forearms to support herself, her eyes burning holes into the paper in front of her. Upon seeing the dark color of the page and the elegant golden writing etched onto it, she realized exactly what it was.
She pushed herself up to sit on her knees, slowly this time. She reached a clumsy hand down to pick up the paper, but stopped before her fingers could trace the edge, the rest of her body ceasing motion. She knew what this was, and she knew she didn't want to read it. No matter how much time had gone by, she couldn't forget the smooth, black sheets she used to write her letters to Cafe with—nor could she forget the golden ink she wrote with that shimmered even in shadow. She couldn't forget that she wanted every letter sent to their address to be legible in the dim light.
This one never got sent. That was obvious, but it took Tachyon a moment to think about why, her vision going in and out of focus as her own handwriting started to flood her with memories. She flinched as the image of Cafe in their cream blouse and elegant black skirt appeared in her mind.
It had been what felt like forever since the image of Cafe had really come clearly to Tachyon, and infinitely longer since the two had actually spoken. It was a painfully slow falling out; Cafe grew increasingly frustrated with Tachyon's passion, her studying, her dedication to furthering her research about Umamusume. When they stopped visiting, Tachyon began ringing them as often as possible. "Come over," she would say over the phone, "I've prepared a new experiment for my favorite guinea pig!~"
Of course, Cafe would be over before long, albeit hesitantly. As time passed, they'd take longer to answer the phone, longer to show up, and longer to be convinced to participate in Tachyon's experiments, even when they were together. With every visit, Cafe grew distant. Their hesitance had started to shed, as a new skin of resentment grew beneath it—resentment for what had become a complete obsession on Tachyon's part. When they begrudgingly showed up to Tachyon's dorm, it never lasted long. Their phone calls became dry text exchanges. Getting a hold of Cafe became an impossible task.
Then, they stopped. They had stopped showing up, stopped replying, and stopped acknowledging Tachyon's existence. What was once an irreplaceable bond between two star Umamusume became just a vague idea that only truly existed in the past. Still, Tachyon tried. She had resorted to writing letters directed to Cafe, shutting out the rest of the world, and, with it, everyone who tried to reach out to her. She locked her dorm after Digital moved out. Pokke's increasing frustration with being shunned led her to lash out at Tachyon's door, which was met with complete silence. Scarlet, though more distraught than purely frustrated, followed in Pokke's footsteps, eventually coming to the conclusion that trying to get through to Tachyon was a lost cause.
Though, Tachyon didn't see any of it as a lost cause. When she looked ahead of her, all she saw was Cafe.
Pain rolled through Tachyon's belly, sending her headfirst into the present moment. She ignored her stomach's desperate roars and the beads of sweat rolling down her skin. She could only focus on the shiny, golden lettering on the paper in front of her.
My dearest, Manhattan Cafe,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. It has been approximately 28 days since your last text to me. I am no longer told by my device that my messages have been read. I must assume you've changed your cell number. Have you? I'd be delighted to know the best way to contact you now!
I understand that things have become quite close between you and your old "friend". I'd still like to get to know it better. How have you two been? Have you felt its corporeal presence as of late?
Perhaps you've finally caught up to it, and simply don't know what to do anymore. Might that be why you refuse contact with me? We can find the solution, my dearest Cafe! Let's talk about it over a cup of coffee tomorrow.
My dorm, February 14th, not a day later, yes? Consider it a date!
Tachyon only realized her eyes were welling with tears when she couldn't make out the last few words, but she knew by heart what they said. She signed her letters the same way every time. As a tear fell onto the page, staining the golden ink and briefly clearing her vision, she couldn't tear her eyes away. She helplessly read the final letters on the paper.
Best regards,
A. Tachyon~
She couldn't stop it; she lost all control of her body as she fell on her side, her torso slamming into the wooden floor as she broke into loud, ugly sobs. The realization that she could do nothing to get Cafe back always hit her harder than it did last time. Despite how empty she was—physically and emotionally—-her body felt so incredibly heavy. Before the pain and deprivation caused her to lose consciousness, one final thought pushed its way to the front of her mind.
I'm a lost cause.