Work Text:
High above a sea of colorful memoria; the surface a reflection of a girl dressed in pastels. Writing a letter in bloodred ink with the same carefulness one would with a newborn. Hundreds of pieces of ripped apart pages—made their slow descent into the waters below. And just before the two could touch, the letters faded into Oblivion.
Black droplets of water fell from the heavens above, freezing the tumultuous sea in its place. Forever preserving the beauty whose entire existence was held there. All these words penned would never see the light of day; this was only an act of self indulgence. An act to satiate her all-consuming obsession—to relieve the target of her affection from the collapsing star that was known as love.
Finally, the woeful author reached the last of her time, the last letter would need to be written. One that would triumph all the rest and become the true canon articulation of everything she meant to this girl with the face of obsession.
Once more, she dipped her quill into her exposed heart and wrote the words she was always too scared to say.
Dear March 7th,
I write this knowing that you would never be able to respond to me. Not in any meaningful fashion. My dear, tell me—what is love to you?
Is it waking up under the stars; journeying across the worlds with the people you hold closest to you? Is it being with someone at every moment seeing every single shade of their soul. The bad, the good and everything in between—and still choosing them?
Perhaps you haven’t even spared a thought to an ideal so far away called ‘love’. Too busy in your life and constant adventures to sit down and reflect on such matters.
So allow me to tell you what my own definition of love is.
I see a girl discovering a world encased in frost. Helping reignite the engine of humanity and shattering the stagnation that had plagued them for so long.
I see a girl immersing herself into a foreign under her own lens. Taking up your arms when someone dared to threaten that wonderful place.
I see a girl waking up from a dream so perfect—that it circled back into being not. All by her own power, all by her lonesome.
I see a girl wandering around a land completely unknown to her for 97 days. No one can hear her sorrow, nor can she interact with the world.
The running similarity between all of these? A wonderful and lovely girl that loved taking pictures wherever the silver rails took her; who would always lend a helping hand to those friends made in the stars. The lighthearted morning to my own oppressive night.
Keep looking forward into the light—let this shadow handle all of the imperfections of the universe in your stead.
Yours truly,
‘Evernight’ ♭