Chapter Text
Chihiro enjoys the stars.
But it’s not her strongest interest. She’s always preferred something more within her control. In a world full of things that she’s had to accept as “the way things are,” programming was not the same case. By knowing the rules, she could break them and use them to her advantage. That’s what it means to be the Ultimate Programmer: to take strings of numbers and commands and build things that are unfathomable to the average person. Programming is Chihiro’s weapon, the one thing she could have her own sense of control over without anyone telling her otherwise. These days, nobody challenges the Ultimate Programmer’s conclusions.
But she still likes stars. They’re far away, impossibly far away. She read somewhere once that most stars are distant remnants of what they once were. By the time a star’s light reaches Earth, there’s a good chance it’s dead.
But when Momota tells her that tonight, she doesn’t say she already knows that. She instead nods, eyes full of awe.
“That’s… really interesting,” she comments, looking over in his direction.
Momota lies with his back on the grassy hills a few hours away from the heart of Tokyo, where Hope’s Peak Academy lies. He rests his arms behind his head, staring up at the sky with his name practically written in it. Luminary of the Stars, they call him. Chihiro remembers thinking, what a cool title, when she heard him introduce himself with it. She suddenly wished she had a cool title, too.
Of course, she does not have that. Chihiro’s not particularly a “cool” person.
Chihiro continues speaking, ignoring the thoughts that cloud her mind. “B-But that’s also a little sad,” she says. “Looking at something and thinking that it’s already gone.”
“That’s kind of the beauty of it, though,” says Momota, his grin not faltering. “I mean, either way, we’ll never know for sure—but even if it’s gone and exploded, it hasn’t disappeared. It’s left its mark in it’s own way.”
Chihiro looks up at the sky again, craning her neck. She wants to lay down, but she feels discomfort at the thought of it. Her dress doesn’t seem to fit quite right tonight. Sure, maybe Momota is also laying down, but there’s a terrifying thought in her head that he will notice something—and then he’ll ask something like, why do you look like that?—and Chihiro won’t have an answer, and he’ll put the pieces together, and he’ll realize she isn’t a—
“You have such an optimistic look at everything.” She brushes a thumb over the the ends of her dress, and she thinks about how out of place she must look. Thankfully, it’s late, and there’s isn’t much to look at besides the sky. Momota will not be looking at her.
(That should be comforting.)
She shifts uncomfortably. There’s a question that burns on Chihiro’s tongue, as always. If he were to look at her, would anything ever make him see her differently?
“Do you ever think space is scary, Momota-kun?”
That’s not what she intended to say.
Momota thinks long and hard about the question. “Nah, not really.”
How strange that is. She remembers when Celestia was discussing a movie that came out recently, one of vampires and other supernatural creatures—she remembers the light sparkling in her eyes in a special way that she hadn’t seen before. She also remembers how fast Momota was to shut it down when Chihiro brought up checking it out with him. He didn’t admit it, but apparitions scare him greatly.
To Chihiro, space is still scarier. Space is real. Ghosts are not. (At least, not in the traditional sense.)
“I think it’s real vast. That can be pretty damn scary,” Momota continues. “But it’s not like it’s out to get ya. It’s a whole wonder of its own, y’know?”
Chihiro wishes there was a way to understand the stars better. Reach out and take them into her palms, deconstruct them like she can with programs and codes. Strip them to their bare components, make sense of what makes a star so fascinating.
But she cannot do that.
She pulls her knees a little closer to herself, her neck beginning to ache from looking up. She swallows thickly. Her heart aches in a way she can’t describe, nor can she figure out why she hurts so much. It’s just like her to cry over nothing, to feel her chest weigh so heavy and make her want to flop over.
But she holds her breath. She doesn’t want her friend to worry.
She can ask her question another day.