Chapter Text
I think our destinies had been written amidst the cosmos before we were even conceived, before we were tormented by the blessing of love, of life. Have you ever believed in fantasies? Do you think we have encountered each other, even once, in the galaxy that has become a home to countless souls? Do you think we were merely miniscule flickers of light before we were thrust onto the pathways of who we have grown to become? I will always believe that there is a universe where I am coexisting with you, loving you, for I am forever yours — and yours alone.
Crimson stains your fingertips, the same hands you once used to hold me painted anew by your sins. Concealing myself beneath your vermillion facade, I remain a fool in love. Is this what it means to be delirious, knowing I could never despise you, despite the damage you could inflict? There is not a single nerve in my body that has been programmed to perceive you as an enemy. There will never be.
You absorb curses, but somewhere along the way, our generation has been cursed before we even realised it; we are portrayed with the title of those who have fallen upon the concrete, bruised and bloody, and as a result, we have grown up faster than we should have. We have been blinded by carnage and loss. Red is the colour of blood. You could not have saved me when I couldn’t save myself from the beast known as my own competence, nor could I rescue you from your despair when you demonstrated no signs of wanting to be rescued.
When the burden of living oppressed me until I couldn't breathe, you beamed at me until every ounce of my misery dissipated, abandoned in the haze of summer and the whimsical mirth of having the opportunity of being a child, all at sixteen. Children — was that what we were when I stared at your retreating silhouette, consumed by a torrent of civilians in Shibuya? Your shadow disappeared from my sight, something akin to rage and simultaneously heartbreak enveloping my core, as if those despicable emotions could be foolish enough to dream of offering me solace.
I wish I could thank you, but what is the point of being the strongest when he couldn’t even cremate the corpse of someone, even if that someone meant the world and beyond to him? I loved you, loved you until my insides took the shape of an apple being preyed upon by maggots, loved you to the point where I would have let the dagger within your grasp pierce through my skin. This wasn't enough, was it?