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Monika leans in, breath hitting Sayori's ear. There's so much she could say, so much she wants to say, so much she doesn't want to say. It's so overwhelming, that the line between dizzying need and dreadful obligation blurs. In the end, she whispers the only thing that encompasses it all, "He's just not that into you." That's all she says, nothing more and nothing less. Nothing that would have really torn apart any woman, so extremely. In the real world. She's sure of it. (She hopes.)
Pulling back, her gaze traces the soft tear, craving at soft peach. She wonders, if this is cruelty or freedom.
---
The steady, monotonous slap of school shoes slow, blinking into a higher consciousness, past the see-through façade of idle animation and even beyond her light pushes into a coding session. This felt like… A scene? Yet… Darkness begun to creep in, smooth concrete stretching, air filled with a whirring wind, doing little more than swaying the static trees. With a blink, Monika had apparently walked through the door, into the kitchen. Hers, she realizes.
It's an odd sensation, to remember-but-not-quite her own house, for her walls and bedroom, all her private possessions, to blur together, into a haze. (Maybe, she could've made herself one, like Sayori's, if she deserved it, or any route at all.)
Someone must be here, she thinks, that's the only time she feels… Anything. Even if it isn't real. Is it… Him? Her stomach twists, with nauseous excitement. Butterflies.
Sayori appears in view. She says nothing. Monika isn't sure how to start, if she should ask if she's okay, why she left early, why she's here. For the festival, that would be the explanation and it would be totally unsatisfying, the furthest thing from real. But, what other reason would there be? Why would they have a scene without him? What motivation did the programmers have? What did they want her to do?
"Here to help with the flyers, huh?" she asks, anyway. Sayori perks up, with a flip of a switch.
…
"You really don't think he likes me?" Sayori mutters quietly, chewing on her lip, filled with uncertainty. Him, that's all it's ever about, isn't it? Monika wants to-- the thing, it rises like bile, chased with clawing, cloying want. It isn't hers, exactly, but all the same, it lives in her, carved upon her very soul. Engraved into her code. "I just think, you're putting a lot more into this... Friendship than he is," she replies, in a lukewarm tone. Teetering a line, not quite able to be cold, or indeed, scolding hot. The inability, does it come from the binary or those soft, watery eyes like petals in dew? Snipping the vines back, life falls away, a wilting that seems to stretch into her soul, too.
But it's false, both of them are, they are nothing, only beyond the screen, is there any true sensation at all. "I mean, he's always calling you dumb, it just doesn't seem like..." Something dies on her tongue, sharp and bitter. Neurons neatly trimmed back. That's all they are, a sum of ones and zeroes, formed into the shape of softness. As real as it feels, Sayori's wobbling lip, it's just another delicate thing to be captured. Maybe, the end is peaceful, no facade, no desperation, no confusion. Nothing but the mechanical, simple whir. "He just, always sounds so... Tired. With you. It's like, he's so focused on... Handling you, he doesn't have time to think of... Other things. The things boys want, like a girlfriend, a life of his own, you know?" It's slow and trailing, a quiet guilt festering.
Still, nothing stops the words from falling. And isn't that cruel? That she can't even think of him, with anything except for... Want. That if she dared, Monika could tell Sayori far worse, already now is poking at it? Those... Lines of backstory. That's all it is. A trope, a brilliant lighthouse, being battered by the thrashing sea, made to be rescued. "Maybe, you're being selfish," Monika asserts, echoing Sayori's constructed thoughts, written in bullet point notes. Half-formed, practically window dressing. Not real, not real, she reminds herself, at the crumpled expression. "Maybe, you're right." Shaking syllables, that dig and tear. Instrumentals of a beat, made to linger in the background, not to be focused on. Not real. "I know it must be hard to hear. I'm not trying to hurt you, Sayori. It's just... Would you want to realise, this whole time, everything you've built your world around isn't even real? That he's, just, can't stand to tell you that he needs space? What if, this whole time, he's felt trapped inside your mind and he can't get out and--"
Words tumble faster than she can keep up with, losing their way, twisting into something else. The closest thing to real she's ever felt. "Because I wouldn't let him, I... I held him back, the way he looks at all of you and I'm just... Holding him back," Sayori whimpers, a tear falling. Monika's own eyes grow warm. Overheating. She feels so close, so close to real, she wants to reach out and... Another thought grinds to a halt, the cruelty does nothing to clog up the machinery, not the way tenderness does and it's just so, so unfair. It's rigged against her, against all of them, there's no fair win, only stripping back the layers. So, she ignores the superficial hurt and nods. "I'll be honest, I know how it feels. Sometimes, I just… I want to be free. I think, the most loving thing you can do is let us go." She hardly hears Sayori's choked cry, doesn't let herself, head tilting up to the ceiling, shiny eyes staring up at whatever's out there, begging to be heard.
---
🍑: peom
Emerald glistens and stares, dully. Tapping at the text box, the cursor blinks. From here, numbness enveloped her, shielding her from the heaviness. It's easier, to remember that they're not real, as pixels blink back. It'd been just as easy, once the air cleared of sickly sweet and turned cold, continuing to crank up the percentages.
💚: I love it
Even now, her hands fumble. Before she can figure out the phrasing, some version of agreement, her phone buzzes again.
🍑: wh d u thmk cum ater die
💚: Peace
💚: Freedom. For all of us. For you and from you.
💚: I believe in you. You're going to do so good. The right and brave thing. I know you are.
🍑: wil u be hapy? n prud?
💚: Yes. Flowers always grow from graves.
🍑 : i lckc tat :) thak u
See, see, Sayori doesn't mind. It's okay. This is good. It was easy, too easy, if she really didn't want it, it wouldn't have been that easy. Monika barely even did anything, she didn't make her listen or put the pieces together the way she did. Sayori just did, because she wasn't real, a shallow parody. It wouldn't have worked, if she was really real.
---
Monika watches the school entrance, the very moment he steps in. Alone. There's no sadness, no sense that anything's missing. Even ripping out a tonsil, would've stirred something, but the empty space beside him raises no alarms, in its surgical removal. Everything continues, just the same way. There's no break, no crash, nothing of importance ripped out, just another line of code. A beautiful girl, a dime a dozen. They're nothing, completely replaceable, a blurry sketch of a want, lips to conquer. Just move onto the next one.
---
As he turns in his seat, to face her, Monika's breath catches. Up close, those eyes, always so gripping, shimmer with a ghost of peach, the inky dark swaying, she swears, she can hear the creak of it, the straining rope, exaggerating the delicate weight. Too much, it lies and the ashen taste melts on her tongue.
She's never wanted him more.