Work Text:
Dear Ena,
There's always one thing that describes a person perfectly. Artist, composer, whatever. I'd describe myself as
a fake.
Specifically, one of those bouquets of plastic flowers. At a glance, they look normal. Pretty, even. And then you get a closer, more detailed look, and
the illusion falls apart.
It was never real.
It was a trick.
You were deceived.
There were never any flowers.
Just a crude imitation.
You never knew the real flowers. You never will.
And one day, even plastic flowers wilt.
Goodbye, Ena.
Maybe in another life the flowers were real. You can still find some. Not these flowers, but other flowers, elsewhere.
Just leave these ones where they belong.
I love you.
— Mizuki ❤︎
...
There's an abundance of tear stains on the page.
It's unclear who they belong to.