(no subject)
Ichigo's door opened and he stepped in. He was home - why didn't it feel like he was? His steps were an empty echo in his mind as they brushed against the gold boards of his floor. He dared to look at his closet. He felt the vomit in his throat and had to turn away, for he could feel his stomach slowly dying.
When had he walked over to his desk? He didn't noticed - he was much too caught up in trying to swallow the permanent lump that had lodged itself in his throat.
Papers were scattered among his desk. Some crumpled, some stained, some fresh. Half of them consisted of poorly illustrated animal beings done with unsteady hands in quivering crayon. She used to love drawing for him. And he never said it, but he loved her drawing for him - made him feel eight years old again, when his mother was still alive and used to smile and laugh and pat his head gently when he passed his kid excuse of a misinterpreted masterpiece onto her.
When had he started shuffling through them? He didn't notice - he was much too busy trying to ignore the little voice that told him he missed her and wanted her there and needed her with him.
His fingers found a drawing that he had not seen before. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he slowly picked it up from the pile - a few flitting away as he drew it up from his dusty desk; had they been gone that long?
His heart gave a hard palpitation.
It was of them. In her own form of art, she had drawn them. Together, simply within each others two-dimensional company.
When had he started crying? He didn't notice - he was much too engrosed in attempting to ignore the fact that the drawings were smiling.
He held the crumpled paper with care and slowly brought it closer to him until his face pressed into it. He had closed his eyes and pretened and imagined that, perhaps if he thought hard enough, the paper could be her and he was pressing himself into her being as well.
But it was only quivered crayon, and he was only a boy who was just a little too late.