in the wanderer’s eyes, you are amicable, beautiful, and soft with a backbone. he loves you with his whole heart, albeit not the kind of love people fantasize about. love is not fluffy and all giddy emotions or warm hearts to him. love is painful. love is eating him alive.
in his opinion, he is none of those. he is rotten at heart, his is ugly, with scratches on his porcelain like skin spiraling upwards on his limbs, and he is so rude that his words pierce. he fears he will sully you, terrified he is but an impurity in your life who will taint you.
he refuses to let that happen. so no, he cannot give in, cannot admit to you that his pining over you has been brutally murdering him, your soft words skewering him again and again, annoyingly creating a hole in his heart only a certain someone can fill. he will swallow the words he wishes to say every single time, the three words he had practised in the mirror countless times compressed into nothing but ashes to rise from the dust the text time.
and the excruciating process has repeated once twice, three times. a science experiment should be repeated 3 times to ensure reliability, they say. is he so incompetent that he still cannot arrive at a conclusion even after the 3 repetitions?
he cannot fathom why he can’t let go of you. he knows fully well why he likes you— your perfects make up a whole list. but he is the villain. he is trying to change. he should at least not be so ridiculously selfish as to try to keep you all for himself. he breathes.
to him, you remain sui generis even in a crowd. their voices form a cacophony of ignorant fools babbling their incompetent minds away. your voice is what he describes as “grating” or “downright suffocating”, but the opposite is true, and he plays your voice on repeat in your head.
his reticent nature is one you know all too well, and yet you can tell how he truly feels. you notice his fleeting glances at you from across the room, his longing gaze not escaping you. you had wanted to express your feelings countless times, but you remind yourself; he is healing. you will wait.
but alas, a little push never hurt anyone. he is wont to your teasing nature, so when you call him, he does not think too much of it.
Kiyoshi. the name you had bestowed upon him. it had brought him unbridled joy and confusion when he had first heard it, and to this day it still does. kiyoshi, ironically, means pure and soundless.
why would someone ever think he was pure? after all the things he’s done, all the lying, the killings, the crimes-
he breaks his train of thought.
“… [name]. hey. what’s going on?” his voice had an underlying tone of worry— he was always far too cautious for his own good.
“nothing. just wanted to ask you something.”
a pause, and none of you spoke, leaving an awkward silence.
“hello? are you… not going to ask the question?”
“ah. well, I need to hang up now. sorry. I texted you the question. and im not accepting a text response!”
he stares at your text, incredulous. “Will you call me back tomorrow?”
shit. he’s falling far too deep into this rabbit hole, isn’t he?
the next day, he calls you. “hello?”
“oh! hey! I assume your answer is a yes?”
“No. my answer is no.” his voice has an edge to it, as if expressing his defiance.
he can hear chortles of laughter from your side. “kiyoshi, you’re so funny!”
he dismisses the comment, ignoring how his cheeks burn at the comment. not the good kind of burn- the kind of burn that leaves him gasping, needing more.
“shut up. anyways. why go through this wild goose chase? you called me just to ask me to call you? that’s stupid. get to the point, [name].”
you stifle a giggle. “I just wanted to hear your voice, kiyoshi. I can’t see you everyday, so I just wanted to let you know that your voice is really pretty. I’ll ask you another question on text today. remember to reply, only through calls!”
you hang up on him leaving him aching. if he had a heart, it would have squeezed itself so tight it would be left with nothingness. what gives you the right to make his chest clench, to make his knees buckle, to give him hopes of a rose-tinted future?
grumbling, he opens the text.