word count: 431
author’s note: so school is finally over me and a particular scene from one of my mother’s filipino soap operas inspired me to write this. this is written with a different writing style, using only pronouns rather than names. please feel free to sub in your own favorite character! (i personally subbed in daiki). i also used female pronouns for the reader, and i apologize sincerely to those who do not identify with these pronouns. however, i do guarantee that future scenarios and drabbles will be written with they/them pronouns, unless requested otherwise! anyway, onto the drabble! i hope this is heartwrenching enough -insert demonic emoji here-
The walk is treacherous. The rain seeps through the fabric of her clothes and her heels sink into the dirt on the floor. Everyone shares umbrellas yet she walks alone in the pouring rain. She has begun to push people away. She has become detached, and no one, not her best friend and not his, can help her at this point. She does not want to be helped.
Everything everyone says is bullshit anyway. She does not buy a single word and she did not ask for a single one.
She has never been one for words of comfort, preferring hugs and soothing touches instead, but hugs and soothing touches are no longer the same if they are not from him.
What she needs is him. Not an umbrella to keep her dry, but him to keep her warm. To keep the blood coursing through her veins. To keep her alive.
This is not a problem that her best friend or his can counsel for the both of them. They’d always been a slightly problematic couple with personalities all too similar. Yet, they always found each other when they needed to.
The walk is treacherous but the feeling of rain seeping through her little black dress and the effort it takes to unsheathe her heels from the damp ground is nothing compared to the effort it takes to survive every passing second like this.
She has stopped crying. She has stopped screaming at people. She has stopped punching the wall. She has stopped acknowledging the looks, whether in pity of in judgment.
After having weighed her options, she has decided that wherever he is, sinners don’t belong there. She does not belong there.
And she has decided, that it is better to just not feel at all.
The condition her heels are in compares not to the condition she is in.
“He’s happier now.” No, he was happy with her, she was happy with him, and they were completely fine together-- that simple.
“He’s in a better place.” But where is she?
He is in Heaven-- entertain her. Alright.
Except what does that matter? She is in Hell and they are apart.
As he stands under the black tent, she recalls his words. “Wear white,” he had said as he held her hand on the cot and as she begged him not to got, “I’m with you.”
Hope. How can something symbolize hope when there is none?
On the other hand, black is symbolic for many things. Her feelings, her life, his death, their love.
Black has always been her favorite color anyway.
