Unsent (Kenji x Alex, Playback outtake)
Note: Uhhh, I don’t even know why I’m posting this, but it’s been written anyway, so have an angsty outtake from my other fic, Playback, maybe?
Kenji sits on his lookout hill, a can of beer in his hand, his phone in the other.
He dials the same number he’s been calling for months now, his thumb moving of its own accord.
The line rings, and he waits for it – that familiar click he’s now grown accustomed to.
Click.
“Hey, this is Alex. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
Click.
And usually he would hang up by now. The sound of her voice enough to keep him going.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he had words to say.
“Hey, Alex.
It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow.
And I miss you.
I was at the supermarket, picking up groceries for dinner tomorrow, but I realized that the one person I wanted to cook for wasn’t going to be there.
We invited Rochelle to join us, by the way.
… we’re setting up a place for you–
Just in case you can make it.
Ah, Kenji, this is stupid.
I promised you I wouldn’t cry.
Not while I still had hope. Not while you were still alive.
… but it’s hard, Alex.
This feels like giving up.
I don’t want to give up.
Not on you, Alex. Never on you.
Tell me how to make it stop. I want to keep believing that you’re out there.
Send me a sign. Something. Anything.
… God, Kenji, what are you thinking?
Of course she can’t. She can’t even hear you right now.”
And for the first time since that day, Kenji mourns her, hot tears streaking his face.
He doesn’t try to stop them this time, months of pent up emotion breaking through, one resounding thought in his mind – she’s gone.
She really is gone.
He looks up at the evening sky, the tilt of his head slowing down the flow of his tears, but only so slightly.
“I still have hope, Alex. It’s just… hard.
Every day that you’re not here is another day that I have to think about letting you go.
… I don’t want to let you go.”
He takes a long pull at his beer, finishing its contents and crushing the tin can in his hand.
He pulls out the single rose he’d gotten from the supermarket and presses his lips to its petals, leaving it on the same rock which he’d sat on.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Alex.”