when i open my eyes, i know i will see you and me you will see

“I liked them,” Morgana confesses. “Akira thought I was his best friend.”

When he returns from his fight against an aggravated Dark Pit and an even more aggravated Wolf, Akira expects nothing out of the ordinary as far as the Smash House goes. (And yes, he can’t believe it’s actually called that.) Maybe he’ll find Lucario and Sheik meditating in the common area despite the noise level around them, their concentration unmatched. Or he’ll bump into a cluster of princesses, each murmuring behind gloved hands, as they sip their tea and stain the rims of porcelain cups with freshly applied lipstick. The typical shenanigans. Akira does not expect the Hylian waiting for him.

SCENE: It is a cool November evening in a quaint café located in Yongen-Jaya, Japan. To the left, there is a creaky staircase leading upstairs, a few wooden cabinets, a fridge speckled with various magnets and papers, and a lit up television on mute. To the right, a door. At center stage, a polished bar top with red cushioned chairs in the front—the meeting ground for friends and strangers alike. An assortment of various items sit on the bar: a potted rice lily, a row of siphon coffee makers, a stainless percolator, white teapots, cups, puzzle books, a yellow, rotary phone, and a bulky cash register. A lampshade in assorted colors hangs from the ceiling. The place is like a time capsule of February 20XX with nearly everything in place but the atmosphere. There are no patrons. Only one person is present: AKIRA KURUSU.

“What is,” —and Goro pronounces it so painstakingly slow— “cháng… shòu miàn?” “They’re longevity noodles. Basically, they’re these uncut noodles that are fried or are in a bowl of soup. You’re supposed to eat them to prolong your life, I think?” “Like toshikoshi soba.” “Yeah, exactly.” As soon as Kurusu says that, he immediately appears crestfallen. “Oh my god. We should’ve gotten toshikoshi soba.”

it is not what it is but what you make of it when you scrub the floor with scuffed hands or meticulously cook a breakfast for one, then two, then three [...]

“You should have dodged.” A trembling fist threatens to suffocate the bouquet of red camellias he purchased at Rafflesia. He doesn’t know if camellias were the right choice or if he should’ve brought over a cup of coffee instead. Not like it matters when the recipient is too dead to receive such offerings, anyway.

So, she pushes this non-issue to the back of her mind like everything else, drowned out by a bubbly laugh, crinkling eyes, a wide, wide smile. As she tinkers with auburn bangs, she does not think about how her dad’s nose or her mom’s brows or her melancholy are reflected back at her. She does not think about how the person confined within the glass is someone she struggles not to be, let alone understand.

i'm carving / i'm starving / i'm stripping the flesh still

People always say crap like “sparks are flying,” And I wanna see if that’s real. If, you know, this is real.

i try not to show i’m sad when they leave home. i know they always come back. i just need to be patient. like any other day, i curl up in my cage and wait.