Chapter Text
Whenever eyelids flutter closed, an image pops up. Recently, there's just one thing haunting his dreams and his wake hours. When exactly this all occured—he can't recall precisely anymore. It feels like so long ago.
One thing that's clear to him in remembrance is Tsumiki's smile. Kind and gentle, the upward tilts of her lips' edges. Warm. Something he took for granted.
It was a warm summer and Tsumiki was smiling that type of smile again. The heat made their clothes sticky to the skin and their home was empty—Megumi's Dad never came back after all, and so was the case with Tsumiki's Mom. "The kids at class," he remembers his younger self said, "They had this.. game.. thing." It seemed fun, he never said. He also wanted one, he never said. But Tsumiki understood anyway. Because she, too, perhaps felt similar things—the only things they had in this world were each other's presences. And while gratitude is given where its due, humans often cannot keep themselves from wanting.
Wishing.
She nodded and replied, her voice crystal clear, "I want this novel my friends like."
And it spurred something in Megumi.
"Me too. I want a..!"
What did he want?
What did he want—indeed. There were so many options he could've said to her. Consoles? Books? Pets? Or parents who were actually there? Now he knows she was encouraging him to speak up—later as they got older, she would've told him more calmly that he needed to stop burying so many things in when a lot of things are better when said and communicated. That was why she said what she said. But back then, Little Him was just happy someone understood. It spurred him on—yet halted him on his tracks. What did he want?
(In hindsight, maybe all he wanted was for people to stop leaving. Lack of permanence is a scary thing.)
He didn't answer her that day.
Today, he turns off the lights of his room with a heavy sigh. It resounds in the silence.
If someone—anyone—another person had asked him, today, what he wanted. Whether the question was presented similarly—hidden behind a shared story—or as direct as inquiries typically come; his answer to himself would've been one thing.
Tsumiki.
He wanted to see her smile again, those unique grins that stayed ever-present even when summer came around and the heat made them both ridiculously sweaty. The melodious tune his sister's voice always takes when she was happy and the way she chided him whenever he acted out of line or too impulsively. Her presence—just her presence is enough—she was his saving grace before anyone else was ever important to him, his sister was the light of his tunnel before anyone else even gave him the time of day. In his mind's eye, flashbacks of how he often didn't listen rewind. How ungrateful, unaware he was. In his mind's eye, regrets pile up into something that swallows him whole. Into a monster called Guilt—and it haunts him for days and years to come.
If someone—anyone—another person had asked him, today, what he wanted. Whether the question was presented similarly—hidden behind a shared story—or as direct as inquiries typically come; his answer to their question would've been one thing.
Nothing.
He wants and wants and wishes and wishes so desperately for the curse to be undone, and yet the universe doesn't operate on miracles. It doesn't grant every single desire or dream. The world is selfish as much as it is godless, lawless. It operates on its own rules, plays favorites and condemns the unlucky. And when you want, want so hard to the point your past liability and wrongfulness suffocates you full force, the universe pays it no heed and grants you nothing. Megumi knows. Sinners atone, they don't get to desire and wish for a happy ending. And this is his sentence—his fault is taking Tsumiki for granted.
(And yet, maybe if he stops wanting, the thing he most wishes for will give him a chance. Humans often cannot keep themselves from wanting.)
Whenever eyelids flutter closed, an image pops up. Recently, there's just a hard-pressing guilt and its weight against his chest. The brand of those who committed a sin.