Chapter Text
Speckled moonlight beams onto the worn, darkened desk. Lightly illuminating stacked pages scrawled with looping, artistic characters forming blocks of poetry inscribed with meaning. The poem moves with the hand behind it, of a delicate, lengthy sort, sleeved to obscure deep cuts below. Her bundled, cream sweater defends against the cold drafts emanating from the opened window. She’s listening… The distant sounds of droning vehicles on the fast lanes fuel her thoughts.
Yuri always adored this atmosphere for poems. The slight cold of the night, the ceaseless sounds of civilization, and the pale sister of the earth- The perfect setting for self-reflection. She aimlessly parts at her hair as she muses over the feelings plaguing her.
The literature club- She was expectant of it merely being a place of discussion, of insight. And yet… It’s blossomed. Yuri wouldn’t attest to being the most socially explicable person- She certainly had meager bunches of like-minded individuals, whom she gravitated towards in classes. Yet it was a sort of artificial friendship, born of necessity rather than actual kinship. Her observant, imaginative mind didn’t take well to in-depth conversation or social outings.
That’s why it was such an emergent, welcoming surprise when she found a real sense of companionship in the array of divergent personalities present in the humble group. Such a band of… Unlikely company. And that was her chosen topic, each of her newly-found friends. And how… They each had a fragile, crumbling facade. Perhaps the reason she finds herself so invested in these girls? She’s enjoyed their company long enough to peel back the layers, exposing their struggles. Not… Too dissimilar to a tragic character in one of her novels, she supposes.
Sayori, the seemingly youthful collection of positivity and blundering mistakes, was the real instigator to this investigation into her clubmates. Yuri knew she’d like to believe not a single one of her closer friends knew a scrap of the sea below- Just as Yuri would hope the same about the valley of secrets she hid beneath her own exterior. But the uncharacteristic comments and actions from Sayori had begun to catch Yuri’s keen eye.
Poetry, Yuri would argue, is the vessel from which the soul drips its finer details. And so, Sayori’s poems were candy-coated, blissful experiences- With a bittersweet tinge. Yet always, under the surface… Is a pool of sorrow. If Yuri were Monika, or Sayori… Perhaps she could confront the poor girl about it. She had no knowledge of the finer details, and it could easily be unhealthy. And yet… She would never. She was content to watch from the sidelines, always. A reader of a story. Watching what she likens to a match, a vessel that burns itself out lighting others.
It would be hypocritical, regardless. She would never wish for her own issues to be brought to the forefront. Just thinking about it gave her sharp chills. What if they’ve seen the scars? What if… They are simply choosing not to speak? As Yuri herself does.
She shakes her head, setting down the lilac pen and gazing out into the distant blinking lights from the highway. Natsuki… Was a far more strenuous box to open. It was the biting scorn that Yuri feared. Social interaction was already a hurdle, and negative feelings only deepen her want to withdraw. They were foils, opposites. Perhaps protagonists or antagonists in a novel, or a comedic relationship. Whatever the case, it made her difficult to observe.
A small cut. A bruise, hastily and accidentally left uncovered in the rush of mornings. Small tells. The spite was a defense mechanism, yet to what? Were the markings from conflict with classmates, or… Something else? But even with this… Natsuki managed to be quite attractive, in her own way. An aura of childish themes, with the sting of anger, mimicking her poetry. A beautiful, ornate, stained glass pane. Alluring, artistic- But fragile. When broken, the pieces dig into flesh and draw blood.
Yuri blushes, rouge coloring tingling into her cheeks, accompanying the crimson already placed there by the chilly draft. No. Not… Again. The wounds are still tender. She shakes her head for being so easily distracted, chastising herself.
Monika…. Monika, Monika. Certainly the most outspoken and level of the group. And the most… Elusive. Was it that Yuri’s hypothesis about the shared, deeper issues in the club members was false…? She’d like to think not, and that it was just of a different factor. A different kind of difficulty.
Monika was charismatic, certainly. Attractive, certainly. Her steady authority entailed that people flocked to her. Initially, Yuri considered why Monika ever would lower herself to form a club consisting of a few rejects. And then… An epiphany dawned on her. Monika was a leader by trade, with a guiding hand. And she found comfort, and meaning in that sphere, in that life. However, Yuri was sure that a faint lust for dominion over others was present. Perhaps not in a directly harmful way, but a club wherein you are the sole lead must be desirable to her.
Monika had her way with the subtle, crafted art of persuasion, in the same vein as she had her fitness with looping, spiralling lines of code. Always at the lead, in control. Her darker image was not as clear or even visible as the other members, but it was still in effect. Her leadership and tight hold was similar to a chain or rope. People place their trust in those objects to uphold and strengthen, but they often can become overbearingly tight constraints.
Yuri chides herself on her seeping pessimism as she ponders. Monika’s characteristic style has done a great deal of benefit, especially for Sayori. The two have steadily been sharing each other’s company- A trickle, a slight anomaly at first. Now, they are inseparable. Peeks over the thick volumes Yuri pores over catch sight of held hands. Perhaps Monika will confront Sayori, where Yuri refuses. She studies over this. Her emotions are mixed.
Finally, she removes the bitter writing instrument from her lips, where she has been absentmindedly chewing at the metal tip, and her hand motions swirl a world of letters.
Passerby
Another day, through the squalid metro I walk, on my routes to grander pastures, to realization abound.
I shuffle past a splintered match of flickering, radiant light. Passion, hope, and luminance, in a medley of mesmerizing tenderness. It lights the bitter world, soon to be snuffed out.
And yet, I could not interfere. I was merely a passerby.
A delicate work of imprinted, stained glass ahead. Carefully constructed fragments of tinted storytelling, perhaps soon to be set into the facets of a grand cathedral. It tumbles, splintering into jagged, rough edges that sink and tear deeply into those caught near it.
And yet, I could not interfere. I was merely a passerby.
My eyes meet an ornate set of chains binding livestock from liberation, for the safety of the common people and the prosperity of the owner. They dig and burn, resulting in raw flesh.
And yet, I could not interfere. I was merely a passerby.
The eventual, inevitable draw of sleep pulls at her eyelids to cover those ever-searching irises of lavender. Deafening thoughts. Placing great weight on the mind and body alike.
Yuri finally rests her instrument of expression on the desk, standing from the position she has held for quite the lengthy period. The poem has troubled her. She’ll make a amendment, a pledge to no longer be a passerby. Of course, she could never bear to touch the deeper issues she contemplates directly… But she could grow to interact with them further.
She sets her mind, finally at-ease. She’ll attempt to gingerly deconstruct the wall built between Natsuki and herself.
She would have chosen Sayori.
She would have chosen Monika.
But she has become committed to change. To far-reaching steps out of her small bubble of safe comfort. Perhaps she’ll even grow to look forward to this emotional pain, in a similar fashion to her other tendencies...
Her circadian rhythm finally reigns victorious in the psychological tug-of-war. She slips into bed and gently floats off, her dulled thoughts remaining on a singular color.
Pink.