venus is missing

freesia in retrospect

freesia
innocence/thoughtfulness

"Nothing has ever stolen Oikawas heart", Oikawa's mother would say to her friends, tea at hand in the greenhouse.

Summer was soft and kind in those days.

"Except for this damn garden" she'd sigh, and her friends would laugh "all he talks about are the flowers, the ivy on the walls and the leaves growing roots in cups in my kitchen."

"Just like his mother", her friends would laugh.

It's a summer day, eleven years later, the fans hum loudly, and the cicadas hum in a cohesive agreement. Oikawa's aunt had always spoke of Japanese summers being the hot rods that forged their mountains, melted rock and carved dormant, albeit kind, volcanoes.

There's only a slight breeze, but it brings nothing but a warm draft and humid air— Oikawa feels a trickle of sweat run down his back. Throwing his head back, he lets out a long sigh. The heat envelopes him, curls into his bones and makes him want to drop into the cool soil underneath him. He puts the fern in his hands down, its a vibrant testimony to the humidity of summer, like most things in his greenhouse.

But, unlike eleven years ago, he's alone today. He's alone most days, with nothing much to fill up the empty silences, nothing but soil and the sound of cicadas.

The greenhouse belongs to a large property in the mountainside, its a fine piece of classical Japanese architecture stretched over a
mountain range, beside a small, although busy, town. The mountains are thick with vegetation and house ancient myths of spirits living among the moss and dew. Their people are old and traditional, still believers in these spirits, but they're also warm and welcoming to travelers and the townspeople alike.

Oikawa's mother inherited the mansion from his grandparents, and he now lives in it by himself. The property itself is dense with vegetation, with enough housing to accommodate a small army. The Oikawas were well known for their large bustling families, which all now falls flat.

He stares at the fern below him. At his hands. At his reflection in the greenhouse window. Then around him. He's the only one there. He's been the only one there for what feels like eternity. The ancient mountains, their myths and their passes, all nothing but newborns to him in these morning moments.

Summer has all but lost it's appeal. It stares at him in the face, drips sweat down his limbs and weighs down on his mind. It's lost it's softness.

The feeling hits, that he's lonely— or something of that sorts. He's always been alone, but that's different. Loneliness and being alone are different.

He happens to be in the state of both.

He picks the fern back up, and moves it into the ground, with his tender fingers, he presses it into a small hole in the ground and kneads it carefully into fresh soil. He creates a small circle around it, for water to pool around it.

It's all rather mundane, this routine.

He wakes up, early enough to hear the Brown-eared Bulbul's chirping, and the sun begin to peak over the mountains. He then walks around his garden with his tea, dosed with enough sugar to accommodate his sweet tooth, and makes notes of all the weeds he might have to pull out later. Following that he waters his plants accordingly and drains his pot plants all the while humming some off tune song that's nipping at his brain.

Makki would arrive at ten, on weekdays, to manage the small store. The store, beside the greenhouse would sell floral arrangements, herbs and ointments to the nearby town, and even though Oikawa would never really tend to the business, the customers all knew him by name. Oh Tooru, you've grown so tall and handsome. Just like your father. They would ask him small questions, How're the periwinkles this season? They're getting quite invasive don't you think?