Their love was a magnificent tragedy. Lessons of miscommunication, colors, and life all seep into a story of a mourning boy and a sick girl. The moon watched him cry, crying out his first love's name. This time, she had become a resemblance of that...
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"it's rena. i'm forever sorry."
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I can't open the letter. I feel it heavy. The cherries toppled on the ground, the sheets that cover her eyes that I can no longer see. Her brunette hair never lost its color, never hoped to leave my sight. When they ushered me out, I couldn't see mahogany. I mourned for her in the first five minutes, but what happened after? What emotions could I feel? I couldn't tell if it was anger, despair, anxiety... I couldn't name it off the tip of my tongue. It was everything. It was everything I promised not to feel when she was no longer by my side.
I threw all of my values out the window. I stay cooped up in my apartment room, praying for countless miracles so that Rena could magically resurrect. I don't know what time it is anymore, nor the day. Is this what such complex grief feels like? I can't keep thinking about it. I do my best not to shed any tears, but thinking of Rena already causes a deep, sore swelling in my heart. Even when I hit it, it doesn't run away. It continues to hurt and hurt more, becoming sorer.
I don't want this pain to last forever. I would allow it to grow if I had reason to, but Rena has asked me throughout our time together to never let it grow. She doesn't want me to be in pain. I keep repeating it over and over again because it won't stick into my head. I see the letter on the coffee table seven feet away from me. I calculate just for a second how much time I'd waste reaching for it, and how much more time I'd waste being unable to read it.
I feel it retracting towards me, or maybe it was my arm reaching for it. I hesitate, just for a second. Rena wanted me to read this. There are thousands of words in it, I can feel it. I know it'll make me reminisce, the burst of nostalgia causing my throat to get congested. I can feel it coming. I brush my fingers against the lilac-tinted envelope, the flower being a hard coating that keeps me from ripping it to shreds.
I place it in the palms of my hand, eyes blurring my sight until I blink away the pristine tears. I see the flower: a cherry blossom. I'd be damned if it was sakura petals, but I want to call them cherry blossoms this time. The stamp is red, messily stamped as if she had done it herself. It's something to hold special, and I hate how special it is. it's the last piece of Rena that I could keep, specifically speaking from things she'd give me.
