Fate. A predetermined supernatural power. The will of the universe. Fate is order. It writes, and rewrites, gives and takes. It spins vibrant red strings that flow into the world and connect people who are destined to meet, to love, to share a story...
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When I get home that night, I use my toes to rip my shoes off and kick them to the side of the rack before storming in, my feet landing on the floorboard with loud thumps.
I know that my father will make a crude comment about the scattered shoes the next time I walk by him, but I can't bring myself to care about that right now. My body is hot from the day's exercise, and yet I feel like I'm filled to the brim with more energy than I can contain. There's an uncontrollable tremble in my hands, and I'm forced to try especially hard to suppress a massive urge to punch the wall next to me with everything I have, right here, right now.
All I see is red.
My mother is resting in the living room, her legs crossed, a book in one hand and a cup of something brown in the other. When she hears me enter, she lowers the book and shifts her attention to me, but I tear my eyes from her and walk straight past, scrambling up the stairs towards my room.
She's been acknowledging my presence lately — with a tight nod, sometimes even a small smile, and I've been feeling pretty good about it. I guess I like the attention, no matter how little of it she's been giving me. But I don't remember why the fuck I've been trying so hard to make things right with her anymore. For years, she's been too busy to even spare me a glance. She's lived her life like I don't exist. So why the fuck should I even have to bother?
I throw open the door to my room and barge inside, shaking. I hurl my bag to the side, all the medals I managed to win today clinking loudly against each other, and for a moment, I stare ahead, at all the distorted scribbling on my wall. The sight kicks up a mixture of feelings inside me, but I'm too angry to be able to pick them apart. They merge together, frantic and messy, and raw heat flares up in my chest. I lunge for my desk drawer, fingers closing tightly around the black marker inside.
I feel like all I'm inhaling is smoke, and fuck, it burns. There's a thick cloud of gray in my head, a horrible itch in my eyes and a fire in my heart. I slam the drawer shut and trudge towards my wall of ink, dropping unsteadily to my knees before it. Strength, I read bitterly, happiness, before I raise the marker and bring it towards Akito's bold strokes of ink, thinking furiously about cutting lines across those words, over and over, because what's the fucking point if I don't get to be with you?
Teeth gritted, I press the nip of the pen to the wall, then press harder, and even harder until it gives in and my trembling hands are covered in ink, because I can't do it after all. I can't fucking do anything right.
I slump forward and let the marker roll out of my hands, dread slowly crawling into my chest when I think about how I'm going to get in trouble for the ink that's now smeared to my pants. My body is screaming for attention, the aching and fatigue from today's events catching up to me all at once, and I feel like I'm going to lose my mind.
And then I see those words, get well soon, in the same handwriting, his handwriting, crammed into a small space between all the other drawings, and my heartbeat starts to slow, momentarily, before I remember everything he said today about me being a nuisance. It all comes rushing back, like a stream of arrows hitting me in all the places that hurt the most. I just don't have time for you right now,he said. Please go. He wouldn't even look at me.
