heartache | t. muichiro

torment and tears

「

"and after all the torment, he didn't cry. no, he couldn't cry. if he were to cry for anyone, it'd be for her and who she used to be."

」

Dreaming.

What a wonderful thing.

The ability to escape from reality for just a minute, and create one of your own. Each memory in your brain eradicated whilst you surrender yourself to the unfamiliar new worlds your consciousness would bring you to.

You could feel the earth under your feet as you stepped forward, the dim and dull colors of your world disappearing into a world of saturation and bright light. Warmth enveloped your body as you stepped out into the sunlight.

An outstretch of green grass and groves of trees laid innocently in front of you like it was waiting and begging to be explored and loved.

A light, harmonious laughter erupted from you as you ran. Your heart thrummed furiously in your chest at each change in pace and your breathing quickened.

But this warmth soon escaped.

A coldness hit your senses as clouds began to cover the sun, a heaviness in your chest as your eyes dimmed.

You wanted to go back.

--

"L/N!"

You groaned and lifted your head off the desk, your eyes half-lidded. "What?"

Mr. Iguro, your homeroom teacher, glared at you. Yellow and blue narrowed before he clicked his tongue behind his large mask. "There's a reason you're failing this damn class. Doesn't your family get tired of all the disappointment?" His venomous tone couldn't phase you.

Restraining the urge to roll your eyes, you lifted your pen and put it to paper.

It's not your fault that your social life was taking up all your time anyway. Chatting away was basically your job in this class, was it not? Your eyes grew heavier at each word and you sighed.

School wasn't exactly your thing. Everyone knew this already. What's new?

You ran a manicured hand through your hair, scoffing. Your teachers always looked down on you anyways. The way you always rolled your skirt up, how loud you were, and how you did your makeup everyday. Not that you cared.

The classroom had a low roof and a green chalkboard, light peeking from the closed curtains and shining onto the desks closest. Small white letters contrasted the green, you could never decode Mr. Iguro's handwriting, as you squinted in an attempt to make sense of where you were. Your sleep-addled mind could barely handle the light from the windows.

The warmth from the dream was now gone and replaced with a harsh shiver own your spine, each finger of yours twitching with unease.

The shuffling of paper and a harsh slam against your desk had you wincing and looking down. You hated how your teacher did that whenever you got a bad grade.

Basically all the time. Red pen hit your gaze, and you read out the letters. Large ones, at that.

FAIL.

You weren't surprised. Your textbook had been collecting dust bunnies at this point from how little you opened it let alone touched it, so you didn't expect anything above a near-fail or fail. I got a fifty-nine percent, and I didn't even study. That's a fucking accomplishment.