DISCE, OHSHC.

⁺ ♡ a simple game of croquet

Even though there were a million reasons why you shouldn't, you couldn't stop yourself from going to his profile when the last bell of the day chimed. It was a sign of weakness, and you felt terrible for succumbing to it, but you hadn't been able to rid the thought from your head the entire day. All of a sudden, you just had to see him again, look at his face, find out if you were remembering him right. It didn't seem right that he could still exist if you weren't there anymore.

It was a very, very bad idea. You followed the stream of purple blazers out of the classroom, barely aware of anything but your phone in front of you. He was still there. The same as ever, yet not somehow. His eyes were different. Wide and more animated. You stared at his careless hands, the way they slung over railings and shoulders and hips. His smile looked like a foreign entity. It didn't belong on his face, but it beamed out at you like it did.

Why was he so happy?

You never used the word, but his profile genuinely made you feel wretched. An addicting kind of misery that you couldn't get out of. Picture after picture after picture. You stared hungrily at everyone he posed with, trying to figure out who they were. Was it possible that someone could have taken your place? All of these people, who didn't have a clue who you were. Him being the only thing you had common.

Except the him in your head and the him looking back at you were two different people.

He'd posted a video recently. At some kind of event with muted lighting and narrow black ties. You told yourself that you knew better and tapped play anyway.

Someone had recorded him giving a brief introductory speech. His hair was carefully styled and his suit was perfectly fitted, as always. He was calm. Confident. Self-assured. He smiled often and easily. It was more like he was talking to a friend than a room of over two hundred people. You were surprised at how much it hurt, seeing the small movements of his hands, the way they accented his sentences and helped them along.

"Do you like giving speeches?" You remembered asking him once. He'd wrinkled his nose.

"Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"You're so good at it. You never seem nervous about talking to anyone."

"I'm just good at hiding things. I think I'm too good at that for my own good."

"You could never hide anything from me," you said archly. "I know you too well."

He smiled then. "You're right about that."

So many things to regret, you realized. You shouldn't have said anything to him. You couldn't think back on any of your conversations together without shrivelling up.

You couldn't bring yourself to wish you'd never met, though. You weren't sorry about that. You didn't think you could ever be.

"Hello? I didn't know being heartbroken made you deaf too."

Someone was snapping their fingers in front of your face. You hoped against hope that it wasn't who you thought it was, but of course the universe would never be so kind to you as that.

"Hello to you too, Renge."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I was just on my way to the Host Club," you replied feebly. You noticed that Renge wasn't wearing the usual Ouran uniform. Instead, Renge had on a light dress with a brimmed hat and matching parasol. It looked faintly twentieth-century. Renge dug her fingernails into your arm and started dragging you—not upstairs, but outside.

"We're changing things up today. The Host Club has a variety of events that they cycle through for their guests' enjoyment. You'll be lucky enough to witness one such event at present."