Fragile Line, Megumi Fushiguro.

000, love is unmeasurable.

Life was a flower.

It sprouts with colour, with flavour, and relishes the world's air – alive and yet untouched. It stands tall, petals gushing, in all its glory.

Kurōzu Sora is blooming.

She takes her first steps in a field of grass, the very flowers engulfing her miniature legs whole. She topples, the green tangling between her feet, and the scent of dampened flora clouds her senses. The spring breeze is lighter that day, and the sun shines brighter.

The girl now celebrates her first birthday. People surround her (Some she does not recognise). Laughter surrounds her. Firm hands grip her underarms, holding her up as she attempts feebly to blow the fire the candles held. She fails – eyebrows furrowing in despair. Before the girl could realise that the flames were, in fact, not diminishing, her mother had blown from behind, unbeknownst to her.

Dressed up, like a little, sad doll, the young girl – now three years old – is held by her father, in his trembling, shaking arms. He too, wears black. People, with their dark coats, and dark eyes, look down (Some she does not recognise). They too, wear black. They are eerily silent, and they dare not meet anyone's eyes. The little girl feels puzzled tears build in her eyes, the mere dubiety ravelling her heartstrings as if they were child's play. She does not know where her mother is. She cannot find her mother.

Love was unmeasurable, her grandmother explained. Love was so unmeasurable, that the grief her father felt when her mother passed exceeded every feeling his conscience had. So, her grandmother spoke, he left you to be with her. Love was unmeasurable, she learnt, but love killed. Love carelessly scraped the remnants of your mind out so the only thing you could think with, was your heart. And so, the girl – still naive with youth, although devoid of innocence – waits as her grandmother adorns her in black once more for her father's farewell.

In present day, she is still a child, if sixteen is considered such, and her hands twitch with blood. Blood of her own, and blood of others. Her eyes are dulling, her bones are numbing, but gradually. She is not dead yet.

Life was a flower.

Kurōzu Sora is withering.