SUPERMARKET FLOWERS ( t. oikawa )

01 | the smothering lies

You told me, told me, told me, whispered to me under the caress of moonlight, beneath the dying cherry trees. Made me believe I was an angel. Your beloved angel. So why, why-

-why did you tear my wings?

TICK. TOCK. TICK. TOCK.

Clocks are precious things. They are transitory. They are was and is and will. All the possibilities. They measure all the probabilities, the 'what if's, the 'should have's, the 'we will's. They are precious and genius, and special. Clocks are inside us, they tick and tock until we take our dying breaths. Clocks are useful. Clocks inside us make us prove that we're alive.

Mana hates clocks.

She hates the idea of measurement of time. She thinks that measuring time will prove no value in regretting those 'what if's. In rectifying mistakes that can never be corrected. In planning things that will never happen.

She hates the prospect of things that will stop ticking.

Mana is a dead clock. She has no proof that she's alive.

Right now, in this quaint coffee shop, as she flips the pages of the book she pretends to enjoy, and sipping the coffee she pretends to like. She's hollow. Her clock has stopped ticking, she thinks. She cannot hear it anymore.

She can draw comparisons to herself, make similes and metaphors. She's good with words, and right now the closest comparison Mana can draw to herself is a damp firewood. Wood no longer able to ignite, to burn. Wood that no matter how hard Oikawa tries to pour gasoline on can no longer burn.

And the questions are pointless, even irritating. He should know by now; if he hadn't missed all those dates, those special days, he would know. He told her he loved her.

If he did. If he did, he wouldn't bother himself with asking.

It's pointless now.

A waste of oxygen that this dying world is so scarce of.

"Are you ready?" Mana thinks that the question is pointless, even dumb. No one is ready, we're never ready.

Instead, she nods.

Her life is composed of 'instead's and 'what if's. Things that could have been or should have been if she weren't so... weak.

... ah... the dying, little marionette.

"First question," he says with that smile that makes all those fan girls melt. "What color do you prefer?"

It should be obvious by now. To him, to Oikawa who she's been with in this relationship for almost years. "Mauve."

He pouts, and she can't help but roll her eyes. "Not like that!" he says as if she doesn't know her own favorite color. How dare he? "What color do you prefer? Mana, you like so many things that I'm confused with. What color do you prefer using? Like in clothes and stuff?"

"It's different?" she asks dumbly.

And Oikawa actually laughs as he pressed his forehead to hers. It's so cliché that the old man sitting in the corner of the coffee shop wrinkles his nose in disgust. He mutters something unintelligible and the little girl who was waiting for her mother actually looks envious. Mana blushes a pale shade of pink, because even though she's trying so hard to fight it, hormones overpower her.

"You're so cute."

She just closes her eyes as he cups her cheeks. "Mana, you love mauve. Especially when the sun sets on the horizons and it bleeds those different colors; you like mauve because when the dying sun rays strike the dark clouds, you love the way it creates that color. You are fascinated by it and it's in your eyes every time you see it, am I right?"