mirror, mirror | keiji akaashi ✓

[3/7]

3/7: DISGUST

But there was one person. One boy.

One boy who would notice if one day she wasn't there. One boy whose eyes didn't glide over her like she didn't exist.

One boy who never looked at her in disgust, never sneered or smirked or spread rumours.

Keiji Akaashi, second-year, vice captain of the volleyball team, the only one who saw her as seperate to her ghosts, as seperate to her labels. The only one who saw her as a person.

She never could bring herself to look at him. She always looked from the corner of her eye, beneath her eyelashes. She didn't want him to see her, her ugly disgusting face.

But he wanted to see it more than anything. He wanted her to show him her, what she really was.

He tried, he tried a number of times, to talk to her, to call her back after lesson and ask her a question about something he'd missed, to tell her she'd dropped her pencil. But she had mastered the art of escape, the art of evasion, and he never really saw her, not fully. She always disappeared before he could get a good look at her.

But Keiji was determined. Every time she was in the room, his eyes would seek her out, as if she was a magnet, a flame in the dark which he was instinctively drawn to. It was instinct. It was rooted deep inside him, this need to see her, to see her face.

He wanted to show her what it was to be a part of the world, not stood on the sidelines, detached, retracted from the world.

Without evening knowing her, Akaashi knew she deserved someone who loved her, someone who would show her where her true beauty lied.

Akaashi wanted to be the one who got rid of her ghosts and showed her how to love.