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𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝟖
The sheer hint of orange skies of Karumai made its reflection to his tear coated eye. Indeed, he had a nightmare that skated over his mind rapidly pushing thoughts beyond, as his face peered out with worry.
Kageyama Tobio sat in his bed under covers, gripped tightly, guilt and horror filled nightmares of his boyfriend's status. He was nervous, and wary over the past grim series that his mind's unfolded myth his eyes averted to the people on the lone street, hoping to catch a sight to shake him off shock.
"It was just a dream right?" called out he as he reached for his phone that lit.
"A mere dream," he chanted for the tenth time.
Tobio was quite tall, prominent as his figure was carved, he spoke a tone many had been intimidated, which Takao had managed, softening up with little more emotion conveyed. His top was faint grey, the pants he wore white snow, certainly and based on the particles of white that fell to melt with elegance. As he sat still, focused, he watched pedestrians to go past, not minding how busy the variations of the idle people of Karumai, two minutes later, a text came in from his beloved's number.
"I'm sorry," said the message which made his head confused, unintelligently.
He looked at the digital box of text displaying letters, apologetical: I'm sorry, sent 11:45 pm. Forty-six, forty-seven . . . His phone dropped, he began to fiddle with his shirt's hem.
It had taken him three hours to get the next conclusion's sketches, waiting for a sike, or a prank, it was the first time he wanted the simpleton jokes back, he had done a slight cry for the boy's love he knew as ecstasy.
Kai. He must have sent the last maquette at the message regarding Takao's state, who never spilled out more to himself. Dammit, was he going to lose another life? The other lives only six steps away from his, and yet in that small distance that separated them to a series of steps, and at least a few pants echoing, he had never decided going.
"He's going to be gone. Had I not awoken?" called he again. "No, he wouldn't die seventeen."
"He's kept to the smile of thoughts light and idle," he uttered slurred, to stop himself from attempting composed and his sitting hurt and etched with pain. How could he react when he's stiff, main and not being an energetic art?
He twisted his lip slightly, he should have gotten used to death coming rigorously with a counted loss of family, and now second was someone of his lovely yet in truth, he himself, could barely importunate that Takao himself, would be erased, aloof.
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❝ 𝐈𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ❞ ┅━━━┅━━━━⇙
Holy heck! I managed to write a good start! ( I'm not sugar-coating my words because I wrote it, though. ) I can't write Shakespeare. Anywho, the first draft for this whole story was written in poem format, so yes, here you can CLEARLY see that they rhyme at parts, but don't mind them.
Feed me with your constructive criticisms ( because I suck, ) so that even with my shit writing, this story ain't a waste. Though still, I kinda like it because, duh. I wrote it?
Alright. I'm gonna wrap up my TEDTalk. You all better have a great day! Bye!
