the librarian ❆ kagehina

a week without coffee.

tobio has not come to the library for a week.
seven whole days have passed, shōyō having worked six of them, and he never came back.
he doesn't know what he expected, truthfully. was tobio going to barge in and run to him, locking him in some kind of theatrical kiss-and-cry moment? was he going to sweep him off his feet and disappear beyond the horizon where they'll live happily ever after? honestly, shōyō thinks, he's read too many fairy tales, and none of them will ever become his reality, no matter how badly he wishes he could undo what he'd done.

shimizu could tell something had gone wrong, but when shōyō only mumbled small responses to her considerate inquisitions, she simply let him be. he was a bubbly boy, but for some reason, he'd lost his luster; whether or not she was biased, she wouldn't admit, but she wanted to end whoever has dulled shōyō's shine. nobody was more deserving than him, she believes.

work was undoubtedly slow. foot traffic was nearly nonexistent a few months ago before the one regular campusgoer made the library his playpen, and now that he is gone, the space is bone dry. the books whisper no more, and shōyō has not found the motivation to care for them. he hasn't read in a week, hasn't dusted in a week, hasn't really spoken or breathed or lived in a week. the candy red apron was a dark, aged maroon, his hair was frizzy and unkempt, his skin was dry, his lips were bitten, his everything was askew. nothing was more
pitiful to the human eye- a boy stuck in unreciprocated love is one of the saddest sights of all.

so, for a week, he's lived like a ghost, only leaving behind small trails like crumpled up dark ink drawings in trash cans and dirty mugs of half-drank tea; despite his crippling exhaustion, he hasn't had any coffee lately. he can't stand to taste it.

the world shed no light on his pale face, and he did not beg it to. he only wished for one thing: to be forgiven.