𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙀𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙀 - 𝚔𝚒𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚜𝚊

xi. thus it traveled like ripples

Light.

It was something that could be seen each morning after waking up. Yet no one had ever deciphered the true nature of the light. For instance, how was it that light could be so apparent even without mass, but still behave as a particle?

I was able to perceive things, all because of this mysterious splendor as light.

It could be reflected, just like how I was looking at this mirror.

I didn't really care about my appearance; looking presentable and simple was always enough for me. Well, all that mattered was I am so damned awesome. That is, for sure, a fact.

The mirror was still fair-looking over the wooden frame. I stood and stared at myself, or at least the flipped image of myself. This was the appearance showed to the world's eyes, what society saw . . . And somehow, it didn't seem to be right. Inside, I am an explosion. I had a soul that was made out of tear-stained pages of books about rage, affection, frustrations, ambition, and fear.

All they were seeing was midnight blue hair and a pair of steel blue and russet brown eyes that could forget one's identity.

Those every shallow part of me.

I ran a finger to the fraying strands of my cluster-like deep, blackish-blue nebula hair on my face, feeling the fragile strings and traces of water beads layered within.

Beneath this facade wallowed brokenness and filth, yet I did not need any fixing or restoration, because I, alone, is enough. I wouldn't call myself beautiful . . . because I'm simply awesome.

I smiled confidently.

Then it took me by surprise when I noticed Kiyoomi standing behind me; I caught his reflection from the mirror.

And he only regarded me in bemusement. "What are you doing?"

Putting my chin up, I returned the question, "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "You've been staring at the mirror for like eight minutes." Then he continued his pace, and seated on the couch to wear his socks.

For a mere second, I swiftly gazed at him and grabbed my hair comb to give my locks a few strokes. "Just thinking that my thighs are so thicc."

Kiyoomi became motionless as I watched him from the mirror. I bit my lips tight, enough to suppress my laughter at his reaction.

Well, that's true, though. And there were no days I didn't have a mental breakdown about it.

With an empty expression, Yoomi-kun pivoted his head in my direction. He even rubbed those 'seriously?-you-are-telling-me-that?' and 'you-are-an-idiot-really' looks on me.

"You don't have to tell me that," he commented, annoyed.

"What?" I defended, giving him a lopsided shrug. "You asked."

"Tch." He let a sharp tone between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. "What's wrong with that? It's normal; you have the physique of an athlete . . ? Or some sort."

After hearing him, I made whining, pouting sound noise, as I stomped my heels on the floor. "But it's not normal for most girls!"

He stood up, not letting me show his frown. Kiyoomi looked sated from my complaints. The shadows under his deep-gray eyes betraying his indifferent face, but he was composed—so much, in fact, that his steady gaze seethed through me.

"Are you done?" he retorted without enthusiasm. "I thought you're more of a gentleman? Than I am? Right?"

I internally gasped! He remembered it well!