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his lengthy eyelashes flutter in obfuscated blinks, the abstruse dream becoming a nebulous memory that was abundantly onerous to recall. it was embedded with a plethora of broad mist, enveloping the poor memory—no, was it a dream? a fantasy? a mere delusional scenery which his mind fabricated from the particles of despondent isolation? he didn't know.
was it a nightmare? was it a dream of immense joviality?—he had a sundry of inquiries, but it all seemed to dissipate. the tender sensation of a flower crown placed upon his head was a fond feeling he was unable to forget, how could one fail to remember the grandeur beauty of the flowers that was wreathed together as if it was a natural phenomenon? he was utterly speechless that someone would offer him such artistry, but who was it? who gave it? he wants to remember.
"i love you." the voice reverberates—but it was no act of confession. then what was it? simple. it was a definition of the flower that were coiled together; was it a rose? no, it was highly unlikely for it to be a rose. the flower was related to friendship, they had vaguely stated it.
"good evening, sleeping beauty." an individual stood at the door, their form leaning against the doorframe with a bowl in their hands. "you still look half asleep," they scrunch their nose with a snicker, sauntering towards miyamura, who was sitting at the edge of his bed; blinking befuddledly.
"here, i made you miso soup. its pretty average so don't expect it to taste like some five star chef's dish." [name] delicately placed the bowl on his varnished, wooden coffee table near his bed. as miyamura weakly chuckles at their remark.
[I had to fucking check episode 7 to confirm if miyamura actually had a table or not </3 srsly the effort i put into this book]
"you didn't have to."
"your welcome."
miyamura kneeled down infront of the table, inhaling the warm scent of the familiar dish, before indulging himself in the warm brew.
