Certainty | Oikawa Tooru

Third Act

Oikawa often found himself wondering if time had stopped since stepping foot outside of the airport upon his arrival in Argentina.

The sun still rose and the moon still waned, and the hands of the clock still turned. The Earth still maintained its orbit around the sun, and when he looked at his phone in the morning each day, he could see that the date had ticked up by one. The birds that nested on the branch by his window flew about during the day, chirping merrily as they scattered throughout in exploration, only to promptly return back to the nest by nightfall.

Yet in spite of all the signs of life that surrounded him, he knew that something was off.

It had been an unsettling feeling nagging at the back of his mind that warned him of the peculiarity. Perhaps it lied in the alteration of his center of gravity, for his very existence seemed to slow down to a halt, or perhaps it was that the rest of the world had left him behind as it blazed on forwards through the construct of time. Too often had he found himself feeling like a spectator in his own life, quietly watching as his surroundings fast-forwarded until he could no longer keep up.

Too often had he found himself wondering when the lonely emptiness stabbing him in the chest would dull — out of focus and out of mind.

For him, time certainly had stopped, because if time could heal all wounds, how was it that this one still remained so fresh? How did the stinging of the laceration in his chest persist through the test of time? Why was it that all his efforts to jumpstart the present — to bury the dread and the regret that seemed to ravage his mind — always fall short of success?

The vibration of his phone against the wooden surface of his dresser interrupted his thoughts, pulling him out of the dreamless void of emptiness his slumber had become and back into the corporeal world of reality. His eyes immediately flew open, his arm outstretched and his fingers by the lock button of his phone before even the first ring of his alarm.

His thumb pressed down forcefully on the button, silencing his device before the speakers even got the chance to ring out. He brought his phone screen to his face, quietly staring back with dull eyes at his lock screen wallpaper — the one with the two of you in front of the school entrance that you had set for him.

Letting out a deep breath, he extinguished the light from his device and threw it onto the other side of the bed as he sat up and placed his feet down onto the cold wooden flooring of his bedroom. He slowly stood up, stretching out his arms as he did so, and trudged over to the bathroom across the hallway.

Just another regular start to the day.

His hand flicked up the light switch by the bathroom door, and he squinted his eyes at the sudden brightness of the light as he blindly felt for the tap to turn on the faucet.

For as long as he's lived in the apartment, each night he would lay in bed staring at the bleakness of the night and wake up the next morning to the sun spilling into his room all in the blink of an eye. It dawned on him that he could no longer recall the last time his unconsciousness had graced him with the opportunity to dream, but he much preferred it this way. He had been haunted enough by the thoughts of you during the day — he needn't suffer through them in the lone hours of the night as well.

As he waited for his cup to fill up with water, his eyes glanced up to the figure standing on the other side of the bathroom mirror. He frowned and leaned forward until he was mere inches away from the mirror, examining each square inch of his own reflection in curious bewilderment.

The fingertips of his free hand danced across his raised cheekbones as he brushed his teeth, and while his touch confirmed his suspicions, he found it hard to believe that the person staring back at him was none other than his own reflection. The figure in the mirror's appearance and presence seemed so different from his own self-image. While he was the textbook definition of handsome, his features sharp and perfectly proportioned, it was clear he looked fatigued and sullen —his eyes hollow and expressionless. It was as if he was incomplete and empty — as if he was nothing but a mere vessel without a soul.