𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐔𝐑 ❈ 4NEMO
❈ "Up there on the stage with you, someday." ❈
In an untimely season, a songwriter and his friend decide to assemble a short-term musical group-momentarily setting aside differences and dislikes to fulfill a childhood dream. With...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
They are always repetitive—the days, you mean.
If a chance presents itself to change the routine of your everyday life, you'd say it's a slim one, though you welcome any percentage. Anything to get rid of the monochromatic boredom in the supposedly colorful life.
Okay, perhaps you're exaggerating—life isn't that bad, but still.
With a feeble hum, you draw onto a piece of paper in a bluegreen—as your Crayola labels—color, a winged symbol. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual wings with a few flairs here and there.
They aren't meant to be special—not yet, at least—just another doodle in another sketchbook that will be forgotten under the closet. You promise not to forget about it, but you have a bad case of forgetting promises.
There's a clear difference between forgetting and not doing, as you like to emphasize to your friend. Ah, speaking of.
"Hey, hey, you're leaving tomorrow, right?" the giddy voice on your right makes you roll onto the other side away from him, leaving the doodle and crayon behind.
You groan, stretching your limbs and sighing.
Leaving... you didn't think that such a day would come, but alas.
"Mm.." is your response—bland.
Smack!
"Ow—Kaeya!"
The boy, older than you by a couple of years, snickers as he continues to smack your back with a yawn. He does an incredible job of being indifferent to your whines. Thinking nothing of it, he resumes messing around.
It's always been his favorite pastime before he's taken away.
You despise it, but hey, he's a brother figure for a reason.
"Hey, hey, aren't you excited?" he hums, taking the piece of paper you've been drawing on and flopping onto the couch, surveying the drawn figure.
With the little concentration you have—as expected of a child seven years of age—you turn to the plate of sweets on the table, standing on wobbling feet to reach the chocolate muffins. But alas.
You're too short. Or maybe the table's just too tall.
