oblivioni traditae | bnha

十七

 [20091305-0919-20090311091407]

*

Avenoir

[n] the desire that memory could flow backwards

see also;

[n] a girl and her mother and a night camped out on the couch: a snapshot of what could always be their forever

—the dictionary of obscure sorrows

"[Y/N], DARLING, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME WE TALKED?" 

The silence was deafening, a chasm that swallowed sound like a greedy glutton only to spit up fears in return. [y/n] paused on the stairs, hovering much in the same way a restless specter would. A wisp of a girl floundering between two states, entertaining what ifs and but thens in her mind; a horrible juggling act that she is getting tired of. One hand gripped a backpack strap tightly and the other held the banister with sweaty palms. She had been hoping for a quiet night, one where she could simply hide up in her room with the excuse that she was doing "math problems" to cover her suspicious behavior, when Rokku called out to her a few moments prior. And now?

The girl hummed uneasily. 

"Lunchtime? When you asked me what I wanted to do over the weekend?"

"No, no," Rokku shook her head and twisted around to look at the girl who was still standing on the staircase. A pang of guilt shot through [y/n]'s chest when she saw the dark crescents swooping under her mother's eyes, the faint glow of the television screen touching Rokku's cheekbones and nose while stopping just before her eyes. They glinted under the lowlight, tired, and weary. "I mean, when was the last time we really talked. Really. About your day, or about your interests. I feel like I don't know you anymore. Like you're off in your own world, like you're a different person."

It was true. When was the last time she had an actual conversation with her mother? [y/n] carefully set the backpack down on the stairs and slowly eased her way into the living room, slippered feet shuffling at broken intervals across the slightly chipped hardwood floors. She would creep across the room for a bit then stop and hover in her spot—almost as if she was trying to assuage some sort of fear every few seconds or so before scraping together her courage and resolve to push forwards. 

It wasn't that she was scared of her mother—no, it was just that [y/n] never knew what to make of Rokku's reactions. She could never read her mother's facial features, eyes often twisting the cues from Rokku's face into different emotions. Happy? Sad? Angry? 

[y/n] didn't like guessing. 

"O-oh, sorry, I wasn't aware that I was...shutting myself away so often."

By this time, the teen had reached the couch where her mother was lounging, one hand rested carefully on the corner of a striped zebra-print pillow that she remembered Rokku sewing together as they sat next to each other on this very couch, talking away one night out of many. It was strange, now that she thought about it. All of her nights were so similar that they seemed to blur together—that is, until the first time she talked to that weird purple-haired guy with the sad eyes.