1.3 | the art of cupidity ✓

09 | libitina

THE UNIVERSE MUST HATE SORA LEE.

This morning, she'd literally fallen out of bed (there's a bruise on the corner of her jaw), slipped in the shower while squeezing out the last of the body wash, and missed her early lecture. So yes, Sora's having quite a terrible morning, and it's a fucking Tuesday nonetheless, and all she wants to do is to walk to Sue's Corner and scarf down some fluffy strawberry pancakes.

She's a brat (Rylin makes sure to remind her all the time with his hands up her skirt), and Sora takes a few deep breaths as she opens her slim notebook to look at the linear algorithms and integrals. Opens the notebook—and then closes it again, because what the fuck? Sora groans internally. She loves math, loves the equations and the multiple answers, but not when she's bordering an intense migraine.

The campus is mostly empty at eight o'clock in the evening, and Sora gathers her supplies before exiting and smiling just a bit as the blue air brushes past locks of her hair. Her boyfriend was dragged out for a night with his friends, and she hopes that he has a great time—just don't let that waitress flirt with you again, Sora had hissed at him, and Rylin flicked her forehead in return.

It seems that her boyfriend just gets better looking as their relationship progresses, and it's a cruel joke from above, because Sora's acne is still present and her hair still turns oily the day after she showers; it doesn't bother her that he sees her bare-faced before she falls asleep on his shoulder, but it certainly did make her consider a few factors.

When Sora realized that Rylin Carter had a better sense of fashion than her, it was ironic in a way, and almost amusing—until they went out and her shirt had three holes at the hem and he stood next to her looking like an angel fresh out of the gates of heaven. But this was a much-needed transition, she'd realized, because Sora had to eventually fix her poor closet and fill it with more sophisticated pieces that won't let people mistake her for a child. Rylin had taken her to the mall and placed so many pieces of fabric on top of her arms that she was afraid they'd fall off, but she was surprisingly giddy. They decided on vintage jeans that were just loose enough for her to comfortably walk everywhere, crewneck sweatshirts, two blouses, and an old-school jackets with patches on the sleeve that was right up her alley.

Rylin, it seems, is surprisingly well off, so he paid and said it was a gift from him, claiming that he'd be offended if she gave it back. So Sora didn't, and the clothes decorate her new closet and she smiles every time she opens the wooden door.

Without realizing it, Sora turns the corner and heads over to the ice rink even though it's Tuesday and hopes—just hopes that rink three will be open.

***

She lies on the ice and stares up at the ceiling, tears staining the bottom lashes before trailing down in a salty mess at the edges of her cheekbones. The pain flares every now and then when she just moves her legs, and Sora really, really hates this day of the week.

Fuck Tuesdays.

Debating whether or not to limp out of the rink, getting up and standing is a whole new obstacle, and the ice is too slippery for her to get a good-enough grip with the blades of her skates. Sora winces and lets out a small, meager sound as she realizes that the only person here is the owner probably still lounging around in his office, so there's no way in hell that he'll be able to help.

With the only last option available (she doesn't want to disturb Rylin; when he texted earlier, it sounded like he was having fun), Sora slips her hand into her back pocket and dials the three number with her vision fuzzy and breath unsteady.

"911, how may I help you?" The operator's voice breaks up, but Sora fills in the gaps and stares at the colorful flags lining the circular room.

"I think I hurt my ankle," Sora says, voice vulnerable and just a bit scared. "And I can't move, so there wasn't anybody else for me to call."