It's too bright outside for him to sleep, or so he tells himself, but his insomnia has nothing to do with the incurable ache blackening his broken heart. It can't have. He sighs as he rolls on his side, catching a glimpse of harsh flureoscent light and blinking numbers, angry and red.

4:37 AM

He's getting worse. So much worse. He's going to have to drop out of school if these sleepless nights persist, despite exceeding in all of his classes and achieving unimaginably good grades. It's a shame, for such raw talent to be rendered worthless.

His parents are worried. Sometimes Momo is too.

Kisaragi Shintarou is falling from grace and he didn't even have to jump.

She was his friend - he had a friend - a friend, who existed in solid flesh and with blood running through her veins. She had a loud, thunderous heartbeat, rows of somewhat imperfect teeth lining her upper and lower gums and eyes complete with pupils, scerlas and irises the colour of overcast skies when they should've been bright with flecks of gold to match her cheery and light disposition.

She was the sun that lit up his world every morning on the way to school, the sun that told him to rest easy every evening, and her light should've stayed with him. Only it didn't, and there's nothing else to it, because an absense of light leaves only darkness behind, and when everything is dark, the world sleeps and the story ends there.

He'd stopped wearing his red jersey so long ago. What was the point? He never was a hero and never will be, not now, it's impossible! There's no way he could ever redeem himself after he failed to save her! If only he'd noticed, if only he'd read between the lines and watched her carefully, maybe he would've seen something, maybe-

Maybe it isn't too late.

He kicks off the blanket wrapped around his legs and sits upright, suddenly finding himself breathing heavily. He fumbles slightly and reaches for his bedside table after running his hands through his tangled hair, rubbing at his tired and tortured eyes.

His fingers are quick to find cold metal and a sigh born of bliss and relief escapes his lips. She couldn't cope with her life and still no one knows why. He swallows hard but his throat and mouth are both as dry as scorched concrete.

The metallic blades of the scissors are long and broad, reminding him of their true home. They were used in the kitchen where his mother cut meat with them, refraining from using knives as alternatives. He opened the scissors, pulling the two blades as far apart from each other as possible, before leaning in until he cold feel one on either side of his neck. He steadied his hands and took a deep breath, feeling the metal shallowly cut into his skin.

And then he took the plunge and opened his throat, forcing the two blades to meet once again, to find one another after such a long seperation and red, red and more red ran down his front, dying his grey shirt scarlet. He closed his eyes and he could almost feel her arms around him and for the first time since he'd seen her last smile, he was reminded of happiness.

When he woke up, the world was black and he wasn't entirely sure who he was, but he couldn't stop the maddening grin from spreading across his lips and the laughter bubbled at the back of his throat until his insides squirmed and she screamed something which could have been his name, but he wasn't certain.