Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.

A/N: My first try at anything dealing with the canon universe, and the result of reading numerous vignettes and procrastination. Also, excuse the title—I made it on a whim. -.-'

A Wish Made, a Lifetime Missed

One-Shot

When her eyes open and the blinding light of morning greets her, she remembers.

The windy song of the forest, the stormy melody of the valleys, the chilly rhythm of a campfire—it rings in her ears then, upon seeing the light, and she remembers those times she was happy. She stares at the light that greeted her years before in the wilderness, awakening early to continue the hunt, and she feels the desire to snuggle back into her covers, remember again, and yet forget it all at once.

But it's imprinted in her mind, a memory set in stone—and she remembers.

She allows herself to finally pull away the blankets, welcome the cool air of the day, and she turns to the window that shines through the light of every century, recalling the times he snuck through and often sat by her bedside, either watching her study or sleep, unaware sometimes that he wasn't as silent as he thought, and she knew he was there. She turns her eyes to the desk across from her mattress, scattered with her high school texts and homework, and remembers how the first night he came to her time to save her from a demon in the present all began with her studying at her desk with two pieces of a jewel by her side.

She remembers that, then forces herself out of the bed, her feet smacking against the floor his so often did, and stands.

She wanders to the desk, so familiar to the present and past, to her days and memory, and grabs its contents before shoving them neatly and mindfully into her loyal, yellow backpack, recalling times where she did the same with food ranging from pocky to ramen, first aid kits, and shampoo alongside other necessities. She zips the pack closed, notices how it obeys with ease, and recalls the times she spent hours trying to close it with great difficulty when trying to not rip it in the process. Then, with a sense of nostalgia, she flings it over her back and thinks, quite sadly, that it's not as heavy as it should be, that something's not right, that she must've forgotten to add something to the mix this time, something important they'll need along the way.

And then she remembers, and sets down the bag with a sigh, continuing to her wardrobe instead.

She slips on her shirts—so many layers now, so less then, so clean now, so covered with stains then—and adds her skirt to the assemble, recalling the breeze of the wind on her legs as she stood firm with a bow and arrow in hand, aiming for a daiyoukai determined to kill the one she wanted to protect most, and how many times her mother and she sew the tears and holes in them, laughing off the worry that suffocated them both over her clumsiness. She pulls on her socks, worn by her adventures and multiple washings, and she remembers tugging them on each morning while he waited impatiently, then slipping on her loafers, minding their tears and supple build before hurrying after him, not wanting to be left behind. As she adjusts her tie, she remembers her old, orange bow from middle school that was used as a hanky on numerous occasions, the one most standing out to her being the night he was poisoned, sweating in his sleep and resting on her lap, tired and wanting just a bit of peace in the chaos of that night.

She remembers this, then stares at herself in the mirror before exiting her bedroom through the door.

She steps down through the hallways he once did, her own mind at ease with her surroundings whereas he was always wondering, looking around in confusion, wondering and wondering and asking endless questions she found herself excited yet tired to answer. She enters the door to the bathroom, brushes her teeth as she usually does, going another morning without breakfast when she remembers again how he would burst through the door beside her on multiple occasions, bewildered and frightened by the strange technology and customs of her home, and how she would have to calm him down and spellbind him to the floor in order to bring about peace once more. She stares into the mirror, at the face that held a resemblance to a woman she remembers quite well, a dead woman who nearly killed her on numerous occasions and caused her heartache beyond imagining. She somehow, as always, doesn't see how people saw them alike, were convinced of their relation, and yet remembers how thankful she was for any reassurance that she was not that woman, that she was someone entirely different, especially if it came from him, who mattered most when it came to matters of both she and her. But she looks deeper, sees the light dimming in her eyes, and bringing an image of the woman to mind, realizes maybe they aren't so different now, that maybe they both were dead on the inside like she was so many years before.

She remembers that, then spits before brushing her hair, grabbing her bag, and heading downstairs.

She leaves her home with a faint goodbye, her mother barely hearing her as she exits, and when she passes by her living room entrance, she recalls the times he spent there, playing with her cat or watching the magic box of mystery that was their television set, her brother behind him after a few showers, drying his endlessly thick hair with her own blow-dryer. She exits the door, sees her brother waiting for her on the shrine grounds, kicking around a soccer ball he'd once used to play with him, one with dents and scratches the teen never remembers creating himself, but she remembers the causes for, yet does not share. He spots her, waves and smiles, and she faintly returns the gestures before looking to the well, wishing and wanting for the familiar essence that connected them physically, where they reunited again and again, and then looking to the tree that bound their hearts and souls, where they first met.

She remembers, then turns away casually and escorts her brother to his school.

They travel down the stairs carefully, but knowing all the steps, recklessly at once, and she recalls how he maneuvered these easily, never once falling and only having to take a few leaps for his journey on them to be done and over with. She assists her brother down them carefully, teetering somewhat with the backpack slung on her shoulder, wishing he was here to carry it for her like he always had, grumbling about her weakness and whining inabilities to do things herself. They reach the bottom and trudge down the street, easily reaching the middle school where she drops him off, leaves him on his own while spotting the spot he, years ago, confessed to his secret crush on the playground, near a swing set, where she and he hid behind a bush and observed his progress.

She remembers this, then fights the desire to relive it all as she moves on to the intersection where her school awaits.

Amongst dozens of citizens, she waits for the light to change so she can cross when she spots silver, thinks of him, remembering the thick weaves of moonlight in her fingers, the soft velvet of triangles underneath her palms, the endless waves of white that went past her skirt as she embraced him, his warmth, his entire being, after thinking he'd died protecting her, all of them, in that explosion on the water. She spots the silver, and that's all it takes for her to pay closer attention, to note the business suit and cell phone in his hand, the braid binding the silver locks, and the convenient hat on his head, covering the giveaway of his true identity from the world surrounding them on this corner, with their shoulders nearly touching, hands less than an inch away.

She remembers it all, everything and every single little detail, then tears cloud her eyes as she waits for him to notice her, just to fulfill her desires and make her heart beat like it used to.

But years have passed, and he doesn't recognize her like he once did.

He doesn't remember her or what they've been through.

And she faintly wonders if, by chance, she somehow manages to catch his attention, make his eyes turn towards her, if he would even briefly wonder her existence and why she looks familiar. She wonders if he would remember her scent, taste, and touch, if he'd even recall her voice or the color of her eyes, her likes and dislikes, the good and bad habits that brought them together and tore them apart.

And then she remembers.

She wished for this. Wished to remember. Wished to be the only one who remembered. He could live forever and never recall her existence within his own, the fights they began and withheld, the promises they made and held dearest, the tender moments she cherished and he avoided, the love they shared and embraced, refused to let go of despite their better judgment.

Though this saddens her, she knows why it exists, why it is this way, and why he'll never remember.

She made a wish upon a silly jewel no one remembers existed besides herself during a journey no one will ever recall if they did not bear her name, birthday, and life.

And now, she only remembers how things were and desires for what they could be.

And this is why when the light changes and he passes her to enter the street in a business suit, in her time, she does nothing but watch and wonder—at first.

She had made a wish for only her to remember their legend, and consequently, missed an entire lifetime of happiness with him.

And as she hurriedly follows the familiar businessman down the street instead of rushing to her first class, she wonders if second chances exist and if lifetimes missed can be wished for all over again. She remembers how he was stuck to a tree, cursed to live as ice for all eternity, and by a chance of fate, she somehow managed to free him, give him that second chance at happiness, love, and to exist once more. She remembers how his lover was killed in a cruel twist of destiny, damned to the afterlife, and by another chance of fate, she somehow happened to be there so the woman could be resurrected and ultimately given that second chance at happiness and love as well, wandering the earth as if she'd never left it to begin with.

And when she taps his shoulder and Inuyasha turns towards her—honey eyes at first bothered at the newfound nuisance, but upon seeing her, freeze almost in recognition, not completely, but enough to spark a flicker of hope within her heart—Kagome wonders if maybe, just maybe, she has a chance to live again, too.

And then she remembers, as she smiles at him and he smiles at her, and she feels genuinely happy for the first time in what seems like centuries that we live for second chances.

She remembers, it's her nature—and if things don't work out for a second time, she'll live with that, too.

A/N: I'm actually not depressed. Just felt like writing this. :P And now that I've finished, the title seems inappropriate; I probably should've named it something regarding chances, since that was the theme in the end, but oh, well. Feedback is love. :3