um. well. this is a rewrite.

thanks.

You used to cringe at the sight of him and her.

It's not that they don't look perfect together—because they do. But that's not really the point, not right now, not in this story.

He's the black sun, and she's the white moon. When there's them, every other person is just a bystander looking in.

He loves her so much with unspoken intensity that it dumbfounded you for a second before you remember that you love her too and maybe just as much. But that doesn't matter, because she doesn't love you and if it's only one person pinning after another, it's already doomed from the start. You can't force her to love you, that's just not how it works. (Believe it, you've tried.)

You remember the first time you saw her smile with him; how her whole being became a little brighter, how her eyes sparkled, how utterly happy she looked. You haven't seen her like that in a very, very long time, possibly not ever. Certainly not in the recent years, not since the adoption, not since that rainy, bloody day. Looking back on it, you realize now that that was when you officially backed off, at least physically. You love her and you want her for yourself, but you would never force them apart, not when you finally get to see her smile like so freely.

It's true, it really is.

It's just that... well, there undoubtedly exists a part of you that wants to scream bloody murder. He's the catalyst. He took her away. The silent mantra this isn't fair echoes around your head and refuses to leave you alone. She is supposed to love you. You are her childhood friend and technically he's just the new kid. New kids never get in between childhood friends, because childhood friends have history and background and everything that counts.

You do have history and background, but you don't have everything that counts. Because your history ends the day when she gets adopted when you basically erase her out of your life and ignore her for years; because your background is filled wish days of survival and death and the harsh reality of growing up in one of the worst districts. She probably wants to forget all that; he won't blame her, because if it wasn't for her, if it wasn't for the girl with violet eyes and inky black hair, he'd want to completely forget everything too.

The new kid— he might lack a little in the history and background department, but those things are stuff that he can build up on, and plus, he's already got that special something. (Always did. Always will.) He understands her. He knows what she's feeling and in his own way, he'll always unfailingly comfort her. It may not be conventional but in the end he'll always make her feel better.

She changed his world; in return, he'll change hers.

You, on the other hand, you're only her unrequited, almost-lover. You've been that way for as long as you can remember, simply because either you were too spineless to confess or she was in love with someone else.

They'll love each other for a disgustingly long time. They'll always save each other from one thing or another. She'll follow him to the end of this world and the next; he'll go to hell and back, for her. She'll be his tomorrow, and he'll be her world.

You think forever won't be nearly long enough for them.

(Well, you ponder, they actually might not have forever, because while, yes, they do live for a very long time, shinigamis are always, always, always right up in the face of death; it's their particular brand of flavor and it can't be helped. He can't keep her safe—not forever.)

He kills for her, protects her, does anything to get a chance to love her a bit more. He stands behind her, letting her do whatever she feels like as long as he gets to tag along. It's rather disturbing, seeing him like her shadow, but she doesn't seem to mind and he never takes it that one obsessive step too far, so you clamp your mouth shut and put on a smile.

He holds on to her on whatever chance he can get. He likes to touch her, like he's putting a claim on her and declaring she's mine to every other male in the perimeter.

She never fails to roll her eyes and punch him when he gets paranoid and alpha-male on her, as she likes to point out.

He protects her, makes her happy, and does a lot more for her than you ever could. You know that this is the unfiltered truth, so you stand aside as she smiles with another man that is more perfect for her than you could ever hope to be and make no attempt to change that.

Their love story is full of tomorrows and sadly, yours have never even started. Maybe it's your fault. Maybe it's hers. But if you start playing the blame game you know it will never end, so you discard that thought.

You want her to be yours. You're already hers, so it's only fair. But the world is rarely fair, and mostly you just have to make do with what you've got.

It's eating away at your heart a little by little, but you'll survive because that's what you do best.

.

.

.

They move on soon, to the next great adventure. He's certainly too big for this world alone, and she would only naturally follow. They leave a note (see you soon, maybe) and although everyone is shocked at their sudden departure, gradually, people move on.

You don't. Not exactly.

For the first few years, when the hurt was particularly bad, you used to hope every day maybe I'll love her a little less tomorrow. It'll certainly hurt less.

But later, after time scabbed over the scars, you remembered so very clearly how radiant she is— how wonderful, how strong and beautiful— and now, now you're just happy that you get to love her as much as you do.

Still, sometimes, you want to scream about the unfairness, the hurtfulness of it all. But it's all useless now; you had your chance, a long time ago, before he showed up and swept her off her feet, and you blew it.

So instead you close your eyes and remember.

2013.08.07 edit