A/N: Because I don't dislike Orihime, and I think she has the potential to be so much more than she is. She doesn't deserve to be anyone's second best – nobody deserves that – and that's all she'll ever be, I think, if she gets together with Ichigo. No real warnings – some jealousy, one sided IchiHime, and moving on. Starts during the Hueco Mundo Arc, ends post-manga.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

I mean, I hope you're happy,

but the sky is still the sky without you,

and I'm not surprised by that anymore. – caitlyn siehl, this is not a love poem

Fragments

She dreams, some nights.

Lovely, pastel scenarios painted from the darkest corners of her mind, things she loves and doesn't talk about. They're childish, she tells herself, and while it's something her friends must expect from her somewhere, on some level deep down, it doesn't stop the flush in her cheeks from rising every time she thinks of the fairytales that run riot in her head.

She doesn't talk about the orange haired princess, locked in a tower, or the equally orange haired prince who rides to save her.

She doesn't talk about the things her mind invents when she is lonely and longing to be rescued.

She learns, very early on, that fairytales are not always as they appear.

Sometimes, the knight isn't always a knight and a princess isn't always a princess – sometimes the monsters aren't always villains – sometimes, they can be kind.

(sometimes, they fade to dust during their redemption; sometimes, all a lonely monster ever needs is a companion to show them how a heart beats)

Sometimes, princes are kings. And sometimes, kings are dragons.

She stands on the sandy dunes of her dungeon, and watches the beast inside flicker in and out of being. She tries to pull him together, but ends up pulling him apart, the pieces of humanity that make him up falling away in the dust and the sand.

He hurts Ishida – and he doesn't mean to, probably, and some ugly, horrible part of her thrills at the fact he's so set to protect her, to spill the blood of one of their closest friends just to –

But then he's falling, they're both falling, chipping away, and the self-disgust coils inside of her, a spring ready to snap. Ichigo's reiatsu fluctuates, flutters gently like a thread in a breeze.

He's uneasy, or something. More likely, it's the hollow. The dragon barely kept chained in place. She doesn't feel it even out until not long after he leaves, everything shuddering back into place with the arrival of another spiritual pressure – gentle and firm, and entwining with his.

She clenches her fists, so tight the knuckles turn white. The ugly thing inside is screeching, throwing a fit every good princess is capable of.

Ishida notices, probably – she's too bad at hiding her emotions, she knows – and she's grateful when he doesn't say anything.

Ishida.

The name leaves something strange in her mouth, something tugging at the back of her mind – the memory of a memory, or something like that. Something long-buried and faded into sepia, curling around the edges, aged and worn.

("Tatsuki-chan, you're wrong – Ishida-kun doesn't like me like that!")

Sunlight filtering through trees, daisies drifting on the wind. Tatsuki's face, half-amused and half-sympathetic, because even she knew, didn't she? They all knew, they could all see.

("We're just friends – aren't we, Ishida-kun?")

She tries so hard to deny the knight, because she's still longing for the king.

Sunlight spills across the sky.

She watches the scene before her with rapt interest – watches the moment the light in Ichigo's eyes dies, watches the moment that fleeting hope fades and the fragile little thing inside him shatters and breaks.

Rukia sucks in a sharp breath, having seen the same. A breathy little laugh that isn't funny, not at all, leaves her on the exhale, and are those tears or is it the wind?

Orihime wants to say something – anything, really, but she's never been good with this, never been good with them, and when Rukia turns and flash-steps away, she feels tears pricking her own eyes.

She doesn't think it's supposed to hurt like this – not for her. Shouldn't she be happy? A part of her might be, but it's small and feeble under the weight of what she witnesses. What used to be a delectable fancy, passing in her worst moments of envy, feels small and stilted and childish, in the face of this reality.

This – a hurried goodbye, one random midwinter morning – is not an opening.

It's an ending, and not of the happy variety.

She does kiss him, once.

It's quick and clandestine, chaste and pure in every sense of the word, if she didn't take her motivations into account.

He lets her go gently – and that's the worst part, probably; his gentleness. He's always been afraid to break her, has never shown her the amount of bruising protectiveness he has with Rukia.

Maybe she wants a little bit of that roughness, a way in – but a part of her recoils at the thought, at the memory of yellow eyes and a beast's howl.

Her lips have barely had a moment on his before he grips lightly by the biceps and pushes her away. His eyes are soft and apologetic, lips light and unsmiling.

"Sorry," he says, and she gets it, he is.

She nods, brusquely, and ignores the throbbing in her chest. He is sorry – he's sorry it can't be that simple, sorry he can't like her like her, sorry he's still caught on a memory. He's sorry their story ended before it ever truly got started, because heaven only knows life would be so much easier if he liked her back.

Tatsuki had told her once, that to get stronger, you had to break.

Well, she'd done the breaking.

The strength is already coming – coming in spades.

She already feels so much lighter.

She falls out of love in fragments. It's strange, at first, and more often than not she catches herself still looking, hoping he might change his mind.

He never does.

It's okay.

She'll still cry about it, some days – she'll still catch herself in a daydream of a wedding of halcyons, the orange-haired bride and groom sharing kisses under stars – but that's normal, she tells herself. Rome wasn't built in a day, and hearts aren't mended in nearly that short a time, either.

Boys ask, now that her eyes have stopped roaming. Ishida wants to ask, she knows, but he can tell, better than any of the others – she needs time. Her heart is tender, not ready for careless kids with grabby hands. Even Ishida, for all his precision and care, doesn't know if he can handle her as gently as she needs. So he doesn't ask.

It's months before she realizes she really wouldn't mind if he did.

Days in. Days out. Rukia comes back, and the stomach-churning envy she used to weather is gone now, replaced by something warm and faintly fuzzy, whenever she catches her and Ichigo together.

Ishida goes, and that hurts more than she really expects. But she can wait – she's good at waiting, and when he finally returns, looking decently chastised and infinitely sorry, and more than a little bruised, she leans in and kisses him on the cheek.

His cheeks are a lovely shade of pink when she retreats, and she finds her own cheeks are returning the sentiment, flushed and pretty.

Ishida's palm slides against hers, fingers twining together. It's not what she had planned, maybe – it's not a carriage ride into the sunset, for sure. Dragons still remain. He's not Ichigo, and she – well, she's more than what he probably bargained for. And it's not an ending, not really.

But it's a lovely start.

A/N: GAH. Well? Please tell me how I did. I'd love feedback. Moving on isn't easy, and I tried to convey that as best I could while still keeping true to Orihime's character. Something tells me that characterization floundered by the end, but I'm not sure.