Forget Me Not

Her eyes are the color of forget-me-nots.

You know it so well, because those eyes smiled at you in synch with her lips the first time you saw her—and you know that day just as well, for you marked it on the dusty four-year-old calendar on your bedroom wall in deep blue ink that says, "Met her"—and when she told you her name is Chelsea and you replied yours is Vaughn, those blue, blue eyes danced and smiled in a way that made your stomach squirm and your toes curl.

[ …a not so very ordinary girl or name… ]

She moved in to the two-story house three blocks away from yours, right next to the flowering camellia tree you always take the time to admire, just before the curve in the path that leads to the southern entrance to the village square. Old man Taro said she recently lost her parents in a tragic accident—he didn't say how—and that she moved in to your sleepy little village to start a new life.

You have avoided her at all costs—you deliberately turn and walk away whenever you see her dawdling ahead because you're afraid she'd notice you and try to talk to you. You purposely linger outside the shops whenever she's inside, because you don't want to be in the same room as her. You even go as far as to walk the extra distance around the village to the northern entrance of the square, just to steer clear of her house where she would probably be tending her garden or idly watching the sky or simply chatting with her neighbors to pass time.

You don't know why, though; you tell yourself that it's because she's too good to be mixing with shabby, hardened folks like you, and while the statement partially holds water in itself, you know that, at the back of your head, the real reason you keep shunning her out is because she makes you feel odd—the fluttering in your chest, the nauseating quiver in your stomach, the subtle tingle in the tips of your fingers—in a good way, and although it is pleasant, you don't like it. It makes you lose control, and you hate it: control is something you have mastered over the years, but then a single look from her undoes you and you hate, hate, hate it.

Sometimes, though, you would casually walk by her house just to see how she's doing—out of curiosity, you reason with yourself, and not because you care—and sometimes you would see her on the front porch, gently fanning herself if it's humid or rubbing her arms if it's chilly. And then, depending on the direction she's facing, she would either notice you or not, but whenever she does, she would smile brightly at you and wave and those blue, blue eyes of hers would twinkle, and you would give her a curt nod and be on your way immediately, so as not to give her time to walk over and talk to you—Goddess knows how much you want to talk to her, but you can't. Her eyes undo you and you hate it.

But you feel satisfied seeing her happy and content; you don't want to see her with slumped shoulders, dead eyes, and a bowed head. Excessive mourning is never a good thing and you don't want her to be consumed by it, so unbeknownst to her, you regularly check up on her—just out of curiosity—and eventually it has become a self-appointed responsibility of yours. You have to make sure she's fine. You have to see to it that she takes her loss well.

[ But who's to blame

for a love that wouldn't bloom…? ]

But you tell yourself it doesn't affect you. That she doesn't.

Denny tells you every now and then that denial isn't healthy. You're aware it isn't, and you don't need him telling you, especially when you don't know what his point is. You're not denying anything. You're being honest. You hate losing control and you know it, and you admit it. Her eyes are alluring and her smile is beautiful and her laugh is contagious, but they don't affect you. Not at all. Now where's the denial in that?

And then there are the Festivals. You enjoy most of them, and you even participate once in a while, but there are those you just damn to the seven levels of hell…Specifically, the Spring Thanksgiving Festival. It has never bothered you before—granted, you have always found it annoying to some extent—but now that she is in town, it does, and greatly so. You remember the first Spring Thanksgiving since she moved in, and you don't know whether to tap-dance with joy, or bash yourself over the head with a pan, or grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she passes out, for it.

She knocked on your door bearing an intricate-looking chocolate cake, and you managed to stammer a feeble "Thank you" while you frantically recollect your senses—you will always blame and hate her eyes for doing that to you—and then she smiled and whispered a gentle "You're welcome" and left.

Ever since that (damned, glorious, wretched, wonderful) day, she has faithfully appeared on your doorstep every Spring Thanksgiving with a chocolate cake on her hands and a wide smile on her lips. You admit that you genuinely appreciate the gesture, and while you want so badly to return the favor every Winter Thanksgiving, you don't, because you're afraid and you can't and you're annoyed and you don't care. You don't care and you never will, and you hate the way her eyes sparkle with whatever emotion stirring behind them, you hate the way she smiles and sends your stomach twirling like a drunken ballerina, you hate the way her lilting laugh tugs upward at the corner of your mouth and downward at your heartstrings.

[ …for the hearts that never played in tune…? ]

You hate all of it and it doesn't affect you and you don't care at all.

…not at all.

There she is, laughing and smiling and dancing, a wildflower in her hair and a ribbon on her arm. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and you realize the extra color makes her look prettier, albeit the silver of the moonlight dilutes it– you're not complaining, though. In your opinion, she simply looks perfect.

Denny stands beside you and gives you a funny look, but you pointedly ignore it—both of you are here to watch the dance, after all, and it's only fair if you focus your undivided attention to it, so you do.

You squint a little a tilt your head to study her better: she is fairly attractive, yes, but not even close to Lanna or Sabrina. It is difficult to tell due to your distance and the lack of light, but you see that her right eye is slightly smaller than her left, her cheeks are lopsided when she smiles, and her nose isn't dead-center—it veers off faintly to the left, yet you think she's the most beautiful woman you've ever set your eyes on, and you have no problem dealing with that, because you know it's true. She's perfect.

But she doesn't affect you, no.

The music stops and the performance is over and the audience break into an applause.

The crowd gradually disperses, and their chattering dwindles into an ever-present humming at the back of your head. All of the men are excited—they get to dance with the women they like, with the lady's permission, of course. You walk away from them because you're not interested in dancing with anyone, and you'd rather watch them alone at the corner of the plaza, but you feel someone tapping on your shoulder. You sigh and turn around impatiently.

It's Chelsea.

You feel your traitorous stomach perform an imperfect pirouette, and you think this must be how it feels like to have butterflies—no, bats, damned bats—in your intestines. You blame it on her eyes, which seem to sparkle even more under the moonlight, although you refuse to accept that she affects you, because she doesn't. Her eyes do, but she doesn't.

"Wanna dance?" she asks timidly.

You feel your eyes widen involuntarily while your cheeks heat up, and you open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out and you resist the urge to laugh at your own pathetic state. She has no reason to dance with you, since she's not required to, yet she's there, looking up at you with those (enthralling, annoying, enchanting, sickening) eyes whilst biting lightly on her lower lip—and then you know you have to refuse, because if you don't … only Goddess knows what you could and would do.

You nod imperceptibly but she catches it and her smile widens by a mile. You don't know why you agreed, but seeing her smile…Your heart executes a wild dance and you feel light-headed and your toes are curling and your palms are sweating and your knees are shaking—

But not because of her. Never.

She grabs your hands and places both firmly on either side of her waist, giving you a stern look as if daring you to try to take them off. You know better than to do so.

She positions hers on your shoulders and you feel their warmth through your shirt, the same way you feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her dress.

And then you panic.

You panic because you're touching her and she's touching you and you don't even know how to dance and you're thinking too much and your head feels like it's going to explode and you just want all of it to stop, stop, stop—

Her eyes meet yours and for some reason, it calms you. She smiles slightly and whispers, "Ready?"

You open your mouth again but it takes you two tries to find your voice and thrice to make it work.

"I don't know how to dance." You wonder with detached curiosity if it really is you who's speaking, because your own voice sounds foreign to your ears.

She laughs her lilting laugh and you struggle to defy the upward tug at the corner of your mouth.

"Then I'll lead."

[ We tripped the light and dance together to the moon…

…but where was June? ]

You nod and let her lead you with small, tentative steps—eventually she grows bolder and more graceful, while you do everything in your power to avoid stepping on her feet.

Under the silver light of the full moon, in the midst of the crowd, with her in your arms and the stars twinkling above you and a miniscule smile on your lips, you dance.

You clench and unclench your hands, and try to breathe properly. The sun is kissing the sea and the sky is aflame with its orange blood, the horizon stained a burning scarlet and copper and cherry. Maybe if the situation is different, you would think the scenery is breathtaking and is worthy of admiration. But right now, you can't see the beauty in anything—you feel blood rushing away from your head and it makes you slightly dizzy; your fingertips are tingling and your heart feels like it's being stabbed over and over again.

This can't be happening.

Your body feels numb yet your mind is screaming and your heart is crying. You feel like screaming, too, but your body feels numb and you can't move and you think you might be paralyzed.

You're aware that your eyes are reflecting your disbelief, and you're aware that she sees it. But you couldn't care less, because you need answers and you'll get them if it's the last thing you do.

She sighs softly and hesitantly looks at you, and you can't help but notice how miserable her eyes seem without their usual twinkle. The dying sunlight touches her face with gentle fingers, and the wind blows, playing with soft auburn strands that have escaped the confines of the ribbon in her hair.

"I'm leaving, Vaughn," she says, and her words pierce your heart—overly-dramatic, yes, but sadly accurate. "Goodbye."

[ Wish that I have found a way

and the reasons that would make her stay ]

You want to say something but you feel numb and your body won't obey. You want to step closer to her and tell her to stay and hold her until the sun rises again. But your body won't obey. You simply stand and watch as she wraps her arms tightly around you and whispers, "I'll be back someday, I promise."

And then she runs to the docks without so much as a backward glance.

You stand frozen and watch as the ferry slowly makes its way across the mass of water until it disappears into the blazing horizon, light gray smoke trailing behind it.

You want to run away and scream and tear your hair out and cry. But you can't. You still feel strangely numb all over and you can't move at all and your feet won't obey you, so you simply stand there until the last of the sun's rays melt into the darkness of the night.

Maybe you shouldn't have avoided her all this time. Maybe you should have asked her to stay. Maybe you should have said something—anything—that would have changed her mind. Maybe you shouldn't have denied that she affects you, that you—that you—

…that you love her.

She promised she'll come back, and you'll hold on to that promise as tightly as your will allows it, and you'll wait for that day, even if it takes a lifetime.

But it doesn't stop the tears from falling.

The camellia tree looks oddly lifeless and the house beside it radiates an aura of overwhelming emptiness. You shake your head and keep walking.

You stumble and fall for the fifth time and you almost give in to the temptation to just remain sprawled on the ground with your left cheek against the earth. You usually know when to stop drinking but this time is different, because you don't want to stop drinking and you only did because you can no longer walk and see straight and there's no one to take you home but yourself. Booze always promised to make you forget your problems, but it never does. It only blurs your vision and clouds your judgment and makes you woozy and makes you lose control, like…like her. Her and her blasted eyes.

Through silver strands of hair and the haze clouding your sight, you see the indistinct outline of a man's shoes and you hear the gravel crunching beneath them. You don't look up to see who it is, since you know that whoever it is, he'll speak up sooner or later.

"You're wasted," the voice says, and your face scrunches up in thought while your dimmed senses try to pin a face on the voice.

Then the recognition comes like a flash of lightning, a second later than it should have.

"Denny," you slur, and you laugh at little at the absurdity of your condition. You normally won't let anyone see you like this, but you don't have much choice at the moment and you laugh again because your stomach feels hollow and everything is just so absurd.

You suddenly feel your right arm getting thrown over his shoulder, and you dimly register being roughly heaved up. You look to your right and you see Denny frowning at you and you laugh at him because he looks silly when he's frowning.

"Vaughn…why are you doing this to yourself?" he asks with slight difficulty due to your additional weight.

"She left," you say with a snort. "She left and I didn't even say anything."

"You never talked to her," he says quietly. Too quietly, that you had to strain your ears to hear. "She thought you hated her being here, that's why she left. At least, that's what she told me."

[ I never knew her but I loved her just the same ]

You burst out laughing.

The laughter is hollow and bitter and full of shame and regret and unpleasant realization, and it reflects the echoes of pain and hopelessness in your heart. It's painful, but you keep laughing, because it's one of the things that keep reminding you that you're still alive. Tears do the same thing, but laughter is always better than tears, no matter how bitter or empty or painful or fake the mirth is.

So you keep laughing.

Sunshine Village has always been beautiful in Fall. The leaves change colors from green to different shades of browns and reds and yellows, spiraling down from the canopies like golden rain and thickly carpeting the sidewalks. The air is cool, crisp, and fragrant, and everywhere, the sounds of cheerful voices linger. You smile as you walk through the streets with your hands shoved into your pockets, while your mind wanders off to a distant smiling face and impossibly blue eyes before drifting over to the marked, dusty, now-eleven-year-old calendar on your bedroom wall.

[ …but how I miss the girl… ]

You smile ruefully and shake your head. Seven years is long enough for anyone to lose hope, yet here you are, living your life as normally as you could without letting a day pass devoid of thoughts about her. When you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you could see how pathetic you really are. Some women might think it's romantic, but to you it's simply pathetic but you can't do anything about it because when you fell, you fell hard. You might even have landed on your head for the injury to last this long, figuratively speaking.

It's easy to say that you want to move on and leave the past behind. It's also easy to say that you've already done that—because it's easy to lie. But you know you can't lie to yourself like you used to, so secretly, you wait. It's too pathetic, but you're still waiting for her to come back. You know she might never come back, but it doesn't stop you from hoping—you've already been hurt once and you're sure you can take another hit without much hassle.

Besides, there's always booze to turn to when everything goes wrong.

A ball gently bumps against the your foot and you stare at it for a moment, before raising your head to search where it came from.

"Hey, Mister!" a voice yells, and you turn your head to its direction to see a young girl around five or six years old waving at you. "Could you please throw the ball back? Pleeeaaase?"

You pick the ball up and walk over to the child.

"You won't catch it if I throw it at you," you tell her, smirking as you hand it over. "Never seen you around here before. You new?"

"Yes!" the girl replies with a huge grin, showing a gap between her front teeth. "Daddy and Mommy are busy unpacking, so I came to play. Mommy used to live here, you know."

You frown momentarily. Newcomers are always rare, and though they're never unwelcome, they usually give an advance notice before moving in. Maybe they were just busy, or maybe they wanted to surprise the villagers, or maybe you simply missed the notice.

"Hey, kid," you say, kneeling down so your eyes are level with hers, "where's your house?"

"It's right there, Mister sir," she says, pointing to the distant house beside the camellia tree, just before the curve that leads to the southern entrance to the village square. Now that you think of it, you never noticed the truck parked in front of the house, as well as several men carrying assorted furniture into it.

You turn your gaze to the smiling child. She's awfully beautiful and friendly for someone her age, with straight black hair tied back by a dark green ribbon, and her grin steadily grows wider by the second that you have resist the urge to ask whether her cheeks are starting to hurt. Her eyes, however…

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches in your throat and you think your hear the sound of your own heart breaking.

Her eyes are the color of forget-me-nots.

[ …and I'd go a million times around the world just to say

she had been mine for a day ]

Fin

a/n:

Sorry if it was confusing - it was meant to be that way, since Vaughn's in denial and all that. I originally planned this to be Mark/Chelsea, but I thought Vaughn's character (no matter how OOC) would work better. And sorry if it was unpolished and a bit rushed - it wasn't meant to be that way, I swear.

The song is Aubrey by Bread. Call me old-fashioned, but it's my most favorite song of all time.

Thank you so much for reading, and I'd really appreciate it if you tell me what you think. Cheers!