Card Captor Sakura Fanfiction - City of Trees

The following is the contents of the story without italicization: She was always quiet. Iâ??ve been told that I donâ??t say very much, but sheâ??she held such a mystery, like years beyond the numbers just sitting on her tongue, weighing it down. We were small when we met. She was admirably organized, pleasantly shy. I suppose we were both kids, really; but I noticed. I felt the stir in her breath whenever he walked into the room, whenever he opened his briefcase with a leather slam on the desk and spoke to a room full of children. She knew it and I was only beginning to grasp: she was no child. She was adolescence with wings, ten years old and thinking the things that those twice her ageâ??womenâ??seldom understood. My best friend has told me Iâ??ve been given the gift of observation. But it wasnâ??t that; not in her case. We were connected, but from a distance like phone lines over ocean hours. It took me years to understand what it was about her that dizzied my perspective, made me feel so much like a comrade in something enormous and unsaid. We both knew how to love in silence. Just the sight of him turned her into springtime, made her pink as flowers and dizzy as wind. It was evolution. Through the years, she gradually began raising her head more in his presence, a little more beige and a little less rouging. We left junior high behind us, and it was thenâ??in the dawn of our freshmen yearâ??that I saw it. Her love in colors. Black and white, his jacket and collar. Gray and smooth, her uniform creasing slowly up like a drawstring; his hand on her thigh. Red bricks on her back, shadows on their faces and briefcase on the ground. I wasnâ??t supposed to be there. I belonged home by then, and the post-class rush was gone. Iâ??m still not sure if I should thank choirâ??s unsteady schedule or blame it. I was quiet, standing in the open, unblinking. I donâ??t think I was breathing. The way they kissed went beyond lips, went beyond their ragged breath and trembling chests. They moved like the orbit of the earth, the churning of the clouds and the migration of birds and the way a sunset goes from yellow to orange to pink to gray. Constant motion. Centrifugal ocean waves. The ground was spinning around where I stood and they were everywhere. I didnâ??t move, and was thus exposed. The sun, the throbbing confusion, had melted the gravel around just my shoes and I couldnâ??t have moved if I tried. The concept surrounded my chest and I didnâ??t breathe until it began to hurt. Somewhere between his hands on her waist and her arms around his neck, they blurred. The cold wind on my lips was enough to make me cry. And then I ran for what felt like miles and miles before I realized that home was the other way. The next day she touched my arm in the hallway, she whispered that sheâ??d seen me. Outside observers were the enemy; their love was sacred. I could have been anyone, she saidâ??anyone, and it would have meant his job, it would have meant her hell. She begged me not to let anyone know, and of course I didnâ??t. I wouldnâ??t. It would have been the same as leading hunters into the tropics, singling out each wild creature and stating its weakness. It would have been the same as breaking their lives. There were times I wanted to, though. I knew who I could have trusted, I knew who would have kept the secret safe. And, had it been my secret, I would have shouted it to the sky. Her eyes were so bright, his hands on her as alive as anything could have beenâ??until then Iâ??d only seen him turning pages and opening brief cases. It was such a revelation that I needed to remind myself that it wasnâ??t fiction. I still feel tricked by human nature. The silence of a shy little girlâ??barely fourteen years old, the formalities of an elementary school teacher. They could know passion as red and deep as churning blood, their skin each color on the palette thrown on a blank canvas and painted frantically until it had become millions of hues and then finally one stagnant shade. It was the most beautiful thing Iâ??d ever known to exist. As the months and years passed, she gradually told me more. She said that he was distant; each spring he used to point to the cherry trees and quote City of Trees. "The cherry trees, Unmindful of this sad world, have burst into bloom." Unmindful, heâ??d repeat as though in awe. She wrote him long poems and he kept them in his nightstand. She lived there, in the tiny wooden confines; her heart and soul, her description. The way that they held hands, her labored breathing, their bodies shaking and pushing and the magic in her mind, all told in ink and lined paper. She told me that he was always so careful, that the first time he had her on his bed he cried into her breasts. He exhaled her name slowly each time, then chanted it like a song; their bodies in a raindance, clouds frantically responding and covering her mind and irises. She paused, sometimes, in her retelling to me. She would stare at the ground as though it were his eyes, silent as though his â??I love youâ?? was whispering in her ears. She said it was her fault. He had a brilliant mind. He knew Napikov and Shakespeare like the veins in her wrists. He knew Masaoka Shiki and City of Trees as well as her body. Or maybe better than her body. She said that he called her mature for a child, but that she must not be growing anymore. She was still ten years old inside, but now it was just that she had breasts. And she admitted that she was no poet, that she was merely an observer scribbling sentence fragments and wording her rapid pulse on paper with torn and jagged edges. She was a child who blushed, and she did not like classical music, and Yoshino in the Moonlight was pretty but hard to follow. She stared at her wrists, blood vessels and branched blue lines her roadmap. Then she shook her head and murmured that she couldnâ??t find his love anymore. Slowly, she talked less. To me. To everyone. She gained weight, then lost it tenfold. Her soft hair paled and thinned and then became a lumpy ponytail; effortless. He waved at me once in passing, unknowing, and all at once I understood her silence. There was a strip of gold on his left finger. And her hands were bare. I wanted to tell her that she was just sixteen years old, I wanted to tell her that love was not reciting the English or knowing all there was of literary spring in Japan. I wanted to tell her that she had a pretty face and that her body was still as soft, her eyesâ??with a little hopeâ??could still brighten again. I wanted to tell her that somebody would mirror all of the love she had to give, if not today, then someday. I wanted to tell her, but she wasnâ??t in school. She didnâ??t leave a note. Whoever found her, I hope they were gentle, I hope they did not damage her name and label her insane. It would be hard to see otherwise, I suppose, to open the bathroom door and find the definition of loveliness and chances and time lying cold and still. Her wrists were red, rolled carpets bleeding around her like bloodwings. They call it suicide, but Iâ??m sure she was looking. She sat on the tiles with a razor, slashing at every word of love heâ??d ever spoken to her. She seared the skin that his hands used to brush. And she searched for the literature heâ??d memorized in sync with her anatomy. Growing exhausted in her search, she found nothing and lost the will to try. Unable to understand the poetry, she watched herself open and did not realize that she had become it. Wide and unlimited, like the cherry trees bursting into bloom. She closed her eyes, and gave herself to the unyielding spring. (For Sage.)

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