oblivioni traditae | bnha

十

「dear y/n.」

you'll never get to see this letter.

that's for sure, because I'm going to rip this up right after I'm done writing. 

'then why do it in the first place?' you may wonder. and them I'd answer: for the curiosity—i've always wondered why you like to write to the characters you can only glimpse on your laptop screen that you will never be able to meet. 

don't be surprised: you've always been awful at lying. 

and that window; the medium through which you have been able to achieve the impossible. have you perhaps, just maybe, met one of these students of U.A. aspiring to be a hero, by chance?

just a guess. 

*

SHINSOU HITOSHI had never been one for theatrics. 

He's your classic (not so) honest, down-to-earth guy who just so happened to have a thirst for  the dirt of his own grave. That's a classy way of saying that he wants to have white chrysanthemums placed over his pale, cold body ten feet below the surface of the Earth so he can finally have the best nap of his life. 

(The suicidal bastard. Don't learn from him—he isn't a cool role model. People care about you deeply, whether you know it or not. If you need to talk, talk. It doesn't feel peachy to bottle everything up until it spills over like a tea kettle left for too long on a hot stove: I know because I do that, being the hypocrite I am. And go to sleep early and hold your phone away from your face so you don't hurt your eyes! Take good care of yourselves in this dangerous, cruel world, everyone.

this has been your friendly PSA—my inbox is always open if you want to chat for a while over some bagels or whatever you like)

so when he got the sudden chills that somewhere someone was talking? thinking? writing? about hating? loving? admiring (lol what) him, the one who had been fondly dubbed 'iris' a couple of chapters ago only sighed, a crease appearing on his forehead. 

his life had become sort of strange ever since that weird meeting through a window with that strange, strange girl. the one who he hadn't texted for a week now. 

but what is he talking about? he barely knows her. he's only seen her once, under a shady lamppost where wildflowers pushed their stubborn way up through the concrete beside his sneakered feet. he doesn't miss talking to her. he doesn't miss her incessant questioning that had hit a bit too close to home, no, he does not miss that at all. 

the wind blows across his alabaster skin, piercing through layers of jackets. with each touch by ice-cold ghostly fingers, goosebumps rise from his arms like weeds pushing up through cement. he pulls up his lavender scarf over his nose, and quickly speed-walked past the solitary window with the faintly glowing lamp, past the white picket fence of the neighbor and turned onto his street.