𝗧he cold metal of the hospital room door knob around her fingers pulled her mind out of the desolate land she had created weeks ago to survive her painful reality. Her mouth rounded into a solid oh shape as she sucked up every free atom of oxygen; stealing it from the rest of the population because damn her for being selfish for once.
On the other side of the door was her life and her end.
Even now, after fifteen years of unparalleled pining, she had no idea which definition it was.
—which they were.
Twenty-one days ago, after being released from psychiatric care at the hands of the Oregon hospital they had been transported to, she was alerted to Blake's transportation back to Los Angeles. The first thought she had the moment the sun kissed her lips and the air caressed her cheeks was to run to the woman that she'd much rather have replicated the motions.
She didn't.
Upon request, Blake asked for no visitors—going as far as to ask Rueben for a bodyguard. Part of her knew it was more than that; that she itched to be under the watchful eyes of plentiful cameras than return to the home that left her so barren and broken on that dreadful night.
But despite that information, Emiko had no merit to attend an audience with her. Whether it was because her priorities blared like alarms in front of her eyes, or because somewhere deep inside, she still harbored that detest toward her for their teenage years, she didn't know—or rather, she did—but didn't have the gall to admit such.
Her eyes instinctually glanced upon the layers of white bondage across the length of her forearms, shielding the world, and most importantly, herself, from the danger she so carelessly placed upon her being for a woman she was unsure even knew about it—or wanted it.
It was a reminder—a farce she couldn't sprint from, no matter how much she desired to.
Years ago, left stranded in a dirty high school bathroom, her heart existed. In a pool of dirty water or possibly lackluster plumbing that permitted the occasional splash of urine over the porcelain rims, she still stood—impossible, small, and irrevocably incomplete.
She promised herself not to return to those memories—not to return to that version of herself.
And she held true to her promise.
At least, that's what she told herself.
Because reality was, the moment her heart was plucked from that dismay, the second it was cradled in the idea of requited love out of the mouth of the girl who'd captured her heart at merely ten years old, she risked it all. The premise—the promise—of recognition removed the little boy, her son, from her mind. Her brain dismounted, only to remount with a transplant of the person she no longer associated with—the one she'd left in that bathroom a millennia, it felt, ago.
Emiko's past was a consistent loop of being placed on the back burner by someone she achingly reached for, and shamelessly admired. It wasn't just love to her anymore, no, it had become so much more than that—more than she would have never released if those men hadn't come to play with their lives.
It was a reality check—she was forced to sniff the roses; to open her fucking eyes.
For Mila, and Damien.
For Tripp.
No more.
"Ma'am?" a gentle voice coaxed her out of her depths.
Emiko swiveled her head, only momentarily startled as she took in the woman beside her. A nurse—no, doctor—dressed head to toe in blue scrubs, save for the puppy-themed cap on her head. Her warm eyes pointed to the child in the mobile bed to the left, passed out, but ever so polite.
A half-smile appeared at the sight, reminding her of her son.
"Yes?" she replied after a few seconds, not realizing she had answered in her head.
"Are you visiting the patient in that room?" she gestured toward the door, "If not, I do have to ask if you could return to a waiting area because you are blocking the halls."
Suddenly swallowing her surroundings as if she hadn't made the journey to the third floor just ten minutes ago, she shot a few glances at the straggled nurses on either side of the gurney, anxiously awaiting her movement. She hadn't noticed she'd backed up enough steps to stand in the center of the room, or the crash cart taking up a good chunk of the otherwise wide corridor.
"I'm visiting. Sorry," she moved.
"No need for apologies," her warm smile touched her eyes, "Good day, dear."
The doctor offered her once last sympathetic look, probably believing she was gifting her a step of courage, before chasing after the gurney and barking orders. But all that really did was make her feel like a spectacle—like she was the center of attention in a hallway full of three individuals—all of whom mocked the stupid little Asian for not being able to see her own goddamn best friend.
It was stupid—really.
Not allowing another second to sike her ego out, she latched a hand to the frozen handle and shoved it open, slipping inside and slamming it to give herself an object to prop against. The breath she hadn't known she'd been holding poured out of her lungs in waves as she glued her eyes to the linoleum and desperately tried to ignore the coconut aroma wafting through her nostrils.
Panting like she'd just run a marathon, she allotted these few minutes to no one else.
Just a few—
"Emi? Is that you?"
Without meaning to, her vision launched up, and the breath she'd hogged earlier, that same one that felt like an endless stream of inhaler pumps, lodged in the back of her throat; dry suffocation stayed in its wake, stuttering her voice as a response.
Blake subtly stood by the large window plastered to the fourth wall of her hospital room; the bright sun of the day filtered through the glass and illuminated her chocolatey-thick eyes, capturing the moment they dilated. Rosy cheeks. Pink nose—every part of her as intact as she'd always been.
It took this glimpse in time to understand that her indecision in the hall had not all to do with their more-than-dormant feelings for each other, but also because at the end of the day, it was Blake. Friend. Foe. Confidant. Beautifully seamless—her fear had clamped down on her heart with the possibility that if she opened that door, the woman she wanted to share her life with would no longer be the one she met when she was nothing more than a toddler in training.
Her eyes continued down, landing just a quarter of the way down her neck before abruptly stopping at the curve of her shoulders—at the small arch in her upper back. The locks of red-brown that wooed her, the fan of melted cotton candy she'd spend ages—if she could—splaying her fingers through was no longer there.
Short and dutiful; her hair rested at her collarbones.
"Are you going to come in?—or are you going to keep standing there like we're strangers?"
Emiko forced her plentiful reactions down her esophagus, gulping away the idea of marching across this room, bridging this painful fucking gap, and slamming her lips upon hers, claiming her. Not begging—not lusting—claiming.
The sound of her smooth chuckle radiating off the words almost bid her will.
"Your hair," she bit out instead, sounding anything but put together.
Blake frowned, looking down enough to pick up a stray stand.
If she thought any other way, if she truly believed she knew her friend more than anyone else, she would've labeled that indifference, that placid disapproval for her first words, to be disappointment.
"It's still choppy—I had the nurses help me cut it and they aren't exactly cosmetologists."
"Why?"
She shrugged, "I wanted a change."
"Is being a mother now not enough?"
She sensed she might've said the wrong thing.
Blake turned her shoulder back to the window and set her gaze on something she couldn't see from her position by the door, promptly dropping her now-limp hair. As far as Emiko knew, the baby had survived the operation and had been transported with her. She had no idea what that reaction could entail, and she found herself hesitating to ask.
But Blake started talking before she could muster the confidence.
"I've only visited the NICU a few times since being here—it's still another week before I can take the baby home."
"What's with the somber tone, if I can ask."
"I love that child with everything inside of me," Emiko cocked her head to the side as she watched her fingers graze her stomach where it formally grew, "—but I'm not ready for motherhood."
"What?"
"Well—it's more like I don't know how to be a mother."
"Blake," she finally inched a step, "You're going to be an amazing parent, you just need to give yourself time to adjust."
She flinched at the sound of her new title, but otherwise, didn't respond.
It wasn't until several beats passed that she turned fluidly on her heel and faced her entirely, arms crossed around her chest as if she were protecting what lay under it. Fire burned the color of her eyes, erecting buildings derived from hurt, and pain, and dare she say ... yearning?
"I don't want to talk about that anymore."
"Then what do—"
Emiko wasn't given time to finish her question before Blake's anger slammed into her.
"I want to talk about why you've barely taken three steps away from the door and why you're treating me like a monster that's thinking of making you its lunch."
"It's not like that," she sighed, closing her eyes.
"Then what's it like? Am I too hideous to approach now?"
Her eyes remained closed as a thousand reprimands sat on the tip of her tongue, begging to be released into the freedom of the air—to retort against such a silly accusation, but she forced it to obey. To heel. To remind itself that she was the owner of her thoughts, and her words, and her actions, and most importantly—she was in charge of how her story continued.
It was her choice whether or not this was the end of the chapter or just a brief lapse of writer's block.
"It's not what you're thinking," she spoke softly, but not weakly.
"Then what is it?"
She could hear Blake's hands slap the sides of her thighs as she dropped them in frustration.
That feeling weighed her heart down in a way she knew all too well.
"I didn't come here today to indulge you. I didn't come here to return things to the way they were before the attack—in fact," she opened her eyes, hardening them, "I came here on completely selfish premises and I won't apologize for them."
"Okay," Blake replied slowly, "I'm listening."
"This year has been the worst year of my life," she fought her inner instincts to wring her fingers, "I lost my sister and my brother, my only family, within a few months of each other. I've barely had time to mourn. I've continued pushing and pushing myself, catering to everyone's needs aside from my own because I thought that if I forgot about it all, I would be okay."
If Blake had any reaction, she sure as hell wasn't showing it.
But she didn't let that falter her steps.
"—Tau is my son. I signed the papers this morning to officially adopt him."
"That's amazing, Emiko," she broke her silence, "But I'm confused about what this has to do with our current conversation."
"Everything," she spoke plainly, "I've lost so much and been given redemption for none of it. I'm utterly alone in the world, except for my son, who would be alone today if I had gotten away with slitting my wrists in the hospital in an attempt to save your life three weeks ago."
"Yes," she breathed, "I know about it. The doctors told me at the same time they told me I'm never having biological kids again."
To anyone else, her confession of knowledge would have seemed like a chance to dip the conversation back to her, to put the spotlight on her, but Blake's shoulders slumped, her eyes softened, and her formerly hard, defiant blockage of her body was now a nimble thing.
"I can't keep running circles around you, Blake. I can't keep giving and watching you take, convincing myself that it's enough for me when I know it's not. I can't try to kill myself—I can't attempt to abandon my son—for a woman who doesn't even share the same feelings for me."
"Emi—"
"Everything be damned, I keep telling myself that I haven't been selfish with my thoughts and feelings for a long time, that that action is what led me down this road, but it's not true. I'm too damn selfish—I'm too fucking subservient! And I can't do this anymore. I just can't."
The warmth on her cheeks alerted her to the tears that had fallen amongst her declaration before the water wetting her eyelashes did. Her fingers, albeit told not to, wrung despicably red with tension, and shook with ending and beginning at the same time.
Blake's shoes finally parted with the ground, slowly silencing the space between them.
The tips of them touched the wretched pair of her own, pausing her movements for that split second; her eyes hovered around her chest, too weak, too indigent to look up at her, and just the same to stop her hand from lifting in the air and landing in the fields of blonde hair.
Blake's fingertips gently eased into singular and bunched strands, combing a streak out of her eyes, away from the patch of wetness lingering in the smudged mascara under her eyes.
Ever-so-slightly, her palm dropped, skimming the thickness of her earlobe, ricocheting goosebumps down the nape of her neck. She didn't stop there, falling further and further down her jawline, only pausing enough to cup her chin in her grasp, forcing a tilt upwards.
"Tell me," her voice was a caress on her sad, hungry soul, "—are you breaking up with me?"
Emiko found the tenacity hidden in the depths of her decrepit persona to look up from under the protection of her eyelashes and meet her gaze. At the same time, Blake's thumb looped up, slipping across the small inches of bottom lip she had offered to her time and time again, pulling just enough to get a glimpse of the teeth hidden underneath.
Shields of undercover hiding slid from her skin as if she were a snake needing a new one. Bars of walls crumbled to the ground, layer after layer, as she scanned each milk chocolate one, desperate to find a will to cling to—a will to keep her this close, always.
Bare and whole—she did.
"No," she whispered, "It's an ultimatum."
"Tell me," she said, equally as quiet.
"You want me and I stay," she swallowed purposely, allowing Blake to feel every ounce of her fear, her grit, her strength, and every single weakness those strengths actually were, "Or let me go."
"I thought I already told you how I felt after we survived."
"I don't want your dying declaration, Blake," she almost whimpered, "I want your raw, honest truth. I want to be the owner of every lucid thought, I want to be the bearer of treasure you retort as your heart. I want to be the umbrella that shields you and the lightning that strikes you—I want so much from you, and I want to give you so much of me."
Her hand moved away.
Emiko's breath hitched.
The world swayed under her feet.
"I'm sorry," she blinked too fast, blurring her vision, "It was too much, wasn't it? I've always known I've come on too strong with you, and maybe that's my mistake—maybe that's why we can never work out—"
She turned on her heel, ready to dart away from this awful embarrassment.
But as she went, Blake's hand reached around in time to yank on the front of her blouse, rocketing her back to a wobbling standing position in front of her.
Her mouth slammed onto hers before she could protest, parting her lips with such force, such brutality, that she could only moan into it, opening like the good girl she was. Blake's hands ran down her back, somehow not separating their lips as she hooked her hands around of her thighs and pulled her up; Emiko instantly wrapped her arms around her neck, and her legs around her waist.
Blake's fingers latched deeply into the back of her hair, pulling her roots hard enough it was a fight to keep their kiss interlocked. She was only mildly aware of the fact that Blake had faced them toward the bed and only became blindingly so that they'd approached it when her back hit the rough fabric of the mattress.
She had time to gasp before Blake edged herself between her legs and pulled her down tightly, smashing their clothed hips together with enough momentum that a twinge of pain burst amongst the swelling of her core and the slickness between her legs.
"You are the object of every desire I have ever had," Blake murmured against her lips, holding her amongst her curtained hair, "I have sought you out in everyone I've ever dated, believing that if I couldn't have you, I could at least have someone who was like you."
"I never rejected you," she beckoned.
"The first time you ever made a move on me was in Spain."
"I thought giving you my first kiss was sign enough," she fought back a smile.
"To the small, insecure, fifteen-year-old with homophobic parents? Not a chance."
Emiko's face immediately warmed.
All of the years they spent chasing after each other in opposite directions could've been avoided had they just declared the truth. Stolen away by fear, granted wishes to no one, they had been two halves of a whole who'd known each other their entire lives without the qualm of loving one another.
"I thought I needed to prove myself to my parents with Mason," Blake continued, tucking her hair behind her ear, "I thought I needed to prove myself to myself with Auden, but it was all a façade—I have been blind my entire life, living by the rules of others when my heart always screamed for taboo. And while you were once it for me, you're not anymore, Emi—you're everything."
An overwhelming feeling burst from her chest in the form of a laugh, but soon ebbed into sobs; without explaining it, Blake smiled down at her, perfectly understanding as she wiped away the hot spouts of emotions she'd bottled up since she was just a little child.
"Does this mean you're mine, and I yours?" she choked out.
"Girlfriends for now," she nodded, "But one day I'll make you my wife."
That was a promise.