Chapter Text
It’s just a photo. Just a keepsake.
This was the sensible thing to do, right? Collect the memories one at a time, set them aside to be forgotten, and remember them when the emotions and sensations of the moment have aged into a rich nostalgia. You take pictures with friends to savour the friendship for years and years after its likely end. These are the ephemeral teenage years, and a printed image is the only way to render them corporeal. Something to see, something to touch, something to feel. Even if it’s just a photo. Just a keepsake.
Minori’s thumb made circles on the glossy finish while her mind lay lost in thought. It twirled without aim, tracing loose spirals across the amber sky. Meandering, it made its way to the edge of the picture. The rough scratch of the unlaminated material caught Minori’s attention, and her eyes snapped to focus back on the image.
Just a photo, she thought, guiding her thumb back to the gloss and to her determined, exhausted face as it was captured that day. Pulling it down and across her scuffed shoulder, along her arm. Letting it rest on her hand. On his hand.
Is this what keepsakes were supposed to feel like? The quivering of her lips, the weight tugging at the back of her throat? Was this moment with a friend meant to chip away at her chest? Shouldn’t the memory lie in wait and change in hue before it could make her eyes burn like this?
She set the photo in her lap and tried to blink away the unbidden tears. A few escaped anyway, wandering across her flushing cheeks, so she wiped them away. They were silly, she sniffed, and not to be entertained. They did not belong in the appreciation of a memento. They felt ungrateful.
That’s what she would be, after all: ungrateful. This wasn’t about her. It was about Taiga. That’s how Minori’s hand ended up in Ryuuji’s to begin with. They stumbled across the finish line to be there for Taiga, and to protect her from the onslaught of boys who did not care. The ones who only saw a pretty face.
Such a pretty face, Minori found herself thinking.
Taiga, who so obviously loved Ryuuji, who so obviously loved her back. Minori reminded herself of this. When Ryuuji grabbed her hand, it wasn’t for her — it was for Taiga. And for her part, Minori wanted nothing more than to help her best, oldest friend. She could see the resentment and hurt Taiga was holding back, neglected once again by that rat bastard excuse for a father. She saw it, and it tore at her heart, and she had to do something.
So she brought Ryuuji, hand-in-hand, to Taiga. That was her part to play in this, and she’d played it well. They might both be oblivious, but their feelings will come out, and they’ll know that happiness. They will. Minori was sure of it. They will.
She bit back another wave of tears. Why? She should be happy! She should be elated to have brought her best friend closer to the foolish boy she loves; to have brought that dipshit boy she cares about closer to her best friend who loves him. A service to two friends, and done damn well. She should be happy!
Minori laughed. Soon enough these feelings will seem foreign to her. Utterly silly. A month from now, or two, or a few, but soon enough, those two idiots will end up together like they should have ages ago. And Minori will see their bliss and feel it for them and the only tears will be out of joy that it finally happened. She’ll cheer them on from that inevitable first day to… the fairy tale marriage that will surely follow. That’s how it’ll go.
The laugh was hollow, and Minori choked on its bitterness. Her eyes found the photo again, still in her lap. They found it anew, and this time as she traced a finger from her face to his through the lifeline that had connected them, the stinging in her eyes became a hot, blinding burn. She was powerless against the fresh tears that streamed down her face, and they dropped one-by-one from her chin. The weight in her throat was suffocating, and as she clenched her fist and grit her teeth, the breath she tried to take came out a wracking sob.
Just a photo? she thought, her face a wet grimace. Nothing more than a keepsake? she echoed, the one hand an angry ball, the other still caressing the glossy finish.
Like hell.