?? | Chishiya x OC | ??
*Currently editing*
"I've always have that thought about you, that I don't want to remember you longer, than I have ever known you."
Seina was never ordinary
unpredictable, an emotional rollercoaster, heartbreakingly beautif...
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Chishiya had rarely cared about anything. He didn't care about his family, just as his family hadn't cared about him. He never minded that he didn't fit in—because, truthfully, he had never wanted to. Most people around him were predictable, dull, average, and endlessly selfish. Then again, he had always believed that all people were endlessly selfish. Especially him.
Most of his life, he had experienced things as an outsider, untouched by what made others cry or what brought them joy. He hadn't gone to medical school because it was what his prestigious doctor parents would have wanted. He went because he was curious—curious if it would make him care about human lives.
It didn't.
But he was exceptionally good at it, just as he was at nearly everything he did. Even so, he never felt pride, never felt as if he had accomplished something. He simply moved forward, unshaken, steady.
Art, on occasion, interested him. Sometimes, he would linger in museums, staring at paintings, trying to understand how a single brushstroke could hold so much—pain, joy, disgust, longing, excitement. After all, they were just chemical compounds pressed onto canvas. He never quite grasped how shades of gray, white, black, brown, yellow, blue, or deep green, blended together, could make him feel the warmth of sunlight breaking through a forest, almost as if it touched his skin.
He never searched for an explanation as to why that intrigued him.
Just as he never searched for an explanation as to why she intrigued him.
Maybe it was because he saw Seina the way he saw those paintings—beautifully constructed tragedy, with far more depth than what one saw at first glance. The longer you looked, the deeper it got, the more unbearable it became, layers unfolding into something raw, something broken.
He could never pinpoint the exact moment when he started to worry about her, when he started noticing how, like dried paint cracking on a canvas, she was slowly fracturing beside him.
Maybe that was why he was so careful with her. Why he made sure—subtly, deliberately—that she didn't destroy herself, or that no one else destroyed her either. Not even him.
He couldn't recall if that concern had ever faded, or if it had simply reignited the moment they crossed paths in this place again. The lines had blurred too much, like colors bleeding together under a painter's hand, mixing into something new, something untraceable.
He didn't know when his boundaries had started to blur with hers. Maybe that was the moment he realized he finally understand the true meaning of art. Maybe that was why, without thinking, he turned to her, his gaze flicking briefly to the way she was still favoring her side, her movements just slightly too stiff.
