imaginarynetwork | 01, text | un: dearsunshine

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01, text | un: dearsunshine

hi everyone!!! ＼(＾▽＾ ⋈)／ if we havent met or u dont remember me yet my name is sayori!!!
i remembered i used to write a lot and parfaitgirls poem rly inspired me
so i wanted to make a VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!!! 《《o(≧◇≦)o》》

i went to the roswell center bc i wanted to read some baislan poetry
and while i was there i asked if they had a club where ppl could talk about writing
and it turns out they didnt! (￣ヘ￣)
but someone heard me ask about it and got RLY EXCITED
so we got some of the students together to start a literature club there!!! ☆*:.｡.__〆(⌒▽⌒ ⋈)

so if u like to read or write and talk about literature u should come to the roswell center in the afternoons for literature club!
i may not be there every day bc we have a lot to do LOL but i should be there p often (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
and ur welcome to come by if ur just curious too!!! (⁀ᗢ⁀) writing is rly nice but u wont know if u like it until u try!!!

and since this is abt literature i thought itd be a good idea to share one of my poems here too
if u want to tell me what u think then consider it a trial run for the literature club wwwwww (⋈ ≧▽≦)ﾉｼ))

[As promised, there is also a photo of a page in a notebook! ~~it's in two images bc it was huge otherwise but it's one page i promise~~]

(transcription available here)

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yeah thats true
sometimes ppl have to be sad
and nobody can fix that

[He doesn't say anything else for a bit, thinking on this. Not upset or anything, more just pensive. This seems like something he learned, once. Something he forgets periodically. He thinks that's true.]

[Hm.]

no i get u
its hard to explain shit
i think some of mine are like that too

i think
i think the ones i had with me that i didnt write are
somebody gave it to me
somebody wrote a bunch of poems and notes on em
cuz reading someones writing is like getting to know them
i havent talked about it rly cuz that seems too personal to tell anyone else
but its not a book i bought
its a book somebody made just for me

[She means to say something. Something else about sadness and making space for it, especially when you don't want others to see it.

But she gets stuck on somebody gave it to me. Her brain sticks on that and he keeps explaining and it just digs its heels in deeper at that juncture.

Reading someone's writing is like getting to know them.

It itches in the back of her mind. It itches like her own fingers digging and digging, scraping and scraping inside of her head. She should probably explain, but she forgets, because suddenly she just single-mindedly needs to know. (Know? Know what?)]

can you tell me some of the titles?
of the poems

[There's actually some hesitation here. Even showing it to Sayori — it feels safe and okay, but he's protective of this book. He knows it's private, that it was only given to him after a long build-up of trust.]

[So although he does what she asks, he makes the conversation private first. And even then, there's one poem's title he knows he won't share.]

um, the first ones "dear sunshine"
then theres "bottles"
"caught in the rain"
"snowstorm"

"lights"

[Dear sunshine.

She looks at her own network username and it hits her like a freight train. She doesn't remember every word, but with every new title title she knows, she knows—]

mista
thats me
dear sunshine

i wrote that stuff

[Wait.]

[That — that does make sense. He should probably have figured it out before, he knows. It's obvious. But—]

[He pulls the book out of his bag and looks through it again. He didn't have to to remember the titles, but he wants to look at this poem specifically to be sure.]

[%]

[This emotion, it's complicated. A sinking of his stomach, half from guilt over looking at something that isn't his, half from fear and worry over her. If Sayori wrote this, something's wrong.]

[But he knew that already, anyway. Didn't he.]

yeah
i guess you mustve

do you want me to give it back?

no
i definitely made it just for you
you should keep it

[She'd say the same thing regardless of what she felt on the other end of the Oath. Still, she doesn't understand right away. She has to make a few leaps of logic. He was sad to read the poem she posted here, because it meant that she was sad.

So for him to be feeling this amount of sick, conflicted worry, there must be something even sadder in that book. Right?]

are you ok?

[That does make him feel kind of relieved, that she doesn't mind him keeping it. It's felt important to him since he woke up with it next to him, that's why he's kept it by his side, but knowing it's from her just makes it more so. Explains a lot, too. All the little notes.]

[Still, it doesn't wash away the sick feeling. He hedges, thumb rubbing a slight smudge on the page.]

not rly
im not sure what to do
theres some stuff in here that it feels weird i know and you dont

are you
do you wanna look at it
you dont have to
but i dont know how to explain it otherwise
but i can try

[She...wars with herself. She still doesn't know how to explain her fear, but it's there as she considers this offer. There's something in her that wants to look away, too. Or— not simple want, but an instinct, like she's supposed to look away from it. Like you pretend not to see the spider that just darted by in the corner of your vision, and you tell yourself it's fine, it probably wasn't a spider anyway.

But it's not fair to ask Mista to hold this, either. And...she has to keep looking. Even if what she finds is a creeping black critter.]

its okay you dont have to do that
i want to see it
im just

[A pause. The typing indicator shows a lot of attempts to write something.]

im scared ill read it all and still wont be able to remember writing it

[He waits. Patiently, if worriedly. And when the answer comes, strangely, he feels relief, because what he needs to do next seems so simple all of a sudden.]

i get that
i dont remember writing mine and some of them are about things that happened that are really bad
some of those things i dont remember either

if you dont wanna look at it today its ok
i just need to know youre ok
and it can wait until another time

or if you wanna do it now im gonna be here with you

either way i love you a lot

[All he can do — all he has to do — is walk the path with her. Whatever it ends up being. That's what he's here for.]

[The anxious prickle persists, but there's a blanket of comfort over top of it. Because she feels like...no matter what happens, if Mista is with her for it, she'll be safe. She'll be okay even if it's not okay.]

i love you too
so so so much

i think i wanna do it now before i lose my nerve lol
i can come find u if thats ok

yeah
come find me
ill be ready

[He's in his cabana when she finds him, having sent a firmly-worded text to Alex that he is Not to return to the cabana for at least an hour. This text was then followed by equally firmly-worded texts denying any hanky-panky. "Sad memory shit" and "girl crying" finally ends the conversation. It's a very stupid conversation.]

[Once it's resolved, he sighs and throws his arm over the back of the couch, looking out towards the ocean. Man. This is gonna be hard.]

[She had to come over from the Roswell Center, and it occurred to her about halfway through the journey that she could probably Virtualize the rest of the way right to his bracer. She doesn't, because she doesn't want to scare the shit out of him, but. She should probably tell him that she can do that. For next time.

This is a less uncomfortable preoccupation than the hanky-panky conversation, at least.

She sidles up to the cabana a little more casually than she really means to, her steps both idle and bouncy as she ducks around the privacy curtain. Despite the circumstances and the slight furrow in her brow, she smiles when she sees him, because just seeing him makes her happy.] Found you.

[Like hide and seek? Get it?]

[It's the same from the other direction; he hears her voice and looks to her and smiles, crooked on one side. Found you, she says, and he reaches out his hand for her.]

Hey. Does that make me it now?

[The smile grows a little brighter as she steps in to take his hand.] Ehehe. I think it does.

I'm not gonna hide though, [and she plops down on the couch next to him, settling underneath his arm] so maybe we can both be it.

[And she won't have to search alone, so maybe he won't have to be so sad about it.]

[That's nice. How she takes his hand and slips under his arm in one motion, snuggling up beside him on the couch. It's too hot for this, really, but he doesn't care. This is where he wants her, so much his whole heart kind of hurts.]

That sounds good. [He kisses the crown of her head and pulls the book into his lap, resting mostly on the leg that bumps up against hers.] Two heads are better than one and all that.

[. . . It occurs to him that maybe he could offer to trade with her, later. She could help him seek, too. But not right now. This is already a lot.]

I dunno how you wanna do this. From the beginning or . . .

Yeah, the more the merrier. [Oh they're using it correctly this time. Arc development!

It's hot, and Mista runs warm, and she's already way too toasty but she's absolutely not moving from this spot. This is her spot. It feels right to be here, so this is where she's going to stay, especially after that soft kiss.

She hums in thought.] From the beginning. I've been writing in my journal since I— remembered that I do that, so...I think I probably would've told the story in order in this book.

[And if that's how she told it, that's probably how she should read it.]

[He nods. It makes sense. Even if that means she'll get to the one that worries him pretty quickly . . . it's the right way to do things.]

Okay. I'm ready when you are. [Steady. Not nervous, not really. He might be in a little bit, depending on what happens, but for now he's calm at her side.]

[She takes a deep breath in. Then lets it out, slumping a little closer to him as she does.] ...Okay. I'm ready.

[So she reaches for the book. Gingerly, even though she knows she's the one who made it, because— even though she made it, it's not hers. It's Mista's. So she's careful, so careful as she opens the front cover and starts to read.

It's her own handwriting, without a doubt. It's exactly how she would say the things this says, the little note at the beginning that explains her reasoning for giving this to him.

The first poem strikes her instantly with nostalgia. Dear Sunshine. The first poem that she shared with...the Literature Club (wow, that explains a lot.) The first poem that she shared with anyone, she knows. The actual poem is cute. It makes her smile. The notes, though—

It's about that boy.

She keeps reading.

Bottles. If Dear Sunshine was happy nostalgia, Bottles is the sad kind. The melancholy in it feels like home, after you've turned all the lights off to listen to a rainstorm outside. The similarities with the poem she just shared strike her immediately, so much that she almost feels like she doesn't need to read the notes.

She does, though. And speaks again after a moment; not about the conflicted knot of feelings, or the facts she can infer from the book, or the shards of memory that still aren't entirely coming back to her, but...something she wants to know nonetheless.] Which one's your favorite?

[He sits with her. He listens. He presses against her, hip to knee, and keeps himself deliberately close enough that she can curl into him if she wants or needs to. And he feels her through the Oath, not ready to jump in and fix things, because he can't, he knows, but . . . to open himself up further, if that's what she needs. To be what she needs, if he can.]

[The feelings that are building into a complex, indescribable shape in her chest are still on his mind when she asks him that question; still on his mind when his expression goes from pensive and attentive to purely happy, as he ducks his head and leans over the book.]

Lights. My favorite one is Lights. I like all of 'em, but this one is—

[He flips the page over to it, and realizes he doesn't have to say it. It's all right there in Sayori's own words. His crooked grin is almost too fierce to speak through, but he says it again anyway.] This one's my favorite.

[She's still a little absorbed in everything going on with her brain and her feelings, so she doesn't see as his expression changes. But she feels it. The warmth of the happiness that overtakes him. It's like a balm for the anxiety that the incomplete memories are slowly stirring up. It's just soothing.

This is out of order, she realizes, but — that's suddenly not nearly as important as his happiness and seeing whatever made him that happy. And. Well. It's easier to focus on this, anyway.

It hits her like a bludgeon within the first stanza: this is a love poem. The tips of her fingers brush the paper as she reads and almost, faintly, just barely remembers as she impressed her love upon the page with each letter. Her face starts to burn with a fierce blush about halfway through, but she doesn't realize it, too caught up in the fond fuzziness that's gradually forming itself into...moments. Not the whole thing, but moments.

She reads through the notes, but again, it feels unnecessary. In fact, it brings her more questions than answers (Sex Pistols? Shadowdale? A lot of stuff happened between us, but what?) Despite that, she's still more preoccupied with the echoing fondness in her chest which gets stronger as it reverberates through her.

Eventually, it bubbles out of her in a kind of watery laugh, and she says with some revelation:] You kissed me when I showed you this one.

[She'll feel it echoed back at her, all those fond fuzzy feelings mirrored through the Oath; when she looks at him, he's grinning, goofy and wide and lopsided.]

Yeah! 'Course I did. What was I supposed to do, not kiss you when you wrote something like that about me?

[Don't be ridiculous.]

[Shuffling a little, he pulls out his notebook from the inside of the couch. There's a bookmark in it, on a particular page.]

Uh, I realized that I'm pretty sure I did one about you, too. I dunno if you wanna read it, but . . .

[Well. He nudges it forward until it's balanced precisely on their touching knees.]

[Wow, him making that face makes her feel like she just got punched in the gut. Is that allowed? Who let him look like that?

She means to clarify about the kiss, but staring directly into that grin has rendered her brainless. Only him pulling out the notebook grabs her attention, and her eyes go wide with wonder as she regards the bookmark that peeks out from it.]

You...wrote about me? Really? [Awe and some disbelief, though not in bad faith. She's just— surprised? And it does something funny to her emotionally, something swelling and overwhelming before she even reads the damn thing.

Of course she wants to read it. She slips her finger against the bookmark to open the notebook up to that page.]

—hey, it matches mine. [Lights and Shadows. That's so cute. It's more than cute, actually, but she gets caught up in reading the rest before she can linger on that.

This poem says some things that catch in the back of Sayori's head. Loose threads snagging unpleasantly on sharp hooks as they drag across her mind. She ignores them, because this isn't the first thing on this island that's given her that feeling, and they're not as important right now as everything else. Everything else being the absolutely crushing mass of affection inside of her, of course, and things that she definitely starts to remember about this poem. Things that she remembers about Mista, because they're the same thing. Reading someone's writing is like getting to know them.

The feeling is like the first time she read it at the same time that it's comforting familiarity, the feeling of having read something so many times that you've memorized it.

When she's done, she exhales a sharp, rattling breath. Lifts her head, lifts her hand, and then grabs his chin and turns his face toward her so that she can kiss him, deep and lingering.]

[The things she feels are complicated. That's no surprise. It's a complicated thing, this poem he wrote, even though it's made of words that he used to think were too simple to turn into poetry. I know you don't remember things like that rings ominous deep down to his bones, moreso because he doesn't remember what it means and is terrified that she'll remember before he does, leaving him unable to help.]

[There are other hard things in the poem. Callouts, kind of, but not really — things that are true about her, that he must have written because he knew and cared enough to put them down on paper, because they're things he loves about her, too. All the dips and peaks, lights and shadows.]

[All the complicated things she's feeling right now, he loves those too. They're part of her, so he loves them. As she rides the wave, down and then all the way up again, he leans against her gently, shoulder against hers just to feel the contact and the temperature of her body by his side.]

[He does and doesn't expect the kiss. Maybe more accurate would be to say he feels like any moment could metamorphosize into a kiss, and this one seems especially like a kissing moment. So she takes his chin in her hand, and he moves in at the same time she does, not surprised, not ready either, just there with her, following her lead.]

[His hand buries in her hair, fingers curving automatically to cradle the curve of her skull. They kiss, and it's like the first time plus the time after he gave her the poem, neither of which he remembers clearly, both of which he can grasp the feeling of with perfect clarity. Two types of tenderness, slightly different. This time is both.]

[It's not the first time they've kissed since they ended up on this island. Far from it, frankly. But it sparks in her like the first time; not the first time here, but the first time ever. A flickering echo of warmth and newness. She knows the steps a lot better than the first time, though, and it's so automatic that she knows she learned them with him. She shapes to him by instinct — softly, easily.

Her cheeks heat in a way that's sort of overwhelmed. Layers upon layers of familiarity, feelings and memories that come along with kissing him like this. She remembers other instances, and they're like the points of a constellation: nothing between them, but it's easy enough to imagine how the lines would connect it all.

And a picture of the two of them, somewhere in the shape those lines make. Together. Safe.

He holds her to him the way one might hold a treasure. It makes the idea of separating from him almost impossible. There's a part of her that just wants to sink into this and get carried away wherever it leads, but — there's so much in her heart, too many questions and answers both. Still, she lets herself feel the pull of the current as her mouth closes over his bottom lip and the tip of her tongue brushes against it, one slow second before she pulls back.

Not far. Just giving herself enough space to talk, still close enough to feel his breath. So close that her lips still faintly brush his as she speaks, murmured into the air between them like a secret.] You showed me this poem on our first date. And when I showed you mine was our first kiss. My first kiss.

[Do you remember? she doesn't ask. It's okay if he doesn't yet. Even if his mind can't remember, his heart does; she can feel it.]

[That she pulls back after all that sort of kills him. Logically he knew she would. They're here together to do something, to discover something, not to make out. It's just — when she's kissing him, it's hard to care about anything else. Her tongue brushes his lip and then she's pulling away, and he whines, actually whines.]

[At least she doesn't go far. At least he thinks he can still feel her heartbeat in the space between them. Brows furrowed in kiss-addled confusion, he looks at her and tries to decipher what she's saying. First date, first kiss. Her first kiss.]

[Does he remember?]

[Closing his eyes against the world, he leans his forehead against hers and breathes in. Remembers something, the shapes around the reality, then a moment in time; the world around it blurs, doesn't exist, a fog in a vast and empty world. But they're there, the two of them, curled towards each other on a blanket. He remembers thinking about her all night, how cute she was, how happy he was to be next to her — and then she gave him that, out of nowhere. Words in rows, all about him. About them.]

[His eyes open again, but only halfway, only to take in the sight of her again.]

. . . Yeah. You really got me, huh? Nobody ever said anything like that about me before.

[A beat; a breath.]

I really love you, Sayori.

01, text | un: dearsunshine

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