[ by now, she's spent enough time looking into his eyes that she can paint the color of them if she had to. she knows they're a similar hue to her own, but there's something sharper in his, older and weary. she's wondered before if she would be able to recognize him in any of his other bodies by just the look in his eyes, often guarded but yearning. if the eyes are really the windows to your soul, and your soul isn't dependent on the body it inhabits, then it shouldn't make much of a difference, right?

right now, it's like he isn't even trying to hold anything back. or maybe he's simply too tired to be able to. too raw and beaten, broken hands grasping at a hope too delicate to stay still.

she's wondered before: how would it feel to look at him and see a different face staring back? now he's got her fearing something else entirely — a familiar face holding an unfamiliar look. honestly? it sounds terrifying. but he's been brave for her before; the least she could do is be brave for him in turn.

carefully, she lifts a hand to settle it right behind his, letting her fingers slot and lace in the spaces left between his. fitting their pieces together. ]

It might happen.

[ her voice is gentle, but that's a reality that would be foolish to ignore. and despite it all, even if they both have their own separate ways to go about it, they're both still realists. a deal is a deal. and by now they both know how cruel these orbs can truly be. ]

But just because you forget, doesn't mean it has to be lost to you forever.

[ she leaves his side for a moment, moving to the table beside the bed to look through its drawer. it doesn't take her long to find what she's been trying to look for since he'd mentioned his plight earlier, holding the pen up between them when she reclaims her place before him. ]

You can write your story, Takeshi. Who said the ending has to be a sad one?