one: a discourse on passion.

The truth is that you can divide your heart in all sorts of interesting ways- a little here, a little there, most banked at home, some of it coined out for a flutter.

But love cleaves through the mind's mathematics. Love's lengthways splits the heart in two- the heart where you are, the heart where you want to be. How will you heal your heart when love has split in two?

A droplet of lilac dripped onto the rock below, the fine brush, thin and fragile, was suspended in the air, and she asked herself a question she'd asked a million times already (but she didn't speak it out loud, no. She didn't speak at all, usually) and would continue to ask for another million times.

Will I find it today?

When people who weren't her best friends wanted to know more about her motivation to paint, they always sported quite a bewildered expression on their face upon her response, then furrowed their brows with years' worth of confusion and changed the topic. They probably took her answer, stashed it into a box full of unnecessary information, locked that box, threw the key away and decided to never touch that thing again, goddamnit. Keep it simple.

Oh well, she wasn't really bothered by those kinds of people anymore. She's stopped noticing every twitch of their brow, every annoyed twinge of their mouth, every hushed complain about her when they thought she wasn't listening, ranging from "What's wrong with her?" to "Can't she just talk? Jesus Christ."

The truth was, no, she couldn't. Not since a year, not since that catastrophic Tuesday afternoon in August, barely a week before the new semester started, and that stole her breath as well as her voice, that didn't turn her completely mute but just... quiet. It wasn't like she didn't want to talk, she just couldn't, and whenever she tried to, there was this vice around her neck - "like a noose," Dazai would say - which tightened and tightened the more she wanted to force a single word past her tired vocal cords. So she stopped wanting that altogether (in specific situations) and resorted to artistry.

Art is yet another form of communication, just like literature and music are. The fine brush was her tongue, the vibrant colors ranging from butterscotch petals to mint green skies her unspoken words, and, lastly, the canvas was her compassionate audience that was willing to listen to her silent voice.

Which brings us back to the present.

Hina sighed quietly and fidgeted about on her wooden stool, threw one leg over the other, only to place it down firmly against the chipped and smooth stone. Apparently, the only answer she'd get today was the solitary howling of the wind, the crashing and breaking and rising of ocean waves, and the bright, white light reflecting off the surface. There was still a certain savagery, a wildness in the way the water met with the earth that was a leftover from the storm previous night. Sometimes she wondered if the sea was alive, if the push and pull of the water was Mother Nature's own equivalent of inhaling and exhaling, a steady rhythm of ebb and flow, a perpetual cycle of perseverence.

Sometimes, she wondered if there was anyone like her.

A quiet ping distracted her momentarily and caused her to place the dripping brush across the lid of her can, flowing over with several other utensils. She bent down, unwinded the straps around her messenger bag, and zipped it open to reveal her phone casting a blueish light in the depths of it. Upon fishing it out of the mess consisting of paperback novels, crumpled notes and textbooks, Hina unlocked the device quickly and was met with a Line message.

[toquotehamletno]

hi there hinaaaa (' ∀ ' *)

Upon reading, the young woman couldn't help but surrender to the smile finding its way to her lips. Dazai - her best friend, a fellow student at the University of Yokohama, and the reason she owned more bandages than edible things in her apartment - could be awfully cheery at every ungodly hour there was, yet he never failed to make the people around him light-hearted as well. (Even though he could be annoying as hell, too; it just added to his charm, to be honest.)

[vangoghing]

what do u want?

[toquotehamletno]

can't i just text my absolute favourite friend in the whole wide world without any ulterior motives?
( ' ∀ ')ノ～ ♡

[vangoghing]

u really should learn how to act better ( ¬_¬)

[toquotehamletno]

but i didn't take acting as a course

[vangoghing]

and mankind will be forever grateful for that (ﾉ'ヮ')ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

[toquotehamletno]

r00d

but anyway, i wanted to ask where you are rn because i could need help with some assignments

[vangoghing]

i'm at the shore

[toquotehamletno]

painting ?

[vangoghing]

u know me so well (ﾉ' з ')ノ

"I really do," the brunette huffed from the other line, sitting at his desk already overflowing with textbooks, markers in various shades he didn't even know the names of, and randomly scattered papers that just appeared out of, uh, nowhere basically (for God's sake, he might be an university student but you can't possibly expect him to know everything).

He actually has a mental list of what he knows about her and what not. Number one of What Dazai Osamu knows about Hina Ichikata: she's a total dork, and not many people are aware of that. Number two: she can eat a Jalapeño Chili without batting an eye. Number three: she believes in sirens.

What Dazai Osamu doesn't know about Hina Ichikata: why she believes in them.

[toquotehamletno]

let me rephrase that

are you still searching?

A quiet minute passed in which she tried to form a proper response; but even though there were approximately 1010300 words in the English language, none of them were good enough to describe what she felt. (Number four: she knew things no one else had a clue about.)

[vangoghing]

why do you know me so well? 

[toquotehamletno]

how long have we been friends?

[vangoghing]

it feels like six thousand years, dazai.

[toquotehamletno]

it does

it's been seven years, remember? we were both fourteen.

so, i know you better than the back of my hand.

[vangoghing]

you do.

And with that, she locked her phone after a few seconds and stuffed it into her pocket again. She rubbed her face in exhaustion.

She wished she could tell him why she believed in a mythical creature no one has ever seen, but that would be the equivalent of raising her heart up into a downpour to let it wash away all the blinding colours it accumulated over time. It would be the same as holding your breath and trusting someone to give it back.

Trust. It was all built on trust. It wasn't that Hina didn't count on him, but she was afraid that, for all his alterity, he wouldn't get her in just that point; as if the universe would decide to play tricks on her.

She picked the brush up from its earlier position, dipped it into the still fresh acrylic paint, and resumed her task. Well, tried to, at least, because there was a certain kind of foreboding gnawing at the back of her mind that made her narrow her eyes and bite her bottom lip in annoyance. In the end, she huffed, put her belongings back and swung the bag over her shoulder, making her way down the slopes and steep inclines.

She panted when she climbed over the last rock leading down to the beach, brushed over the chipped, uneven stone and thought just what the hell she was doing.

(Maybe all she did was to forget her head and listen to her heart.)

Hina shifted the weight of her backpack, turned around, and -

Oh god.

Partially covered by the ocean waves washing over his lower body like a gentle blanket, a redhaired man laid on the sand, unconscious. Slowly inching closer, her heartbeat palpitating like a frenzied bird, she noticed the portion of sunset tresses falling over his right shoulder.

She quietly dropped the weight off her torso and stepped even closer to the stranger, not realizing she did so until she was kneeling right by his side, her light blue strands almost brushing over his face as she turned him over.

Struck by wonderment, the young woman wiped the grains stuck on his cheeks away, breathing shallowly as she did so, her gaze flicking over his sun-kissed form. Just now, she saw how many freckles he had; they were spread out on his shoulders, cheeks, nose, collarbones, small dots on his body as if someone had taken a brush and painted him in the most brilliant hues.

Beautiful wasn't enough, wasn't meaningful enough of an adjective to begin with.

Hina shivered slightly from the cold gust of wind, shot a glance at the man beneath and moved around him, placing her hands under his arms to tug him out of the water and onto the warm ground.

When she was done, she plopped down beside the ginger and wiped her forehead, where a bit of sweat had gathered from the exertion and nervosity. If he really was who she thought he was, then...

He stirred.

She jumped lightly from where she sat, and caught a glimpse of his lower half. Starting from his hips was a glistening fin in a peach orange colour, tinted like an early summer sunrise that you witnessed from a granite rooftop with your best friends and bottles of sparkling strawberry soda.

A siren.

This was it. This was the proof that all of her dreams, all of his, were no cloud-castles at all. They've never been, Hina.

Just as she was about to reach out to him, to place her hand atop his chest to feel if he had a heartbeat like her, lived like her, breathed like her, his eyes shot open and he jerked away from her with a yell.

She snatched her hand back as if she burnt herself from his heated vividness, her eyes meeting his, and oh, she was lost in them.

They were a bright cerulean, brimming with aquamarines and overflowing with briskness, like a flood in a paper cup. They bore into her own, as if he could pick her apart like a flower to unravel all of those secrets held close to her heart.

"Who are you?", he snapped suddenly, his fin jerking up and back down in agitation, hands balled into fists and digging into the sand.

Hina opened her mouth, then closed it, and reflexively lifted her hands.

I found you here, she signed.

Then, she remembered that he might not understand sign language at all, but she forgot about that as soon as he gave her a response. An actual response.

And what is 'here'?

He heard his own blood rushing in his ears, his thoughts jumbled together and mind unable to tie any strings between them to form coherent sentences. He was afraid, he didn't know where he was, and the only thing he remembered was that a storm ripped him from his home.

During the time he seemed to be lost in thought, Hina took a moment to recall the way his voice sounded. It was rough around the edges, deep, but nonetheless dripping with honeyed cherry blossoms and a liveliness that spoke of a million springs.

She smiled softly when he lifted his gaze again and gestured. Well, here is...

Yokohama.

His eyes widened infinitesimally. Upon hearing her words, those four little syllables, Yo-ko-ha-ma, ringing in his head like an insufferable alarm clock, he ran a hand through his hair in exhaustion.

Yokohama, huh?