❛ like two lungs, we breathe, always together. we are comprised of two bodies and yet we only have one set of lungs and a single heartbeat. when one of us falls, the other follows, like a shadow.  ❜

     She cannot utter a sound at first, for her mouth hangs by a sliver and widened eyes are devouring his profile. The gesture in itself was heroic. It was heart-racing. And like she’s ten all over again, his voice ( despite its brimming anger ) only perks her shoulders – until Chihiro actually processes what he’s saying.

     “… Ma’am? … What’s up with that?” Not only are his words rigidly formal – they are implying something about her perceived age. Her form-fitting blouse only attests that she is fabulously twenty, which makes her not a child nor an elder, but a young woman ( or so she likes to think ) – a woman who is now teetering between two hefty decisions.

                                                  Smack the reporter, or smack him?

     As brief as the notion was, the same reporter had found this his cue to retreat. The youth’s grip truly must have done a number on his wrist; in the man’s frantic sprint, she could espy his silhouette rubbing the afflicted area. That much was enough to unfurrow her brow and nearly elicit a giggle from rosy lips, even, but it occurred to Chihiro that she did need to thank her protector. Her protector…

      … The resemblance is so, so cruel.

     “I’m fine. It was starting to hurt, so thank you very much…” She turned to him and dipped forth in a deep bow, her etiquette finely tempered from, ironically, press interviews. That, and the harsh reality of adulthood. More than anything, it was a way to avoid his eyes. “Please, if there’s any –” An owlish blink punctuated her thanks, however, as a violet gleam caught her attention. The hair tie – no matter how many people told her the memories were fiction, she couldn’t stand to lose it; ‘woven from the threads of her friends,’ it protected her, like he just did. Frail fingers scooped it from the grass, and she straightened to secure it back into her hair. All the while, she still cannot bear to look him in the eyes, but – she’s stronger than that, she’s learned better than that. The brunette filled her lungs with a deep breath before cordiality lit her features, gaze readily flickering straight into his. Oh…–

     “I mean it, though. Thanks, Ha – …” This time she must cut herself off. No, no, no – don’t say it, don’t even think it! The smile falters and it takes all she can muster to mind herself, because his display has rung clear in her heart: he doesn’t know her. Not like she knows him. “… Anyway, please – if I can repay you, let me know. I’m Ogino, Chihiro. U-um, I should have a business card…!” Bottom lip bitten, palms patted her pockets before diving into the pink purse slung over her shoulder. The last thing she wanted to admit was that she simply couldn’t let this go – she had to fish for an excuse to know his name, or perhaps even an excuse to see him again; she had the dragon by its tail ( pun intended? ) and she couldn’t let him slip away, now. Even if he was only a lookalike. Still painfully handsome, her thoughts bitterly slip.

                            silvertonqued

     Relaxation. Scenery. Picnics, even. There were a handful of reasons to trek the riverbank alongside a beautifully setting sun. Chihiro had her own, but all the same, it’d been ruined by the rat-faced man holding onto her arm.

     “No. Please leave me alone…” You’ve got to be hiding a manuscript! There’s no way you aren’t!  “There is no manuscript. I’m retired. No more questions or comments –”

     Come on, tell us! But he wasn’t the only one growing more and more frustrated.

     This kind of thing happened all too often – though this was the first occasion a reporter went so far as to grab her. She could not seem to fend him off for her life; the hoarse cry was all she could manage. Had it really come to this – being just as pathetic as she used to be? Yubaba’s words, or whomever they even belonged to, echoed in her head as she continued to thrash. It was no use – the man’s grip was a frighteningly powerful vice. It hurt, it hurt, and her mind began to whirl. He’d never do this to her and he’d never let somebody like this even try, he         

     Bare knees began to surrender, head hanging low. Her signature ponytail had unraveled, fringe and brown locks both obscuring glossy eyes. She had already tuned out the invasive man, still fervently shaking her arm. Him and his kind, they’d all had their steady answer for ten years, now; apparently it was just too poorly received that Ogino Chihiro would not be making a sequel to Spirited Away, nor would she be picking up her pen anytime soon. Retired! They couldn’t understand the word! All she could do was stick to protocol. Wait for them to shut up and go away, like always.

                                                   Why did this have to happen?                                      She never should have written that stupid book.

     But even though she had shut herself off from the man’s annoying pleas, she still had ears, and it took a few seconds longer before they suddenly noticed it – that the sky had gone utterly silent. The grip on her arm was no more. Had he impulsively decided to leave her be? No, impossible.

     The reporter is still there, but so is someone else. Cautiously, she lifts her head and thinks she is dreaming such a cruel dream       “…!”