Let go.

Walk away.

Move on.

Don't forget.

Don't forget.

Leave it, and don't forget it.

Because you can't.

You can keep walking. You can leave it behind. You can go on without it.

But you cannot forget it.

You walk away from the building, the site of your happiest days.

Three years. Only three years, and you cherish them.

The sparse number of years that have brought such joy to you—the years that have taught you to laugh, to cry, to smile. A time that returned to you the happiness the years had robbed you of. Laugh and cry and smile.Words that have abandoned you long ago.

Three years—and you decide that the number three has become your favorite number.


The first year, you knew nothing but to cry—to cry and cry and cry, night by night by night. No one to help you; you were alone. You wanted to die. You sobbed every night; one lone being whose sorrow gnawed at your heart, till the pain had become a friend, an enemy. Those nights, you sobbed and cried out against the loneliness, with only the pain inside to be with you, and to come back again when you stalked the building's halls, jeers thrown at you with those cruel, hurting sneers.

Why? you demanded, furiously as you crumbled inside. Why can't you leave me alone? Why doesn't anyone acknowledge that I'm a human?

Freak, they called you. Freak, and retarded. You thought you were insane, your resolve of defiance faltered.

No one to support you while you cried.

Enemies, and no friends. No friends but the worst of your enemies.

And you cried.


You walked into the class next year, resolving to ignore anyone who would dare burn your life with actions that would turn it to hell.

You walked with your mind set, steeling it, solidifying—to be strong, to keep from being hurt.

And you saw a friendly face.

The year then passed blissfully—you didn't know how, but you enjoyed it all—you were one with the people you could never reach before, you were accepted.

The end was near then; it was close, too close, and came too fast. You wanted to cry at the end, not in sadness, not in anticipation, but with only the unspoken words: "What a great year."

The tears stung at your eyes, and they flowed in your bliss; you loved your hell, your heaven, because no one was enough to be an angel, and none enough to be a devil; they were imps, and you joined them, and it was nothing but earth.

The rich, fresh earth.

Laughter thickened the air, pure joy—you were drunk, drunk on the beauty of it all, the pleasure of your newfound solace. They were always there for you, and somehow, you still cannot wrap your finger about that—somehow, you belonged, and they let you in. Somehow. Some way. You were accepted into the sanctuary.

Yet another year—and you grew.

The love tore at you with blunt claws, tore your rotted heart open to the glowing cavities within, to Thumbelina and Kaguya-hime, and still not quite; it was of its own.

But Thumbelina and Kaguya-hime both left, to be with their people, their own kind, and you smiled, the glitter of tears sparking a happiness unheard of, at least by your ears.

And you cried.


What was this year, but a cross between the first and second year?—what was this, but a hybrid of hell and earth?—where would heaven be, hiding behind the clouds?

But you knew people. You knew people, and there were remnants—you knew people, and they knew you, and, somehow, it was all right. Just okay.

The past bit you, surged back to nip at you, eyes gleaming with malice; it sneered at you, and you laughed in its face, speaking through clenched teeth, You cannot have this; you cannot have this anymore, you do not belong here.

Then it offered its alliance, and you spoke, dipping your head, sticking out your tongue: "We shall see."

And in the end, there were tears, you gazed up at the steel rain clouds, murmuring little songs beneath your breath, a small smile painted on your face. You felt the rain on your skin, tapping against your nose, fogging your glasses, so that you could see, and somehow you still saw so very clearly what you had, as you shivered, those you knew nudging at you to join them beneath the umbrella. You laughed and turned them down; you love the rain.

With them, you threw your cap, later, the red cloth sliding like satin, swishing in the air, though your hand sent another's flying into the band, but that fit—this shared ceremony was let out into the rain again, and you smiled at the sky, letting it cry for you.

You had to leave early, and a part of you regretted with a mass of strength; your tears fell, but again in joy, and this was but the second time you cried for the bliss. By, now, for sure—for nothing is perfect—you had achieved heaven.

Waving goodbye as they slid away, for your cold, cold, northernmost brothers, you laughed, hoping that they were too.

And the tears slid down, shrouded in the smell of the sandalwood fan.


The taste of the number three haunts you, blinds you white, explodes behind your eyes, someway. The middle is at the tip of your tongue, and you think of it, and them, those who care, every single day—constant as the heartbeat, and just as dear.

It has latched onto your life, and in return you suck at it, bringing it closer.

Move on, move on. And don't forget.