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The iron of the candelabra spurts rust; grey morphing to an ill brown, at the verge of crumpling entirely. Wick that has burnt beyond its grave is pasty and erstwhile; the once-cylendrical wax a pathetic pool of desperation.
And with that, light burns for one final time.
જ⁀➴ ♡
If only the presence of something were as apparent as the absence of it.
She had not noticed how she’d had to squint her eyes to read until the dark was absolute. (Figuratively, yes, later, but also - literally. Childhood-Homura’s eyesight prescription would be a blessing compared to the weight that rested on the bridge of her nose. Finished with pencil skirts and scarves, she looked the part of the librarian that she was, at least.)
Madoka strode in without warning. Homura, startled, jumped. (She used to put aside her books when Madoka arrived.
She did not.)
“Madoka,” an undercurrent of stiffness in her voice. “You aren’t wearing your perfume today. That’s why I didn’t see you coming. The one with sage and - something sweet - strawberries?”
“Homura,” Madoka placed a red handbag on their dusty tablestand. “I haven’t worn that in three months.”
“Oh.” Homura flipped a page, ink like fog in her head. “I -”
“Happens!” Madoka flopped on their bed. Homura did not lean to check if her heels were off. The idea of hygiene was a lot less concerning than her wife - her wife! They were married! Had been, for ten years.
Madoka smiled.
Twelve, Homura corrected herself.
“So many things to do,” Madoka was talking. “We should take a vacation.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” Homura promised. The only one she could keep.
જ⁀➴ ♡
Madoka wore this odd adjunct, a ‘lip gelato.’
She refused chapstick and lipbalm and lipstick and ghee. She had no particular shade, but did not buy a new one until her case had run dry. She stored it with a compact mirror that her mother had gifted her; in the uppermost drawer of their oakwood vanity.
The facts formed a nest of comfort for her haywire brain. Madoka, she knew. Madoka, she knew so well she could reconstruct from memory. Lip gelato and no contour and twin braids Madoka. Homura had spent so long learning her.
That night, Homura crawled out of bed and swiped, feeling almost like a thief.
(It was a cherry red. At least it was still there.)
જ⁀➴ ♡
“I haven’t been to a book signing in so long,” Madoka said over brewing tea. “Do they not do those anymore, Homura-chan?”
Homura slipped her outfit of the day, only half-aware of the tank top and long skirt. Madoka liked shopping, but she hadn’t been free to do that for so long, and Homura had cycled through her older clothes like a spinning wheel. It was nothing of note.
“I thought I shouldn’t drag you over for every single one,” Homura donned a beret. She always woke before Madoka and was out of the door by the time her wife’s shuteye ended. Conversations held in dawn were few and far in-between.
“You know I love them,” Fondness coated each word. “I’d like to go to the next one with you.”
Homura nodded, quiet. Madoka pecked her good-bye. Homura’s heart did not skip a beat.
(When she closed the door behind her, it felt like a conclusion.)
જ⁀➴ ♡
Their anniversary always had a vignette of their experiences together. It was shared privately, with an afterparty with their friends. Some ten years ago, Homura would’ve said Mami, Sayaka, and Kyouko always showed up.
Sometimes Mami wasn’t there. Sometimes Sayaka. Sometimes Kyouko. Sometimes Hitomi. Sometimes Nagisa.
That was okay. They were all grown-up now. Homura was over thirty in age - minus the backache, plus her lingering heart condition - and she possessed a phone. Technology. Communication.
And Madoka, her wife, never let her feel alone, anyway.
So this year, Homura honoured that with a memorial to each year they had spent together. Years of creative writing had equipped her prose depth, and her love for Madoka rendered it illustrious.
(Besides… she didn’t have a lot to say for this year.)
Kyouko jibed, like flunking school and skipping periods. Like forgotten taxes. Hitomi sighed with adoration, windswept by emotion but as steadfast as high school. Her hair was a calm color of lilac now.
Like change.
જ⁀➴ ♡
Homura sipped on watery tea.
Everyone on the street over knew how religiously she consumed coffee, its acidic tang radiating. She was the stereotype, all things considered. ‘Dead eyes,’ they called them, the lack of excitement in her when Madoka wasn’t around. (‘Dead eyes,’ it was, now, all the time.)
She had a favorite coffee shop tucked in the nook of her library and a barber.
But Madoka (apparently…?) liked tea. And Homura liked Madoka. And she would have tea. Find something to talk about with her. They hadn’t had a lot of that, lately.
Leaves swirled in erstwhile bags as she tried to figure out the distinction between jasmine or rose or earl grey; bitterness the only constant in the witch-like concoctions.
The pile of them had been rotting in the corner of Homura’s kitchen, where she had purchased them for Madoka. She supposed she was really not the best judge of it, and her picks should not be trusted. It was better that Madoka had hers’ from wherever it was that she had hers.
જ⁀➴ ♡
“Do you know the saying? All good things must come to an end?”
You aren’t a good thing, Homura wanted to protest. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the only thing that has ever happened to me.
“One of the children at the orphanage told me that,” Madoka was bright. Always exuberant, always energetic. Homura’s wife was a shard of the sun.
(That, she had stated to Madoka under an alcove on their anniversary, five, six years ago. Homura would need to draft something newer.) “That great things don’t, because they become a part of you. And I was one of them. Isn’t that so sweet?”
What about me? Homura wanted to cry. You are everything to me, not to some kid you were volunteering for with tens of other workers, and you probably blended in their minds as a beacon of kindness, while I am a ship that has been buoyed by you for eternity.
She swallowed the words - curses - spite - and muttered, head still buried in the chapter of her book she had rewritten tens of times and failed repeatedly, “Yes.”
The chapter would need to be erased if it kept this up anymore. She could not salvage out of worthlessness.
જ⁀➴ ♡
“The vacation I mentioned,” Madoka peeked over a fluffy, rose pink blanket.
Homura searched the crevices of her brain for the mention; the archive that catalogued Madoka like a lover. Improvising, she said, “My secretary has taken a month off, and autumn isn't the best time to travel.”
Madoka looped the stringent threads. Hummed with renewed vigour. “I understand. We can go in winter. Mami-chan told me the mountains would be to your taste. I could visit my mom in the meantime, it's been so long!”
“You should.” Stop talking to Mami. Don't leave our home. Stay.
(Neither of them brought up the vacation again.)
જ⁀➴ ♡
Time collapsed, like sunsets and lip gelatos rubbed pale by hours and Homura’s annual heart checkups.
She cleaned the mirror on the vanity, scrubbing away at its lint-and-specks covered polished surface with a duster that was rugged beyond repair. It couldn't be resewn or remade or otherwise revived.
And it was ruining the vanity mirror.
“I just cleaned it last week,” Madoka closed her closet door. Leaned over the edge of the handle. Reached out and brushed her fingers at Homura's shoulders.
Homura continued her self-appointed work; trying to make some use of the useless duster, trying to prolong its lifespan.
The curtains hung. Wind did not visit, soothing.
જ⁀➴ ♡
There was a letter in her library’s mailbox.
It was addressed with a pink glitter pen, hearts curved along the underside of Homura's name.
She frowned, wondering who had sent it. And then she read through the loving words, thinking of a restraining order? A criminal case? A stalker?
Feeling her heart crumble when she saw Madoka’s signature at the bottom - and that was their seal, wasn't it? And Homura was loved. She loved.
(And she had forgotten that.)
The letter was dated last year, anyhow, and wasn't an attempt to rekindle - rekindle? - no - that couldn't be it - wasn't a recent approach.
So Homura let it go, forgetting about the chest stored in her table's hidden locker, wherein rested Madoka's other letters, not unlike a graveyard.
…Age did that weird thing to memory.
There was no other reason for her forgetfulness.
જ⁀➴ ♡
“Homura-chan,” Madoka said. “We need a divorce.”
The ache of the IV was familiar treading. This was not.
“No!” Homura said, stumbling. “You can't do this!”
The monitors were beeping with warning. She could see her own heartbeat spike, a diorama of her body. Homura looked into Madoka's sad, sad eyes. And begged like a faithless dog for a scrape of bone.
Tearfully, Madoka replied, “I love you. But I cannot waste your life.”
It was as if her heart had already left her breast. Hollowness infected what remained of life in Homura.
“I love you,” Madoka continued, “And that is why I'm letting you go. I cannot do this to you.”
“I won't let you,” the threat declared with frenzy. The stink of the hospital an itch in her nose. An inconvenience.
“You deserve better,” Madoka whispered. “You deserve love.”
The press of morality, the wires that strung Homura up like a puppet. The reminder of her dwindling time. In this way, Madoka wouldn't be her wife when she died.
If this lessened the load of grief on Madoka's shoulders…?
“Please,” Madoka pleaded.
And Homura could never deny her.
Though she did not get up, staying by Homura's side as she healed - not cruel enough to leave Homura at her weakest (And Homura would never be strong enough, so shouldn't Madoka stay forever?) Madoka said her good-bye.
Her lips were cherry red.
“Homura-” The name was said unsteadily. But lovingly. It lingered. “-San.”
(The nurses insisted that Homura could not be left alone and trapped her in her ward under surveillance; hounding for emergency contacts.
જ⁀➴ ♡
Homura’s fingers curled the unsigned sheets of paper.
Madoka had moved out, not putting their house on sale. It was Homura’s now, who had paid for the establishment full, in cash. But if Madoka had even once suggested she wanted to reside there…
Madoka had vouched for hyphenated names when they married, though Homura had insisted upon taking Madoka’s surname. It had felt like belonging at the time.
Now, the jump from Kaname Homura to Akemi Homura felt like another cruelty.
She lay her head upon their glass table. The surface Madoka had picked. Touched her forehead upon its hardness, knowing it was the most of Madoka she would get now.
She refused to sell their house.
Refused to sign the papers and hand them over to Madoka, so she could submit it.
Kaname Madoka told her to, so she did.
જ⁀➴ ♡
For the first few days or weeks or months Homura remained cocooned in her blankets.
Then came the email from her library, and the threat of unemployment was enough to displace Homura's stubborn grief.
If only so she could keep the lights in her house and internet in her phone in case Madoka decided to drop by or text her. If only.
Homura traced the place where Madoka's toothbrush, attire, comb, should reside. Must reside. So pretty next to hers’. But she never left a dip in bed or pink hair on the pillowcase. It wasn’t something Homura had the luxury of missing.
She walked the streets like a ghost.
Cars honked. She did not stop for them. People pushed. She did not move aside for them. She could've died and she wouldn't even have noticed.
After all, Akemi Homura had already lost her heart. How funny that her physical one was insistent on death too.
જ⁀➴ ♡
The story ends here.
It should.
It must.
(It does not.)
જ⁀➴ ♡
There was a book that Homura liked.
There was a set of pens that she purchased.
There was a gaming zone that she stumbled upon.
There was a woman in her library, with pink hair.
Homura blinked. Sage green eyes, a purple lipstick, curly locks. This was not her Madoka.
This was not her Madoka.
And strangely…
That was the first time she missed Madoka.
જ⁀➴ ♡
“Hello,” Homura said. “You are not leaving, are you?”
The smarmy pile of white fur meowed. Not so long ago, Homura had encountered another white, cat-like creature. That alone was enough to make her shudder, even as she neither offered the smarmy pile of white fur milk, nor did she try to scare it off.
It clogged through her window at periodic intervals of night, walking as if it owned the skies and the stars and Homura’s life, audaciously purring over her bookshelf and book manuscript.
She traced where the cobblestones of its pathways ought to be, and did not name it. Words were the one extra person on an elevator that caused its fall, like ‘marriage’ and ‘wife’ and ‘forever’.
Still. The smarmy pile of white fur.
જ⁀➴ ♡
Homura sipped her coffee. Scrolled through the pop-up advertisements clogging up her monitor screen while on the clock. Cheating the system, and somewhere a flinty-eyed Young Homura was gasping in horror.
While she hadn’t been given a prognosis, she knew, like the moon knew the tides and the person within her who had spent more than half her childhood on a hospital bed, that she didn’t have ever so long to live.
She could do that. Live.
And if that living involved building an altar of the remains of Madoka, that was fine.
But if that living involved rebuilding a woman from the very bricks, that was fine, too. After all, Madoka got to be happy either way.
The cat seemed to agree, softening its scratches.
Not smiling, bags still under eyes, a hunch to her posture; but the weight at her shoulders was not dragging her down. It was simply pushing her elsewhere, Homura ordered herself a skirt.
જ⁀➴ ♡
The kiss of smoke was harsh, even against her glassed eyes.
Homura coughed over the grisly, black-lined, apparent pancake. She crisscrossed another item off Mami’s list. It was supposed to be a distraction. Mami had been cross over it, since, well. Forever. Only recently had Homura gave in.
Homura topped the pancake with a cherry, thinking about cherry blossoms and sunsets and not-Madoka. If she thought about Madoka now, Mami would kill her.
It had been, after all, at least three-fourths of the list. Nearly all of Homura's house was in utter ruin, burst, rotten, split, broken, shattered, etcetera.
If nothing else, the cost of repair ought to keep her from thinking about Madoka - no! - not-Madoka.
She chewed the disgusting pile of wheat and eggs regardless. She had learnt from her wife - no - ex-wife not to waste food.
Twirling her fork on the plate, watching as it left striations on the half under-cooked and half very-over-cooked platter, studying the impact. She thought about impact. Her thoughts circled back to not-Mado-
Mami. Axes. Guns. Knives.
If she took any longer, she would be late for her and Kyouko’s meeting, as in, five minutes easily instead of ten.
She swallowed the pancake and tucked a book under her arm, knowing Kyouko would make her wait for at least half an hour anyway. Held up a rude gesture to the cat as she locked her window shutter.
જ⁀➴ ♡
Homura’s doctor looked at her with wonder in her big, blue eyes.
Wonder at Homura's miraculous stability in condition.
She stood up, not slamming tables or doors but swaying all the same. Ran out the open pathway, wheezing as she over-exerted herself.
Was she being conspired against? When she had needed to be okay, and now that she really, really didn't need that…
Homura longed on a bench with paint peeling off it. “What are you doing?" She demanded a teenager (?) who had a paintbrush in her hand, the kind used for detailing on art files and certainly not public infrastructure.
Homura would know. After all, it was on Mami’s list.
She was surprised to receive a response due to the earbuds embedded. “Repaintng this stupid-ass shithole. Care to get the fuck out of my way, wanker?”
She folded her legs underneath her, kneeling on the ground.
“I'll help,” Homura said, softly.
જ⁀➴ ♡
None of Madoka's social media profiles should be updated, and there should be no outgoing calls from her to Homura, and-
-These were facts, just suppositions. Coming from knowing Madoka for most of her life. And Homura had no desire to intrude, not unless she knew Madoka was hurt in some way. A few less gray hairs, and she would've. But now she trusted Mami or Sayaka (Not Kyouko, that woman was hellfire) to inform her of misgivings.
She wiped the basin clean, rearranging her hair products.
Could she be sure?
Homura looked at the missing toothbrush, the absence of perfume (her nose was easily irritated) and her own reflection. An outline on her shoulder where a woman used to be.
The cat, sprawled with greedy eyes. The cat that would suffer if she died, and so would Kyouko and Sayaka and Mami and her library, and what of her book! She had to publish it! And finish the forsaken checklist, and paint every bench she found like a chick, and watch the eclipse timed next week.
Her finger withdrew to wipe the tear at her cheek.
Only, none came.
જ⁀➴ ♡
And finally, memory collides into actuality.
Calcium carbonate dusted her fingers white like a cosmetic powder.
Madoka is a goddess.
No one else remembers her.
She has always been gone.
Homura strains herself against the incarnation of hope. Hears for the echo of herself.
And continues writing with the chalk.