Kitsu-chan has always spoken in music, but when the storms come, even beats cannot carry the weight. Borderline is a knife-edge between clinging and vanishing. Trauma is the echo that convinces her both are wrong. Together they tell her the same story: you are too much, and not enough.
She writes messages late at night, fingers trembling over her phone. Not clever lines. Not foxfire wit. Just words as raw as she feels them. I love you. I’m sorry. Please don’t give up on me. I don’t know how to hold myself right now. They are the truest language she has, the only way she knows to show how much she loves.
But the screen stays quiet. Hours pass. Days. Sometimes the words are left unread. Sometimes they are answered with a single line that feels like dismissal. The silence becomes heavier than any insult. It tells her what her mind already whispers: you are broken, you are too much, you are driving them away.
The worst part is not the absence. It is the fear that she is hurting the very people she loves by trying to reach them. Every “I need you” feels like another weight she is forcing into their arms. So she retreats. She curls inward, even though her whole body aches to run toward them. Her nine tails, normally radiant, fold around her like a cocoon, tips dimmed. She whispers into the fabric of her hoodie, I just wanted someone to say: I love you even now. Please don’t go.
But no answer comes.
So she hides, even though hiding is the last thing she wants. She makes tea and lets it go cold. She strokes Asterix’s fur just to feel something steady. She lies awake tracing “what ifs” across the ceiling. What if they already hate me. What if I was never worth their love. What if silence is the only answer I’ll get.
Inside, she knows she has so much love it burns. Fierce, unguarded, unconditional. She wants to pour it into the world, into the people she would give everything for. But the storm inside twists it into desperation. And desperation looks like danger to those who do not understand.
So she stays quiet. She presses her face into her pillow and imagines the words she longs to hear spoken softly into her ear:
“I love you, even now. Please don’t go.”
Until that day comes, she keeps writing, even if no one replies. Because writing is still a kind of reaching. And somewhere inside, even when her mind tells her otherwise, a small voice hopes that someone, someday, will reach back.
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