sourmxaa
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Hinata left all of Komaeda’s things exactly where he left them. A half-drunk cup of tea sat in their main dining room, rotting with time. An unfinished watercolor painting sat, pinned up to an easel, next to the window. The paper had begun to form the shape of waves, and the paint had been all but bleached out. Hinata could not bear to touch it—move it out of the sunlight; somewhere safe, somewhere where the tea won’t rot—not even when the memories attached started to grow stale and moldy.
Bookmarked by sourmxaa
11 Dec 2025