Fi leaned idly against the back of a park bench, his boots swinging beneath him and scuffling against the ground. One arm was looped around the back of the bench, and he managed to yawn widely, his face a schooling of sheer boredom. Nearly a month and half had passed since he’d first met a strange, wonderful woman by the name of Kyrie. She was barely a distant memory in his mind, but each day, when he woke up, he’d look at the picture he carried with him, and remember her. The picture of he and Kyrie, sitting together on a wooden box, looking like the couple Fi never thought they would be.
Should’ve kissed you there
I should’ve held your face
I should’ve watched those eyes
Instead of run in place
Him with his arm around her, boldly kissing her on the cheek; her with a soft blush staining her face and a surprised but happy look in her sparkling emerald eyes. Fi carried the picture with him, mostly as a reminder of the happiest day he’d ever had in his life. He desperately tried not to forget Kyrie. But sometimes the memories of that night were vague, and sometimes he forgot what her name had been. On the back of the picture, in sloping, loopy scrawl, Fi had written the date of that night and underneath it read; ‘Fi and Kyrie - Friends forever, even if we never meet again. Don't forget the sprinklers.’ It was his constant reminder not to forget.
I should’ve called you out
I should’ve said your name
I should’ve turned around
I should’ve looked again
Reaching into his pocket, Fi pulled out the slightly dog-eared photograph, his eyes darting over it with a familiar smile. He carried it with him all the time; most people would’ve thought he was silly for doing that. But Fi didn’t really care. He’d nearly stopped caring what people thought about him after he’d met Kyrie. Even though he was still awkward, uncoordinated, forgetful, clumsy and sometimes self-conscious, he was doing his best to get better. Maybe it was Kyrie who inspired him, or maybe it was the thought that one day, if they saw one another again, Fi would be able to show her how much better he’d gotten. Then maybe he wouldn’t be such an embarrassment to her; maybe she'd be proud of him. His smiled widened slightly, and he stuffed the picture back into his jacket pocket.
Should’ve held my ground
I could’ve been redeemed
For every second chance
That changed its mind on me
Fi was dressed for the cold weather today; long, thick blue jeans, a black jacket, a long sleeved green shirt and a dark green scarf. He still wore the same boots he always did; he probably didn’t own another pair anyway. Bundled up on a park bench, minding his own business, Fi didn’t attract a lot of attention. Today was another one of his outings; he’d been getting steadily better and better at remembering things. He’d even made it home on his own twice in a row without getting lost. Today, he hoped, would be the third time. For now, he rested on the bench, watching the people go by him and pay him no mind. He saw a man walking his dog, a woman and her daughter out for a stroll, a pretzel stand selling warm pretzels and coffee.
I should’ve spoken up
I should’ve proudly claimed
That oh my head’s to blame
For all my heart’s mistakes
For a moment, he debated on getting one for himself, but then turned it down; he didn’t need people seeing him spilling things all over himself. He was still too uncoordinated with his muscle movements to hold anything for very long. He’d almost conquered his soup problems, but coffee and cups were another matter entirely. Fi managed a weak smile; that’s just what everyone in the park wanted to see, some di’kut who couldn’t even hold his coffee right. He chuckled wryly, no longer feeling as sorry for himself or concerned over how people perceived him. Certainly, he was often still bothered by certain things; stares, insults, whispers and piteous looks. But Kyrie had helped him realize that his world didn’t have to revolve around the opinion of other people. Fi managed a stronger smile this time.
And it’s you, and it’s you
And it’s you, and it’s you
And it’s falling down, as you walk away
And it’s on me now, as you go
When he’d first shown the picture of him and Kyrie to Darman, his former squad mate and brother, Darman was almost speechless. He’d asked Fi multiple times if he’d somehow managed to photoshop the picture. Fi, indignant, had assured him that it was real. Darman had finally relented and agreed, to which Fi promptly pounced on him and asked him if he could remember to remind him about Kyrie and tell him who she was everyday. His brother, so attuned to the emotions and feelings of others, had agreed to it with a sympathetic smile, and everyday, Darman had told Fi about Kyrie over breakfast. Fi was grateful for his brothers; family was everything to him. But he often thought about Kyrie. She plagued his thoughts, his dreams, and even his hazy memories.
But oh, I’m staring at the mess I made
I ’m staring at the mess I made
I ’m staring at the mess I made
As you turn, you take your heart and walk away
Sometimes he would wake up and not remember her, but then Darman or the picture would jog his memory, and it all came flooding back to him. His fingertips brushed the photo in his pocket, and with another yawn, Fi lifted himself from the bench. It took him a minute to gain his equilibrium, righting himself so he wouldn’t go walking off in a direction he didn’t want to take. Fi pursed his lips, and began to whistle to a song he’d heard on the radio at home earlier that day. It was a catchy tune, and Fi had found he couldn’t turn it off when it came on. It was some song called ‘The Mess I Made’ by some strange little band called Parachute. Fi found the song invading, and he couldn’t get it out of his head. So he ambled casually down the cobblestone street, whistling to himself as a crisp autumn breeze ruffled his short, curly hair, and wondering when his next moment of happiness would chance by.
I ’m staring at the mess I made
As you turn, you take your heart and walk away...
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