Selphie stepped out of the shower, brown hair darkened to black and plastered to her head from the moisture. Wrapping a blue and white monogrammed towel around herself, she paused to look into the mirror. Not her mirror because she was in a hotel in Balamb. In Balamb because everyone wanted to go home. Because this was her home now. A hotel because . . . because it wasn't her dorm room. Wasn't Garden.
As soon as Garden landed, she'd practically flown off the ship and into Balamb. As big as it was, Garden made her claustrophobic. The air was stale no matter how long she stood on the deck. There was no light. Everything was plastic and plaster and fake fake fake. There wasn't any room. No room to . . . forget. There were things to confront. Things she'd avoided during and through the weeks following her ( no, their ) first Sorceress war. She didn't want to. She didn't need to.
Selphie watched as the fog dissipated. First fading around the edges, cool air eating away at the fog like a cancer, then disappearing in small patches at the center. She left before she could see her reflection, drying off and dressing quickly instead.
She stood in the middle of her room, feeling slightly bereft (What now? ), until she spotted her diary. She stared at the small, leather-bound book as if it might attack her. As if it might make her live everything in reverse. Approaching with timid steps, Selphie snatched up the book and started tearing at it. Marked pages fluttered to the floor like feathers.
She screamed. It didn't help but she did it anyway. Soon she was crying. Crying so hard she was glad no one could see. Sobbing. All of this now, alone, because this was the last time. This was her last chance to indulge in pain and pity and grief.
She came home to forget.
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