Scene #8401: Memorial

Owner	Pose
Meika Kirenai	In the early summer evening, a faint coastal breeze helps, just barely, to chase out Kagoshima's subtropic mugginess and usher in a thick blanket of clouds. The occasional scrolling signboard informs that it is 28° C, and scant choruses of cicadas are beginning, as early in the season as they are, to sing their buzzing melody throughout the city's scattered parks, neighborhood trees, and vacant lots. The city's transit runs on time, and the gentle slopes of winding residential streets are quiet in this lazy hour. The prying eyes and ears of bystanders don't linger overlong. Provided you don't give them any reason otherwise, of course. Meika's invitation to Strawberry asked her to meet her at a local coffee shop, the fancily-named Café Goutte de Rosée. Dewdrop coffee. It's up an outdoors flight of stairs up from street level, perched in the top floor of what was clearly once a suburban house. Its bottom floor is taken up by a small hundred-yen shop, closed on the weekend, but the pervasive scent of roasting beans (combined with the placed-out sidewalk signs full of latte art and specials) is a reassurance that this is the correct place, despite Meika being nowhere in sight yet. The stairs lead up to a flat deck, with a handful of empty wooden bench tables, shaded by a trellis awning criss-crossed by ivy. It's hard to tell if the ivy is plastic or real. Raised up, and on the hilltop, the deck offers a surprisingly good view of the surrounding city, all the way out to the green water of the ocean. The working area of the Cafe is tucked away behind wide-open glass doors, with countertops made of natural-cut wood and more potted plants than can be responsibly tended to. And Meika, behind it, struggling with a hissing coffee contraption. From the back, it's only her hair and mannerisms that would clue Strawberry in. Meika is wearing a knee-length grey plaid dress, with a long-sleeved undershirt, all beneath her beige courdorouy barista apron. Going to work still in her Sunday best. A delicate gold chain is visible on the back of her neck, with her messy hair tied up in a ponytail through baseball cap, and as she turns, cutting off her practiced customer service greeting with an abrupt "-Oh! Strawberry!", it's not hard to see off-tone concealer trying, at least a little, to cover up fresh bruises and old eyebags. She blinks a few times, before calling out to an unseen manager that she's going on break- informing, not requesting- and grabbing her satchel from where it was tucked beneath the countertop. She freezes once it's in her hands, a mixture of emotions flooding over her face and her heart all at once. "...I'll- I'll join you out on the deck in a moment, but... could I fix you anything, first? On me, of course. Aha... I get a discount..."
Strawberry Princess	Strawberry stares over her pillow at her cell phone, resentfully. 28C. What's she even going to wear? Just a t-shirt? A wifebeater- why'd they have to call it that? If she starts sweating, it makes her bangs stick, and then she'll look... . . . . Presentable. She looks presentable. Strawberry, in herself, is reason for people to stare. She can't fix that except by slouching (but then her chest looks even flatter, so she has to do it in moderation). But she at least hasn't given then any extra reason. A white wide-necked t-shirt hangs off her shoulders asymmetrically, cool but comfortingly concealing; it just exposes one black bra strap, exactly the degree of daring that young people are acceptably expected to be. If you're too plain, people ask why you're not showing off, she thinks, and that's even worse. She's gone over the scars on her arm and face with borrowed concealer, too, but that can't fix the place where it bites into her temple's hairline. Her only concession to authenticity is the long slender carrying case on her back, which could plausibly be for a camera tripod. It's not. It's for comfort. "Meika!" Strawberry waves as she rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, then catches herself raising her voice too much- it's just nice, to see someone like her out here- and smiles the sheepishly self-conscious smile she's worn most of the way over. It says I-know-I-know-please-ignore-me. They can't shame you if you're ashamed of yourself first. "Sorry. Um, sure, just- just a black coffee? Nothing in it. Whatever kind's most convenient," Strawberry says. She doesn't really want a black coffee, but she wants to inconvenience an injured Meika even less. She eases herself down, slowly-carefully, into the bench nearest the deck's edge, both for privacy and for the view. "It's really pretty, right?" she says, when Meika joins her. "The view, I mean, over the city. It helps you remember. What you're in it for. Well-" hastily- "haha, part of what you're in it for."
Meika Kirenai	Meika catches Strawberry Princess's smile, but any instinctive wince of recognition is quickly covered up by clamping her molars down on the inside of her cheek skin. If she wanted it noticed, she'd say something, wouldn't she? There's no point in checking. "Black coffee. Coming right up!" A practiced timbre creeps into her voice, fit for the role she's playing. As Meika goes through the motions, it's clear that 'black coffee' is not as simple a process as a late-night diner's ever ready-pitchers of drip coffee. Fresh grounds, gooseneck kettles, and ceramic pour cones used semi-ritualistically clue in to the chalkboard pricing being as surprisingly high as it is. But it doesn't seem to trouble Meika, outside of a small shaky fumble with a box of filters. She even hums as she goes about it, the sort of familiar you can distract yourself in. Cash register clicking noises are the final prelude to her coming around the counter, satchel in one hand and ceramic saucer in the other. Meika tucks herself up opposite the offworld Magical Girl, putting the steaming drink in front of her and clumsily opening up her shoulder bag. The sound of crumpling aluminum comes out from it, and an empty energy drink can tumbling out prompts Meika to let out an unfiltered curse- before wincing, muttering a "Sorry", and mirroring Strawberry's view out across the city. "...Yeah, it's... nice to have the vantage. It lets me keep an eye out, for.. anything going wrong. Even when I'm working. Better than I can from home." There's no free pass to be had from invisible monsters and unknown dangers, after all. "...Part of it. Yeah. Did- does it make it easier for you, too?" Meika's fingers drum against the fabric of her bag, a few new and different bandaids on the knuckles. Whether from the humidity of the evening or the Cafe, or from her jittery, restless nerves, there's a faint gleam of sweat on her brow. "Thanks for coming out, here. It's..." She pauses, half to come up with words, and half just to stall. 'It's good to see you', 'What a nice evening to talk about the dead', 'This is probably not going to be fun, haha..', even thinking through the possibilities is enough for a bitter taste to well up in the back of her throat. So she settles for silently pulling out two basic, worn-out notebooks. One, the journal Strawberry may recognize her clutching at the fight with the harbor Temptation, folding inwards slightly from a growing number of ripped-out sheets, and another, plain and just a bit easier to overlook. She leaves them unopened, for now, until Strawberry's ready.
Strawberry Princess	"Don't say sorry," Strawberry says, when Meika curses. The wince that crossed her face watching the complex coffee ritual- I didn't mean to ask for this much, even if she offered- fades to an uneasily knowing smile, before she lifts the coffee cup to hide her mouth. Her eyes slide off to the side, looking down at the city again. "It's just us. So it's okay, right?" Siiip. "And thank you. It's- really, really good." "Did- does it make it easier for you, too?" The tense correction makes the corner of Strawberry's mouth twitch, but she doesn't comment. "Yeah," she says, in a way that isn't a complete sentence, but she takes a few more moments after that to marshal her thoughts. "There's... a lot of ways, that being 'special' can wear you down. It can let you get away with anything, and then you forget how to be good. It can make you feel apart- alone- and then you forget, um, how to be normal. Or it can make you feel responsible for everything you couldn't stop. And then you forget how to be happy." Her eyes swivel back to Meika. "Watching the city makes you feel more responsible. Right? But less alone. So you, um, juggle that. I guess. The general 'you'." Then they fall down to the notebooks, and her expression tightens. "Oh. Sorry. I'm..." Her fingernails tap on the mug restlessly, tink-tink. "Rambling. That's not what we're here for."
Meika Kirenai	"...Yeah. It's just us. But it-" She takes a breath in. "..It still counts, doesn't it? When nobody can hear? That doesn't make it good." "But... you don't have to be worried about anyone else overhearing. I can take care of that." She punctuates with a smile, though it fades as a cheek muscle absentmindedly twitches- from caffiene or any of the plentiful other reasons her synapses aren't ship-shape. 'There's... a lot of ways, that being 'special' can wear you down...' 'And then you forget how to be happy.' Meika sits by, listening intently, even as her eyes stray to trace the lines of wood grain in the table between them. The words echo as they're spoken, and it's all she can do to not slump her shoulders or snort out a sardonic interruption. Forget how to be good. Forget how to be normal. Forget how to be happy. It'd be nice to forget the 'how'. To forget how close 'just out of reach' is. To forget there was ever anything to do about it. "Nobody can get away with everything." There's a bitterness in her voice that she fails to mask. Even when nobody can hear. Especially then. "...But it.. does, make it feel closer. To watch. To think about what's at stake... to remember it's not just scenery. But it'd be less lonely if..." She trails off. Fumbling once more with her bag, her shaky hands pull a plastic cigarette lighter out of it- then quickly shove it back in, to grab the ballpoint pen she clearly meant to on the first delve. "...It's okay. Rambling's fine. I do it a lot. But... yeah. It's not why we're here." Even if it'd be nice if it was. Meika's lips move for a brief second, silent, and something- a twitching, Black and white doppler-striped creature peeks out of her bag, a small blank notepad clutched in overlong fingers. It pushes the pad towards Strawberry, making a noise akin to chuckling. "It's important to remember, isn't it? Even if it hurts." The creature's voice, mimicking Strawberry's words, all the way back at the first conference in this world, sounds like nails on chalkboard. Whether it's to her recent comments on forgetting or the general sentiment of the meeting is unclear. Meika pales, horrified, but doesn't shove the Cherub back to her bag- not until it's succesfully opened up the cover of the notebook. It's just a bit easier, now, to look the book's way, to dare to pick it up, and read what may lie inside.
Strawberry Princess	"It still counts, doesn't it? When nobody can hear?" Strawberry smiles a mealy, uncertain little smile as she sips the dregs of her coffee. "That depends," she says. Clack. "Are you doing it for other people? It'd count for me. I'm doing it for myself." Now that she doesn't have a reason to fidgetwith the mug anymore, Strawberry slips a hand into her pocket, propping her cheek up on the other hand; her head's turned as if she means to be looking at the town, but her eyes are still on Meika instead. The gentle breeze stirs her light, baggy shirt the same way it stirs her hair. She with something in her pocket, and Meika can't see what, but she can hear the scratchy friction of a lighter's wheel. "Less lonely if they knew," Strawberry guesses. "Yeah. But even if they know, they don't really know." "Oh- you're-!" The creature's appearance makes her sit upright all of a sudden, eyes widening. Her gaze flicks between the cherub and Meika, silently asking was it okay to say all that stuff in front of it? But even as her expression curls into a wince from the tone, she puts her hands on the notebook and murmurs "Um, thank you. Yeah." A realization strikes her just as the wind tousles her hair again. Strawberry dry-swallows. "Oh. I thought... there'd be, you know, a..." More than this. Something less desperate than a notebook in a backpack. Something that doesn't literally rest on a child's shoulders. Her eyes tighten a little. "... Thank you, Meika. I'm sorry you- that this is, something you have to carry." Then, finally, she starts to read.
Meika Kirenai	'That depends. Are you doing it for other people?' Meika shrugs, trying to brush it off, before dashing her own attempts by responding. "I'm d-doing it because there's not a choice." A sigh prevents her from grumbling at all, as her hand comes up to rub- Ow -her still-sore cheekbone. 'Oh. I thought... there'd be, you know, a...' Meika lets out a held-in breath. "Yeah. It... I didn't mean it to be what it is. It's just- it was just a journal, at first..." Her breathing's coming in shaky, now, and she closes her eyes for just a moment longer than a blink. "...It's easier to carry. If it's always with me, maybe it'll be harder to... You know. Forget. Harder than if I just left it somewhere, and.. and..." She really doesnt' need to finish the thought. Opening it shows exactly that. Lined composition pages full of a child's scrawled diary entries, dates meticulously marked on each page like an archeologist may one day read it. Doodles fill the margins, of animals, trees, houses, and knights. It's a mundane nothingness, up to a point. Some pages have been ripped at, and ripped out. Others have tangible desperation stained onto the paper, accounts of fights and faces and names. Walls of train-of-thought details, fragmented memories, anything at all that she could think to write down about strangers and friends alike. In places, there's slight water damage to the thin paper. It didn't start as a simple list of the dead. The further into the notebook she gets, the cleaner and plainer the entries become. There are fewer margin-written pleas for anyone at all to find it, or read it. Fewer scribbled-out and torn-off pages. More notes on patrol routes, or new techniques that did or didn't work. Some written-out excuses and fibs to keep track of. Still the same frequency of names. That is- until a point. Across the table, Meika's hands long to be in pockets her outfit doesn't have, to wear a jacket that's far away, or any other sort of armor she can't afford to have right now. She studies Strawberry's expression, pained and apolagetic, despite being thanked. Because of being thanked. But looking at her isn't quite enough. Meika strains to listen, deeper in, to try and hear what she isn't saying out loud. It doesn't matter if by doing so she's falling short of good, she needs to know that someone else can read it too.
Meika Kirenai	The second turning point in the book's content, dated to just over a year ago, is ushered in by wall after wall of blacked-out pages and furious scribbling. Curses full of vitriolic grief, directed every which way from God to the whole world, but mostly to herself. Frantic apologies. Desperate bargains. Self-imposed rules, punishments, and degredations filter in between pages of loving details and stories, about just a single name, one that'd been present occasionally even in the earliest entries: Aoi Kanei. Treated more like family than even previous entries, of people who were acquaintences or friends. Someone seen as a sister. Little private messages, addressed to her, litter the margins. Scribbled-out sketches in the shape of a girl's face. But everything goes on. The dates progress, the pages turn. It's back to the colder entries- even more so than before- and the matter-of-fact details and accounts. Another segment of ripped-out pages, and suddenly 'I' is replaced more and more with 'We.' By here, Kayoko's joined her, too. It's easy to tell that the journal isn't full by the progressing dates moving closer and closer to 'today'. But how much of it is, is still sickening. From just that point onwards, the ones Kayoko could remember and read, too, number twenty-one. Enough to be nearly one every two weeks, for a year. The shocking majority are by name, people the sisters must have known, in some regard. Futano Hayashi. Hana Yukimura. Hikari Nakagawa. Someone just unknown enough to be put down only as 'the exchange student'. And, in tandem, someone known enough to just be 'Michiko'. Then Takao Matsuno, and 'the woman with the purple jacket'. And after, Yuuji Kurokawa, and his sister Hiina. The names continue, onwards and onwards. No more drawings fill the margins. No more houses and trees and knights, or attempts to recall and preserve faces. It's just a list. It's just the list. Studying page after page, in this short of a time, wouldn't be a good way to commit it to memory even if it wasn't being helped along. But Meika, quietly, eyes half unfocusing, does mumble as Strawberry reaches the too-familiar endpoint. "If you've got any questions..." Like it was a class presentation, or a research paper, more than a diary or graveyard. She winces at her own words. But what she really means, is, 'I need you to say something'.
Strawberry Princess	At first, Strawberry can look confused. At first she can smile. Oh. This is sweet, she thinks- Meika can hear her think. Didn't I draw things like this when I was little? It's so enthusiastic. I wish I still knew where those notebooks were. No, but they're probably gone. "You're good at drawing, aren't you?" she says without looking up. "This is from when you were younger, but it's still... I mean, there's so much feeling in it. It's sincere." Halfway through turning that page, she catches her first glimpse of the memorial. Her fingers tremble a little. Hesitation. This is going to hurt bad, isn't it? But if I shut my heart to it... that's just admitting I'm too chewed up to function. Too old to feel what they're feeling. The page turns. The hesitation only lasted for a heartbeat. From the moment the names start, Strawberry's hunching forward, her hair falling in a curtain that isolates her and the journal from the rest of the world. At first her eyes glide smoothly over them, from page to page, brining her brain only in the collective magnitude of loss. Then she hits one of those margin pleas- oh, Meika, I'm so sorry- and grimaces, flipping back to the start. Now her eyes linger on each one like she's trying to burn a hole through the paper with her gaze. Her lips move, repeating each name a dozen times. Wait, what was the first one again? Why are they so hard to hold onto? I said I'd remember. I said I'd remember with her. I have to experience them properly, don't I? Have to hold them in my heart. Have to let them change me. 'Strawberry Princess' wouldn't forget you. She wouldn't, so I can't. She wouldn't. This is a spiral her thoughts could run in for days, and probably have, if she didn't have more important things to focus on. Even if she only remembers the vague shape of a name, or one syllable, or one letter, grinding it into her brain over and over with that conviction can eventually create a composite. At the end of every page she shuts her eyes and double-checks her memory, then grinds any in again that she's missing. It's not the strain that's making her eyes water, but it might be.
Strawberry Princess	The approach to Aoi Kanei feels radioactive. Her dread deepens with every blacked-out page and self-excoriation. I know this feeling. But it's different every time. When a piece of your heart dies, but doesn't know it yet, and you have to feel it wither. Meika... Her eyelashes glitter. Her fingers miss the corner of the page on their first try. A-- ---ei. Ayo K----. --i -anei. Aoi Kanei? Aoi Kanei. Who was she to you, Meika? A friend? Another magical girl? No, that's a stupid question. 'Important'. She was important. Strawberry needs a break before going on. She pretends to sip from her empty coffee mug, then holds an arm across the table: "Sorry. Um. Meika. Can I ask you to hold my hand? Just for a little bit." But she does keep going. The ordinary reaction to being so overwhelmed would be to let it all blur together. Strawberry fights that impulse as much as she can, trying to let each one hit her as hard as it would in isolation, taking three-second breaks to separate them out as individuals. It's not fair if I let myself get desensitized. It's not fair to them. How would I feel? If I were dead, and someone just glossed over my name. She's too drained to even feel relieved, really, when she reaches the end. And it won't be the end for long, will it? "If you've got any more questions..." Meika speaking up drags her back to reality. Strawberry makes a quiet noise like she's been punched in the gut, then makes a feeble attempt to turn that into a joyless laugh. "It's. Um. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm..." She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, shakily, as she closes the notebook with reverence. "You're a lot stronger than me, aren't you, Meika?" The older mahou averts her eyes, looking back out at the city again. "Nobody should ever... have to carry this much. I think." However old they are. "But you're still... holding onto that notebook. Not just, letting it blur past. Being brave, for them. Thank you."
Meika Kirenai	'You're good at drawing, aren't you?' Meika's caught off guard by the question, even verbalizing a small, surprised noise. But at the word 'sincere', she falters. "...I used to be." Strawberry might pick up a small hint of fear, more than embarrassment, in Meika's voice. "I don't really draw, like that, anymore." Still, it's nice to hear that Strawberry used to, at least a little bit, do the same thing. 'Too old to feel what they're feeling.' Unprompted, and not brave enough to give away her eavesdropping, Meika speaks up, a faint reassurance. "It's... you were right, the other day. Week. I'm... I'm glad it's someone who gets it, who's... trying. That it's you. It's better that it is. Thank you." Meika can't hide the pain on her face, watching and waiting and knowing that with each turned page, someone else is hurting too, and knowing why. It's guilty sort of ache. There's comfort and solidarity there, that she can at least try to read and remember, but also the ever-gnawing truth that this is still the grand result of messing up. Meika's eyes are watery too. Silently, she hopes stray tears won't mess up her makeup, or that if they do, that smudging fingers can fix it with her scooter's mirrors. She still has to go home, at the end of the day. Just like every day. Meika doesn't have to hear thoughts to tell when Aoi's name comes up. She knows the pages from their graphite weight and shine alone, and she knew it was coming in the first place. Her breathing hitches. She was important. ' Um. Meika. Can I ask you to hold my hand? Just for a little bit.' Meika's already nodding, a few times, and quick enough for her head to throb in pain from her outing the previous eve. Her hand sticks out, nervously tugging her nylon shirtsleeve along with it, its hem staying barely over the middle of her palm when she grabs Strawberry's hand. Tight. Not enough to hurt, but enough to tell her 'I need it too'. When tears come, they're the quiet kind. Leaking out, softer than her faint sniffles, loudest only when they drop against the tired wooden table. But eventually, as golden evening light just starts to get hidden behind mountains, the notebook is closed, and it's as done as it ever is. Lights are coming on, and people are conversing in houses and apartments, or while walking dogs and running errands. Life is going ever onwards. 'But you're still... holding onto that notebook. Not just, letting it blur past. Being brave, for them.' "Someone has to be." It's hard to tell if she believes it, or if she's just responding to pretend she does. A wave of nausea comes in, hand-in-hand with organ melting guilt. Part of her wants to scream, part of her wants to cry harder, louder, uglier, and part of her wants to throw the notebook across the deck, and let it flutter down in some walled-off yard or overfull dumpster. But the hurt is like something swollen being lanced. Painful, in a way that makes it just a little lighter. For now, at least. She wipes her face with her free hand's sleeve, smearing makeup and tears along it. It's not like the makeup fit her in the first place. ""I'm sorry."
Strawberry Princess	"Someone," Strawberry says ruefully, "has to be." It's not clear how much she believes it, either, but it's meant in solidarity. She's already holding Meika's hand, but she lays her other hand on top of it too, and looks up without straightening her posture, peeking through overhanging bangs. "Please don't say sorry. I asked for this. To carry this. Didn't I? So thank you." I hope it's a good cry. She's gone through enough. Her lips press together, then, and her eyes slide off back to the side, and she leans on her elbow on the table, uncomfortably searching for words. "You feel... guilty, don't you, Meika? That you couldn't do enough for them. But that's- it's not the way it works, at all." "If it wasn't you, it wouldn't be anybody. There's no... higher standard. That you're falling short of. Everybody you save, is... somebody who'd be dead, without you. And everybody you can't is someone who'd be dead anyway. They're worth remembering, but..." Strawberry's face tenses. The unshed tears glitter on her eyelashes like icicles hanging off a roof, and she tilts her head back for a moment just so they won't spill. It isn't voluntary. She just hasn't cried in a very long time. "... But, you have to try, not to count them as failures. Even if they really feel that way. Okay?" Her voice quavers. I wish I could believe that myself. "Even Aoi. Aoi- Sanei. Even someone like her... she might have died sooner, if you weren't so brave and special. And that time you got to spend together, it really meant something, didn't it?" Strawberry coughs, which might also just be clearing her throat, and looks back down and shakes her head. "No. Sorry. That's- not really my place to say. I guess I don't... really know anything, still. Do I."
Meika Kirenai	Meika's breath hitches. Or- maybe it's just a singular, faint and choked-up sob. But it's just the one, because her crying goes silent after Strawberry speaks out the phrase 'someone who'd be dead anyway.'. Her expression falls pained and flat, and her hands pull away from Strawberry like flinching from a static shock. No. You can't say that. Please, please don't say that. There has to have been something I could do. It has to be me who's failed. It can't be inevitable. They can't have been damned from the start. Please. Please. Please. Her silence cuts off, and Meika speaks out, like she'd been punched. "I- No, I... I can't agree with that. I'm sorry. I know you mean well. But... but....." What's the point if they would die anyways? What's the point if they only ever existed to make me fail? If they only ever existed to make me hurt? What's the point in me hurting for them if it can't mean something? If I can't try harder, do more, and fail less? If I can't try harder, do more, and get closer? What's the point in having to know? What's the point in caring? I can't let that go. I won't let that go. I can't let that go. I won't let- She hears the momentary falter in Strawberry's continuation. "I can't. I'm sorry. Y-you.. you don't have to be satisfied with that. But I can't do it like you can. It's different." Meika's heel taps against the decking floor, rapid as her leg bounces. It's just a small something to focus her thoughts at anywhere else but towards thinking. A moment later, though, and for a brief, oh so brief second her heart plummets like it'd fall forever downwards, into roiling stomach acid and festering bile.
Meika Kirenai	'Aoi- Sanei' '...Sanei' 'Sanei.' It's only a slight change. Just one little phoneme. Small enough that anyone else could probably brush over, misheard or mispronounced. Or a quirk in the translation effect. Or just a specific accent mannerism. Or just a- Her name is just too familiar for Meika to not catch it. She'd notice, even if she hadn't already been paying close attention to just how diligent Strawberry was with carving details and names into memory, over and over and over. She doesn't react- not to the slip. Meika just puts on the same, halfhearted half-smile suited for the somber topic, and nods. Exactly the expression someone would expect her to have, to match what's expected to be felt. As long as she doesn't acknowledge it, maybe it could just be a quirk, a misheard sound. At least she can pretend. "Yeah. Maybe." There's no external resistance put up to the comment, that she had probably helped her, somehow, but it aches and it stings all the more for staying quiet. I didn't even see it happen, in the end. I wasn't there. I couldn't even try. I thought I was going crazy with how they looked at me, like they must have thought I was, like I'd said nonsensical gibberish. That's how I found out. Each time I slip up names, it feels like that, you know? Maybe- maybe you'll think that too, huh? Maybe you're just like every- Maybe she's- Maybe they'll only be real to- Maybe- Meika cuts her train of thought off by just-too-quickly shoving her hand into her bag, coming out with the lighter and a battered carton. Even with her hand to shelter it, the faint breeze threatens suffocating the lighter's orange flame- but it only needs to stay for a moment. "I- I should get back to work, Miss Strawberry. My boss doesn't care that much, and.. it's been quiet, but.. someone's still got to clean up." Speaking between sucked in drags, letting smoke be carried away by the wind, she punctuates it with a small giggle. There's no more hint of the rushed embarrassment she'd had before, to shove the lighter away before Strawberry could notice it. Meika knows how it probably looks, like a little bit of what made her care what the other Magical Girl thinks of her has lit up in flame. She knows it, because it's exactly what she wants. Before waiting for much of a reply, and because it'd be too hard to hold an unpained expression like this for much longer, Meika gently picks up her journals, and returns them to her bag. "..It was nice. T-to talk. I mean it. I hope nothing gives you trouble getting home. Um. Thanks." Despite it all, as shadows lengthen and sodium lights begin to flicker on, as the city watches with eyes half-lidded, Meika can't bring herself leave that one part of her heart unheard.