september 2005
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
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Tomoyo doesn't have an ounce of magic in her blood. Everyone has his or her own niche in the world, and Tomoyo's wasn't a magical destiny or a noble quest; it was simply to be there for everyone else. She watched Sakura fulfill her destiny as the Mistress of the Clow and beyond, supported and cheered her on as her best friend, and it was always enough for her.
Those days have long been over, but Tomoyo doesn't want them to end.
They've become a trio, virtually inseparable for the past five years. Tomoyo's surprised at how intact their friendship has remained; they've all gone their different ways at Seijou High, gaining their own reputations—Sakura the track star, Tomoyo the aspiring filmmaker, Li the campus ninja and all-around "cool guy"—but they've managed to form their own clique, closer than any of the others.
"So, I'll see you both at dinner tonight?" Sakura asks after school ends, emptying her desk of books. She hardly has to ask; Tomoyo and Li partake of Kinomoto-san's cooking at least three times a week, and it's always an unspoken invitation.
Tomoyo smiles. "Of course, Sakura-chan," she replies. "You too, Li?" The boy in question just nods curtly, but scoops Sakura's texts out of her arms with surprising gentleness. Sakura smiles, patting Li on the elbow, and turns to Tomoyo.
"Father's not cooking tonight, I am," she announces, grinning at the looks on her friends' faces. "You can't back out now, can you?" And they can't—Sakura's still so delicate, even after all these years of letdowns and practical jokes, and both Tomoyo and Li would brave miles of burnt rice and cold soup to make Sakura smile.
"Try not to poison me this time, ne, Sakura," Li rumbles, recalling a past incident with a particularly undercooked fish, but his tone belies the brightness in his eyes, the patent love in his expression that only appears around a certain auburn-haired sprite.
Sakura laughs. "I promise, Syaoran-kun," she replies, launching herself towards him. She releases Li after a tight hug, links arms with Tomoyo in that giddy, endearing way, and takes a step toward the door.
They work well together, the three of them, and there isn't a better group of friends to be found.
Tomoyo doesn't like to think about the future. She's sixteen, top of the class, well on her way to becoming "the next big thing," but she tries not to dwell. It's inevitable that all friends drift apart; she only has to look at her mother for an example. No, maybe she's wrong and they'll all grow up and lead happy lives together, but Tomoyo isn't one for optimism anymore.
She doesn't expect to be a part of their futures, but she'd like them to be a part of hers.
On Sakura's sixteenth birthday the whole town gets together to plan the party. It's an extravagant thing, really, almost too extravagant, with streamers and ribbons and balloons, but it seems to fit. Sakura's the brightest shining thing in Tomoeda at the moment, the heart of the town, and no one would think of missing it. Yukito and Touya fly in from Hokkaido, and even Terada-san takes a day off to wish Sakura well.
Tomoyo films the whole thing, telling Sakura she'll use it for a future project. She's so happy to see her best friend smiling again, momentarily free from the pressure of track meets and college searches, and Tomoyo likes to think she's made a contribution to that happiness.
After the party, however, Li gives Sakura the biggest damn teddy bear in the world, and Tomoyo realizes she's hardly a part of Sakura's life at all.
The day Tomoyo's first film comes out is the day Eriol visits from England for no reason at all other than sheer nostalgia. It's been seven years, but he's no stranger, and the mistrust and rivalry have long since been forgotten.
Soon enough they're walking to the theatre together, swapping stories as only old friends can. Sakura tells Eriol about her brother and Yukito and the little boy they adopted last year; Li comes out of his reticence to share horror stories about his creepy fan club. Eriol listens well; he seems genuinely interested in Tomoyo's work as a budding filmmaker—the process, the research—and she finds herself more than readily sharing her most recent tribulations. It's her expertise, after all, and it's refreshing to distract herself from the thoughts swirling in her head.
While she and Eriol talk, Tomoyo finds herself looking over his shoulder at Sakura and Li, deep in conversation. Sakura replies to something with a laugh; Li rolls his eyes and moves to kiss her under the pretext of silencing her, and Tomoyo turns away, a pang of jealousy flaring up in her chest. It's an old regret, but it still aches, and it's been that way for years.
Enkaku no Kokoro, her film is called, A Distant Heart. It's how Tomoyo feels right now, as if she were miles away from Sakura and Li, from her family, from her life. She wonders if this is how all artists feel; aren't the most expressive, the most poignant stories, ones from experience?
"I loved your film," Eriol says quietly on the way home, slipping an arm around Tomoyo's shoulders. She doesn't doubt his sincerity, and relaxes into his embrace.
Weeks pass, then months, before they spend time with each other again. When Sakura's not on the track, she's out with Li. She gives Tomoyo plenty of excuses, legitimate, apologetic ones; Tomoyo would be touched, but truthfully, she's not as hurt or disappointed as she expects. She spends most of her time in her studio now, writing scripts and tacking storyboards to the walls, and there's no time for frivolous outings.
Eriol calls every so often, inviting her to stay in England with him, and it's more than a little tempting. There's so much opportunity here, he claims, Suppi's distinctive mewling audible in the background, and she wishes that she had the ability to make such a choice, to just drop everything and fly there without a second thought. But there's too much tying her down here, and she can't leave until she's ready.
One Thursday, Tomoyo takes it upon herself to arrange a get-together, one last attempt to renew their friendship. "Come over today, Sakura-chan," she says, twirling the phone cord in her fingers, and it delights her to hear a chipper "yes" from the other side.
"It's just the two of us," she says when Sakura gets there, leaving her new shoes by the door. "Just like old times, ne?" And for a few hours, it is—no Li, no Eriol, no parents, just two ten-year-old girls happy in each other's company. Tomoyo's grateful for the illusion of it all; it gives her a chance to reminisce, to indulge in her faraway past for one sweet night.
She makes sure to bring out the old tapes, full of spells and battle outfits and bright sunny laughter. She hasn't touched them for years, but their events are still fresh in her memory. They were so young then, so little, so fallible, and Tomoyo misses that most of all: the naiveté that made them children.
"It's amazing," Sakura whispers somewhere between midnight and the next tape. The light from the television flickers over her face, creating a harsh contrast of light and shadow; Tomoyo thinks she's never seen Sakura so beautiful, but it's not the Sakura she once loved. "I hardly remember this at all."
Tomoyo nods simply. "People forget," she says.
A few days later she finds a letter from the States in the mail, and throws it away twice before finally opening it.
It's quiet in her one-bedroom apartment, but Tomoyo's grateful for the silence. She's on a hiatus from filmmaking for the moment, concentrating instead on penning a memoir that currently sits half-finished on her desk. She doesn't know what she'll call it yet, but there's always time.
Eriol asks her every other week if she's happy. There are so many ways to answer, and Tomoyo employs a different one every time he calls. She doesn't know for sure, but it's a question she can hardly understand, much less answer honestly.
He still asks her to fly to England, but it's more of a joke now, a long-running string of rejections that amuses more than aggravates Eriol. They laugh about it in a way that makes their conversations sweet—a marriage of words rather than souls, of friends rather than lovers—and she wouldn't have anyone else.
"Tomoyo," Eriol asks, voice earnest and subdued, "what will it take to make you happy?" She doesn't answer immediately; her eyes stray to the handmade cards postmarked from a little town called Tomoeda, at the piles of neatly stacked manuscripts, at the framed photo on her nightstand. She picks the last one up, turning it to see the inscription on the bottom, and for a moment there's no sound but the small crackling of love inside a not-so-distant heart.
To the best sister, friend, mother, and anything else we left out—love Sakura, Syaoran, and our little Tomo.
Tomoyo smiles.
"Nothing," she says, and replaces the picture, glancing once more at all three smiling faces.