painted black [LLS2 EPILOGUE]

It's raining in California.

This is already monumental enough. What's even more monumental is the torrential downpour. The rain hits hard and heavy against the glass ceiling of Indigo's closet, encasing the entire room in the violent patter of rain that threatens to shatter glass and soak her whole.

Her uncle died two days ago.

She's not sad. Not really. Most of her family ties are nothing more than business partnerships. The fondest memories she has of her uncle are days he'd sit her down in his studio to play strategy games. She'd be enveloped whole by the leather seats, would have to push herself up to meet the tables. He'd never guide her--he'd just hum in disappointment or approval depending on what she did.

She could never win against him. She played by herself once they stopped.

It was a bullet to the chest by his right hand, in the middle of the night.

The right hand is dead now. All this news reached Indigo in the morning, but she had her coffee as usual. Looked out the window and thought nothing of it. He'd had a good run. Met his logical end, as she'd meet hers someday.

The technicalities are what bother her.

Outside her closet she hears the idle chatter of someone or other coming from her TV. The dramatic sound effects that post production seemed overly fond of to make their dramatics reach audiences who would not be paying attention otherwise.

She didn't watch the show when it came out. She hasn't quite kept in touch with many people. Once the weddings ended, she flew back to California. She talks to Darcy and Jun and Yang on occasion. She likes people's Instagram posts. That's about it.

The rain hasn't stopped. Indigo puts up her drying hair into a ponytail and treads back to her main room, settling herself on the leather couch and draping her now finished quilt onto her lap.

It's funny, she thinks. Love Letters' camera managed to capture more sorrow than she'd ever felt in her entire life. Most probably never caught it, but Indigo is overly keen when it comes to examining herself. She sees it in the playback. The way her eyes drifted to Heine on occasion and had her clenching and unclenching her fist. The sway of her feet, the way she'd push her cane down heavy if Killer Whale walked close.

She can't quite say she misses it. She can't say she learned anything.

Her uncle died two days ago. This brings forth the brand new era of her life--one in which she has to step into the role carved out for her ever since she was born. She's aware this means she can't pad her opinions with 'I don't know.' Can't get as drunk. Can't try and anger people anymore. Can't make the stupid mistakes she went out of her way to make during the show.

Her uncle was enraged at her actions during it. They barely spoke, the months following. He was already a ghost to her. It doesn't feel any different now.

He died unmarried and unloved. Indigo thinks she beat him in that regard, in her own nontraditional way. If she dies tomorrow she'll die one of those things.
'I want to be loved,' the show captures her drunkenly telling a group of friends at a bar. It doesn't catch her fists clenching and unclenching. Indigo remembers the heavy sway of her cane that night. Indigo sees the way the show has framed her and doesn't care much for the final product, just the carvings of the frame.

She would've connected with more people had she been a bit more social and a bit less aggressive. Burnt bridges, all of them. She's avoided going to Jun's house or learning about Hearth or Killer Whale. Work keeps her busy, but there's no more idle musings about her personal life.

A little bit of everything, all amounting to nothing, she remembers thinking. A person not fully coloured in. A fundamental lacking of something that kept her from unravelling or reravelling in the reality show.

Her room is just as massive and lonely as it was the day she left to catch a plane to Canada. She hasn't told Darcy her uncle died. Jun probably already found out. She doesn't know who else would care or even notice. She hasn't talked to her parents in a month.

Life goes on.
On the TV screen, Dana and Irina look at each other with the passion, love, and competition of a thousand suns. Indigo slides five hundred dollars to Dana. Thank you for being my friend, she implies. She beats her in a chess match.

Tomorrow begins the first day of funeral proceedings. Indigo is in charge of the guest list. She knows most of the names will gloss over in her eyes.

It's a miracle she's evaded the sway of love for so long. She wonders how the others fare with it. She's not too sure she'd react the same, had there been someone fretting over her right now. Maybe their concern for her would've forced Indigo to force some grief to the surface.

She stands. Clicks the channel off. That's enough reminiscing. No point staying in the past, she thinks. She'll lie awake tonight and think of it all anyway. The melancholy of rain and perceived grief demands it.

Life goes on. Juno Lugosi stays exactly the same.