a reunion with gojo, your first love.
perhaps kento nanami could’ve loved you more than satoru gojo did, but that doesn’t mean satoru loved you any less.
standing there, where the mist seems to permanently inhabit the valleys and the cedar-covered hills, gojo gazed at the hands he had once held while pruning the plum trees.
he arrived in tōno in the height of shun at 8:20 in the morning, unaware that his first love would be tending the orchard alongside the other local wives. he took off his dark, rectangular glasses as a sign of respect, and as if you could feel his soft gaze, you turned around, stained with herbs, to face a rebellious heartbeat from the past: the story you’d written.
tokyo metropolitan area, fifteen years ago.
"gojo, sit still." your plea vibrated through the room, which smelled of humidity and fresh paint.
satoru snorted with annoyance, trying to keep his arms in the air. "i'm cramping up. we’ve been at this for hours!" he complained, and to top it off, his back was starting to itch. "damn the hour i agreed to this. why did i agree to this? and for how much, exactly? because a pack of six burgers now seems pitiful. and what if we add caramel popcorn? maybe a soda–"
"god, just shut up." you set your brush on the watercolor palette and, immediately after, wiped your fingers on your apron. "you volunteered for this so all the girls would look at you; it’s not my fault your vanity betrayed you."
satoru made a loud, scoffing sound. "yeah, but i thought it would be fun. you didn't tell me anything, you just gave me your name before making that sour face and starting to scribble."
your fingers unfastened the apron, unfazed. "this isn't a social hour. my grade depends on this." you hung the garment up quickly and stood in front of him, arms crossed. "i can find someone more handsome to replace you if you keep complaining. what was your friend’s name?"
satoru didn't find your challenge funny at all. resigned, he accepted his defeat with a heavy sigh and scratched the back of his neck. "at least it’s only three sessions of this nonsense."
three sessions later, satoru was showing up everywhere you went, without you even asking.
he liked the way your flat foot twisted when you walked, or how your hair got tangled in the button of your umbrella when you weren't paying attention; he liked hearing you chew and seeing crumbs around your mouth, because you enjoyed eating so much that you didn't care about the impression you were making. he liked your gestures of concentration while studying chemistry and how your nose crinkled when you smiled, but above all, he liked your fingers. he liked how you held your chopsticks, the brush, how your rings looked on your ring finger.
the most curious thing was that he hadn't noticed you in the hallways before, and now you were all his eyes could follow. for that reason, he traded his burgers for a date with you, and you said yes because his eyes were the color of the sky after a storm –and because he wouldn't stop insisting until you agreed.
that sunday, you were both on the first observation deck of the tokyo skytree, the tembo deck, where the entire kanto region was visible. the cushioning on the chairs at the musashi restaurant was comfortable enough to lean back without hurting your spine, but honestly, the atmosphere felt tense. and expensive. the glass tumblers and silver utensils were intimidating, and the buildings seen from 350 meters up looked like huddled ants.
"gojo, i don't know if i like being here." you murmured, ensuring no one would hear.
satoru, on the other hand, let out a mocking laugh. "don't worry, watercolor eyes. it’s on me."
you shifted in your seat. "i didn't mean that. it’s just..." you cleared your throat. "everyone here is an adult, and we’re just kids."
"ah, ah." satoru raised his index finger and brought his other hand to his chest, feigning indignation. "are you telling me you’re bothered by being young? we’ll never be 17 again! what really matters is that we can pay the bill."
you gave a lopsided smile, not entirely convinced, but you didn't bring it up again. when your miyabi and nobori dishes arrived, satoru planted his elbows on the table, throwing manners to the wind.
"watercolor eyes, let's play a game." he popped a piece of mukozuke into his mouth, and without finishing swallowing, he continued: "we’ll ask each other five questions to get to know one another. just five. we'll discover the rest ourselves."
you furrowed your brow, but a mischievous smile played on your mouth. "deal."
satoru took a sip of his apple juice first. "alright, are you a dog person or a cat person?"
"dogs." you answered without thinking.
"correct!" he cheered, offering his extended hand for a high-five. unable to match his energy, you gave him a standard high-five. "your turn."
"fine..." you thought for an eternal, unbearable few seconds, analyzing if there was something in the depths of your subconscious you really wanted to know about the boy in front of you. "what do your parents do?"
"my dad is the CEO of limitless, the leading company in advanced robotics." he stretched his neck, visibly proud. even your mugicha was impressed. "and my mom owns a lot of commercial land in the city. yours?"
"my dad is a farmer and my mom is a caregiver. the profitability was higher in hokkaido, so they stayed there."
he raised an eyebrow. "so you're not from tokyo?"
you shook your head. "are you?"
"i was born in kyoto, but i've been in japan since i was eight or nine, i don't remember exactly."
"and if you could leave your mark anywhere in the world, where would it be?"
satoru made a face. it was the kind of question that veered off the beaten path, but deep down, he liked digging into things less superficial, so he didn't overthink it. "i'd like to say japan because it's the nation that saw me grow, but i think it has enough capital and well-recognized culture to survive a few more years, so i'll say somalia." he settled silently into his seat, reflecting a bit more on his answer. the pause was so long you thought about changing the subject, but then he continued. "right now, it's not a good place to travel; foreigners are in danger, and the inhabitants are too –children have even lost their hearing from constant attacks– and yet... i'd like to help. do something, you know? i'd love to arrive with a professional team that could provide better maintenance for the houses, or with tons of food for every family, although i'm very aware that would only work in the very, very short term. but that would address the urgency of mouths that needed to be fed that day. did you know that up to eight people live in a tiny room and the income isn't more than 640 yen a day? some only eat breakfast, and the luckiest earn over 48,000 yen a month, give or take. so if i leave my mark, i want it to be in one of those countries that needs it, even if it's difficult. like in the movie submergence, with the guy from x-men. what was his name? james mcavoy, something like that. but with a successful ending, not death. though dying for a cause wouldn't be so bad."
"did you just spoil the whole movie for me?" you asked, incredulous.
he shrugged. "well, well, it’s not my fault you live under a rock. how about you? where in the world would you leave your mark?"
so satoru was one of those, huh? someone with privilege who really wanted to do something about it and didn't just plan to sit idly by. he dreamed, and he dreamed big, and maybe that dreamer side of him was a little less insufferable.
"when i joined the art club, the answer was france. i longed to see my works in the louvre, to paint beautiful, devastating, political things from time to time. and that exhibition is still a dream, you know? but sometimes i read so much disheartening news that i feel selfish, and thinking about it again, i don't feel the impact of that decision. i also don't want to play hero and say i'm going to save people, but i feel like i could be very useful in lesotho." you let out a very long sigh, avoiding his gaze to make it easier to organize your thoughts. "i'd like to work on the disconnection from the environment, or whatever fabric has been torn to make it the place with the highest suicide rates. you know, create spaces where mental health isn't a privilege, but a basic human right. it might be very ambitious to start there, but it's where they most need support systems that aren't bureaucratic, but communities where people really feel seen. that relief is more accessible than despair."
satoru's eyes shone with understanding. suddenly, his stomach churned. that subtle nausea that comes from seeing the disparity between what the world is and what it could be. he, even dreaming within japan, felt useless trying to change the structure from the top down, crashing against walls of conservatism and tradition. but there you were, sharing something with him that was already scarce in the present: humanity.
he allowed himself an imperceptible smile before returning to the main topic. "i'll use my last question." he said, and you nodded. "what is your favorite song? mine is mada minu ashita ni, by asian kung-fu generation."
you couldn't offer him an immediate answer. the tower, despite the bustle, was submerged in an almost absolute silence, reduced to white noise, static –the kind used to fall asleep. the utensils were distant clinks and footsteps were like a dry leaf from a tree falling onto damp ground. at the end of the observation tour, you leaned against the wall. the blue light of the night, young and yearning, flooded the perimeter.
it was beautiful. the outside looked tiny, barely a sketch and an open sea of infinite possibilities and a desire to change something. satoru had his hands in his pockets and was unusually quiet; he didn't seem like the same boy who meowed at stray cats and spent his time getting into trouble –no. from this source, from this angle, he seemed sad. he seemed blue, and the stars shone with less intensity than his eyes.
"can i ask an extra question first?" you whispered when the last couple cleared a few meters for you. satoru nodded, peaceful. the atmosphere had been tinged with privacy and something softer. "why did you let me paint you?"
satoru seemed surprised. perhaps he hadn't expected the question, or perhaps he hadn't expected it so soon. with his back to the wide, curved white wall, he slid to the floor and sat cross-legged. then, a little laugh echoed.
"because i saw a swallow on the school mural. and they told me you painted it."
"a swallow?" you inquired, taking a seat next to him. the tower would close its doors in twenty minutes.
he exhaled; the air contained an unspeakable nostalgia. "i want to be one."
"me too." you smiled from ear to ear, patting his shoulder. "my favorite song is mabataki, by wacci."
the tea was steaming. the mature bancha leaves had been harvested at the height of the season, a perfect state to accompany the gohan and miso soup. gojo looked at his portion of tsukemono and yakizakana on a bed of sansai. he hadn't said a single word, except for a weak hello; you’d invited him to your house, where the roof was just warming up with the morning sun. it already smelled of fresh earth and concentrated herbs.
"sorry for the mess," you muttered, sitting down next to him and holding the renge for the dashi in one hand, while the other maneuvered the chopsticks for the rice. "it's been a very fruitful harvest. we weren't expecting visitors."
gojo gave a lopsided smile and shook his head. immediately after, he began to eat.
he’d changed. since the last time, he hadn't grown, maybe a centimeter or two at most, but he retained that elegant and arrogant bearing that had stolen so many sighs in his adolescence. his jaw was stronger and his neck was a bit thicker thanks to developed muscle; his hair was now trimmed and his lips seemed softer, but his eyes were still the same: intense, petrifying, a short circuit underwater. he didn't wear perfume, you knew that better than anyone, but his natural essence was a fragrance not found even in the fields of wild lavender that awoke with the morning dew. he was devastatingly beautiful.
"you still smell like fruit punch." he noted suddenly, devouring a giant piece of his fish. "is it...?"
you nodded, crushing a mushroom between your teeth. "yes. i only use it this month. i still have half left."
gojo sat pensive for a moment. the drumming of his heart threatened to rumble louder than the chewing and the chirping of the birds outside. your face was still yours, your scent too, but something didn't match the woman he’d loved back then. and even so, the memories of that love were tormenting him.
"are you happy?" he couldn't hold it in. he mentally scolded himself for not having prepared the ground, but it amused you to confirm that his recklessness still shone through even after more than a decade without contact.
"i'm very calm." you replied sincerely, bringing a radish to your lips.
he hunched over, shielding himself. "that's not the same." he let out, immediately regaining his firm, straight posture. "i mean, was it worth it?"
"do you mean if i regret letting you go?" your low voice vibrated with the playful wind behind the window. the curtain danced gracefully, welcoming the dual current, warm and fresh. there was no other sound than that, not even the ceramics or metal. you could see it tattooed on his expression, on his pretty angel face decomposing into a mysterious, discreet tension, like a porcelain mask about to break.
he’d asked himself that question for so long that he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer anymore.
satoru was carrying you on his back. the torrential rain hadn't let up and one of your shoes had come off in a sewer; you had only one umbrella because the other was left in the painting room, but both knew that the unfavorable circumstances were the perfect excuse to have physical contact. in reality, satoru didn't need excuses, but he had only held your hand for three seconds that one time while hanging a painting in the gallery for a contest, and they hadn't done it again. satoru could be an anarchist, chronically late, argumentative, and disrespectful, but the people who mattered to him received his most patient side. so when he offered his back as a mode of transport, you couldn't refuse.
"the tsuyu has started." he murmured, swaying you from side to side with his slow but steady walk. "i don't like the rain. everything is gray and boring."
his body temperature was warm, even with his uniform soaked. the singing of the crickets marked the passage of time and was the curtain-raiser for an autumn still distant, but so present that the bunkasai breathed down their necks. the quality of the air had dropped slightly and the streets became colder. your arms wrapped around his neck, careful not to choke him.
"i think it's pretty." you opined, whispering near his ear. the splashing of his muddy shoes took on a melodic rhythm. "it feels like a reset. as if the sky sees everything that happens and laments, crying. and when it stops crying, things look clearer. like it happens to us."
satoru let out a puff of air that ended up coming out as a tender laugh, not mocking at all. "what kind of fable are you telling me?"
you gave him a small, painless swat. "one that makes you appreciate the rain, too. if it were sunny every day, you wouldn't value the sun so much, and vice versa. for there to be joys, there must be sorrows."
satoru stopped and turned his head, seeking your gaze. "are you telling me the obvious now?"
you rolled your eyes, threatening to lose your patience. "it seems obvious, but not everyone takes it into account daily. refrain from spreading your negativity like you refrain from alcohol, thanks."
his laughter shook the walls of the neighborhood with more force than the very thunder that preceded it. "i think we make a bad team. i'm so smart and so sincere, handsome and analytical, and you're funny. well, i'm funny too, so that's already taken."
"oh, yeah?" you glared at him, trying not to laugh. "put me down and say it again, so my backpack can undo that pretty natural rhinoplasty you have."
"thinking about it, we’re the perfect team." he corrected, starting to walk again. some people peeked out to see if the sky was still covered in storm clouds or if any part was already clearing. "i can give everything so you don't have to give anything. so if you don't love me, it doesn't matter, because i have enough love for both of us."
the cicada orchestra began. the stridency of its crescendo traveled with the wind and the needle-like drops, boiling on the bark of the zelkovas. that concert was what held the weight of his words, just as his body supported yours. love. love, he’d said. the l word. the concept that seemed so complex and familiar at the same time. the umbrella suddenly no longer covered them and the rain filtered in like a leak in an invisible roof, bathing them in an instant. the umbrella was floating in a puddle and you were open-mouthed and satoru was letting you down, making your feet step on his, protected by leather and rubber. his white eyelashes looked like a frozen garden in a cancer cluster, but his eyes were still earthly and honest, as transparent as the deluge.
"i love you." he said again, taking you by the elbows, preventing an escape that wasn't coming. "if the rain is a beginning, i want this beginning with you."
the seconds passed. your blinking was the only sign that you were aware of reality, until your hands rested on satoru's chest and clung to him, as if you would fall if you let go. your hair covered your forehead and stuck to your flushed cheeks.
"every beginning has an end." you whispered, swallowing hard.
"there won't be one." he pressed you against his body. "if you tell me you feel the same about me, i promise you this won't end."
the streetlights began to turn on. the faint yellow spilled onto the canvas of the city in the same way your watercolors gave way to the watery effect of the brush. a yellow of hope and optimism.
that was how rainy afternoons took a special place in satoru's heart.
he didn't leave your side for a second during vacation. in his company, there was always a new place to eat, a movie more emotional or fun than the last, a book more interesting to read. and satoru wasn't the boy who seemed like a connoisseur of knowledge, but he was truly a nerd. he loved to read thick books with his head in your lap, if you were sitting, or on your lower back, if you were lying face down. and since the tutor who’d taken you into her apartment spent most of the day out, satoru was delighted to be able to feel like part of that space, just another desk lamp.
you always found new ways to paint him. each time there was a new detail that captivated you about him, and if that detail wasn't physical, you created an allegory that could represent what you admired so much about his being. he would sit for hours, complain jokingly, recite facts about quantum physics or celestial mechanics, or make small confessions. one of them, for example, was that he feared you would choose his friend suguru as the model he had originally signed up to be, because suguru had more success with girls. satoru had no idea that he was a repellent not because of his appearance, but because of his peculiar energy.
after the bunkasai, he became more detail-oriented. he stopped planning monetarily impressive dates to focus on those that were truly significant, like an activity you had mentioned or following an a-to-z list that you liked a lot. at that time, social media wasn't the phenomenon it would become, so he had to do surveys and apply the vicarious method to find out how else he could entertain you in the relationship. once he got so frustrated because he couldn't find anything they hadn't done before, and you assured him that not everything had to be a novelty to be incredible by his side.
satoru wasn't insecure or jealous, but boy, did he protect what he had. there wasn't a single person who didn't know you were dating, including the academics. the neighbors already had an idea because they always saw you together. and when your parents met him off-screen, they immediately fell in love with his charisma, his attractiveness, and, of course, his financial stability. when you met his, it was different; they were people who perpetuated classist ideas, however, they didn't oppose their son's decisions. they were smart enough to detect unnecessary conflicts and a hatred they would earn for nothing.
just as you were together in the good times, you came together much more in the difficult times, like when you couldn't pass the university entrance exam and had to wait until the next year to apply. satoru gave you military-style study training as best he could, since he’d already started the semester: he brought you liters of coffee and ordered desserts for you with a ridiculous amount of sugar so you wouldn't fall asleep while you continued to struggle between the pages and your part-time job at the library.
when satoru's father was found guilty of tax evasion and embezzlement, you were there to see how his son put his hero behind bars (of prison) and how his family went bankrupt due to the bad reputation gojo sr. left behind. satoru was very susceptible in the coming weeks and you did the grocery shopping for sweets of all kinds so that the bad taste in his mouth would go away; furthermore, you helped his mother approach him again, and that was the event that made her receive you as if you were a daughter.
when your parents passed away in a 9.5 earthquake, satoru was there to lend you his shoulder and cry until a new ocean was created on planet earth. those were the most miserable days of your existence and he didn't say anything; he limited himself to listening to you, hugging you, and reminding you that there were many more pillars in your life that hadn't collapsed yet, like your dreams, your future career, and him. and in case his encouragement didn't plant anything solid, he took you to one of the best thanatologists in tokyo.
you were side by side healing individually, at your own pace. you didn't argue much, but most of the fights were sparked because satoru neglected small details and didn't give them enough importance, or because you would throw a tantrum if he didn't fulfill one of the whims you were already accustomed to. in the end, you put their pride aside and resolved it like civilized, in-love people. like the excellent team you were.
after so many challenges, you considered moving in together so university wouldn't consume you and pull you apart as you inevitably witnessed with dozens of unfortunate couples. thus, the routine was served with a spoonful of honey and condensed milk day after day, cloying yourselves between the sheets and limbs tangled like the hair that he unraveled with such patience for you every morning. it was refreshing to wake up smelling his morning breath, like mint and chocolate, something that for any other common, ordinary human being was impossible due to physiological demands. but satoru wasn't like anyone else; he was exceptionally authentic. true, he could leave the toilet lid up, toothpaste splashes on the sink faucets or the mirror, his socks on the desk, or his underwear in the middle of the hallway, but his mess was the daily memo that you had someone, even with his stupid jokes as the soundtrack while you showered.
during the late-night study sessions for exams, satoru didn't fail to recreate the little ritual you had established years ago: making you coffee, although now he did it in a coffee maker he’d gotten at a spectacular discount at summit; when he was drowning in assignments, he had a banquet of candies and pastries that you cooked that very afternoon coming home from school. he always needed sugar to keep his brain active and his beautiful eyes wide open.
your graduation photo was with him and his mother. you’d never asked him directly, but you knew, from the calls he occasionally had with his son, that his father asked about him a lot when she went to visit him. satoru flatly refused to face him. he couldn't forgive that his hero, that figure who had been the ultimate example to follow when he was starting to pedal with sneakers so tiny they were now the size of the palm of his hand, had worn a mask that whole time. he felt disgustingly betrayed. and if his father could be capable of being seduced by money, anyone could, and he had to change it. that, and his extraordinary grades in law school, earned him a spot almost automatically at the higuruma firm.
it was enviable, truly. you struggled to get ahead with your personal painting project, and your anthropology studies weren't being of much help, not without a postgraduate degree to back you up. and you tried to get in, of course, but luck was never on your side, and on the day of the results, you had to endure seeing a stupid red rectangle that said in capital letters not accepted. it was a low blow to your hopes, to your future, and to your pride, but satoru didn't let you fall for even a single minute; after you cried and complained about everything you had to do, you reviewed other possibilities, and he suggested a temporary job at the stock exchange, since his boss had acquaintances who might need help. you thought about it a lot, because it deviated tremendously from your goals, but finally, you decided to give a chance to being an operations assistant for a stockbroker.
it was then that you met kento nanami.
he was a year younger than your boyfriend, but he was a very serious and quiet man. almost bitter. his darkened glasses, perhaps to protect himself from the blue light emitted by the huge computers, were a very characteristic accessory on his sharp face. he always arrived at the office on time and stayed for extra shifts. he didn't seem to have a life outside of that tiny cubicle, where pens were classified by size, brand, and color, and dust motes floated when a folder or a booklet of printed records was picked up. you hoped he couldn't read your mind; otherwise, he would hear how depressing and pathetic you found his existence. but yours followed the same rhythm, so it wasn't funny at all. between those four white walls, some with damp spots and peeling paint, the only thing that had color was his yellow hair and a teal-green shirt he wore frequently.
but nanami wasn't that bad, for a superior. he addressed you only to give orders or reprimand you if the information was incorrect, but he never lost control of any situation. was he really a year younger than you? it seemed like he had lived an entire eternity in the working world and had reincarnated only to continue with his duties; not a single smile had graced those thin lips since you met him. and, if you were honest with yourself, it wouldn't change much if it were satoru's stunning smile waiting for you at home after a long day.
one night in july, some stocks plummeted and nanami requested that you stay to assist him, with guaranteed compensation. satoru made a face –you didn't see it through the phone, but you knew him well enough to guess– and asked that you wake him with a call at any time if you required his help. it wasn't necessary: work closed at midnight with an exhausted sigh and cold sweat drops accumulated on your forehead that the company's cheap air conditioning didn't quite dry.
"let's get dinner. i'll take you home after." he decreed, sliding his swivel chair back and jumping up. you wanted to refuse, but his furrowed brows were a wall against arguments, so you just watched him put on his jacket before texting satoru.
the matsuya lights flickered like a hospital waiting room. both were at the wooden table, waiting for your order of beef bowls. nanami seemed focused on the streetlights, while you didn't stop looking at your phone screen, waiting for your boyfriend's reply. the smell of pork was spreading through the space and the draft served to keep your thin sweater on, which wasn't really necessary when nights like this didn't drop below twenty-five degrees.
"what do you think of the job so far?" he asked in a creepy tone, as if it were a verbal exam that would determine if you would keep your position.
"it's fine, i guess." you mumbled, thanking under your breath that the waiter arrived just in time with the food trays. even so, nanami didn't let up.
"you guess?" his long fingers pulled his glasses away from his face, revealing slanted hazel eyes. despite the severity of his features, there was a spark of nobility in the reflected light. a silent confidence he was gifting you.
"i don't like it." you looked away, ashamed of your answer. this was the moment he would scoff, make a sarcastic comment, and fire you to recruit someone with real desire to build a career in the area. but he didn't. he just sighed loudly, handling his teishoku with his disposable chopsticks.
"working sucks." he muttered, stirring his salad. the tofu in the soup was too watery and the broth a bit saltier for your taste, but you continued eating while the exhausted man chose his words. "i just want to make a lot of money before i turn thirty or thirty five so i don't have to worry about that again."
"and what will you do after?" your inquiry came out shaky, fearful of crossing a line that wasn't clearly drawn. nanami didn't give another explanation; he simply finished his bowl first. your glass of genmaicha was sweating, creating a tiny pool under the circular base; he, unable to tolerate an imperfection, took a napkin and lifted it to clean.
"move. go to redang island, to taaras beach. sink my feet into the white sand and float in crystalline turquoise waters. read the books i never read and that are gathering spiderwebs on my shelf, while the blinding sun lashes my face and i don't have to worry about anything other than the amount of sunscreen my skin needs."
a shiver went down your spine. that soft, dreamy tone, you’d heard it once from your own voice, when the planets seemed to align in your favor and you had a home to miss. in other circumstances, or in other times, you would’ve told him that nothing was impossible and that he would find the right path if he let himself be guided by his heart. now, with the world snatching away possibilities and testing strengths you didn't want to find out you had, you weren't so sure how appropriate a speech based on sentimentality would be, much less on the meritocracy which, you had proven, didn't exist.
"sorry, i’ve talked too much." he folded his napkin and placed the perfect square under his plate, leaving no trace of food around it. his space was tidy, so clean it lacked color –unlike satoru’s, whose vibe seemed to leave a supernova in his wake with every movement he made. "what would you do, if you had the chance to escape at this very moment?"
what would you do? it was a difficult question because you had an endless list of everything you wanted to do: marry satoru and have a family, as you’d discussed and fantasized about so many times; or get so many post-graduate degrees and be so overqualified you would have enough recognition not to depend on any company, business, or affiliation; or have a funded volunteer program to support vulnerable communities, as you’d always wanted; or perhaps develop your talent as a painter to be considered a renowned artist with high demand for your works –especially those that hadn't even seen the artificial light of the storage room to dry their brushstrokes. but it all sounded more like things you would like to have, rather than things you could actually do without being held back in the process. so many obstacles, far from motivating or forging you, were exhausting you.
the sound of the spray bottle at the next table interrupted your internal debate. the citrus scent of the cleaner unlocked the answer, almost unintentionally.
"i’d leave it all behind and go to the countryside." you murmured, tracing invisible circles with your fingertips on the wool covering your thighs. "it’s the worst thing i could do, and yet, i would do it. and i say it’s the worst because my childhood self wouldn't even think about giving up or veering off the path." the last customer, a man in his sixties, left the establishment calmly, without noticing the conversation at the other table. only the whispering between the two of you remained, along with a half-meter distance that neither of you dared to bridge. "besides, my boyfriend has a whole future here, and the fact that he believes in my goals makes me want to hold onto them. although, if i’m honest –and i haven’t said this out loud because it makes me feel so guilty–, i’m no longer sure how much i want to achieve them. sounds very mediocre, doesn't it?"
nanami stood up from his chair with impressive grace, the screech of the legs against the floor barely a soft sweep. he scanned you from above, colder than ever, but his hands were relaxed and his jaw didn't seem tense.
"mediocre is following something you no longer believe in." he said, taking the trays and approaching the counter to pay. that answer, coming from nanami –whom you knew only for his sacrifices to falsely give something back to society without any benefit other than a paycheck that was occasionally withheld– was hypocritical. but the conviction of his rebuke made you think about your alternatives for the coming weeks.
in reality, there wasn't much to weigh. you weren't between a rock and a hard place, not when the priority was to keep building a future with satoru, who had no problem covering all the expenses while you had decent enough savings to contribute to the roof you shared. he would be a great husband and the best father on record, because he was already an extraordinary boyfriend. if you asked him to abandon everything to start from zero, you knew he would do it without blinking, but you didn't want him to leave a place he had secured for something that you weren't even sure what you were looking for. therefore, expressing your conflict wasn't an option, and you felt even worse for hindering the communication.
after a little while, satoru got a raise. the greater satoru's capacity to resolve cases, the greater the load of files he brought home to analyze; he didn't sleep, he ate whatever was at hand, and he showered in two minutes before leaving for the office –sleep-deprived, but with the legal loopholes he had worked so hard to find. but those were just seasonal; in his very relaxed periods, his time was yours. he would accompany you to work, you’d have lunch together, and return home together. he had the habit of waiting for you with an absurd bouquet of pink, white, or red roses and a smile that boasted of what all your coworkers knew: he was the owner of your heart.
deep down, you knew satoru did it to show off. satoru knew that your relationship with your boss had improved, which made him very happy when you told him, but later his intuition began to filter specific details you mentioned: a sandwich he bought on the way to work at your favorite bakery because he wanted to make sure you ate better, an all-expenses-paid ticket for a spa day, calls or messages outside working hours to ask how your day was going or to send you photos of restaurants he recommended, and something that didn't go unnoticed: you referring to him as ‘kento’. then satoru knew that if he had competition, he had to prove it –to shout it from the rooftops if necessary– why you chose him every day and not someone else.
to you, kento was nothing more than a friend, although you suspected that he wouldn't settle for a long-term friendship. he hadn't hinted once, hadn't asked about your relationship, nor had he touched you to greet you –no, none of that; he was a gentleman. but your intuition told you that kento was waiting for you to make the first move. it was information you actively ignored, and pretending was the best card you could play in those cases; you didn't want to break his illusions or strain the bond that had formed between you, much less become the talk of the other office workers. because with you, it wasn't repeated coexistence that worked, but connection. and the connection you had with satoru was worth preserving, like an endangered species.
he never threw tantrums or made scenes of jealousy. one afternoon, you left the building at the same time as kento, and there he was –the god of beauty personified, with eyes like a sea in which kento could not swim, and hair like a cloud he could not reach. the official introduction was cordial, without drama or resentful comments. that was satoru’s way of saying he trusted you, being a natural provocateur.
that night, the hail lashed against the windowpane like the pebbles satoru used to throw at your room to get your attention before you went to sleep, back in that spring when you were apart. it was 9:03 pm. the pitcher of hot chocolate was cooling, and the hands of a certain cotton-headed man were moving nimbly with a rag over the dishes, while yours silently scrubbed the freshly used tableware. the silence was cozy, like everything that lived in that apartment you’d decorated together. satoru took a step to the side, near you –so close that your arms brushed against his.
"we're going to elbow each other, standing this close."
the whispers blended with the sound of ice striking the pavement with fury. the lighting came from the kitchen, casting shapes on the artificial plants that adorned the white corners.
"i want to stay like this." he purred, placing a glass in the drying rack.
"i don't want to hit you." you replied, turning off the faucet as the soap suds slipped from the last dirty utensils.
"that's not what i mean."
he dried the counter with the same rag, over and over, even though not a single drop of water had survived the torture. the backlight shadowed his profile and outlined him as if he were radiating some kind of celestial aura, the same way an angel wore its halo.
"i want to stay like this with you for the rest of my life." his blue gaze settled on you, like a bee about to extract pollen from a flower. "i want to come home every day with you, explore districts and cities, get bored on friday nights and argue because i left the empty milk carton in the fridge and forgot to buy more. i want you to roll your eyes at my jokes, but laugh at my nonsense. for you to keep shushing me in the movie theater and scold me for wasting sleep time on brawl stars. i want to wake up in the middle of the night and see you asleep with your mouth open and a trickle of drool falling onto the pillow. i want to tell you how much it annoys me that you bite your nails when you're nervous, but watch you paint them and ruin them because you can't stay still while they dry." he paused, and you thanked your lucky stars that he did, because suddenly you’d forgotten how to breathe, how to react, how to keep standing on your jelly-like knees. he took another step, this time his nose very close to yours. "i want more than anything in this world to be wherever you are. in japan, in portugal, in zimbabwe, i don't care where. i don't need more time to be sure, because i knew it since the moment i walked into the classroom and saw you with that apron stained with colors i’d never seen in my life. and the mere possibility that you don't know it, that you think i don't want this and look the other way... it kills me."
"sato..." you articulated, but his raised index finger stopped you immediately.
"i want you to take my last name and be the mother of my children. and if you're still not sure, we can leave it to luck with a fortune cookie."
the rain subsided. outside, all that could be heard was the sound of a vehicle's tires dragging the water that the sewers hadn't yet swallowed. satoru took a cookie from the cupboard –from a special basket of fortune cookies you collected, a very silly but attractive habit for the friends who visited you from time to time. with sweetness, he held your wrist and placed the item in your palm, the wrapper tickling your skin.
"what do i do with this?" you laughed softly, nervous. "are we going to break up if it says something negative?"
he shook his head. "fortune cookies don't have bad messages. but if you're undecided... if you don't want the same thing i do..."
"i want the same thing you do. i don't need answers from a stupid cookie."
"just open it to see if you're making the right decision."
you snorted, running your free hand through your hair. satoru didn't believe in luck, nor horoscopes, nor anything that seemed like a mandate from the stars or the gods. so, either he was playing a prank on you, or he had lost his mind. either way, you tore the wrapper carelessly and split the cookie in half, pulling the ends to reveal the white paper, with a single line in blue ink, with characters so tiny you had to bring it to your face to decipher the message. your blood froze. your saliva dried up. your throat closed. your heart failed before fluttering wildly without restraint.
when you looked up at satoru, he showed you another cookie and revealed its contents: a thin ring with a single stone in the center, a small square that was undoubtedly a diamond. its rainbow sparkle projected onto the ceiling, and then, onto your face. that square looked at you fixedly, impatiently.
"well?" satoru seemed nervous, but he tried to hide it under that swaggering attitude. "are you going to fulfill every girl's dream, or are you going to keep wondering how much the surprise cost me?"
you rolled your eyes. "if you're going to ask me like that, i'd rather someone else be the lucky one."
a chuckle escaped his lips. delicately, he slid the ring onto your left ring finger, and now your right hand looked sadly empty without its twin. before you could finish with another sarcastic comment, satoru hugged you tightly, like the harness on a rollercoaster that keeps you safe during a wild ride –full of intense climbs and inevitable drops, in a process that wasn't linear and seemed endless if you didn't learn to enjoy it. there, in his arms, you realized that he knew you better than you thought and that you’d underestimated him, because he clearly knew your goal was no longer well-defined, and even so, he wanted the uncertainty that was eating you alive. he had asked you, but it seemed he had given the answer himself.
the next day, you walked into the office shouting you were getting married. the greeting reached kento’s ears like a bucket of ice water, but his indestructible shell kept him in his infinite composure. in his mind, defeat was predictable, but in yours, there was never any competition from the start: it was satoru then, it was satoru now, and it would always be satoru. you were fortunate enough to coincide in the same universe, in the same era, at the right place and time –to understand him and to fall in love with him. thinking you had the privilege of loving him and would spend the rest of your life loving him made you want to fast-forward all those years to see yourself aged by his side. an eternity seemed like too little, insufficient to express everything you felt for him. but it was perfect.
kento couldn't do anything but congratulate you. what else could he do, when those eyes turned into stars just when the very name, the very face of satoru crossed your thoughts? yes, he was brave, but he wasn't suicidal. if he had to listen to you talk about him for the day, he would do it, without interruptions. and tomorrow. and the following week. and the one after that. thus, until he lost count of the days in which the diamond on your ring shone in your pupils in such a way that it shaped your irises into watercolors. love couldn't be hidden, but if it had to lose against someone who left not even a millimeter of doubt, second place tasted like glory.
four months after the proposal, kento took you running to the hospital. in the middle of your presentation to the corporate team about the data, you fainted suddenly. he didn't even ask for permission or listen to reasons: he hailed a taxi and within minutes, a doctor was attending to you. he, outside the room, made the necessary call to satoru, who arrived in a rage for not being notified sooner. a fight would’ve started, if not for a security guard who stood like a statue in the hallway, making sure the two handsome young men kept their composure.
the doctor let you go home after a meticulous ultrasound, which satoru wouldn't find out about until he checked your purse and saw a photograph.
it was noon, the designated time to serve the donburi. the yucca in front of the living room window was drinking from the purple ceramic watering can you made yourself. next to it, a 60 x 80 cm canvas received the sun's rays so the fresh paint would dry; incomplete, the portrait of the floating torii contrasted the whitish-blue of the water in the lower section. gojo contemplated it for a few minutes in silence, mourning his teenage years.
"looks like things have gone well for you." you commented, leaving the watering can on the floor, next to the brick-colored pot. gojo straightened up, but his eyes were still lost in the landscape of miyajima.
"as well as they could have." he mentioned, crossing his arms. it was the first time you felt the distance between you, even though he was standing right in front of you.
"wife, kids?" you asked, sitting halfway on a wooden stool with a crooked leg. gojo pursed his lips, as if it were a topic he disliked touching.
"wife, a child on the way." he muttered, granting you the honor of, finally, looking at you. "i don't see yours around here. is with kento, or at school?"
it was your turn to avoid his gaze. "on vacation with his grandmother."
a spark of disbelief shadowed his corneas, more than the resentment that darkened his face as he demanded answers you’d buried long ago. pheasants flapped noisily in the distance, among the thickets, amid so much sepulchral silence. gojo's gesture resembled that of a boar sent to the slaughterhouse.
"can you stop lying to me for a moment?" he asked with exasperation. his akebia lips pressed into a tight line and small ribbons of wine spilled into his sclera. "i didn't get on a damn train for five hours to hear lies."
you sighed heavily. "i don't know why you came, satoru."
it was painful. for him to say it, for you to hear it. years of history, of closeness, and intimacy reduced to a first name.
"i told you when we broke up, gojo: i don't want to give explanations for what happens in my life. if you came to insist on an apology, i'm sorry you had to travel a quarter of a day in vain."
gojo grabbed your shoulders and shook you without force, but in his touch, you could perceive the frustration that overwhelmed him.
"i don't want a damn apology." he growled. "why did you make me believe you cheated on me with nanami? why did you make me hate you all this time?"
you were paralyzed. he knew. someone had told him. kento had told him.
"i don't know who you talked to, but you're wrong." you stammered, grabbing his wrists to pull him away. "that child wasn't yours."
"because there was no child, was there?" a treacherous tear drew a line on his cheek, slightly dirty with dust. "why didn't you tell me what you had? why did you abandon me? why did you let me abandon you when you needed me most?"
the drought ended when crying flooded the bitterness in your chest. gojo saw secret after secret overflow from your embarrassed eyelids, and if he’d been the weakling of back then, he would’ve baptized his skepticism with those liquid pearls capable of breaking the spirit. now, he couldn't taste a single drop without becoming intoxicated by the poison of a time that was never going to be recovered.
the office christmas party ended with the cheering of your tipsy coworkers. it was a cold december like any other, under the hundreds of lights piled onto trees, poles, apartments, and any space that had a plug nearby. that night, you walked with kento toward the bus stop; his gift (a sailor 1911, when a year earlier satoru had given you a pilot custom 74) hung from your forearm. your hat covered your forehead and your hands stayed safe inside your coat.
"what did you tell him?" kento broke the ice, stopping like a statue. "he threw eggs at my house –nothing serious, but i never knew why you broke up with him, if you were so in love."
you shrugged. "there was no future."
"that's not true." his body moved closer to yours. you, by inertia, took a step back. he didn't seem hurt by the rejection, not when it was all he ever got from your indifference. "you know you can talk to me, right? you're not alone."
those were the magic words to make the knot in your throat give way. he searched his coat for a handkerchief to offer you, and you, embarrassed, accepted it. it was a shame to ruin something so neat.
"yes, i am alone." you sniffled, covering your face. the gloves absorbed the whimpering and the sniffling. "i pushed away the only person i had, the person i loved. he saw the ultrasound from that time you took me to the hospital, and it occurred to me to tell him i had an affair with you because i couldn't look at him and tell him that they found a strange mass in my cervix."
it was the first time the finding had been public to ears that weren't your own. the last bus of the day closed its doors a couple of meters away from you, scrubbing its purr as it advanced over the snow, compressing it under its tires. kento gritted his teeth.
"everything happened so fast. the biopsy wasn't ready, but i didn't want to prolong it. i couldn't condemn him to a life of prayers and hope, to a marriage where it wasn't certain we could have children, not even one where it was certain i wouldn't lose the battle before making any plans." your voice weakened as you delved into the fight that night, remembering satoru’s anguished expression, seeing how the anguish turned into hatred. "i had to make myself the villain so he would let me go. so he wouldn't look back and would make his own life. because i love him, ken. i love him with the kind of love that those who can't love don't have. i am madly, deeply in love with him, and i want him to achieve his dreams. i want him not to stop his life for mine. i couldn't bear it. i couldn't leave this world knowing he gave up his plans to be with someone who can't offer him anything."
kento swallowed hard. "the biopsy...?"
you nodded, looking at the night sky. not a single star was within reach. since satoru left, all the stars had hidden their light; not even the sun burned with the same intensity as when satoru held your hand.
"i have a hysterectomy scheduled, and that doesn't guarantee a cure." your lower lip trembled. you closed your eyes, trying to preserve the integrity you didn't really have. "if the damaged tissue isn't completely removed, i'll have to undergo chemo-radiotherapy. and i'm so scared, because i don't want to."
kento pulled you to his chest and wrapped you in his arms. it wasn't the same warmth as satoru’s, but it was still safe. just enough to be able to fall apart in sobs.
"i'm here," he murmured, pressing his lips against your forehead. he’d never been the type to comfort people; he never learned to give words of encouragement, and the fact of finding himself in a situation he couldn't control caused him helplessness. he couldn't even promise that everything would be okay, because it was an uncertain prognosis. "you're not alone. you never will be."
it was one in the morning. at some point, his hoarse humming served as a potent sedative, rocking you standing in the street, from side to side, with no civilians around who could burst your bubble. you didn't want to go home –the home you once shared– and lie down in the bed that was now too big for your loneliness. when he tried to pull away, you clung to the hug yourself.
"i need you to look at me." his instruction vibrated in your head. he waited patiently for you to obey, and when you did, you almost wished you hadn't: he’d cried too, but his grief had gone unnoticed. "you don't have to go back to where no one is waiting for you. you have me here, for you. i'm not trying to take advantage of the situation, and i know you know that this has been germinating for a long time." his thumb caressed your smooth, rosy cheekbone. "i want to tell you that i'm still an option, if you don't want to be alone in this. i don't care that you can't get pregnant. i don't care about getting used to the uncertainty, to the bad news, and i don't care that you aren't in love with me. i know you care for me. not in the same way i care for you, but i know you care. and i know you're never going to love me –and if you do love me, i know you won't love me the same way you love satoru–, and that doesn't matter to me either. the only thing that matters is that you have someone to count on, and forgive me if i'm being disrespectful by suggesting that someone should be a man, but if you happen to miss being loved, i want you to know that i am a candidate to feed that illusion."
kento meant it. he would’ve preferred not to have you at all, over the tiny possibility of having you under these conditions. but it was true that he was there to help you carry the suitcases and a past that would coexist with any future. and you would’ve preferred not to hurt more people, but even though it was hard to admit, you needed someone who wouldn't fall apart for you.
perhaps that someone was kento.
the crows were returning to their nests. the vast, sublime orange surge of the sunset was a prelude to the performance of the small frogs that would croak once the moon became visible above the rice fields.
gojo rested on the sofa, his head thrown back; he was still digesting the information along with the meal he’d eaten earlier, and his stomach was in knots. he felt genuinely ill. his mind was a film reel, playing the movie you’d directed together over and over again, repeating the flaws, the final words, but above all, the incongruities that his impulsivity had failed to pinpoint.
the tangerine sky bathed his defeated silhouette. he was confused, unsure if he could afford the luxury of feeling any kind of remorse, as both of you bore responsibility –or at least that was what he was arduously trying to convince himself of, his arm over his face like a blindfold. he’d been so blind, or foolish, or perhaps too passionate for his own good. what would’ve happened if he’d questioned more? if he’d taken you to the hospital and been present during the consultation? if he’d demanded another test, even if he didn't have the right? he hadn't noticed. he ignored the signs that something was wrong, even before that fainting spell. and had he realized it, he would be in kento's place now.
"i owe the life i have now to you." he maundered, not moving an inch. his legs were pulled together, his knees pressing against each other so tightly that they would probably ache the next day when his muscles finally relaxed.
you sighed, looking at your freshly filed nails. colorless. just as everything had been since he left. "no, you owe what you have to yourself."
gojo pulled his legs up, nearly adopting a fetal position. he didn't know where else to find any kind of solace for his vulnerability. you rose from the kotatsu to fill the space beside him, and without overthinking it, you hugged him around the abdomen.
"what's her name?" you asked, your temple resting on his rigid shoulder.
"that's a very pretty name." you smiled faintly, lifting your gaze to see his half-covered face. "where is she from?"
he hesitated for a second before facing your curious expression. a flush rose quickly beneath his jacket; he had forgotten what it was like to have you so close, and had his guard not been down, he would’ve pulled away politely. "i met her when i went to somalia. the paperwork was a nightmare."
you nodded, laughing softly. he’d achieved it. he was living everything you had sacrificed yourself for him to have, and because of that, the answer to his question was yes: it had been completely worth it. if you were in the same situation again, or could travel back to the past, you would make that exact same decision. happiness didn't come only from being with the person you loved, but from seeing the person you loved achieve that happiness.
your heart quickened its beat, and although you couldn't hear or feel them, you knew satoru's were following that same restless rhythm that didn't slow down, even with goodbyes or disappointments. what you’d shared had been something very special –so special that it was time-proof, even if you no longer had the chance to find yourselves again.
the hands of the clock ran in the background, the signal for him to clear his throat and stand up carefully, leaving you curled up among the tapestries and cushions. "i don't like asking for favors, least of all from you, to whom i owe so much." he scratched the back of his neck, gathering the strength to launch his request. "but i'm here to ask you to resume therapy. nanami didn't just call me to tell me. he believes i'm the only one who can make you change your mind, but he’s your–"
"no," you interrupted, matching his height. almost. "i was never with him that way. i couldn't be."
that was the answer gojo didn't want to hear. he didn't want to be conscious of the fact that life in the countryside was a hiding place among the ash-green hectares, and kento, a guard watching over the room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
in the distance, the temple bell indicated it was six in the afternoon, and with the weak ray of sunlight tangled among the cypress branches, his fleeting visit was sealed.
"will you do it, then?" his voice trembled. suddenly, he was no longer sure of the role he had played in your shoji.
your hand met his warm cheek, skin that had forgotten your texture, but whose canvas remained susceptible to your brushstrokes. gojo was startled by the electric shock, yet he leaned into the contact.
"no. i don't think i can keep doing more for you than i already have. this only has to do with me, and i want to decide the course it's going to take."
he didn’t protest your severity, but his eyes now seemed more like watercolor than your own. he took a step toward, and in that movement, all the stoic containment that defined him seemed to crack. his precise hands surrounded you with a desperate abruptness, pressing you against his chest as if the fabric of his clothes were the only dam against the abyss opening at his feet. you shipwrecked into him, your face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder, feeling the funeral drum that marked the remaining seconds of his proximity. the insects fell silent; there was only the sound of your breaths –ragged and cold–, an exchange where you stole the oxygen from each other.
when the embrace finally broke, a whole life was drained from your souls. his fingers slipped down your arms, anchoring themselves to your sleeves until, by sheer physical impossibility, you separated and they were left hanging in the void. he let you go, communicating with a look that he accepted the tragedy with a fierce dignity. you stepped back, feeling that the air, now glacial, turned the washitsu into a crypt of memories that were only just beginning to cool.
only the summer knew how much you loved satoru gojo.
spring swept in with an overwhelming siege of beauty, mocking human misery with its immutable vitality. the avenues, which during the winter had become corridors of icy, gray severity, had been taken by an assault of cherry blossoms; a multitude of pale petals clung to the stems as if seeking redemption in the foul air of the metropolis.
gojo received a package from nanami two months after the birth of his daughter, yara. ilhan was in the next room, cradling the little girl with tan skin and huge blue eyes while she nursed her, giving her husband space to explore the contents of the light, 180-cubic-centimeter box, which was easy to carry with one hand and transport to the main study.
he closed the door behind him with a soft click. there were hundreds of papers piled on the desk, which were pushed to one edge to make room for the new acquisition; the wings were taped down without a single bubble, hem, or misalignment –typical of the sender. on one side of the cardboard cube, one could read, written in marker, the kanji that formed the word ‘reminiscences’. upon piercing the container with scissors –because he didn't have the patience or delicacy to peel and save worn strips of tape–, he found five objects, some smaller than others, but all holding the same sentimental value that made him cry before he could even detect the symptoms of the grief.
the first was the engagement ring; he wouldn't know it, but you’d never taken it off, save for the harvest. the second was a burned cd of that asian kung-fu generation album he liked so much, which you’d recorded directly from the radio because you were both too stingy to buy the original. the third was a fortune cookie that read ‘you have already found the right person’, and it was the one that started the obsession with collecting them. the fourth was a brush, but not just any brush: the one you’d used during the sessions where you painted him, for which he’d found it impossible to pose; the instrument that had written what never had a closed ending.
finally, the fifth was a canvas. a painting of a fickle firmament, dyed with the violet of wisteria flowers that faded into the sunset. the clouds, stirred but short, dissolved over the horizon. there were no outlines. the sky spilled over the rice paddy, and the rice paddy, humid and mirror-like, reflected his uncertainty back to it. there, where the sunset light became densest, the protagonist –the blue figure located in the center– stood with grace and freedom. a symbol battered by the receptacles where the sand falls.
who loved you more? perhaps kento nanami was capable of giving more than satoru gojo was, but if you could hear him, satoru gojo would miss you until you met again.
