on earth we're briefly gorgeous

jujutsu kaisen.

⤷ kento nanami x reader

✩ untouched, unreachable (2021)

real person fiction.

⤷ fionn whitehead x reader

✩ as the sun sets, the darkness rises (2019)

⤷ yuki ishikawa x oc

✩ first winter, then spring (2024) ✩ love letter (2024)

⤷ yuki ishikawa x reader

✩ sticker frenzy (2024) ✩ where the stars shine brightest (2024) ✩ you're on your own, kid (2024)

To be neat was the optimal way of living, according to Yuki. On top of never-ending schedules, he wanted to be in control of everything; for example, his apartment, an abode of safety and security, had to be the neatest out of everything he could take hold of. Initially, he thought he could stick to this routine for a long time. When he meant a long time, he thought years, decades, the end of time even.

Then you came along like tornadoes in spring, with boxes full of journaling materials and whatnot, placing them in empty tables, dark corners, and unseen crevices.

“Do you need all of this? Can’t you just use one pen? And a single notebook for all your thoughts?” were the first lines of ammunition he shot towards you when the both of you were adjusting to living with each other. He was rather confrontational about the whole thing and it was no surprise—after all, inviting a woman to live with him was a considerable change in his routine, but the mess was less tolerable than he had hoped.

So, while Yuki was your lover, he also became your personal Marie Kondo. He would always show an item you owned, wave it around, and ask if you would keep it. You would throw it away or sell it, more often than not. 

Then began months of civil negotiations. Do you need that many fountain pens? You sold some of them away. Do you need that much parchment paper? You placed them in a box, and all of them were sorted out by thickness. Can’t you paint somewhere else? You bought a large mat to put on top of the white table if you needed to journal your day. It became a biweekly routine of some sort, and funnily enough, to Yuki, he enjoyed it more than he had thought.

Still, one part of the social contract never moved, and it was starting to affect him.

Your stickers.

When you realized the whole decluttering situation Yuki was trying to pull, you had to make sure the stickers were the first to be stored away neatly. You kept them in IKEA plastic organizers or cheap white clear books. You stuck to sticker sheets, and its stickers stayed with their original sheet till their eventual use. 

But you just had this horrible habit of placing your stickers everywhere.

A new cabinet? Let’s place some stickers on the side. A reused notebook? We can add some dinosaur stickers on the cover. You never figured out why you did it, but you’ve embraced such an itch since you were a child.

Yuki, however, was not too pleased.

After a day of having the sticker frenzy, he would scrape off the stickers. It often wasted his precious thirty minutes, and by the time he would finish, he would slump down the couch next to you. Then, he would scold you.

“I feel like I’m saying this over and over again. Can we stop putting stickers on everything, please?” he would say.

You would nod and tell him that you wouldn’t do it again.

Then, a few days would come, and you’d do it again.

Every time, Yuki would be exhausted on the couch, nails slightly chipped. He would tell you off again. You would nod.

As months would pass, the scolding would get lighter in severity while at the same time, the frequency of sticker scraping would get less. Eventually, he stopped. It stopped annoying him. In fact, he wished that you would do it every day.

So here you are, sitting at the dining table. Yuki, the bore that he is (your words, not anyone else’s), is brushing up on his English while you begin to prepare your journaling. Since high school, you’ve been using the Traveler’s Notebook— the blue one in the regular size in particular—to capture every special day that you have had since then. Last week, you attended the wedding of an old friend; Yuki was your plus-one.

You take out the tiny wedding invitation and shuffle it around the page, trying to figure out the best place for the invitation. But first, you decide to step it aside, putting out the stickers, tape, and paper that you’ll use for your journal. You place a ripped square of wrapping paper in the corner while adding small stickers in the middle of the page or the rest of the corners. Afterward, you stick the wedding invitation and then Fujifilm polaroids of you with the couple and then with Yuki. You begin to concentrate on the most crucial part: the details of the day.

This is the part when Yuki knows he should be leaving you unbothered, as you need to prepare your pea-sized brain to recall everything from that morning till evening.

As you finally finish writing your entry, then you add tiny stickers, hearts, and all that jazz. Holding both sides of the journal, you hold it up and marvel at your new creation. Yuki, curious to see what you’ve done, leans closer to see what you’ve made.

“Very… girly,” he comments.

You glare at him as you defend yourself, “Obviously, it had to be cheesy. It’s a wedding. I needed to add the doves, rings, the bride, and the groom.”

You begin to clean up your mess as Yuki continues to read his books. When you return to fetch the last set of materials, Yuki finally places his book down as the both of you prepare for bed. You lie on the right side of the bed while he is on the left. He brings himself closer to you, and suddenly, you can feel the heat of his entire body on you. His arm is tangled with yours, and his lips are near your ears.

He kisses it. Lightly.

“I could get used to this every day,” he tells you, “I know it. I’m sure of it.”

You bring one of his hands to your lips, but you don’t kiss it at all but warm it with your soft blows like a prayer. Then he kisses your nape, and the both of you feel like you’ve met for the first time again. Your sighs are deeper than the sea, and for the next few minutes, there are touches of love entangled in metaphors. Slowly, you and Yuki drift into reverie, a candle of manifestations and desires, an atonement to reality.

Then, when you wake up, you’re all alone.

You can hear plates clanging outside the room. Then, for a minute, your eyes shut, and the sound stops. But you begin to hear pans clanging and something frying. You get up from bed and walk out of the room to check out the commotion to find Yuki trying to make breakfast.

“You know I’m in charge of breakfast for a reason,” you say.

“Good morning,” he greets you.

You wave your hand, your groggy state dragging you to the restroom.

You lightly slap your cheeks, trying to find some more consciousness if your brain could allow you. You wash your hands slowly, letting the cool water run from the wrist to the tip of your fingers. You dry your hands, and when you look up—

There are stickers on your face.

In horror, you walk out and ask Yuki, “Did I leave this on all night?”

He shrugs and is startled by what’s in the pan. The eggs are burnt. How does one burn an egg? You shake and slap your head.

You head to the study table where your materials rest. You go through your collection and try to figure out where they came from.

Where did they come from?

You shuffle some parts of your table but return them to their original place. Then, you see your journal sitting on top of the table. You slide it slowly to find a note that reads:

Will you marry me?

Four words are enough to drive you crazy. You read it like a broken record, and you bring it to the level of your eyes. You’re astonished, drunken in some unknown joy. You put the note down, still holding it, and turn to the door.

Yuki stands right there, leaning by the door. He’s smirking, but you know he’s scared shitless. 

“Did you buy these stickers for—”

“Yes. I bought it for this specifically.”

“I thought you didn’t like all this cheesy stuff.”

“Eh… well…”

He scratches the back of his head.

You hold his hand, and you’re both standing there in silence. You can feel his hands begin to sweat as you’re standing there contemplating a question still left unanswered. He looks at you intently; he wants to shake your body to know the answer out of nervousness, but he knows it takes time. There’s a part of him that’s grateful that you’re standing and thinking for a while, for making good life-altering decisions has always been your greatest trait.

“Yes, I will marry you.”

Suddenly, he turns away and throws his fist in the air like he’s stuck in one of his games. He picks you up. Then he pinches your cheeks before kissing you. He’s out of breath because you know he needs a kiss—and badly. There’s a quench in him he didn’t know he had. It’s an itch that’s scratched differently every time.

When the both of you finally break apart, you peek towards the breakfast and then look at him.

“Did you really burn those eggs?”

“Yes, I did. I was nervous, alright? You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

You tease him by laughing and pointing at him. He’s all red, but he knows more than to turn away from embarrassment. He looks at your smile, and he savors it; he feels fuller than consuming the average meal. Immediately, you make him lean down on you as if to ask something about it.

He gives you those puppy eyes as if to wait for your next demand. Then you pat his cheek and bite it.

Silly girl.

Emilie,

Last night, I made up a string of lies just to ask my mom what she thought of you. I wouldn’t dare to write every word she uttered in this paper because it would be too much for the nib to handle. Allow me to summarize it for you to protect your heart: she did not approve of us. It hurt me to see that the woman I have looked up to for so long would go so far to insult you, even if the both of you have never formally met.

People may never approve of us, but none of it matters.

We have professed our love in the presence of God. If they say our love is false, then so is the God we all bow down to. Still if they prove that God is real and our love falser than false, then reality isn’t real and this world is a dream, and what a beautiful dream we’ve concocted for each other.

Tonight I will dream of you as every other night, and there we will meet again.

Your Eternity,

Rostom

As I wrote the last letter, I took the paper that held these contents and rested it on the table beside me. I wiped the black ink off my fingers with a worn-out towel, as I looked out into the horizon.

There were things in this world that I begged to know, like why we could barely see so much of the world when we looked towards the distance. But as I looked into the pink sky, raging into orange and then black, I realized the magic of distance: I can believe that there’s a whole other world behind the distance my eyes are capable of seeing, even if it was most likely filled with nothingness. 

“Are you done with my letter?” Jun, my schoolmate, asked, who crept up behind me as I was looking out the window.

“The ink is drying. I’ll put it in the envelope in a few minutes,” I explained to him.

 “Can’t you just use the Parker Ink? I swore you used that a few letters ago.” he insisted.

“The Parker inks aren’t dark enough for me.”

“With writing like that, I’m sure the receiver wouldn’t think about what ink you’re using. Elaine–Emaine–I mean Emilie–loves the letters that I send her!”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a me problem. But I just think the presentation is just as important as the content, you know? Why do you think we judge people’s handwriting so much? Ink is also a factor in how we judge the writer,” I explained.

“We can talk about ink if we were in the 20th century, but we’re not. Aimie–letters have been out of fashion for so long that people won’t even tell what’s good parchment and what isn’t.”

“Yet you come to me asking to write old-fashioned letters with flowery words for a woman,” I said as I raised my eyebrows.

He scratched his head, tilting it while explaining, “She’s an intellectual. I needed to find a way to impress her.”

I shook my head. This dude was a pain in the ass.

“Alright, the letter’s dried. Now take this envelope and get out,” I ordered him, folding the letter into the envelope before I gave it to him. He placed a couple of coins on the table and left the classroom.

I tightly sealed the bottle of ink before wrapping it in a plastic bag. I stuffed it in the bottom of my bag before putting the extra pieces of paper inside my portfolio bag. For a brief moment, I continued to look out the window. Then, there was a knock on the door.

“Aimie,” Yuki greeted me softly before walking towards me.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” I told him. I felt spots of heat enter my cheeks. I looked away, allowing my cheeks to cool down, before turning to him.

“Why?”

“Don’t you have a bunch of girls waiting outside your classroom every day?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Or was there no one camping out for you today? Maybe they finally got to find out that you’d be a nightmare of a boyfriend,” I joked.

“I think I’d be a capable boyfriend. I would be a very good boyfriend… I think…” he boasted…ish.

“I know you always make your folks late to work because you take up so much time showering,” I sneered at him. I heard him huff, and he crossed his arms.

“Hey, at least I’m unlike you, lazing around, looking into the window all day. I know you always finish your homework while your teacher is asking the class to pass the papers to the front.”

“Shut up–”

“And you’re always obsessed with men… kissing each other…”

“It’s the 21st century! I am at the very least politically correct–”

“With a bed filled with nothing but stuffed toys because no one wants to hug her at night!”

“That’s mean! And to think I was supposed to take you out for dinner. Hmph! Leave me alone!”

He took a chair and dragged it beside me. He quietly put his bags on the floor and nudged my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he attempted to console me, “It was a joke. I won’t do it again…”

A smile began to creep up on me.

“…I’ll pay for dinner instead–” he slowly said.

“Exactly what I’m talking about!” I celebrated as I bolted right up. He scoffed as he watched me quickly gather my belongings. There wasn’t much left to put in my bag, but I wanted to be sure that I had everything together, lest I end up leaving behind something and be forced to think about what I left behind all night till the next school day.

“Are you actually going to pay for my food?” I asked him.

“Obviously not,” he retorted as a matter-of-factly. I whined and stomped the floor, crossing my arms. He smirked and quickly turned away, leaving me. I shouted and followed right after him.

We arrived at the restaurant not thirty minutes after I packed up. There was hardly anyone save for a few salarymen, tourists, and a woman speaking to herself. Loud rock music was playing in the background. We chose a table in the corner just by a window, where we would practically see none of them. The music was surprisingly quieter in this area. We sat across from each other.

“I would have said, ‘Finally, some peace and quiet!’ but you’re here,” Yuki hissed at me.

“Hey, you’re making me pay for your food and fooled me into thinking that I won’t be paying and now you’re making me pay again!” I complained. A “hmph!” came out of my mouth. Yuki slid himself closer to me and tapped my hand.

“I’m just messing with you,” he whispered, “I’ll pay for your food.”

“Really?” I pouted. He looked down as he smiled, and I could only get a glimpse of his sheepishness.

“Yes, now go and order what you want,” he directed me.

We both looked down at the menu. For a good three minutes, there was a circle of silence around us. I looked up to take a peek at him. He was so concentrated on someone who just needed to choose a meal for himself. Then he looked up at me, and I looked away for a moment.

I nodded, turned the menu towards him, and pointed at the two meals. Yuki shook his head, “Can’t you just get one?”

“Why? I’ve had a long day. Can’t I have two?”

Yuki rolled his eyes, showed me the side of the menu he was browsing at, and pointed at two meals.

“You’re not the only one who wants two meals,” he clarified, “The doctor told me to eat more so I could add some more weight.”

I sighed, “Fine. I’ll just get the curry.”

He didn’t reply but gave me a face. He pressed the button to call for the waitress and gave out our order. He pointed to the menu and asked for adjustments, to which I rolled my eyes and mocked him, then looked away.

When he had finished ordering, he called for my attention.

“Aimie, what were you up to in the classroom?” he asked me, the tone which almost felt like an interrogation.

I turned my eyes to him, but still kept my head towards the window, “I was just… writing some letters.”

“Letters?” He raised his eyebrow.

“Yes, letters. People ask me to write letters or translate them so they could send it to other people.”

He fussed, “Who is sending letters out these days? Can’t you just send them through mail?”

“I mean… that’s what it is…” I spoke slowly. He stared at me, then rolled his eyes.

“I meant mail as in online mail. You’re taking me literally.”

“Yes, I know what you meant. It was a joke.”

“It was not.”

“Is.”

“Not. And you’re changing the subject. Why are you writing letters for people?”

I crossed my arms and frowned at him. He tilted his stupid head, waiting for me to answer, but as time passed, he was disappointed to find out that I was not planning to respond at all.

“Aimie. I know you’re the best in our class when it comes to writing, but I think you should not be doing this.”

“Why not? It’s becoming a trend! Everyone likes to get letters 'cause they’re genuine.”

“Genuine? How can you call that genuine when you’re the one writing letters instead of them?”

As I was about to respond, the waitress arrived with our orders. We both looked at each other uncomfortably and began to eat in silence as if to forget the argument that was just about to transpire. He looked out the window as he ate while I slouched like a child, eating my curry as quietly as I could.

Later on, the waitress returned with another meal set on her tray and placed it between Yuki and I.

“A third one?” I quickly turned to him, “Is your doctor really making you eat that much?”

He shook his head and slid one of the plates towards me.

“It’s yours,” he told me softly, “Of course I’m not going to make you pay for my food after I just told you that I was going to pay for it.”

I nodded while looking down. My cheeks began to turn red, and from the edge of my eye, I could see Yuki slide the plate towards me even more. He continued to eat, looking out the window again.

I often wondered if we ever thought of the same things when we would look out the window. Does he judge others who pass by or think of them with kindness? Does he imagine the daily lives of the people that pass by? Does he see a woman and think she’s pretty? Does he think of me while he looks at a woman, as I’m before him? 

He then continued our previous conversation, “I just don’t like the idea of you posing as someone else–”

“I’m not pretending to be someone else–” I emphasized. A heavy feeling was growing in my stomach, and I knew that tonight was going to open fresh wounds.

“It could cause you a lot of pain. And confusion. I–It’s admirable that you–I mean, you’re writing what other people can’t seem to express, but a letter–it’s personal. The people asking to write letters for them should express what they feel even if they can only express it in very few letters. It would be a dishonor to those who receive it. They would be disappointed when they begin to know the real them and find that they’re not as honest as their eloquence,” he tried to persuade me.

“Come on, Yuki. Who are we to judge them? I’m just trying to help. I’m not harming them at all.”

Yuki placed his hands behind his head, squeezing his eyes and opening his mouth in frustration.

“You know, I don’t know what to do with you. I know you want to help, but–”

He looked around, bewildered, and then shook his head. He dug his hand inside his bag and took a notebook out, and rolled it took his notebook from his bag, rolled it, and slightly stood up.

“Kindness–”

He began lightly hitting my head.

“Starts–”

He hit my head again.

“With honesty. If you help people become dishonest, then you’re not really helping at all.”

I pouted and looked up at him. He blushed and sat back down.

“Finish up your food. I have work to do,” he breathed out.

I saluted in reply and took big bites of my food.

After we finished eating, we walked our way to the train station. I sat on the seat nearest to the door, while Yuki sat across me. I looked at him as he stared down at the floor. I tightened the grip of my school bag, eventually hugging it instead. When he turned his eyes towards me, I averted mine, and I tried to focus on the view behind him.

“Don’t you want to sit beside me?” I asked as I patted the seat beside me. He hummed and did so.

To the ordinary person, a stranger asking their friend to sit beside them was a normal occurrence. But when it came to Yuki, sitting beside him on the train meant something else. I had the privilege of looking out the window to stare at him through the reflection. It seemed desperate, and it was. When the boy you like was admired and ambushed by girls every day, spending your every minute with him had to be well-spent. I would do anything to sit and look at him, even if his reflection could only hold an ounce of what was genuinely worth admiring about him.

I turned my head to the real him as I allowed my hand to wander inside my school bag. I pulled out a ball of those expensive Lindt chocolates, and showed it to him. His head was pointed towards the chocolate, then to me. He looked down and shook his head.

“No, I can’t have any. I need to control my intake,” he rejected me and apologized profusely. I cleared my throat and looked into the window. I wanted to phase out. Even if I was in public. Even if he was right beside me. I could handle a rejection of chocolates from anyone but him.

“You alright?” he asked me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I felt my hand shake a little as my fingers began to sweat. When I turned towards him, his brown eyes were looking right at me. I could drown myself in that sea of chocolate. I could count the times he blinked. One… two… three…

Then the train doors opened, and Yuki stood up, motioning me to get off the train with him. With a myriad of people, we tried to stay as close to each other as possible. I held onto the strap of his bag, so I wouldn’t lose him. Then, all of a sudden, he turned around and took hold of my hand that was attached to his bag strap. He held that hand and looked at me in the eye as if to tell me to hold on tight so we wouldn’t lose each other.

There was a part of me that wanted to swoon. But for the most part, I wanted to hide in embarrassment because that’s the thing with Yuki. When you thought you finally knew him, he does something completely out of the ordinary. But no matter how shocking the action was, it doesn’t actually mean anything.

Still, he warmed my heart every time.

“I’m fine on my own,” I insisted.

“No, Aimie. In my six years of knowing you, you always have the tendency to get lost,” he nagged me and held my hand even tighter.

My hands began to sweat, and I managed to pull away from his grip..

“I don’t… feel comfortable,” I admitted.

His eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I stood firmly, “But I think we should get walking.”

For the next few minutes, we walked around in silence. A few cars would pass by, but the atmosphere between us was static. He would sometimes slow down to let me catch up. To my surprise, he would usually scold me for being so slow. This was not the case.

As we turned to our street, there was a man and woman arguing. The woman, high-pitched, kept on slapping the man as he kept on pushing her. Yuki and I stayed close to each other to the point that our arms began to touch. But as we were about to pass by them, the woman suddenly grabbed the collar of my blouse and pulled me in front of you.

“Are you Aimie?” she asked me.

I gulped and nodded.

Yuki walked beside me, “What do you want with her?”

“Get out of it, you brat,” she spat at him and pushed him by the shoulder. She then focused at me.

“Are you the one writing letters to Jun?”

I shook my head. I looked at Yuki, his lips pursed, and his fists began to turn white. She then began to shout at me, the words incoherent. I froze like a doll, allowing her to hurt me, till Yuki got in the way.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” he insisted.

“Yes, I do! She’s the mistress! She–She writes to Jun!”

“She’s not interested in him at all. And who might you be?” Yuki raised his eyebrow.

“His… his girlfriend!” she shouted unsurely before looking away. 

“You look too old to be his girlfriend,” he remarked. Can’t he be a little more careful?

“HUH!? And who are you to tell that, with that tiny voice of yours?” she shouted again.

“I’m her friend. And you’re misunderstanding,” he placed his hand out as if to calm her down. The man with her looked at the both of them the same way I was looking at them. We were clearly the most useless out of the four.

“Her friend… Clearly, you’re dating. And I can’t believe you’re… tolerating her. That hag is cheating on you!”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said calmly, “And she’s not the mistress. She’s just writing letters for other people.”

The woman was taken aback. She walked back slowly, though never turning back, and tilted her head towards the man behind her.

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” she whispered to him. The man raised his eyebrow.

“I don’t think Jun dates high school girls in the first place–”

“He could, if he would,” Yuki interjected, “He’s a high school student after all.”

Quickly, the man walked away from the woman. He began to laugh at her.

“Did you just get tricked by a high school student?” he cackled and pointed at her.

“No, no,” the woman objected, “I’m just a year older than him. And… I thought we were in the same university…” She tried to convince him that there was nothing wrong when something obviously was, and it had barely anything to do with the letters at all.

“Well, he does look old,” the man said, to which everyone either looked at him in horror or shame.

“I’m sorry for my sister,” the man apologized and bowed in front of us, “She caught Jun’s letter on the table while he was at work. It seems like he puts your name and house as the return address.”

Yuki laughed lightly, and I stared at the floor.

“Do you actually write the letters?” the woman asked me, her voice softer.

“Yes, I do. But I put it in the envelope and well… I don’t write the addresses for them. I didn’t know he’s been putting my name and address the entire time. I apologize,” I explained.

She sighed, “Kid, try to get out of people’s other matters. Even if it’s just writing a letter.”

In embarrassment, I kept my head down. Yuki spoke for me, “Sorry for making you worry. I’ll bring her home.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding. Have a good night,” the woman said and the siblings bowed.

Yuki and I walked back to my home, but before I could say anything, he stole the opportunity to break the silence.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to write letters even after all that,” he looked at me in a distasteful manner. I shook my head as fast as I could.

“It’s just a misunderstanding. It’s going to happen from time to time, but I can–“

“You’re still going to do it!?” he blasted. I took a step back.

“Yes, but–“

“I don’t–I don’t understand the thought process here. If it wasn’t for me, you would have found yourself beat up the next morning. I mean–they’re not capable of maybe beating you to death, but you would have definitely still been in danger… Aimie, can’t you think straight for once?” he scolded me.

I began to warm my hands with my palms as my heartbeat grew faster. I felt a spot in my throat beginning to hurt. In hurried breaths, I could visually feel myself turning into a pot, ready to whistle for tea.

“No! I can’t!” I shouted, “I don’t have the luxury of doing that! Don’t you know that other people ghostwrite?”

“I know people ghostwrite. But do you agree? Is this unethical doing of yours okay with you?”

“It’s just a bunch of letters!” I screamed and stomped my feet. Yuki crossed his arms.

“It’s not! A letter is supposed to… to… tell people what they feel. To help the receiver understand the writer… in their perspective. You’re missing the point of this!”

“Well, you’re making a big deal out of this. I write letters for other people, love letters. For high school students. I’m not–I’m not going to fool… the Prime Minister into doing what the customer would have wanted him to do. I’m not blackmailing people.”

“No matter how young they are, you’re still fooling with other people’s feelings!”

“I’m not the one fooling them. It’s the person asking me to write for them.”

“So you agree? That someone is at the very least, lying?”

“Okay, fine. Yes. There’s dishonesty.. The person asking me to write the letter is lying. I’m lying, too. But I didn’t ask to be in this kind of position. I didn’t want to be writing letters, I wanted to be writing novels. But I can’t afford to be one. I’m not like you, living in a fantasy world where offers come right at me left and right, where people come flocking at me from all corners.”

Just miles away from us, we heard some lightning strike. Though we could have ran away, we stood there, arguing like children.

“You’ve worked hard, that’s for sure. But other people have, and they don’t get as much returns as you do, to the point that you’re privileged enough to continue to work hard with extra help along the way,” I added.

He wanted to interrupt me, but allowed me to continue talking:

“You have no right to talk to me about honesty, genuinity. How do you know if everything that you have is real? Let’s start with that first.”

Then, it began to drizzle.

I took a deep breath before telling him, “Those love letters those girls would give you? The ones that you would throw away? Most of them were written by me anyway. And if you–and if you ever bothered to read them, you’d realize that I’ve written what they’ve wanted, true, but every word was mine. Every love letter I’ve written, no matter who wanted me to write them, always had you in mind. You’re real to me.”

“Aimie–“

“You live a good life, and I know it’ll just get better. But that doesn’t mean you can bug me and tell me what’s good and what’s bad. I know… friends.. are supposed to tell you what’s good and what’s wrong. But these commissions–they’re the only thing I can do. We both know that.”

“I could help you–“

“I don’t need your help! I never did. I’ve been doing fine without you anyway. But you’re right. It’s dishonest. It got in the way. So I’ll stop,” I finished.

I dug down my school bag and got a foldable umbrella out. I shoved it in his big hands as he looked at me, puzzled. The rain poured even harder, puddles forming at the side of the road.

“Go home,” I demanded him.

Without looking at his reaction, I turned away and ran to my house. I felt his footsteps follow right behind me. I heard him calling for me. As I reached the front door, I turned around to find him gone. With a sigh of relief, I entered my home, where nothing could ever be capable of hurting me.

Two weeks had passed since the incident. I spent most of my days, running away from everyone, even Yuki. My feelings towards the conversation began to mellow, and I clearly saw what Yuki was trying to talk about. When I began to realize the grand scheme of things, my pride and selfishness immensely lowered. Since then, I stopped taking in requests for love letters, and spending my time in the library or the empty classroom.

But there were times when I had to walk out of my safe spaces and Yuki would happen to be there, and every single time, he would have his eyes on me. Every time he would stand up or even take a step toward me, I would run past him as fast as possible or even turn the other way around.

Eventually, my luck had run out because one day, after trying to run away from him, he attempted to chase after me.

“Aimie! Wait!” he called for me.

For some reason, I could have run as fast as I could. He was more athletic than I was, but desperation caused as much adrenaline. Yet I somehow froze, and he eventually caught up to me. I must have used up all my energy because I couldn’t seem to move.

“Can’t we just talk about it?” he asked me, slowly reaching for my arm. I quickly moved it away.

No. We couldn’t just talk about it. Because I didn’t let you talk the last time. And my mouth always took action before my mind does.

“Aimie, please? I’m sorry,” he nudged me. I scratched my arm and looked down, my lips sealed shut. I turned around to face him.

Fair to say, his eyes were red, and they widened when I turned around. I could see the sweat glistening on his palms. He was out of breath. 

“No. I should be sorry. I was too prideful,” I admitted.

“No, I should be.”

“You’re too soft towards this. You defended me, and when we were finally alone, I lashed out on you. Insulted you, even. Don’t apologize to a dishonest person.”

“You’re not dishonest,” he stated.

“Do you even know how many letters I’ve written in the past month before I stopped?” I questioned him. I could hear him whisper, “No, no.”

“You’re young. And you’re human. And wel… you’re different. You always have good intentions, but you never really… do them properly,” he acknowledged these as he took a deep breath, “You’re naive, Aimie. You always have been.”

“But I’m a bad person. A bad human.”

“It’s not a crime, is it?”

I didn’t know what else to say. So, I started crying. Wailing, even.

“I–I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. I felt so stupid without you!” I cried out to him, then he began to hug me, “I thought to myself, ‘I’ve lost Yuki! The human equivalent to my brain! My senses have left me! I’m stupid, I’m stupid.’”

He laughed, patting my back. We broke our hug as I took my handkerchief out of my pocket, to which he snatched from my hand and dabbed the tears out for me.

“You think you’re the only one going through a crisis? How am I going to live without my heart?”

“My heart?”

“Yes, you’re my heart.”

I stood still and shook my head, “No, no. You’re my brain and heart. You’re my organs, I’m just a host.”

He cackled at me, “Aimie, think of yourself highly from time to time–”

“Yuki! We’re going in circles! That’s literally why we didn’t talk to each other for two weeks! Because I was thinking of myself highly–”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not talk about it. You’ve put out too many tears,” he interrupted.

When I stopped crying in such an ugly matter, he handed out a piece of paper to me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked me.

“It depends, what is it?”

“I want you to write a letter.”

“Oh no, no no. You just told me that you didn’t want to–”

“It’s worth it, I promise. It’s the last letter you’ll ever ghostwrite. It’s just a love letter I want you to fix a little while translating.”

“Translate?”

“To English.”

I glared at him.

However, I began to think of his previous actions and how they were never really as I predicted. Maybe he had something in mind. A terrible joke, even. So, I decided to play along with it, “Fine, fine. Look how biased you are…”

We walked back to my classroom and I sat by my usual seat near the window. He sat at the chair right in front of me as he crossed his arms and let them rest on the back of the chair. He placed his chin on his arms, and I could feel his eyes follow my every movement. I took out my pen and a fresh leaf of paper, and looked at the outline of his letter slowly.

I began to ask him a few questions, to which he responded with no hesitation.

“To whom is this letter addressed to?”

He smirked, “Keep it empty for me. I’ll write her name on the envelope.”

Her? My heart dropped. The worst thing he could do, after all this, was to make me write a letter to a girl. She must be a wonder for him to even ask me to write a letter in the first place.

“It’s a love letter?”

“Well, what else could it be?” he retorted, “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No, no. Not at all,” I lied.

I took a deep breath and looked through the outline of the letter he wanted me to write. I looked at him, and he was still looking at me. I couldn’t tell what was on his mind–there was nothing written on his face. I gulped and began to write the letter:

A few days ago, my friend told me about this flower that is native to South America. It takes half a decade for it to grow, before it is able to bloom. Then it blooms again once a year, and it always happens in the middle of the night, before it closes in for the rest of the year the morning after. 

As he was explaining this lovely flower, I began to realize that the flower and my feelings were no different.

Like this flower, this love was nurtured and cared for. And it took me one night for my heart to burst and realize just how much I’ve admired you.

Flowers come alive at the sound of good words, and I would be just as alive at the sound of your voice and the sight of your words, our nonsense conversations, your laughs at my terrible jokes, and our bickering–which was very much like an old couple.

If it took me six years by your side and a night to realize just how much I like you, then I would say it would have been worth it. There is no greater source to make the flower of my heart grow than you.

If you’d return these feelings back to me, then feel free to write back a letter. Say these good words and everything in me shall be healed, and the flower in me will bloom for as long as both our feelings will live.

Yours,

Yuki

I capped my pen and I let the letter sit there for the ink to dry.

“Is she a foreigner?”

He put his shoulders up, as if to say, “I don’t know.” I slammed my hands on my lap and sighed.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to write her name?” I questioned him again, just to be sure.

He thought for a while. He pretended to scratch his chin like an old man, and hummed to himself.

“I changed my mind.”

“Alright. So what’s her name?”

“Aimie. Address it to Aimie. A-I-M-I-E.”

Aimie.

I froze and stared at him, my eyebrows knitted together. He looked at me, and a smile seemingly began to grow on his face.

“Do… do you want me to… to put it in an envelope and write the address for you?”

“You do that now?” he cackled.

“It’s a special offer, for the last love letter I’ll ever ghostwrite.”

“Sure. Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write it out for you.”

I took out my notebook, ripped out a page, and handed it to him. He turned away from me and I could hear the pen scratching the page. There was a metaphor that began to form out of that moment, where every stroke of a letter began to scratch my heart. When he had finished, he turned around and showed the paper to me, pointing to the block of text.

“Address it to her, please,” he requested.

I moved closely to the paper, observing what he had just wrote.

It had my surname and last name, as well as the exact house number, street, prefecture, and postal code. I could feel my eyes beginning to itch, slowly being filled by water.

“What a lovely name,” I told him.

“Yes, and what a lovely person,” he smiled, “I’m always in awe every time I see her.”

“I’m sure she’ll love the letter.”

“I’m sure she would. But I’m hoping she’d return the feelings too,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding my eyes.

“I’m sure she will,” I laughed.

He looked up at me, his mouth forming an “O.” Silly as it both was, I still wrote my name and address in the English style. I could sense that his smile was permanently stuck to his face, and when I finished writing, he patted my head. I handed the envelope to him, to which he licked to seal it shut. We stared at each other for a good while before the bell rang.

“Can I walk you home later?” he offered me.

“You don’t have any practice later this afternoon?”

“No, I don’t… So, can I?”

I nodded. Overjoyed, he walked up to me and hugged me. When we looked each other, I was positive that we were equally red. He then began to leave the classroom and turned to me by the door.

“I can’t wait to see you later,” he said.

One by one, my classmates entered the classroom, oblivious to what had just happened. One, they didn’t know that the boy I’d liked for so long had confessed to me. Second, they didn’t know that he’d walk me home later after school. Third and most importantly…