yuki's perm hair

today's match was heartbreaking guys!! watching the team cry (yuyuran mostly) and knowing this is the end of coach blair's run with them made me a bit emotional. Congrats Italy tho!

this was based on a kita/kageyama smau, so thanks to the writers for the inspo.

In every game, there’s a winner and a loser. For Yuki, he knows that there’s no winning or losing in this match. Because the game he wants to win isn’t on the court, it’s at home.

He doesn’t know when or where, but it began with the tiniest things: how the books were supposed to be placed, how the toothpaste was supposed to be squeezed out, or how the food was supposed to be cooked. Earlier on, he was less critical with how things went around at home—you were new to your humble abode, you were new to him. Things will adjust in their own time.

“Yuki, where am I supposed to put these plates?” You once asked.

Yuki put out the biggest sigh. “We’ve been living together for a year. I’m sure you’ll remember where they are.”

There was an inexplicable feeling in him, like he had wanted to hint the answer to you—no, not in that way. Perhaps, maybe, in a way that you’ll come to your senses and know the answer. He hates telling the obvious and the repeated, and the action of doing so is beginning to put pressure in his entire body.

You frowned, then began to open every cabinet, until he walked up and opened the very last cabinet for you.

“Remember, the plates go here. Please remember that. Please?” He told you.

You both looked at each other. Things will adjust in their own time, you both thought.

The opponent prepares to serve the ball. The cheers are loud, but to Yuki’s ears, they slowly falter away. The cheers turn into heartbeats. Yuki looks at the ball intently, but there’s a troubling thought at the back of his mind.

“Just tell me what you feel. Anything. I don’t care if it will hurt me,” You begged.

In the few weeks prior to the game, you and Yuki have bickered over things left unsaid. Maybe it was a terrible habit of his, but his emotions could never find a way out of his body. 

“Why would you go around telling people what’s going on between us? I didn’t even know that you felt this way. I’m tired of going around in circles. Can’t you just tell me what you feel without putting out the important details?” You berated him.

“Let’s break up,” you told him.

He ran up to you and begged you to stay.

He said, “Things will adjust in their own time.”

They were a set of words that were supposed to help both of you put this relationship in motion. A prayer for every wrongdoing. Now, a chant to summon you and stay.

Before he knows it, the ball has been traveling around. He’s out of his trance, and chases after the ball. Now the ball’s in front of him, and all he needs is to get this point so he could at least savor a win before what he feels might be a major loss. Then he begins to jump, and when he’s up in the air, he’s in a different kind of heaven. It’s the only place where time stops.

Two years, you and him. But for Yuki, it was four years, for he had been yearning for you in the two years before you got together. He’s chased you—and oh, what a chase. He had always fantasized doing everything with you, from quick vacations to sweet nothingness. He’s wanted to do so many things with you, that he’s even thought about them in his sleep:  He once woke up happily after seeing you hold a child in his dreams.  But what a waste of time—all that imagining—has been.

For the path he took was always meant to be taken alone.

He spikes the ball, hoping to get the final point, but the ball lands outside the boundary line. The cheers are now in absolute silence. There’s a look of disappointment from his face, but God knows what caused it.

Yuki will be preoccupied with the game’s loss for the next hour. But when he travels all the way back home, all he’ll think about is you. He will rehearse the lines he plans to tell you when he walks in the door and finds you sitting on the couch. He will drink the remainder of his water bottle at one of the stop lights because he knows that he’ll be raising his voice at you. When he parks his car and gets his bag out of the trunk, he’ll have to take in a few deep breaths, wasting ten minutes in the parking lot. He’ll pace around the elevator as it heads up.

Then when he finally gets home…

You’re not there.

He goes around the house, searching for your belongings. Your Snoopy cup is gone, and so are your floral plates. Your clothes have been cleared out from the closet, as well as the photos that once sat on the vanity mirror. Your DVDs are gone from the shelves. Only one toothbrush sits on the cup in the bathroom.

It seems as if everything is a dream. If anyone walked in on him at this very moment, they would assume that he lived alone. All the proof that you once lived here is gone.

He sits down on the couch and stares at the floor. He’s imagining things again: he should chase after you once more, and ask you to stay. Why did he think of throwing you away? Who’s going to ruffle his hair now? Or kiss his fingers every time they hurt? Who’s going to listen to his every thought? Who will be the cause of his happiness?

He damns himself. The way he hesitates. The way he hides. The way he sometimes looks down on you when he now realizes that he’s not any better.

He lies down. As he adjusts his head to the pillow, he feels a hard object behind it. He finds a small Cinnamoroll miniature. You once told him that this tiny dog was your son, and you squealed every time you’d see Cinnamoroll in the mall. You joked that you’d replace all the household items in the house to make them Cinnamoroll-themed, and that everything your children would inherit were going to be related to that small, white dog. He’s thinking of keeping it, for in this miniature was his hopes and dreams for and with you.

As Pablo Neruda once wrote, “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”

For the next few months, he’ll put it in his pocket when he goes out for groceries. He’ll hide it in the bottom of his bag when he travels. He’ll kiss it before every game. 

The photos on his phone mean nothing. The miniature is the only remaining testament to your existence, your touch. It’s the hope that you’ll get back together. He knows you’re out there, wanting to get back together with him. You will get back together. He knows because, according to him, he knows you.

What a foolish thought.

In his four years of knowing you, you were always one step ahead of him, and it seems that he was none the wiser about that fact.

A year later, he looks at the miniature after a game. He stares at it, then throws it into the trash can. Then he forgets about it, and then you. Days pass, then weeks, then months. You’re no longer you, but a former lover, an individual of meager importance. In the story of his life, this paragraph is the last you will find yourself in. 

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…

Conversations have always passed by me more than I probably realized. My eyes averted from the eyes of others, running away into the endless landscapes of vanilla-colored, semi-gloss-painted walls. There was something about the eyes that felt more vulgar than the parts we normally hid because, in retrospect, they are the most truthful parts of our body, more than our lips and hands. So when an outrageously tall and obviously strong Japanese man was looking straight at me in the eyes, there was something in me that knew that he knew who I was, even if I had nothing worth confessing about.

“I wanted to… thank you,” he said carefully.

Everything about this man was so meticulous.

“It’s no problem. You look like you needed helping,” I replied quickly.

He was, however, not so meticulous with his tracks.

 Just about twenty minutes ago, I began one of the most gut-wrenching runs in my life. This man, running from a small alleyway, tried to dash away from a swarm of what I would assume to be his loyal admirers. I happened to be in his way; instead of running right past me, he pulled me by the arm. It seemed that his running had preceded his thinking—it took him a minute or so to realize that he was dragging a woman along with him. The dry, cold winter air felt like a slap to the face every second I had to run with this man because now I had to help him–the both of us–get away from the crowd. 

Twenty minutes later, we’re in a hidden restaurant. There were no more screaming fans. All that there was were empty dining sets, niche Italian memorabilia, and bored employees. A confused set of customers would not stop them from moving on with their dull lives. The only thing missing was the plates of pasta, which this man insisted on paying on his behalf, that I wished would arrive faster to break any possible point of contact.

No, I don’t dislike him. In fact, he is a fascinating person—as all human beings are. But I would rather know about them from afar and not when they are trying to lock their eyes with yours every second you have to be with them. I’m more nervous about the idea of first meetings: the utter and complete awkwardness that renders a first meeting to stay a first meeting. I’m scared of saying anything that might make him run away—worse, make me pay for the pasta.

An employee walked towards our table and as she was about to place the dishes on the table, my eyes looked at the food to his eyes.

Soft, but strong. Determined, but capable of surrendering. Cheerful behind such nonchalance. Flames that have never been extinguished. Nevermind the color of his eyes. At that moment, I knew who he was.

“We should eat,” he told me. I smiled. Yes, we should.

The near-ivory-colored pasta noodles were fully consumed. There was happiness in my stomach. But I couldn’t uphold the proverb of “beggars can’t be choosers” because I was begging myself to stop eating these stupid cherry tomatoes. For me, tomatoes always tasted good processed, but disgusting in their raw form. It always perplexed me, but I guess that’s the magic of cooking.

“You don’t like the tomatoes?” he asked me.

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry,” I smiled bashfully.

He laughed, “Don’t be. I used to not like it a lot.”

“At least we have something in common.”

A few laughs. Then there was that excruciating silence. This began to feel more like a first date. We both took another set of deep breaths. We would be a fascinating pair to a set of psychologists.

“Why were they chasing after you?” I asked him. He tilted his head.

“Your fans, why were they?” I clarified.

He waved his hands and shook his head. “I… I don’t know.”

“You must be very popular for a reason.”

“I still don’t know why I’m very popular.”

“Well, you are quite handsome.”

He looked up at me quickly. Then he laughed loudly. I felt my cheeks grow as red as those cherry tomatoes.

“I’m just saying that you’re attractive. Nothing more, nothing less,” I explained as I put my hands up. He should know I’m not attracted to him, right? Fuck, he should know.

“I mean I play volleyball. I don’t think my uh… face… you know…”

It was clear to me that he underestimated the power of aestheticism. He didn’t realize how beautiful he was. Many men I have both understood and not simultaneously, but I know that not understanding how attractive you are was a good trait. Was it a case of humility? No, it was a matter of naivety for this man.

“I think it’s best to not know why you’re popular.”

“Why?” He raised his eyebrow.

“It makes you a better character. Just–don’t ask.”

He nodded slowly as he downed another pasta noodle. I turned away from him and checked the time: 9:37 PM. I felt my heart drop, then beat faster. My hands began to sweat, and my eyes and mouth widened, taking in the Italian restaurant dust.

He must have checked the time too because he had a more violent reaction to the time. He sighed, before looking at me and offered to take me home. I assumed he had a car in the parking lot waiting for him. Do you know what else is waiting for him?

“You don’t think your fans will be waiting by the parking lot?” I sighed, “It’s alright. I can book a taxi.”

I showed him my phone and pointed to the apartment complex on the map. He nodded slowly.

“Ahh, well I live there too,” he told me.

I felt my muscles pull my eyebrows. It was damn near impossible that we lived in the same place. That building wasn’t even tall. How could I not have bumped into him? That’s impossible. I’ve gone in and out of that complex many times for a variety of reasons. I should have all my hours covered: I left at two in the morning once to prepare for a road trip. Another at six in the morning to get ready to be a corporate slave. Seven in the morning when I was still taking up classes. All the hours leading up to twelve when I would oversleep and leave despite missing the acceptable hours to be late. Afternoon to return to my house. Night to buy food and do other shenanigans. How could I have possibly missed this man?

“Really? How come we’ve never bumped into each other?” I asked him.

“I moved a few months ago.”

There were then two of the greatest mysteries that arose: how have I never met this man and why did it take a Hollywood-like meet cute for us to meet? I would not try to attempt to solve them. I’ll leave it to the experts to tackle these critical questions.

The waitress walked up to us and told them that they were closing. It was right that we had to leave. Imagine having the most perfect day, having to deal with no customers, then a pair arrives at the very last minute you could have chosen to close the restaurant. I would have comforted her and told her that I was just as ready to go home as she was.

We had to walk out of the tiny street and into a bigger road in order to find the taxi driver that the man had booked through his phone. For a few minutes, we stood there like idiots, but I was taking in the serenity of this silence. This was the quietest moment of my day.

When the taxi arrived, we sat in silence, sitting like, again,  idiots. I turned my head to the window, watching the stores close as people walked by. What I always enjoyed about quiet rides was that you were able to observe people from afar and imagine the scenario they were going through before moving to the person behind them. You could think of the lives they were living until you were forced to push the thought away because you knew you will never see them again. We leave the thought as it is.

I understood that it would not be the case with this man.

Though the trip was short, I began to feel that I was getting groggy. We got into the tiny elevator, which could barely handle his height. I was curious to see the floor number he would press, but the thought was so shameful to me that I looked at the floor counter instead, seeing it go higher. When it was my floor, I turned to him, nodded, and left the elevator… a farewell that was guaranteed to be useless because he followed right behind me.

The man and I walked in the same direction for a few seconds before I turned to my door. I felt him tap my right shoulder.

“I cannot believe we never met,” he exclaimed.

“Our first meeting was certainly unique. Makes for a start of a good friendship, don’t you think?”

He smiled and held his hand out.

“Before I forget, my name is Yuki, by the way.”

The night proved to me that we were just both little idiots making their way into the world for the both of us could only nod and smile at each other. I shook his hand and told him my name.

“I hope you have a good sleep,” he said, and before I could say anything, he walked away. The window to chase after him began to close. When he got to his door, I looked away and went inside the apartment.

The following week, I began to look out the hallways to see if Yuki had come around. Since then, I have begun to accept that this was just one of those moments where you meet someone once and never see them again.

“Over here!”

My aunt called me from the other side of where I was trying to look for Yuki. She popped up with a son of one of our family friends, Charles, a mischievous tot at the age of five. He ran towards my legs. I picked him up and carried him while walking all the way to her.

“Charles wanted to pass by the playground, but I figured we could stop by to see how you were doing first.”

“Oh. Am I part of the play date?” I asked her. 

“You wanna come with us? I don’t mind if you did. Charles has been asking you for the past week, you know.”

“Looks like I’ll have to make up for the time lost then,” I looked at Charles and rubbed his nose. The three of us went to the elevator, and although elevator trips are short, there’s something about these that felt so excruciating. I thought to myself, “What if Yuki’s on the other side of the door? What should be my first greeting?” No, no, I’m not in love with him. People mistake general loneliness for romantic desperation. It’s just exciting to know someone who lives on the same floor as you. 

The elevator doors opened, and there was not even a human waiting on the other side.

How disappointing.

We walked our way to the playground, which was a lengthy walk for a tiny boy but much lengthier for the one carrying him—me. My aunt and I talked on the way, and before we even stepped foot on the edge of the playground, Charles signaled me to let him down. He ran straight to the swings. We looked at each other and sighed before sitting by one of the benches. We continued the conversation.

So, it was inevitable that I talked about Yuki.

“You don’t think he’s in love with you?”

“We’re just friends. We’re just acquaintances, neighbors who happen to be friendly with each other.”

“The way that you’re describing him just makes it sound like he’s in love with you…” she tapped her index finger on her chin before she said, “Or could it be possible that you described him that way because you’re the one who’s in love with him?”

The nerve!

“I’ve only talked to him for like an hour. I don’t know anything else about him, alright? He’s just… he seemed interesting to me,” and I hoped that explanation was enough for her.

“Alright, alright. I understand. When we meet someone, we can’t help but feel a little curious about them. It’s just different when it’s you.”

“How?”

“You’ve never been that invested in anyone, frankly.”

“I think it’s time to put those reruns of When Harry Met Sally to rest.” 

She laughed at herself, shaking her head profusely, before telling me:

“I’m just excited to see some developments in your life. You wanted some action in your life after all, right?”

Most of the action in my life came in the form of a projector screen of a cinema. Films illustrated my biggest fears and desires, as well as situations we would never dream of going through. It’s one of the greatest man made creations, and I am grateful for living in a time like this.

I watched this film, a rerun of When Harry Met Sally, thankfully in its original dub but with Italian subtitles. I don’t think I would agree with the dubious morality of the film’s screenwriter, but the way she wrote her characters and of romances made you want to be whisked away by a heterosexual man, charmed by the most dramatic lines a man wouldn’t imagine saying in reality. Many romance films were never great critically, but they always seem so satisfying—especially when the man was written by a woman.

It was coincidental that this film was out again in the local cinema when I was at the crossroads of trying to figure out just why I was thinking of Yuki so much, even if I don’t think of him in that way. In summary, the film tried to answer the age-old question: Can a man and woman be friends?

The question just hurt my head.

As I walked home from the cinema, all I thought about was when Harry told Sally, “…When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” Oh, to be in love is such an endless dream. I kept repeating the ending scene, keeping my head down, until as I entered the elevator, bumped into the chest of a friend—er, acquaintance.

“Are you alright?” A familiar voice asked me, and when I looked up, I realized the difference in height between the both of us. I could only nod slowly at him.

“Are you sure? You were staring at the floor.”

I nodded profusely, stepping to his right. I still kept my head low. Come the elevator ride, which, again, always took a thousand years. As we went up, I could feel his eyes poke my unattractive slouch. Wish I could die right now! 

“Did you come from work?” He asked me, attempting to make small talk

The elevator doors opened.

“Ah, no. I came from the cinema.” 

We both stepped out. Every second turned into an hour, and though it took less than a minute to get to our doors, we seemed to be walking at a snail’s pace.

“You like movies?” He asked me.

“I love them. I watch one every day.”

“Wow. Are you actually a famous actress?”

“No, no,” I laughed, “But I wanted to be a filmmaker once.”

“You should recommend me some movies. I’m sure you have good taste.”

I smiled, “Thank you. But tell me what kind of films you like first. It might be too boring or too cheesy for you.” 

“I’m not really sure what I like. I mean I watch anime. But I want to know what your favorite movie is.”

I stopped. “Why?”

“Why not? You are a very interesting person.”

For a moment, I looked at him. His entire face, not his eyes. I’m not brave enough to look at the eyes. I scratched my head and faced the floor again. He tilted his head, and I believed that for a minute, we turned into idiots again, waiting for each other to respond. He raised his voice to say something but changed his mind. I did the same thing. Eventually; I was the one who broke the silence that formed between us:

“I’ll slip in a list of my favorite films under your door.”

I mustered the courage to look at his face.

I don’t know if he was smiling through his teeth, but I knew that he was smiling with his eyes, and it made all the difference. I suddenly gained the motivation to write up a good list for him. I just hope he had the time to go through each and every one of them.

I didn’t know what men liked, especially with someone like him who didn’t seem too enthusiastic about cinema to me. You wouldn’t want something too violent, crude, dreamy, or fast-paced. Most definitely not too philosophical. It’s not that I wanted to impress him, I just felt like I didn’t want him to switch on the television and spend an hour and a half for a film he wouldn’t even enjoy at all.

“I watched all of them, by the way,” Yuki told me when we bumped into each other again in the hallway. I guess it was the power of the first meeting: you just kept on meeting them again.

“All of them? But those were twenty films!” I felt my eyes widen. With a sports career like his, would you even have time for anything else?

“I watched all of them while stretching… or eating… or when I was bored,” he said as he walked towards me with a wide smile on his face.

“Did you enjoy any of them?”

“I liked all of them. Where do you watch them?”

Maybe I was too mean to his eyes. They were never meant to intimidate or to investigate other people but to comfort them. I now realized that he simply wanted to pay attention to me, which is perfect because I am, quite frankly, without attention. A few circuits in my brain exploded before I could give him a well-thought-out response.

“I watch them in the cinema just a few streets away. Or I watch them online.”

“There’s a cinema nearby?”

“Yes, it’s a fifteen-minute walk there. And it’s the perfect distance: fifteen minutes to the cinema to gather your expectations for the film you’re going to watch, and fifteen minutes from the cinema to ponder on what you just watched.”

“I never thought of walking that way. It’s an exercise for the body,  but I never thought it could be an exercise for the mind.”

“Well, Yuki, when you hate the idea of walking but have to endure it just to see something that could make you feel happy, you’d have to think of other ways to make walking enjoyable.”

“But why would you waste fifteen minutes just to see if you could feel happy?”

“It’s more than just the trip that could have brought me unhappiness. It could be a burnt egg during breakfast or a boss’ scolding in the afternoon. If I felt angry, sad, or both for more than twelve hours but watched a film that was an hour and thirty minutes long and had an extra fifteen minutes to myself just thinking about that film and how good it was, then at least I could say that the day was lived through well.”

For a minute, Yuki froze and stared at me. He then looked away from my eyes and nodded slowly, as if he had just processed what I just said. He laughed–no, giggled–and scratched the back of his head. It must have been a nervous reaction. Or maybe I was trying to read him a little too much.

“What’s your job?” he suddenly asked me.

“My job?”

“I-If you don’t mind, you know, me asking?”

“Oh, way different from the movies I watch, for sure. I just work at a tiny office building thirty minutes away. Nothing too important.”

“You don’t make movies?”

“It’s just not practical. I hate my job, but at least it pays my film tickets.”

We both awkwardly laughed. My damn humor.

“Uh–Can I watchsome of the movieswith you sometime?” He asked me with a pace much faster than how he usually spoke.

“Of course.”

“But not all the time, I’m busy with training and games… of course…”

“It’s no problem. Just… tell me if you want to come with me. I go to the cinema on the weekends. I always leave at around six.”

“Okay. I’ll see you… next time.”

“See you around, Yuki.”

We exchanged our friendliest of smiles before Yuki walked to the door of his unit. For some reason, I didn’t want time to stop. I let out a loud sigh. As  I opened the door, I instinctively turned my head towards his direction.

He was looking at me.

“Goodnight,” I told him.

His smile was much weaker. Even if the only responsibility that was entrusted to his hands was to open the door, he seemed clumsy with it. Quite unusual for his character–even if all I really knew about him was based on limited interactions. He seemed to be in a trance; he shook his head and entered his unit.

He didn’t greet me back.

Weeks had passed since we had a major interaction. There and then, we would greet each other a few times, but it wasn’t anything of importance for me to tell. Each and every greeting was filled with a pinch of half-crooked smiles and a teaspoon of inevitable awkwardness. In my case, I always seemed to enjoy our dishes of interactions with a dash of overthinking. Did he hate me? I could never really tell with him, as the thoughts are always diminished every time he asks for my wellbeing.

“I hope the movie isn’t too long this time,” my aunt told me.

“I searched on the internet. It’s two hours and thirty minutes long,” I replied.

She sighed: “Nothing I could do to stop you from your movie watching. Just text me if you’ll be home a little beyond 9:30. You know me.”

“Sorry for making you worry that one time.”

“It’s alright. I just don’t want your mom scolding me. You know how she is. Run along.”

I greeted her goodbye, as she turned her head to the television screen and watched a K-Drama that seemed to be all the craze these days. As much as I used to enjoy shows, I could never really commit to one, which is why I love films so much: it would only take one sitting for you to finish a story. As I waited for the elevator, a door opened, and a figure began to approach me. As I was about to turn to them, the elevator doors opened.

“Are you going to the cinema today?”

Ah, Yuki.

“Yes, I am,” I replied cheerfully. We both went on the elevator.

“What are you watching tonight?”

“Cinema Paradiso. It’s an old film–I think it’s older than me. It’s one of my favorite films, it was why I loved watching films in the first place.”

“You didn’t recommend that to me,” he pouted.

I was surprised by his memory. “It was a sappy film. I didn’t know if you’d like it. But it’s an Italian film, you might be interested after all.”

“Then is it okay if we watch it together?”

When the elevators opened, I walked out first, and jumped up and down to his request. I led the way to the cinema, which, of course, took fifteen minutes to get there. He was inquisitive, asking questions about other movies I watched and Italian cinema in particular–considering where we were and what we were going to watch after all.

“Do you still go to the cinema even if it rains? Orrrr if it’s too cold?”

“Yeah. But sometimes I get stuck at the cinema cause I’d forget to bring an umbrella.”

He looked at my hands.

“I hope we don’t get stuck tonight,” he said with a smile.

We eventually got to the cinema, which was, as usual, barely occupied. I never really knew if they were the same people–you could never tell who was who in the dark, and I never bothered to search for familiar faces when the lights went up. We sat in the center because, to me, it was never too near nor too far.

The entire time, we sat in silence, with a few laughs in between. Being the emotional person that I was, I sniffled–the tears dried thanks to the handkerchief Yuki had brought. Most of the time, he was still, but I hoped that he was taking the entire film in. In the middle of the film, there was a set of romance scenes that embarked, full of longing and yearning, caused greatly by something that was difficult to attain for the film’s couple: love.

It was around this time I could feel Yuki squirm a little, whether it was because it made him uncomfortable or thinking of someone else, I could never really tell. In the corner of my eye, I could feel him turn to me, then to the screen, and to me again. When I finally decided to confront him, I picked up a piece of popcorn from the bucket and showed it to him, like a child putting out their favorite toy to everyone.

He thanked me. I had expected him to pick it from my fingers, but he ate it straight away instead. The pressure and touch of his lips were minimal but it was enough to at least make me identify that they were… soft. Besides the projector, one of the greatest benefits of the movie houses was that many of our facial expressions were concealed–something that I am grateful for hiding my red face. I placed the popcorn bucket between us and he graciously got some more, to which I hoped that he had forgotten what had just transpired minutes ago.

When the film ended, my eyes were puffy. Yuki, though I would say less generous with his emotions (or maybe he was uncomfortable with me?), had a few tears in his eyes. I pulled out the handkerchief he had just lent me and dabbed the corners of his eyes. It was a little difficult to reach out to him, not because of his height, but because I was trying to contemplate what was the socially acceptable distance between us. When his tears had finally dried, I stared into the credits.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” I told him, “I always watch the credits till the very end.”

When the credits were done, we left the cinema in silence. We stood side by side. Normally, if I were with a friend, I would have started babbling about the events of the film. Now, I found myself saying absolutely nothing. Not at all what I intended, because Yuki is also my friend, right?

“Now I understand why you go there every weekend. It was a nice movie. The atmosphere is quiet and the seats are good, even for someone as tall as me,” he turned to me and placed his palm on my head, as if to mock my height. I laughed at him and playfully slapped his arm.

“There’s something about that cinema that feels magical, don’t you think? That’s why I enjoy watching with a larger projector screen than a phone screen at times.”

“It’s much better when you watch it with someone.”

“It is! Sometimes when the film’s funny, it’s great to crack jokes with them.”

“You go with other people? Who else?”

“Oh, just my aunt. Or sometimes with a couple of friends.”

“No boyfriend?”

I paused. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have one.

“No, I don’t have one. I’m too cowardly to ask anyone out.”

The air grew harsher, and so did the snowfall. I placed my hands in my jacket, placing my arms as close to my torso as if to shake off the cold temperature. It’s only a temporary remedy. My teeth began to chatter—so much for coming from a place that has never snowed. Yuki watched me freeze to death, with his clothes looking much warmer than mine,

“May I?” Yuki placed his hand in front of me.

I didn’t know what he was referring to, but I could only say “Yes.”

We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, facing each other. He took my hands, using them to pull me a little bit closer. He warmed my hands by blowing into them with his breath and rubbing them with his own hands. For a moment, I looked at him and for the first time since our first meeting, I could never conjure up a hypothesis that could explain this behavior.

“I feel much warmer now,” I whispered to him. The travel of his eyes from my hands to my eyes was slower, more hesitant.

“Are you sure?” he asked me, still holding onto my hands. I let my hands slip away from his slowly.

“We’re almost there to the apartment. I’ll be alright now,” I answered.

The rest of the way back home was filled with silence and emotions I have yet to identify.

When we got back, we both stopped in front of my apartment. I was back to normalcy. I couldn’t look into his eyes.

“I enjoyed it–” I started.

“Are you going again next week?” He asked me immediately.

“Of course. Why?”

“Is it okay if… I went with you–”

“Of course it is–”

“I just want to be your friend.”

Silence.

“I don’t bite, Yuki… I’ve always wanted to know you more anyway. Don’t be a stranger.”

He smiled softly, and I felt my stomach flipping.

Again, I am not interested in him that way. It’s just the feeling of not talking to people a lot, I promise.

“Well then. I’ll see you next week,” he told me. He patted my head and walked towards his apartment.

In the next month or so, Yuki found his way into my life. I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t that I didn’t have any friends, but I never had a friend as engaging as him.

Do friendships also have honeymoon phases? Forgive me, allow me to retract my previous question.

There were times when we would walk to and from the cinema talking about the film we were about to or just watched, discussing the philosophy of the film and our lives. On other days, we didn’t talk about the film at all–we talked about ourselves and what we went through from the week before the shenanigans with my coworkers and my boss or with Yuki and his teammates. Sometimes, I would confide in him my loneliness and he in me his deepest fears. Though my usual travel time from or to the cinema consistently took fifteen minutes, we would sometimes delay it by five minutes… ten… fifteen… because we spent so much time talking to each other that we never really realized how slow we both walked.

But there were times when we would just walk in complete silence. We didn’t hurry to get back to the apartment either. We walked with a certain rhythm and pace, and somehow, I enjoyed that the most. The most important sound in a film was never really the music or effects that would play, but silence. It amplifies the richness of the scene and moreso the action of us walking without speaking to each other. 

It was also this silence that made me hear the beating of my heart, that I am most certainly in love with him. Romantically interested. Admired. Liked. Fascinated. Intrigued. And I knew that this was a dangerous path, knowing his quirks and the time spent between us, I knew that there was no window for me to walk in and take a hold of his heart. 

I know I’ve seen this film before.

So I decided to take it in, and not do anything about it. I valued his thoughts, and to a greater extent, our friendship. I can’t tell how honest he’s been to his other friends, but I am not open to the idea of him losing a friend he could talk to just because she’s in love with him. I’ve dealt with enough heartbreak; I’ve mourned more about the friendships lost than the romantic relationship that could have been.

These feelings would pass, as all things have.

One particular night, we had just watched The Moon Has Risen, a Japanese film made in the 50s by Kinuyo Tanaka. Yuki was thrilled to see a film from his homeland, much more a film that he had never heard of. He told me that he was never fond of romance but was willing to give this film a shot since I told him that I loved that film so much–which lead him to jokingly say that I was much more cultured than he was because I knew more Japanese films than he did.

But before we even got to the gates, he stopped me.

“I have something to tell you…” he trailed off. I raised my eyebrows. I have now seen his nervous state: his sweaty hands, his avoidant eyes, and much softer voice. Whatever he was willing to say, I knew that both of us were not going to be the same when we went through that gate.

“I’ll be gone,” he simply said. It was short and plain.

“For how long?” I asked.

“When spring comes, I–I’ll be moving. Then I’ll leave, then return next winter.”

In other words, he’s leaving.

“Oh. It’s a shame,” was all I could say. Short. Plain.

Spring was visiting in two weeks or so.

“Yes, it is,” he told me, “It’s more of a shame that we won’t have time together anymore.”

“Just when I started to get to know you…”

“I know. I mean we can uh… talk on the phone.”

I simply nodded.

“Are you upset with me?” He asked bluntly.

“No, I would never be.”

“I learned so much from you. Not just because of the films we watched. I am seeing my life in another way because of the things you would tell me. And I love you–I mean I–You’re a good friend, for that. You are a good person. Even if I know you have a hard time talking to people. You make an effort. I like it.”

Though spring was about to enter our small world, the air felt colder.

Colder than all the times we were together. 

I’m not allowed to be upset. He chose this career, and it demands him to do all sorts of things. That path was set in stone for him long before we had met. But there’s a part of me that wants to damn the stars–Was there no other way we could meet? I agreed to keep a distance and to not make a move, and now I won’t be able to admire him from a reasonable distance. The volleyball games were always there, sure, but I won’t be able to hear his every thought—an exchangeless currency that I now realize had a rarity I hadn’t hoarded enough. Still, I cannot allow selfishness to overcome my feelings, after he had just called me a good person.

“Didn’t I tell you that our meeting was a sign of a good friendship? Distance won’t take away the times we had together, even if it was just for a season. I’ll always be here–and so will the cinema–if you ever decide to pass by,” I told him as I felt my throat dry and sting, “You’re dear to me, so nothing will ever change that. So let’s not be sad.”

Yuki took the deepest breath and quickly looked down at his feet. He shook his head before looking up at me. He smiled at me, which I quickly caught it faltering before he was able to put his smile back up again.

There were many things that I could say–more that were worth shouting. If silences could bring about a new layer of comfort between people, it could also incite fear: the fear that the ending will inevitably come. Though my hands were freezing, I wanted to say something just so we wouldn’t have to go back inside and return to our apartments and distance ourselves and move on with our lives. Or say something that could change the trajectory of our lives together.

But a coward was what I was. The good minutes of silence between us was a terrible sign that we had to go home, and that we did. The elevator ride, for once, moved in its natural time; it did not slow. Our steps out of the elevator were slow and hesitant, but time still passed quickly. When we got to my apartment, he told me, “I’ll be packing up. I think I’ll be done by next week.”

“Alright.”

“I might pass by your apartment before I leave.”

I took those words to heart. Too much, I believe.

Because he never visited me before left.

The seasons change, and so do we.

Spring has passed, and so has summer and fall. Winter is about to end.

My aunt was disappointed when she learned that Yuki had left, knowing that my life had returned to normalcy.

“Why didn’t you confess to him!?” She asked, shaking me violently, “Do you know how long your mom–Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this!? I can’t let my niece be bitchless!”

“Yuki’s a really famous volleyball player, you know that? I don’t think he has time for someone like me.”

“Pfft–for someone like you. If he tolerated you like you said he did, he wouldn’t go out in the freezing weather every weekend to watch movies with you.”

“Hey–I didn’t say tolerating! He’s a good friend. Good friends enjoy the company of other people.”

“Nah, nah… I’ve played the love game for so long. He’s in love with you. I know it, I know it.”

“Whatever suits you.”

I never bothered to ask Yuki about why he wanted to go to my apartment and what he wanted to say in the first place. He probably meant to give some biscuits and some parting gifts. But it probably expired, and he was too embarrassed to send in anything. Or so I believed. My aunt told me he was probably going to profess his love, but I don’t think that was the case. It would be uncharacteristic of him.

We still keep in touch. But I’m not much of a social media person, so I’m much less enthusiastic. I know it’s still him talking, but I would rather see him behind the screen, speaking to me. I want to see his lips move, and oh, see his infinite smile. I want to reach his head and ruffle his silly hair, as much as I used to make fun of it for looking so burnt.

He was around the area now and then, which could have been an opportunity for him to visit, but somehow, we never got the chance. He could probably be in the area right now for all we know, walking right under my very nose. I’ll find out sooner or later on Instagram.

Now, here I am, sitting by the window, eating in a bowl of near-expired yogurt. It’s past one in the afternoon on a weekend, so I’m taking in my time watching the people pass by. When you’re lonely and boyfriend-less (Or, as my aunt likes to say, “Yuki-less”), you resort to doing ridiculous things such as this. Though I could have visited the cinema around this time, I decided to go against it–I was reminded too much of our time together.

Then there’s a knock on the door. Another. Afterwards, it becomes faster and faster, until I lazily stand up and open the door.

“There’s a doorbell—”

Yuki appears before me, with his hands ready to knock on the door once more. My eyes widen as much as his–which is funny because he should be expecting me by the door–and our cheeks redden. There’s a beat before either of us gets to talk.

“–You know…” I trail off.

“Hello,” he greets me.

“Hi. What brings you here?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

No other particular reason?

“Well, it’s nice seeing you again, Yuki. Come on in,” I sigh. I lead him to the dining set, where we both sit across each other.

“Before I say anything, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying that I wanted to visit you one last time and not visiting you anyway.”

I raise my eyebrows, stretching my arms. I look at my surroundings before I could really look into his eyes, “I have no problem with that. I know you’re busy–”

“I wasn’t busy–”

“You don’t have to lie–”

“I didn’t visit because I was afraid.”

Beat.

“Yuki… I know humans hate goodbyes. It’s only natural.”

“No, you don’t understand–let me explain. I wanted to come to your apartment before I left because I wanted to tell you what I felt.”

“About what?”

“About you. I–I–”

He lightly combs his messy hair. He looks around the apartment as if to look for something that could calm him down. Then he looks at me, before avoiding my face altogether. He takes in a deep breath… one… two… three… before he continues talking:

“I liked you–no, don’t interrupt me–I like you. Before we met, uhhh I passed by you when I was unpacking my things. Your voice was so loud that I could hear everything. But the way you said it… interested me. And I like people who talk a lot. But I couldn’t find a way to… talk to you…” He pauses, everything becoming a calculation to him, before continuing, “…And I didn’t mean our first meeting to go like that. But when I was running away, and I saw you, I had this… feeling… this… what do you call it… instinct… to pull you with me.”

He then tells me, “The reason why I didn’t want to talk to you after so many months was because I thought you were angry at me. Your responses are much shorter than how you spoke in real life. And I thought I messed up.”

He takes in a sharp breath, “I remember everything since when we first met. The days when you would tie your hair… and the days you do not. The outfits that you wore. But what I remember the most was the things you would tell me. It would be hard for me to not like someone whose eyes would go big and their hands would move around every time they talk about something that they loved. You’re just… full of… love.”

I did not know he was capable of doing this, nor was he withholding such emotions for so long.

I stood up and sat beside him. Months had passed when I had overcome the fear of looking into his eyes, but I fear that it’s all returned. I cannot look at him.

I say to him, with my head down, “Thank you for telling me all that.”

“Is that…”

“...I… feel just about the same way too.”

“You do?”

“Of course–do you not believe me? I haven’t gone to the cinema that much since you’ve left. And to think I’ve gone to the cinema for nearly every week my entire life.”

“You like me? Why?”

I laugh at him and pinch his cheeks. “Do I need a reason to like you? I like you for who you are. And I’m sure you know who you are. Every bit of yourself–I admire it.”

He looks at me, and he nods at every word. He looks to the side as if to process everything, and then he looks at me again. He wants to say something, a syllable coming out of his lips, but nothing keeps coming out. He sighs over and over, before looking at me straight into my eyes.

So when his voice fails himself, all that is left is the language of touch. He puts his arms out first and reaches out to me. Slowly… inch by inch… Then an embrace. He covers my body with his large hands, as the words he wanted to put out are finally clear to me: the roughness of his hands translates to the command of his voice, the pressing of his fingers the depth of his words, and the more his skin is stuck with the rest of me, the more I could identify the unspoken sentences.

He breaks our hug to take a good look at me, capturing a photo only his memory can take, each shot separated by the blinking of his desperate eyes. Then he kisses me. 

To say “I admire you” too platonic, “I love you” too strong. The best I can do was to look into his eyes. To look into the eye of another was to become vulnerable, but to look into his eyes was a moment of submission and power in a gentleness I could not feel from any other person but him. He sees me, I see him—to the both of us, these meant more. He pats my hair to an unfamiliar beat. Immediately after, he places his hand on my forehead horizontally and slowly slides it down, closing my eyes. He kisses my left eyelid then my right. 

“Did you take some inspiration from Amélie?” I ask him.

“I was starting to like more romantic movies because I could learn a bit from them,” he laughs.

“Aren’t you an adorable idiot.”

“It took both of us a year to say what we wanted to say. I think it’s something we should work on–we’re both idiots, after all.”

We both laugh as we look out into the window.

The snow had already fallen, spreading out on the streets like fallen flowers. They’ve melted as they always eventually did. Winter has come and gone. Now comes spring, and our story begins to bloom with it.

✧. ┊  Wanted to make a Yuki one shot :3 Of course it would be difficult to understand his true nature, but I still hope that it's enjoyable to you all. It's been a while since I've written fanfiction and am more than happy to return to such a fascinating world.

✧. ┊  Posted on AO3 and Wattpad.